Chapter 42 – Remembering the Dead
Wednesday morning June 11, 2008 – 8:45 AM
“Where the hell am I?” Those were the first words that popped into Frank Newlan’s head when he woke up out of his dazed catnap, and as he scoped out his unfamiliar surroundings, he wasn’t as of yet cognizant of the fact that he had spent the night in the living room of his sister Rose’s house.
Newlan was groggy and disoriented, and as he sat up in the lumpy sofa bed and attempted to get his bearings straight, once again he repeated his existential question; “where the hell am I?”
After a few seconds of confused introspection, Newlan began to piece together the circumstances surrounding his unplanned sleepover, and slowly things started making sense again, even though the fog in his mind had yet to fully lift. Of course, another purely physical reason for Newlan’s murkiness (besides his hangover) may have been the fact that the living room was engulfed in semi-darkness…and so to correct the problem, he pulled back the drapes, revealing an opaque morning-dew which immediately reminded him of his most recent nightmare and sent a shiver coursing through his bones.
But despite his anxiety attack, Newlan’s nose roused him out of bed like a bloodhound in search of an escaped prisoner, and it led him to the irresistibly strong scent of Columbian coffee wafting from his sister’s kitchen.
“Anyone home?” shouted Newlan. And although he got no response, a note on the kitchen table silently answered his question just the same.
By holding the note within an inch of his face, Newlan was just able to make out the chicken-scratch writing as he fumbled around for a light switch.
“We left for work. Help yourself to breakfast and a shower, and make sure you lock up on the way out.”
“What fuckin’ time is it?” asked Newlan to no one in particular (and after reading his sister’s note he wasn’t really expecting an answer anyway).
Newlan squinted around the unlit kitchen until he located an illuminated digital clock on the microwave, but without his glasses on, he could barely make out the time, which read 8:45 AM…and by anyone’s account this put him well behind schedule.
Maybe it was the uncomfortable bed, or maybe it was the unaccustomed surroundings, or maybe it was his unimaginable bad dream, or maybe, just maybe, it was his proclivity to partake in overindulgence, but whatever the reason, Newlan was running quite late and he was in a panic because of it.
Newlan was perplexed by the fact that he had overslept. He usually woke up bright and early, regardless of the situation, especially when he was found himself in a foreign bed. But unfortunately for him however, his internal clock had once again failed him just when he desperately needed it to function accurately more than ever.
“Holy shit, I gotta get the fuck outta here,” grunted Newlan as he rushed back into the living room and slipped into his clothes. He then located a Styrofoam cup in one of the kitchen cabinets and filled it up with coffee as hurried on out the door.
Using the rearview mirror of his car as a guide, Newlan combed his long stringy hair as best he could, and after he had completed his grooming, he fished out the half joint that was hidden in the ashtray and he revved up his 1995 red Mercury for all it was worth.
To make up for lost time, Newlan threw caution to the wind and merged onto the two lane road which led to the highway without even looking out for oncoming traffic. This regrettable maneuver resulted in him cutting off an irate truck driver, and then in an apparent attempt to escape the wrath of the lumberjack trucker, he floored the gas pedal and weaved in and out of traffic like a maniac.
“Fuck it, if I get a ticket I just tell the cop I’m on official court business,” rationalized Newlan. And sure enough, as if someone were controlling his world like a puppet on a string, within minutes of leaving his sister’s house, he was confronted by the blue lights of a police car in his rearview mirror, waving for him to pull over.
“Oh fuck, now I’m screwed for sure,” groaned Newlan as he rolled down the driver side window in an attempt to air out the marijuana fumes.
Luckily for Newlan he was traveling on a busy avenue, which necessitated that both he and the police car cruise a half a mile down the road before they could pull into a strip mall parking lot. This gave him ample time to covertly reach for the air freshener and the breathe spray, as well as to take another gulp out of his sobering cup of coffee.
“Do you know how fast you were going?” growled the grumpy cop.
“He’s obviously not a morning person,” thought Newlan who conceded that he was going “pretty fast.”
“License and registration,” demanded the no-nonsense officer.
“Yes sir,” replied Newlan as he handed over the documents, and then he incoherently added, “I apologize but, but…but I’m late for jury duty…I’m on a big trial…I had to sleep over my sister’s house…it’s a murder trial…she’s a single mother…at the Middlesex Superior Courthouse.”
The cop shot Newlan a look which intimated that he was dealing with a crazy person, but nevertheless he patiently and professionally asked; “Do you have your juror information with you sir?”
Fortunately for the disoriented Newlan, he had stuffed the envelope containing his jury duty letter into the same plastic bag that also held his Rolling Stone magazines. And once he got his bearings straight, he nervously sifted out the document, which included explicit juror instructions, as well as a phone number that the jurors could call in the event that they were ill or tardy, and as handed the form over to the cop, he pleaded; “Please, call this number…ask for Billy. Oh yeah, and tell him I might be a little late this morning.”
In return, the cop grabbed the letter out of Newlan’s hand and shook his head in disgust as he waddled back to his cruiser. However, after discussing the situation on his radio with the dispatcher back at the station, he re-approached Newlan’s vehicle in a much better mood and announced; “OK sir, you can go…they’re waiting for you at the courthouse.”
Upon learning of his reprieve, a pronounced smirk slithered its way across Newlan’s face. And on top of that, it was a slinky sort of smile; a smile that he couldn’t seem to get rid of. But after an awkward moment of silence, he finally managed to blurt out; “thank you for your patience, officer.”
“Follow me…I’ll get you onto the highway,” ordered the cop.
“Cool,” replied Newlan, and so for the third time in less than a week, he was being provided with a police escort.
“I could get use to this,” admitted Newlan to himself as he waved to the cop and accelerated onto the ramp which led to Interstate 93 South.
As soon as he was out of eyeshot of the local police officer, Newlan immediately gunned the engine again, but this time he was in no danger of getting another ticket, because before he had even traveled a mile down the highway, he found himself stuck in the usual morning gridlock.
“Holy crap, I’m really gonna be late this time. I hope Judge Gershwin doesn’t throw me in jail for this,” fretted Newlan as he helplessly crawled along the remaining 10 plus miles of pavement which separated him from the courthouse.
By this time in his morning adventure, the back of Newlan’s cranium was pounding so badly that he had no choice but to turn the stereo way down low in an effort to ease his inevitable hangover related symptoms. However, when the sound of Bob Dylan’s stoner anthem, “Rainy Day Women No. 12 & 35” came humming across the airwaves, he couldn’t help but crank up the volume and sing along, headache be damned.
“I’ll smoke to that,” exclaimed Newlan as he slowly jolted himself back to life. But when the morning DJ cut to news, weather, and traffic, and the news reporter led with an update on the “horrible hubby” murder trials, Newlan was brought back to reality in a big way, and once again he found himself brooding over the meaning of last night’s bizarre nightmare.
“Marianne Plante, Fred Miller, John Breslin and Saeed Kahn all in the same dream…man, my
imagination must really be working overtime,” ominously marveled Newlan as he attempted to self-analyze the inner workings of his mazelike mind. And for the remainder of the drive to the courthouse, he wracked his brains in an attempt to figure out where all of these wacky fantasies were coming from.
