From the Eyes of a Juror

by Frank Terranova

  Chapter 43 – Ringing Phones and Roller Coaster Rides

  Wednesday evening June 11, 2008 – 8:05 PM

  Marianne Plante was beginning to feel as if she were trapped in a living Hell. As had been the case more often than not lately, once again she found herself in an emotionally distraught state and she was practically climbing the walls of her master bedroom while her husband Tom Willis showered in preparation for another night in absentia.

  Plante had been unhappy for the longest time now, but tonight she had reached a pinnacle of regret and she was absolutely disgusted with her sad little world and everyone in it. Tonight she had reached a watershed moment where everything in her life was coming to a head. Tonight she had reached an uninhabitable point of no return where nothing much mattered anymore…and no sooner had her husband hopped out of the shower when their argument resumed anew.

  “I don’t want you going out again,” pleaded Plante. “I’m exhausted and I need to get some rest. Please, I’m begging you, please, stay home and spend some time with your daughters for a change.”

  “I told you babe, I gotta go meet a client. You know I need to bring in wads of cash if I’m gonna keep a roof over our heads. Not to mention the shitload of money it takes to support your nasty habits,” needled Willis, but Plante was not amused.

  “You’re the one that’s full of shit. I know what you’re up to. You think I don’t know that you’re gonna go meet some bimbo and screw around all night. Well two can play at that game,” forewarned Plante, and her boldness shocked her husband in more ways than one.

  You see, Willis was growing more and more agitated with his wife for suddenly having the nerve to stand up to him after all these years. But what was even more upsetting to him was the fact that she was actually beginning to catch onto his antics; somehow she seemed to know exactly what his plans for the evening were, and he didn’t like it, he didn’t like it one bit.

  And so by the time Tom Willis had slipped into his fancy duds, he was livid at his wife for putting him in such a sour mood, just as he was getting himself geared up for a night of wild fun. The fact that she was threatening to retaliate by taking the same course of action that she was accusing him of, apparently was the last straw, because seemingly out of nowhere, he turned into a wild animal and pounced on his wife like a tiger attacking an antelope; he clawed at her face with such a force that he left an imprint of his fingers marked on her cheek, and he threw her down hard onto their bed as he laid down the law.

  “What the fuck are you trying to insinuate? I’m the man of this house. Do I make myself clear? I’ll do whatever the hell I damn well please, and I don’t want to hear another peep out of you. Just shut the fuck up and take care of your kids. You understand me?”

  “They’re your kids too,” sobbed Plante.

  “Didn’t I just tell you to SHUT…THE…FUCK…UP? You better start doing as you’re told or I’m telling you right now, I’ll beat the living shit out of you…and if I ever catch you with another man, I promise you right now, I’ll kill the both of you,” roared Willis.

  “Good, I’d rather be dead than to take your crap anymore,” wailed Plante.

  “So what are you saying…you want a divorce? Is that what this is all about? Well then go for it, you fuckin’ bitch. I swear I’ll take the kids and you’ll never see them again,” threatened Willis.

  “Nooooo,” wailed Plante as she buried her head under a pillow and moaned, “I hate my fuckin’ life.”

  “You’re a pitiful fuckin’ head case,” jeered Willis as he stormed out of the room, slamming doors in his wake. But just before he hit the road, Willis poked his head back inside the bedroom door, and he antagonized his wife one last time by announcing his intentions for the evening.

  “I’m leaving now…and by the way, don’t wait up. This could be a long meeting tonight,” gibed Willis in a derisively belligerent tone. And sure enough, his taunts provoked the combative Plante into action. She instinctively pulled their wedding picture down off of the nightstand and flung it towards the door. But luckily for all involved, her husband had already made his way down the staircase as the frame crashed harmlessly against the spot that he had just relinquished.

  Meanwhile, the Willis’s two prepubescent daughters sat huddled on the floor of their bedroom with their arms wrapped around each other, trying in vain to block out the screams that were coming from their parents’ room. But once their father had vacated the premises, once he had made his grand exit, once the coast was clear, they crept into their mother’s bed and fruitlessly attempted to console her.

  “Mommy, why are you so sad?” sniffled the girls as they snuggled up against their mother’s shoulders. And for the sake of her daughters, Plante raised herself up out of bed and composed herself as best she could. She didn’t want them to see her in such a sorry state, and as such she soothingly explained away the argument in terms that they might understand.