“I can understand Marianne haunting my dreams, especially since I got that friggin’ letter from her, out of the blue. And I’m in the middle of this freakin’ murder trial so I guess it’s logical that I might dream about Miller. And Saeed, well he’s a fuckin’ terrorist anyway. But Breslin…why the hell does he want me dead when I’m probably the only one who thinks he might be innocent? Could it be that I subconsciously think he’s guilty? Who the hell knows?”
However, after a few moments of conflicted internal debate, Newlan eventually came to another realization; “I gotta stop thinking about this stuff or it’s gonna drive me crazier than I already am,” and somehow with this latest conviction of the heart leading the way, he was able to suppress his irrational fears, at least for the time being anyway.
And so it was that the slightly dazed Frank Newlan was able to put his game-face on, and once again transformed himself from an aging hippie, into a serious, civic-minded citizen, just like Clark Kent emerging from a phone booth to become Superman.
When Newlan finally pulled into the courthouse parking lot, he was hustled towards the waiting room by the guard who was in charge of the security gate, and as he entered the room, he could feel all eyes upon him as Billy immediately spouted into his two-way radio; “Final juror just arrived…I’ll bring them up.”
Newlan apologized profusely for his tardiness, but only Dan the handicapped juror responded in any way, exclaiming; “no problem…and on the plus side, at least I’m not the last one to show up for a change.”
“Well then, glad I could be of service,” replied Newlan as his tipped an imaginary cap.
As the jurors single-filed their way into the sixth floor deliberation room, Brandon was standing there at the doorway, imposingly waiting for them, and he impatiently waved them into the room with a hurry-up signal.
“Let’s go, let’s go, Judge Gershwin’s ready to start the session and she’s getting antsy. I’ll give you five minutes to get settled in and then it’s time to roll,” exhorted Brandon.
“Great, the one day I’m late, they decide to start on time for a change,” grumbled Newlan as he collapsed into his chair and attempted to collect his thoughts, while at the same time his dearest colleague was also wading through her own bit of soul-searching.
“Where’s Donny today?” wondered the elderly Patty as soon as she realized that he was nowhere to be found. She had been worrying about him ever since discovering that his wife had been diagnosed with cancer, and she was hoping that she might be able to brighten his day with a few words of encouragement. But alas, her sympathy would have to be put on hold for another day.
“He’s gonna be out again today. His wife is very sick,” explained Billy as Patty made the sign of the cross…and then in a voice that was cracking with emotion, she sighed, “God bless him.”
And while the jurors who were seated in the vicinity of Patty attempted to console her, the rest of the group quietly discussed various casual topics. The guys chatted mainly about last night’s Celtics game, while the women went into a grumbled dissertation regarding the lack of variety on the lunch menu.
But much to Newlan’s chagrin, as the manly sports conversation progressed, out of nowhere, Ron the banker pointed his chin towards him and cheerfully remarked; “You look like you enjoyed the game last night.”
“What do you mean by that?” replied the paranoid Newlan.
“He means you look like hell,” added Mike the car salesman.
“Is it that noticeable?” asked Newlan, and Mike gave him a covert nod.
“You know, for a car salesman you don’t talk much,” commented Newlan with a feeble smile, and in return, Mike chuckled and responded with an improbable boast; “you should see me in action…you wouldn’t even recognize me.”
And when a transitory break in the chit-chat presented itself, Newlan leaned towards Mike and whispered; “You think anyone noticed that I’m still wearing the same clothes as yesterday?”
“We noticed,” piercingly replied Newlan’s nemesis Jane who was obviously eavesdropping in on the guys’ conversation.
“Well, I hope the people out there don’t notice,” added Newlan as he winced and pointed a finger towards the courtroom.
“What did you, pull an all-nighter?” Annie the feisty little HR clerk quipped.
“It’s a long story…you see I was over my sister’s house for dinner and…” Newlan began to elaborate, but before he could even come close to finishing his yarn, Billy came storming into the room and ordered everyone to line up for show time.
However, even though Newlan didn’t get the chance to complete his explanation, as the jurors were being led into the courtroom, Natalie twirled around and presented him with a mischievous wink, while at the same time whispering; “a likely story.”
Natalie’s unexpected trifling caught the speechless Newlan off-guard, and all our dumbfounded protagonist could think to do was to smile back weakly as he pondered the relevance of his jury box neighbor’s intentions. He recalled reading somewhere that an inconspicuous wink from a woman, much like a gentle touch of the wrist, was a subtle signal of romantic interest, and as such, after a less than serious spate of consideration, he concluded; “I might be losing my mind, but if I didn’t know better, I’d think that I’m actually starting to thaw out the stunning Ice Princess.”
However, flirtatious miscommunications aside, as the jurors filed into the jury box, Newlan assumed the position and stared at his feet per usual while Brandon launched into his traditional “hear ye, hear ye” speech, and then Judge Gershwin officially proclaimed that “court is in session.”
“Good morning to our remarkable jury…I understand that we spared one of you a speeding ticket this morning,” broadcast Judge Gershwin with a motherly smile as a crimson-faced Newlan nodded slightly in acknowledgement of his crime, while at the same time Natalie looked on in admiration.
Although Natalie came across as all prim and proper, Newlan’s gut feeling was that she kind of preferred the bad-boy, outlaw type…and this inclination was further reinforced when he caught her staring at him out of the corner of his eye.
“Glad we could be of service,” saluted Judge Gershwin in a feeble attempt at humor before getting down to business.
Newlan kept his head firmly down, peering at his shoes, as the noble judge launched into the usual questions regarding whether any of the jurors had discussed the trial, but at the same time he obstinately thought to himself; “Hey, I told you that my nephew works for the same company where Breslin worked before he got locked up in the slammer. It’s not my fault that you wouldn’t kick me off the trial…so it serves you right that Breslin’s name came up in passing during an innocent conversation.”
And while Newlan was left to silently justify his actions, the oblivious Judge Gershwin politely proclaimed, “Let the record show that none of the jurors responded in the affirmative…and we are ready to begin. Ms. Lyons, please call your first witness.”
“Your honor the prosecution calls Mr. Kevin McBride to the stand,” announced DA Lyons.
McBride, who, as we might suspect, was recovering from his own hangover, appeared to be walking rather unsteadily on his feet as he approached the witness stand and swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
McBride’s queasiness wasn’t lost on Newlan, although he didn’t relate it to his own issue of over-imbibing; he just assumed that the poor guy was nervous.
“Mr. McBride, were you an acquaintance of Fred Miller?” asked Lyons. And based on the tone of his response, McBride was apparently a bit offended by the word “acquaintance”.
“I was more than an acqu
aintance. We were best friends since junior high school.”
“And what about Tracy Stone, are you familiar with her?” continued Lyons, making sure not to use the word acquaintance again.
“Yes, Tracy is a couple of years younger than Fred and me, but I’ve known her for a long time as well,” replied McBride.
“Now Mr. McBride, do you remember whether Tracy and Fred ever dated each other?”
“Yes, of course. They dated off and on in high school, and they were involved in a more serious relationship after Fred got out of college. But then they broke up, I’d say sometime in the early to mid 90’s, and after that I didn’t see Tracy for a long time,” answered McBride.
McBride’s reply illustrated the similarities between Fred Miller and Tracy Stone’s history and the details surrounding Newlan’s own breakup with Marianne Plante, and the likeness in their stories had his mind racing in a million different directions.
“Mr. McBride, at some point did you become aware of the fact that Tracy and Fred were seeing each other again?” pressed on Lyons, while at the same time the shell-shocked Newlan attempted to pull himself together as best he could.
“Yes, sometime in 2005 I bumped into Tracy and Fred hanging out together at a local restaurant…and later I asked him what was up, and he admitted that they were dating again,” recounted McBride.
“And did you see more of Tracy and Fred during the months leading up to January 2006?” wondered Lyons.
“Yeah, well I saw Freddie all the time. As I said, we were good friends. And yes I also saw Tracy and Fred together quite a bit during that timeframe as well,” replied McBride.
“Where were some of the places you saw Tracy and Fred together?” quizzed Lyons.
“Well, they went on a few dates with me and my girlfriend at the time. They came over to my house. I’d see them at the lounge where we sometimes hung out. You know, normal stuff like that,” explained McBride.
“So they were basically doing things that couples do?” reasoned Lyons.
“Yes, I guess you could say that,” replied McBride.
“Mr. McBride did you see Fred Miller on the night of January 12th, 2006?”
“Yes, he stopped by my house at around 6:30 and he stayed for about 90 minutes.”
“And was he alone when he arrived?” continued Lyons.
“Yes,” replied McBride.
“Was he alone when he left?” added Lyons, and once again McBride replied in the affirmative.
“And what did Fred and you do during those 90 minutes?”
“We mostly talked about Fred’s personal life…how thing were a bit rocky between him and Tracy at times. I don’t remember his exact words, but I clearly remember him being very agitated and nervous.”
“And did he say what he was nervous about?” asked Lyons.
“Yes, he said he thought that someone might be trying to kill him…and that was the last time I ever saw him alive,” whispered McBride as he put his head in his hands and began to sob softly.
McBride’s response elicited a gasp from the gallery, and Lyons purposely let the murmur linger for a few seconds before announcing, “No further questions your honor.”
Not to be outdone, renowned Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason approached the stand with a singular purpose in mind; it was a well documented fact that, over the years, his line of questioning had also been known to cause an occasional gasp or two to break out in various courtrooms throughout the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, and that was his very objective as he hovered over the witness, Kevin McBride.
And even though Gleason’s cross-examination started off innocently enough, it wouldn’t be long before the sparks began to fly.
“Mr. McBride based on your testimony, am I correct in assuming that roughly 10 or more years passed between the time that Tracy and Fred dated in the early 90’s and when they reunited in 2005?”
“I don’t know exactly how many years it was, but it would be accurate to say that a long time went by,” sniffled McBride as he attempted to recompose himself.
“And wouldn’t it be fair to say that a lot can happen in 10 years?” reasoned Gleason.
“Of course,” answered McBride in a miffed tone.
“Mr. McBride, were you aware of the fact that Tracy Stone got married during that 10 year gap?” demanded a suddenly aggressive Gleason.
“Objection,” shouted DA Lyons, and Judge Gershwin thought about it for a moment before responding, but in the end she ruled in Gleason’s favor.
“Yes, I was aware that Tracy was married,” admitted McBride.
“And were you aware of the fact that Tracy was still married at the time she was dating Fred Miller in 2005?” asked Gleason.
Lyons once again unsuccessfully objected, and McBride sullenly answered, “Yes sir.”
Gleason then raised his voice slightly for affect as he asked, “And were you aware of the fact that Tracy had three children?”
Lyons objected for a third time, but to no avail, and for a third time McBride answered in the affirmative.
And now that Gleason had established the already well known fact that Fred Miller was dating a married mother of three children, he decided to go in a slightly different, yet related, direction.
“Mr. McBride, were you aware of the fact that Fred Miller was also dating a woman by the name of Lauren Hernandez during the latter half of 2005?” asked Gleason, and McBride, who was beginning to crack from the strain of all the probing questions, managed to spit out another, “Yes sir.”
“According to my timeline this would mean that Fred Miller was dating Lauren Hernandez and Tracy Stone at the same time, isn’t that correct Mr. McBride?” calculated Gleason.
“Well, Fred wasn’t sure where things were going with Tracy so…” McBride attempted to explain, but Gleason cut him off short.
“Mr. McBride, please just answer yes or no, was Fred Miller dating Lauren Hernandez and Tracy Stone at the same time?” reiterated Gleason, and McBride bowed his head as he muttered, “Yes sir,” one more time.
Gleason had been gradually inching his way even closer to the witness stand with each and every question, and by now he was standing a mere few feet away from McBride as he asked; “Mr. McBride, are you aware of the fact that agitation and paranoia are signs of cocaine withdrawal?”
Gleason’s query elicited another gasp from the gallery, rivaling the earlier outburst, and McBride was so offended by Gleason’s line of questioning that he was just about ready to snap. But before he could spit out anything derogatory, Lyons objected once again, and finally Judge Gershwin sustained her challenge.
“No further questions your honor,” announced Gleason, and as he sauntered triumphantly back to the defense table he whispered to Breslin, “mission accomplished.”
Meanwhile, the exhausted Newlan looked on with a conflicted mix of admiration and contempt as he whispered to Natalie; “this guy’s something else, now he painting Miller out to be a drug-craving, womanizing, home-wrecker.”
But regardless of Gleason’s intentions, once the buzz in the gallery had subsided, DA Lyons called on the second of Fred Miller’s three childhood friends, Michael Landers, to take the stand.
As Landers trundled his way up the center aisle of the gallery and approached the witness stand, he slapped a brief high five with McBride who gave him a covert wink and a fist pump which silently said; “Give ‘em hell Mikey.”
Landers story pretty much echoed McBride’s in so far as the fact that they had all known each other since before high school, and that he was aware of the history between Tracy and Fred.
However, Landers possessed firsthand knowledge of some additional information regarding Tracy and Fred’s whereabouts on the night of January 12th, 2006, and DA Lyons desperately wanted the jurors to hear his story.
“Mr. Landers what do you do for work?” asked Lyons.
“I’ve been a bartender at the Wayward Inn in Marlborough since th
e early 90’s,” answered Landers.
“And were Tracy and Fred known to frequent this establishment?” wondered Lyons.
“Yes, they use to hang out at the bar often back in the day when they were dating, but once they broke up, Tracy rarely stopped by…until they started seeing each other again, that is,” explained Landers.
“Mr. Landers did you cross paths with Fred Miller on the night of January 12th, 2006?” asked Lyons as she decided to cut right to the chase.
“Yes, I was working that night, and Fred dropped in at around 8:30,” replied Landers.
“And do you remember any specific details from that evening?”
“Yes, I remember that Fred sat at the bar and we talked for a while…and I remember that Fred was sweating and shaking. He was very upset about something, but he wouldn’t tell me what was going on, other than to say that he had a problem he was trying to deal with.”