  “It’s OK my little angels. Mommy and daddy are having a rough time right now, but I promise you that things will get better. I promise you that everything’s gonna be alright. Now give mommy a big hug,” assured Plante. And being the good little girls that they were, they did as they were told; they rushed into their mother’s arms, and the three of them held on to each other for a long, long time.

  In the end, Plante’s girls went to bed happy; they were satisfied with their mother’s promising explanation, while at the same time she mumbled to herself, “if only it were that easy…just say that everything’s gonna be alright and live happily ever after.”

  And difficult though her circumstances might have been, somehow the trust that Plante gleaned shining through her daughters’ eyes magically brought her back to her own youth, and as she reflected astern on those innocent times, the nostalgic memories involuntarily compelled her to smile ruefully through her tears. And then after an extended period of contemplation, poetically, her thoughts turned to her high school boyfriend, Frank Newlan, and her smile turned into something more poignant; something more sentimental; something more heartbreaking.

  Plante fixated on some of the choices she had made in her younger days, and for the life of her, she still couldn’t figure out how she had come to those decisions. It was as if there was a whole other person in her head calling the shots back in those days.

  Plante sometimes wished she could have a “do over”, but alas she was smart enough to understand that life doesn’t tend to work that way. However, if it did, she would have never let Frank Newlan get away. She had come to learn that it wasn’t every day a man like Newlan crossed her path; a man who treated her with such warmth and tenderness, such love and affection, such devotion and respect. And in turn, she, like a fool, assumed that there had to be something better out there in that great big world. If only she had known then what she knew today, things may have been different in her life. But regrettably it was much too late to undo what had already been done, and unfortunately she was finding that out the hard way.

  Plante’s life had become one painful, mind-numbing day after sorrowful day of neglect, and she finally understood exactly where Newlan was coming from when in his lyrics he lamented, “everyday’s a dull routine, I wake up to the same old dream, of you and me, it’s the same old scene”.

  And so on this darkest of nights, the more Marianne Plante meditated on Frank Newlan’s persona and all the good times they had, the more despondent and lonely she became.

  Plante had been raised to be a good Catholic, but for some reason, over the years, she had lost her way, and at some hopeless point in her life’s journey she had stopped believing in something bigger than us all.

  But recently however, Plante had once again resorted to the healing powers of prayer; perhaps out of a renewed sense of faith, or perhaps more likely out of a sense of woebegone desperation. But whatever her thought process, every night for the past few months she had been praying for a miracle. She h
ad been praying for a change in her life. She had been praying for a new beginning. She had been praying like she had never prayed before.

  And with her newfound piousness leading the way, it was fitting that on this night Plante decided the moment called for prayer. It was fitting that on this night she closed her eyes and whispered a “Hail Mary” and then an “Our Father”, over and over again until she lost count; hoping against hope that her self-imposed penance might somehow miraculously solve all of her problems. And as she prayed, her eyes suddenly focused in on the telephone sitting on her nightstand, and a whisper of a thought came wandering into her mind.

  “Perhaps the answer to my prayers is staring me right in the face. Perhaps redemption is only a phone call away. Perhaps my saving grace is just waiting for me to reach out and touch him.”

  Plante spastically reached for the phone, but then, just as swiftly, she fell back onto the bed and cowered under the sheets.

  “I can’t do it, I can’t do it, I just can’t do it,” she whimpered, but she could do it, and after a few more feeble attempts she did do it; she did what she had been wanting to do for so long now that it seemed like forever and a day; she did what she thought just couldn’t be done…Marianne Plante called Frank Newlan.

  After almost twenty years apart, Marianne Plante decided that it was time to hear Frank Newlan’s voice again, and she prayed that he would be there to answer her cry for help. She prayed that he would be happy to hear from her. She prayed that maybe, just maybe, he missed her as much as she missed him.

  And as we have already been made aware, at right around that very moment, Frank Newlan was working his way through some heavy issues of his own, and so when he picked up the phone and stared in confusion at the name on the caller ID, he wasn’t quite sure whether it was Heaven or Hell that awaited him on the other end of the line.