“And then what happened?”
“Shortly after Fred arrived, an acquaintance of ours, Ned Gilbert, came into the bar and took a seat at a table. Ned is a Marlborough Police Officer, and within a few minutes of his arrival, Fred wandered over to his table so that he could talk to him privately about his problem.”
“Do you recall what happened next?”
“Yes, Fred left Ned’s table after about 15 minutes and he sat back down at the bar again…and then Tracy showed up at around 9 maybe 9:30…and they hung out until closing time.”
“Mr. Landers do you have any recollection of Fred and Tracy leaving the bar that evening?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact we walked outside together. I vividly remember Fred kissing Tracy goodnight, and then they left in separate cars…and that was the last time I ever saw Fred alive,” explained Landers as he too choked back tears.
By now, the suffering that was pouring from the heart of Fred Miller’s friends was beginning to rub off on the jurors, and Newlan could have sworn that he even detected the distinctive sound of muffled sniffling emanating from the seat that was occupied by the demonstrative Jane. However, at the moment, Newlan was having a hard time keeping his own emotions in check, so for once he empathized with Jane.
The only comparable life-experience that Newlan could correlate to the sight of Miller’s grief-stricken pals was a tragic incident which involved one of his own childhood friend’s, Karen McDermott, who was killed in a car accident some twenty years ago; and while she may not have been murdered, her sudden, unexpected loss triggered the same sort of anguish amongst her friends that he was witnessing today in the courtroom, so he understood precisely what McBride and Landers were going through.
As Landers paused to collect himself, Newlan thought back to his younger days; he thought back to a carefree time when the majority of his friends, both male and female, were still single, and just about every one of them went through a sexual experimentation phase which found them trading partners as if they were collectable baseball cards. The revelry ultimately reached the point where practically every member of their entire gang had experienced at least a couple of not-so-secret physical liaisons with one another before finally settling down into the mundane life of monogamous adulthood.
Newlan and Karen McDermott however, had always been just friends and nothing more; and even though he had heard through the grapevine that she was a passionate lover and she had heard the same thing about him, for the longest time, they never quite connected.
But as fate would have it, one night back in the late 80’s, McDermott and Newlan found themselves alone after a party in her apartment (he was notorious for always being the last one to leave whenever there was a party going on), and out of the blue, she unleashed a frenzy of kisses on him, and she breathlessly whispered in his ear; “Why haven’t we ever been together before?”
Newlan vividly recalled replying, “Well there’s always a first time for everything,” as they tore each other’s clothes off.
And although Newlan and McDermott had always shared a special bond, built on their love of music and attending concerts together, after that special night they became even closer…and then within six months she was gone.
Newlan and his crew were honored when McDermott’s parents asked them to serve as pallbearers at her funeral. And yet, the sight of the overflowing throng of mourners, wailing in their sorrow, proved to be an unbearable burden, the likes of which he would never forget. Right up to this very day, the details of the haunting procession remained lucent in his memory, and he would still occasionally replay the scene in his mind, as if it were yesterday; the overwhelming affliction of denial and utter disbelief; the numbing sense of loss; the arbitrary unfairness of losing a dear friend in the prime of her life.
Even to this day, Newlan had never quite forgotten how for weeks after the funeral, he and his pals shared an unspoken need to remain physically close to each other as often as they possibly could. He had never quite forgotten how they all embraced in a group hug, and how they refused let go for fear of losing another friend. He had never quite forgotten how he lost it and broke down into tears in front of a church full of people as they rolled the casket out to the hearse.
Remarkably enough, even now, all these years later, something out of the blue, something as innocuous as a song on the radio, would remind Newlan of Karen McDermott, and he would mourn for her all over again. And furthermore, his grieving would invariably be pierced by an injection of sadness so painful that it was like opening up an old wound and pouring salt all over it.
And as it turned out, witnessing McBride and Landers grieve over their murdered buddy was one of those moments where Newlan was reminded of Karen McDermott, and he struggled mightily to fight back his own tears for a departed friend.
Fortunately for Newlan however, there would be no time for emotional self-pity in courtroom 630 of the Middlesex Superior Courthouse, because before he ever had any chance at becoming too overwrought with sorrow, the voice of R. J. Gleason reminded him that he had some unfinished business to attend to; and that business revolved around heeding the words of the renowned defense attorney as he approached the witness stand to take a hack at Mr. Michael Landers while he was in a most vulnerable state.
“Mr. Landers, you never overheard a single word of the conversation between Fred Miller and Officer Gilbert from the Marlborough Police, did you?” challenged Gleason in an insistent tone.
“No sir,” replied Landers.
Gleason knew full well that Officer Gilbert wasn’t on the witness list for the prosecution. And he knew full well from his own revealing sources that Fred Miller never even remotely discussed anything about his many problems with Officer Gilbert. And thus, he wasn’t about to let the impressionable jurors think otherwise.
“Using this logic Mr. Landers, if you didn’t hear what Fred Miller and Officer Gilbert discussed, then how is it that during your response to one of DA Lyons’ questions, you stated that Fred was talking to Officer Gilbert about, as you put it, ‘his problem’?” wondered Gleason.
“I just assumed…” started Landers, but Gleason cut him off at the pass, just as he had done to McBride. He then turned to Judge Gershwin with a request at the ready.
“Your honor, I ask that Mr. Landers’ statement regarding Fred Miller talking to Ned Gilbert about his problem be stricken from the record.”
“It may be stricken,” replied the honorable judge, and the forced recantation had DA Lyons stewing in her seat at the prosecutor’s table.
“Now Mr. Landers, you stated that Fred Miller was sweating and shaking didn’t you?” continued Gleason.
“Yes sir,” replied Landers.
“And did Fred mention anything about being sick or ill?” retorted Gleason.
“No, he never mentioned anything of the kind,” testily confirmed Landers.
“Well, wasn’t it rather odd for someone to be sweating in the middle of the winter?” wondered Gleason.
“Objection, speculative,” shouted an angry DA Ly
ons, to which Judged Gershwin smiled and calmly replied, “Sustained.”
“No further questions your honor,” announced Gleason, while at the same time Newlan mused to himself; “amazing, Gleason seems to be trying to insinuate cocaine withdrawals again, without ever actually saying it. I wonder if any of the other jurors picked up on this.”
By the time that Landers had finished up his testimony, it was nearly noon, so Judge Gershwin decided to send the jurors off for an extended lunch break, and they made themselves at home back in the deliberation room while they waited for their meals to arrive.
Despite the fact that they hadn’t even reached the halfway point of the day yet, Newlan was already utterly exhausted, and he ruefully wished that there was some way he could have crawled off somewhere and taken a nap, instead of having to sit there and listen to the inane banter that was being tossed about the room.
But as usual, the ever reliable Jane was able to revive the docile, lumbering Newlan, and in the process she succeeded in getting him all riled up again.
“I can’t believe how Gleason insists on making Fred Miller into some kind of monster. I mean enough already, the poor guy’s dead. And I feel so bad that his family has to hear all this crap. DA Lyons must have a lot of evidence piled up against Breslin if Gleason has to resort to a ‘blame the victim’ defense,” loudly grumbled Jane…and that was all it took to get Newlan going.
Newlan realized that he probably should have kept his big mouth shut. But he just couldn’t resist Jane’s temptation, and so he threw his two cents into the ring.
“Maybe we should wait until all of the evidence is in before we come to any conclusions,” suggested Newlan.
Jane of course, was unfazed by Newlan’s accusation. But nonetheless she feigned a look of surprise as she countered; “Moi? I haven’t come to any conclusions. All I’m saying is that I don’t care for Gleason’s tactics, that’s all.”
“A likely story,” muttered Newlan under his breath. But before a full-fledged argument had any chance of breaking out, Billy was back with their lunches in tow, and everyone settled down as they dug into their sandwiches.
However, before Billy could even think about sneaking out the door, the nicotine addicted Annie pleaded with him for some relief.
“Billy, please take me outside. If I don’t have a cigarette soon, I swear I’m gonna go crazy right in the middle of the courtroom.”
“Relax…eat your lunch and I’ll be back in a few minutes,” replied Billy in defensive tone. And even though he’d usually send in Brandon to lead the lunchtime jaunt, this time he personally came back as promised, and more than half the jurors, including Jane, took the opportunity to step outside for a breath of fresh air.
After the convoy had filed out the room, Stan, the software salesman, smiled mischievously as he attempted to have some fun at Newlan’s expense.
“I guess Jane won’t be on your Christmas card list,” surmised Stan. And in turn, Newlan smiled sheepishly as he replied; “I gotta admit, she knows how to push my buttons, but I really have nothing against her. I’m sure she’s a nice person and all, but I sincerely get the feeling she’s already made up her mind that Breslin’s guilty…and I just think we need to keep an open mind.”
Peter, the software engineer, who, more often than not, spent the majority of his break-time intently reviewing his notes, took Newlan by surprise when he looked up from his notepad and added; “I couldn’t agree more.”
And upon discerning that maybe he wasn’t so alone in his point of view, Newlan exclaimed; “Peter, you’re a man of few words, but when you do speak, I like what you have to say.”
“Hear, hear, I second that emotion,” added Stan.
Newlan was pleasantly stunned by the encouraging comments, and he silently pondered the ramifications of his colleagues’ revelations; “Hmmm, if it comes down to reasonable doubt, maybe I will have a few allies on the not guilty side after all.” And then, speaking out loud, he acquiesced; “Granted, we shouldn’t be discussing the trial, and I’m as guilty as anyone on that count, but I guess I just can let Jane’s comments go by without getting in a few words edgewise myself.”
At this point in the conversation, Mike, who had been quietly sitting in the corner as usual, uncharacteristically decided to reveal his opinions regarding the topic of the hour. The truth was that he didn’t necessarily approve of Newlan’s indiscretions, but he let him off the hook for his misdemeanor nonetheless.
“You’re right Frank, we shouldn’t be discussing the case, but we all know that it’s almost impossible to sit here day after day without making a comment or two now and then, so don’t beat yourself up over it.”
All of a sudden, Newlan was feeling a hundred times better about the state of the world, and on top of that, he had come to the abrupt realization that he wasn’t even the least bit fatigued anymore, so he figured that he might as well let his colleagues in on the miracle cure.
“Well, I guess all of this verbal sparring has one plus…it snapped me out of my coma. I swear I was about ready to fall asleep, but man, I think Jane must have raised my blood pressure at least 20 millimeters.”
By now, Newlan and the handful of jurors who had remained behind were having a nice little laugh for themselves, albeit at Jane’s expense, and when the rest of the crew returned from their walk, they too, were happy and content, particularly Annie, who was thoroughly enjoying her nicotine induced euphoria.
But before the jurors could get too comfortable, lunch break was over, and they found themselves being marched back into the courtroom one more time to listen to another round of gloomy tales in the life and times of Mr. Fred Miller.
The next witness to take the stand was Robert Hurley, the third and last in the series of Fred Miller’s best pals who were being called upon to testify in behalf of their gone-but-not-forgotten comrade.
As you may recall, the last we heard from Mr. Hurley, he had convinced his friends that the ghost of Fred Miller was alive and well, and occupying his former home…and as of this time, he still hadn’t completely recovered from last night’s anxiety-induced revelry.
During the lunch break, the hung-over trio compared notes regarding their harrowing experience thus far, and needless to say, they didn’t have a warm and fuzzy feeling about what R. J. Gleason was putting them through.
“I don’t know about you guys, but I’m sensing a bad vibe going down in that courtroom. Something tells me that Breslin’s gonna walk,” confided Landers as he chowed down on a fistful of French fries.
“No way…DA Lyons still has a lot of ammunition left to fire,” countered McBride, and then he immediately wondered whether his choice of words were appropriate, before adding, “no pun intended.”
“I hope you’re right Kevin. I’m dying to see them slap the shackles on Breslin and ship him away for life…good riddance to the no good motherfucker,” anxiously spit out Hurley in between bites of his cheeseburger; he knew full well that it would soon be his turn to face Gleason’s tumultuous inquisition, and it showed in his autistic mannerisms.
And although McBride and Landers sympathized with Hurley’s plight, they were quite relieved that their small part in the trial was over. But that didn’t stop them from reliving the episode in their minds.
“I can’t believe that Gleason kept pushing the cocaine withdrawal angle. I hope the gullible jurors aren’t buying this load of crap,” exclaimed McBride.
“Of course…there is some truth to it,” confessed Landers.
“Yeah, but what the fuck does that have to do with someone taking out poor Freddie with a bullet to the head…and for what? So maybe he fucked the guy’s wife…big fuckin’ deal. Like he’s the first guy who ever had a woman screw him over,” angrily replied McBride who was still recovering from a bitter breakup with his own cheating girlfriend.
“No, you’re right Kevin. Relax, I didn’t mean to insinuate that Freddie deserved to be murdered
just because he liked to party. If that was the case then we’d all be dead. Hey, I agree with Hurl, if it were up to me, they could take Breslin out back right now and hang the bastard from the nearest tree and I wouldn’t give a shit,” clarified Landers, and the more he and McBride discussed the details of case, the more absorbed they became in their conversation. But at some point during the course of their dialogue, they noticed that their good friend, Robert Hurley, had become rather withdrawn, and that his face had turned a sickly shade of pale.
“What’s the matter Hurl, you nervous about testifying?” probed McBride.
“I’m scared shit,” confided Hurley. “I don’t trust myself. I’m worried that if Gleason pulls any of that crap on me, I’m gonna jump out of my chair and deck the son of a bitch.”
“Come on Hurl, we already went over this last night. You know you can’t be going all ‘psycho’ up there on the stand…if anything it will hurt our cause,” contended Landers.
“Yeah Hurl, you gotta keep your composure up there…no matter how much Gleason tries to rattle you, just remember, you gotta stay calm,” advised McBride. And so 30 minutes later when Robert Hurley took to the witness box, he silently repeated his new mantra over and over again; “Gotta stay calm, gotta stay calm, gotta stay calm.”
Right from the start, it seemed clear to Newlan that DA Lyons was treating Hurley with kid gloves. Perhaps she was somehow tipped off as to his fragile state of mind, or perhaps it was all just part of her master plan, but regardless of her reasoning, it was obvious that she was tiptoeing around Hurley as if he were trapped in the middle of a minefield.
Lyons gingerly called upon Hurley to regurgitate the same basic story that McBride and Landers had already conveyed to the jurors. He first met Fred Miller back in junior high school. They were best friends. He was an acquaintance of Tracy as well. He was aware of the fact that they had dated off and on in their younger years and then broke up. He hadn’t seen Tracy in over a decade when all of a sudden she reappeared out of nowhere and started hanging out with Fred again.
And once Lyons got through reestablishing the irrefutable, she moved on to inquire about Hurley’s living arrangements.
“Mr. Hurley, you and Fred Miller were roommates for many years, isn’t that correct?”
“Yes ma’am we were roommates for quite some time. I lost track of exactly how long it’s been, but I’d say it was probably close to 10 years,” estimated Hurley.
“And how did you end up becoming Fred’s roommate?” wondered Lyons.
“Well, when Fred was in college at UMass, he decided that he wanted to go to school out west, so he transferred to the University of Arizona in Tucson. He got an apartment, just off campus, and I went out to visit him for a couple of weeks during his senior year. We got along really well as roomies, so we made a pact that when Fred got out of college, we should rent a place together. But as it turned out, when Fred came back home to Massachusetts, he started seeing Tracy again, and they were living together off and on, so I got my own apartment for a while, and Fred eventually bought a small house in Framingham. Then a few years later, I hit some rough times and I was down on my luck, and I had heard the Fred and Tracy were on the outs, so I gave him a call and asked if he needed a tenant…and from that point on, we’d been roommates ever since. He was a great friend…let me stay with him rent-free until I got my feet back on the ground again. The nicest guy you could ever meet,” gushed Hurley while simultaneously fighting back tears.
“Mr. Hurley do you recall the date that Tracy made her first visit to the home you shared with Fred Miller?” continued Lyons.
“I don’t remember the exact date, but it was sometime in 2005,” replied Hurley.
“Do you remember what you told the investigators, Mr. Hurley?” repeated Lyons. And in return, Hurley slowly shook his head from side to side as he replied; “I’m sorry ma’am, I’m drawing a blank.”
“Mr. Hurley is your current memory presently exhausted regarding what you told the investigators about Tracy’s inaugural visit to Fred’s home in 2005?” inquired Lyons in a low listless tone as she approached Hurley and handed him a transcript to read.
“Memory exhausted. Why the hell does she keep using that phrase?” silently protested an irritable Newlan. But at the same time something else struck him; he once again perceived a consistent pattern in DA Lyons’ demeanor, but this time he jotted down his observation into his notepad for prosperity:
DA Lyons tends to go into a monotone when she is reviewing testimony that doesn’t help her case, but she raises her voice and makes a scene when she wants something to stick out in the juror’s minds…WELL I FOR ONE, AM NOT GONNA FALL FOR THAT!!
“Mr. Hurley is your current memory presently refreshed regarding what you told the investigators about Tracy’s initial visit to Fred’s home?” reasserted Lyons after Hurley had finished skimming through the transcripts.
“Yes ma’am, Tracy came by the house on the Fourth of July. Freddie was gonna take her to see the fireworks. I apologize, but my memory has kind of been going in and out on me the last few years,” replied Hurley.
“That’s quite all right Mr. Hurley. Now do you remember what happened that night?” pried Lyons, but Hurley appeared to be confused and he asked for a clarification.
“Well, did Fred and Tracy end up going to see the fireworks?” elucidated Lyons.
“Oh no…I guess Tracy got an unexpected call on her cell phone from her husband. Somehow he found out what she was up to, and he was pissed off, which got her all upset, and she started crying…and then she left,” explained Hurley.
“And Mr. Hurley do you recall any specific details from the night of January 12th, 2006?” continued Lyons, as she veered sharply over the subsequent six months in an effort to arrive squarely at the crux of the matter.
“Yes, I was in bed when Freddie got home. It was probably close to two in the morning, but he woke me up when he came into the house. I think he may have been upset about something because he was slamming doors and punching the walls. I was gonna get up to see what was going on, but I decided to stay in bed…and I never saw him alive again,” muttered Hurley as his voice trailed off.
Apparently, Hurley’s mantra “gotta stay calm” didn’t seem to be working. Ever since the day of the murder, he had regretted the fact that he didn’t drag himself out of bed on that last night of Fred Miller’s his life, if only just to find out what was bugging him. It was as if he somehow blamed himself for Miller’s death. For some crazy reason, he seemed to believe that his best buddy’s fate may have been different if he had only lifted his lazy ass up off the mattress and spoke to him, friend to friend, about his problems. And now as he recalled the details of that foreboding night in open court, he broke down and sobbed.
“If only I had talked to him. One last time, I just wanted to talk to him.”
And while Hurley wailed his regrets, an uncomfortable silence filled the courtroom, which was Billy’s cue to hustle over to the stand with a box of tissue paper in hand and offer it up to the bawling witness, who gladly accepted. Miraculously, the act of dabbing his eyes appeared to help him temporarily regain his composure, and upon observing his recovery, DA Lyons figured that she’d better trudge on before the pitiable witness had a tearful relapse.
“Mr. Hurley, do you recall how you found out about Fred Miller’s death?”
“Yes, sometime in the late morning of January 13th, 2006 I got a call from Fred’s brother, Cam. He said he had some bad news to tell me, but then, before he even said another word, he started crying. I thought that maybe Fred got in a car accident or something like that, and I remember hollering, ‘what’s wrong Cam, is Fred OK?’ And finally he put a State Trooper on the line who told me that Fred was deceased…and I just lost it,” recalled Hurley, and once again he lost it on the witness stand as well.
“Mr. Hurly did the investigators come to Fred’s house and interview you late
r that day?” placidly asked Lyons, while at the same time she seemingly ignored Hurley’s emotional breakdown.
“Yes,” sobbed Hurley who was now holding his head in his hands.
“And didn’t you agree to let the investigators take some of Fred’s belongings?” added Lyons, again in the best monotone she could muster.
Hurly could only manage to nod his head, and let out a barely audible, “yes.”
“Your honor let the record show that Mr. Hurley nodded his head in the affirmative,” requested DA Lyons, and then she added, “No further questions.”
Meanwhile, on the other side of the aisle, Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason had a dilemma on his hands. On the one hand, he wanted to show proper respect for the obviously pained man who had lost his best friend and roommate. But on the other hand, he also wanted to expound upon a few facts for the sake of the jurors, facts that DA Lyons had once again conveniently omitted. So at the risk of offending Hurley, he took a deep breath and proceeded.
“Mr. Hurley based on your testimony wouldn’t it be fair to say that John Breslin was aware of the fact that his wife Tracy was hanging out with Fred Miller, approximately 6 months before he was murdered?” calculated Gleason.
“I suppose,” answered an indifferent Hurley.
“And Mr. Hurley do you remember what happened just before Tracy left Fred’s house in tears on the Fourth of July 2005?” continued Gleason.
“No sir, I’m sorry but I don’t remember,” replied a suddenly stone-faced Hurley.
“Mr. Hurley didn’t you just read the transcript of your interview with the investigators?” probed an irritated Gleason.
“I only read a portion of it,” explained an equally exasperated Hurley.
“Well, let me read it to you, and you tell me whether this rings a bell. ‘Hurley stated that Fred took the phone from Tracy and yelled into it…if you ever lay a hand on her, I swear to God, I’ll kill you with my own bare hands.’ Isn’t that what you told the investigators?” demanded Gleason.
Hurley shrugged his shoulders and confessed; “If that’s what it says in the transcript, then I guess that’s what I told them.”
Hurley was undoubtedly being uncooperative, and Gleason was rapidly losing any sympathy that he might have had for him.
“Mr. Hurley according to your transcript, you also told the investigators that between July 2005 and January 2006, Lauren Hernandez spent many a night as a guest of Fred Miller’s in the home you shared together, …isn’t that correct?” pressed on Gleason.
“I told you, I don’t remember my exact words, but if that’s what it states in the report then I guess that’s what I said,” repeated an agitated Hurley, and by now Gleason had had enough. He was through playing games, and he decided that it was time to go in for the kill.
“Mr. Hurley you testified that the investigators took some of Fred’s belongings on the afternoon of January 13th, 2006. Do you recall what they took?”
“Well, I was pretty shook up, so I wasn’t really paying all that much attention, but I think they took Fred’s computer, his cell phone, and his answering machine,” matter-of-factly replied Hurley.
“Didn’t they also take away a cardboard box filled with drug paraphernalia, Mr. Hurley,” vociferated Gleason who was also familiar with the Law School 101 raised voice trick.
“Objection, irrelevant,” screamed the up-until-then tranquil Lyons, in a voice that was even louder than Gleason’s.
“Sustained,” replied Judge Gershwin, and Newlan distinctly noticed that she shook her head slightly in apparent disapproval of Gleason’s tactics…and it made him angry.
“She’s supposed to be neutral. I hope none of the other jurors picked up that,” silently contemplated Newlan. He understood full well how easily the minds of men and women can be swayed….and as the mixed emotions built up inside of him, he tried his best to reconcile the judge’s jaundiced demeanor…but he couldn’t.
“I guess it’s just human nature to let your feelings show…but she’s a judge. She’s trained to be impartial. She should know better than that.”
However, Newlan didn’t have much of an opportunity to become too upset over Judge Gershwin’s apparent partisan gesture, because in the split second that it took for DA Lyons to make her objection known, Robert Hurley had come completely unraveled.
Hurley sprang from his seat and pointed at Gleason as he roared his dismay.
“I’m tired of you trying to smear my friend’s name. He was a good man, and that’s more than I can say for your client.”
Hurley’s continued outburst promptly ignited a murmur from the gallery, which swiftly grew into a full-fledged crescendo, and in response to the chaos, Judge Gershwin actually had to resort to banging a gable on her desk and shouting; “Order in the court.”
“Now I’ve seen everything…this is just like TV,” whispered Newlan as he glanced over in the frightened Natalie’s direction. Apparently, she had been shaken to her core by Hurley’s eruption, and, understandably, she was not alone in her reaction; evidently many of the jurors were unnerved by Hurley’s explosive flare-up, and rightfully so.
But conversely, R. J. Gleason didn’t appear to take Hurley’s assault to heart at all. On the contrary, as Gleason turned his back on Hurley, he smiled broadly and announced; “No further questions your honor.”
For her part, Judge Gershwin was livid over the commotion that had invaded her courtroom, but she tried her best not to let it show. Instead, she took a deep breath and adeptly kept her composure, but the sternness in her voice was measurable as she instructed Hurley to step down from the stand.
And as Robert Hurley unsteadily made his way out of the courtroom, his best friend Kevin McBride turned to his other best friend, Michael Landers and whispered, “so much for staying calm.”
Meanwhile, Judge Gershwin ordered another break, and the jurors spent the next half hour buzzing about the latest turn of event, with many of them repeating Newlan’s assessment that the tense scene was akin to watching a TV show.
After the break, Judge Gershwin addressed the jurors and she serenely instructed them that they should disregard Mr. Hurley’s vent of frustration…and just like that it was on to the next witness as if nothing out of the ordinary had ever happened.
“Like I’m gonna be able to forget about that,” muttered Newlan, and Natalie nodded her head in agreement as another witness apprehensively entered the courtroom.
“Your honor the prosecution calls Ms. Kim Beliveau to the stand,” announced DA Lyons while at the same time a pretty, middle-aged woman approached the witness box.
“Ms. Beliveau could you please tell us where you work and how long you’ve been employed there?” requested Lyons.
“I work part time in the record keeping office of the Marlborough Medical Group and I’ve been there for about 5 years,” stated Beliveau.
“And Ms. Beliveau, did you work with a Tracy Breslin?”
“Yes Tracy worked Thursday nights…and usually on Saturday mornings as well.”
“And Ms. Beliveau, sometime in August of 2005 did Tracy introduce you to someone?” continued Lyons.
“Yes, she introduced me to a friend of hers, Fred Miller,” replied Beliveau.
“And did something happen later that month that involved Tracy and Fred?” wondered Lyons as she methodically led Beliveau in the direction of her choosing.
“Yes, one night Tracy and I were leaving work, and Fred was outside on his motorcycle waiting for her…and as I got to my car I noticed a man parked near me with a video camera…and he seemed to be videotaping Tracy and Fred who were kissing outside of her car…and at the same time he was talking to someone on a cell phone,” explained Beliveau.
“So what did you do?”
“Well, my car was parked between the stranger’s car and Tracy’s car, so I put the hood up, and then I walked over to Tracy and Fred and told them that a man was watching them and that he
had a video camera pointed at them. I figured that maybe it was a private detective.”
“And then what happened?”
“Well, as you can imagine, Fred got very upset. He approached the man and started yelling at him. He was telling him to get out of the car, and that he was gonna kick his ass, but the guy just kept on filming. Although, I think he was getting scared, because soon thereafter, he drove away…but not before Fred kicked out his taillight as he was pulling out of the parking lot,” exclaimed Beliveau.
DA Lyons cringed at Beliveau’s detailed play-by-play commentary, but then she figured, “Oh well, better that the jurors hear it now, rather than to have R. J. get it out of her.”
“Ms. Beliveau, where there any other incidents involving Tracy and Fred before or after this altercation?” coolly continued Lyons.
“No…shortly after that incident, Tracy quit, and I really didn’t keep in touch with her other than when we were at work together, so I don’t know of anything else,” firmly replied Beliveau.
“Thank you Ms. Beliveau. That’s all I have your honor,” smiled Lyons.
And of course now it was Gleason’s turn again, and as he slowly approached the podium, he warmly introduced himself, as he did to all the witnesses.
“Good afternoon Ms. Beliveau, my name is R. J. Gleason and I represent Mr. Breslin.”
“Ms. Beliveau isn’t it true that you were aware of the fact that Tracy Breslin was a married woman, and that Fred Miller wasn’t her husband?” wondered Gleason. And just like that, the pleasant demeanor of Ms. Kim Beliveau suddenly turned on a dime as she sarcastically replied; “it really wasn’t any of my business.”
“Ms. Beliveau, if it was none of your business then why did you put the hood of your car up?” demanded Gleason. But Beliveau just shrugged her shoulders and said nothing, which elicited Gleason to patiently follow up with another more direct attempt at the same question.
“Weren’t you trying to block the man’s view so that he couldn’t film Tracy and Fred?”
“No, I was looking under the hood of my car because I had to check the fluid levels. I had a leaking gasket in my engine, and I wanted to make sure that I wasn’t low on oil,” explained Beliveau in a brusque tone.
And weary though he may have been, Newlan was furiously scribbling Beliveau’s story into his notepad, making sure to get every last detail of her testimony down on paper, and next to her last statement he wrote:
NOT VERY BELIEVABLE!!
Of course, although Beliveau may not have been believable in Newlan’s eyes, that didn’t stop Gleason from going ahead with his incredulous tone anyway.
“Didn’t you tell the investigators, and I quote, ‘I put my hood up to block the man’s view’?”
“Absolutely not…I told them I put the hood up, but I never told them why,” insisted Beliveau.
It was obvious to Gleason that Beliveau was being untruthful, but he forged ahead anyway; his thinking was that if she continued to lie, it would also become obvious to everyone in the courtroom, especially the jurors.
“Ms. Beliveau, in your estimation, about how old was the unidentified man in the car?”
“I’d say around 40 years old,” guessed Beliveau. But the discrepancy in her current answers, compared to what was written in her police report, was testing Gleason’s patience, and so with a raised voice, he retaliated, “Ms. Beliveau did you or did you not tell the investigators that the man with the video camera was an older gentleman with gray hair…in his late 50’s or early 60’s? I’m reading this right from the police report of your interview.”
“I may have said that, but now that I think of it, he was probably a lot younger than that,” Beliveau coldly replied.
“Ms. Beliveau didn’t you just testify that Fred Miller threatened to beat up an old man?” countered Gleason who had now reverted back to a calm tone while embellishing his question with a bit of faulty memory of his own regarding the insertion of the word “old”.
“I never said that,” angrily replied Beliveau before Lyons even had the chance to shout out, “objection, leading.”
“Of course, sustained” replied Judge Gershwin while flashing the hint of a smile, and once again the smile, and its potential for misinterpretation, annoyed Newlan.
Gleason however, continued on undaunted.
“Ms. Beliveau, you also testified today that Fred Miller damaged the man’s car, isn’t that correct?”
No, I never used those words,” Beliveau nitpicked. And by now Gleason had had just about enough of Ms. Kim Beliveau so he angrily asked Judge Gershwin for her help in the matter.
“Your honor I request that you enjoin the witness…she has been combative from the very beginning of my cross-examination,” pleaded Gleason. And for once Judge Gershwin seemed to side with him, or so thought Newlan; it appeared that she was just as fed up with Beliveau as Gleason was, and she scolded her to the point of embarrassment.
“Ms. Beliveau, may I remind you that this is not a game…this is a court of law, and I expect all parties who appear in my courtroom to show proper respect to the court. Henceforth you will answer all questions from Mr. Gleason with a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’, and if you feel you cannot answer his questions with a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ then you will tell me, and you will not say another word until I give you directions as to how to proceed…is that understood Ms. Beliveau?”
“Yes your honor, I apologize…it’s just that I’ve never testified in a trial before,” justified Beliveau.
“Now…Mr. Gleason, you may proceed,” directed Judge Gershwin. And after personally requesting that Ms. Kim Beliveau be administered a verbal tongue-lashing, Gleason’s response was rather curious; specifically, his response to the prudent judge’s directive was to immediately reply, “No further questions your honor.”
“Wow, this guy’s a true piece of work. First, the sly bastard has the judge tell off the witness, and then he has no more questions for her,” lauded Newlan. And if Judge Gershwin were under oath and forced to reveal her thoughts, she probably would have agreed with his evaluation. But for now, she had had enough of Gleason’s antics, and she decided that she’d deal with him privately in the morning, so she dismissed the jurors for the day, after, of course, first rendering the usual reminder not to discuss the case with anybody.
As the jurors left the courtroom, Jim, the telecom industry professional, once again whispered to Newlan, “I’m telling you I gotta get this guy’s card, just in case I ever get in a jam with the law.”
“Yeah, get me one too…not that we could afford him,” replied Newlan with an impish smile, and then he muttered to himself, “Man, you can’t make this shit up.”
…
Newlan drove home on autopilot that evening, while at the same time the day’s events reverberated around his brain like a pinball machine racking up bonus points. He was astounded by the eeriness of the fact that Fred Miller’s friends reminded him so much of his own buddies, Pat Horn and Bruce Reardon, and he wondered how he would react if one of his old pals suddenly turned up mangled, with a bullet wound in the head. More importantly, he wondered how they would react if he were the one who was discovered, slumped over in his car, shot down and left for dead.
It was by no means an easy task, but while Newlan sat there on the highway, stuck in traffic, with nothing better to do than to fixate on the trial, he tried his best to put it all into perspective; the prosecution had certainly been able to illustrate that Breslin possessed more than enough motivation for wanting Miller dead, but so far, in his mind anyway, they still hadn’t even come close to proving that he was guilty beyond a reasonable doubt of the charges being alleged.
And as he inched his way through the gridlock, Newlan also obsessed on the emerging details regarding how Fred Miller was reunited with his high school girlfriend after all those years…and he wondered what he would have done if he found had himself in Miller’s shoes…and then, almost simultaneousl
y, he wondered whether he would ever come to terms with the loss of his own high school sweetheart.
“On the other hand, look where it got Miller,” Newlan mumbled to himself.
“Maybe it doesn’t pay to be sentimental. Maybe it doesn’t pay to always be looking back,” rationalized Newlan. But of course deep in his heart-of-hearts he knew that he had to look back…he always looked back.
By the time Newlan made his way home, his only desire was to collapse on the sofa for the rest of the month, uninterrupted. But no matter how spent he was, he still couldn’t sleep, he still couldn’t relax, and so after a few hours of staring at the ceiling, unable to put the trial out of his mind, he relinquished himself to the fact that it was a futile effort.
Newlan raggedly rose up from the couch, and as he ran his fingers through his long stringy hair, he poke his head out onto the deck of his condo and bemusedly asked the Lord up above, “dear God, what kind of a mess have I gotten myself into this time?”; all the while knowing full well that sometimes we have no control over the destinies that befall us.
And as Newlan pondered his circumstances, his question to the Heavens would soon take on an added significance, because as luck would have it, just as he was peering up into the Great Unknown in search of an answer, his phone rang, and unbeknownst to him, his propensity for getting into mischief…was about to increase…exponentially.
From the Eyes of a Juror Page 51