  “Willis T & M, where do I know that name from?” wondered Newlan. He was cognizant of the fact that Marianne Plante’s married name was Willis based on the letter he had received just days ago, but it took a second or two for the clue to register in his brain, and when it did, he hesitantly answered the phone with just a cautiously whispered “hello.”

  “Hello, Frankie, is that you?” casually inquired Plante as she attempted to come across as calm, cool and collected, even though she had been crying her eyes out for the past two hours.

  “Yes it’s me…and who’s this?” queried Newlan even though he was 99.9% sure of who it was he was talking to.

  “Frankie, it’s me…Marianne Plante,” joyfully replied Plante, and just the sound of a familiar, friendly voice was doing wonders to lift her sinking spirits.

  “Wow, Marianne is it really you? You’re not gonna believe this, but I’m as nervous as a kid on his first day of school,” confessed Newlan.

  “Nervous…what for…it’s just me Frankie,” reasoned a chuckling Plante.

  “Well, it’s been like…forever. I don’t know…I guess you just caught me off guard. I’m shaking like a leaf on a tree, for Christ’s sake,” admitted Newlan.

  “Oh Frankie, don’t be silly. I just wanted to make sure that you got my letter,” nonchalantly replied Plante in a tone that desperately attempted to conceal the fact that her life was in shambles. She knew it was wrong to mislead Newlan, but she just wasn’t ready to reveal the depths of her despair, at least not yet anyway.

  “Yes, I got the letter, and it really blew my mind because, coincidentally enough, I just had a few dreams about you recently,” acknowledged Newlan who then proclaimed, “well, more than a few really.”

  “Dreams…of me? Come on, you’re just trying to flatter me,” chided Plante, and then she sighed longingly before adding, “Ah Frankie, we had some good times.”

  And as they chatted, all the while, Newlan was flooded with the overflowing memories of the countless dreams that his subconscious mind had conjured up, starring Marianne Plante, over the years; tender dreams so peaceful that he didn’t care whether he ever woke up again; sultry dreams so passionate that they would reduce him to putty; erotic dreams so real that he would wake up soaked in sweat. And now, just the sound of her voice on the other end of the phone line was sending his heart racing in a confused frenzy of wistful yearnings, but his words couldn’t have been more self-effacing.

  “By the way Marianne, do you smoke cigarettes these days?” offhandedly wondered Newlan as he too attempted to keep his deepest desires hidden, at least for the time being anyway.

  “I do. How’d you know that?” marveled Plante.

  “Well, believe it or not I had this weird dream about you one time, and in my mind, you were smoking a cigarette…and the scene just seemed so real that I was sure there had to be more to it than meets the eye,” professed Newlan; making good and sure, of course, to omit some of the more adult-minded themes which were also a part of his fantasy world.

  And in response to Newlan’s unspoken intimacies, Plante teasingly replied, as if she were reading his mind; “really…what else have you dreamed about me?”

  Newlan was tongued-tied for a more than a few seconds, but he finally managed to spit out a couple of non-sequiturs followed by another one of his many non-answers.

  “If only you knew Marianne…if only you knew.”

  “Come on, you can tell me. You never know…maybe more of your dreams might come true,” tantalized Plante.

  However, instead of being aroused, Newlan shivered as he suddenly flashed back to some of his more sinister dreams of late, and he groaned ruefully as he replied, “that’s what I’m afraid of Marianne. That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “What do you mean by that?” wondered Plante, sounding slightly offended.

  “Oh no, it’s got nothing to do with you. It’s just that, along with the good dreams, I’ve also had my share of strange dreams lately…bad dreams…evil dreams…unspeakable dreams…dreams that I hope never come true. But sometimes I wonder if my dreams are trying to tell me something,” explained Newlan.

  “Well, you always were a bit psychic…or at least that’s what you claimed anyway,” Plante joked.

  “Tell me about it. You wouldn’t believe what’s been going on with me. I swear I think I’m losing it, Marianne,” divulged Newlan, and from there he loathingly went on to confess to his role in the Breslin murder case, and how he had been practically incapacitated by a series of bizarre dreams lately, all somehow related to the trial.

  And as Newlan spilled his guts out with the details of Fred Miller’s murder, as well as the specifics of his horrific nightmares, the ominous love triangle connotations of the Breslin trial rattled Plante, and yet her advice displayed not a hint of concern.

  “Frankie, you just need to learn how to relax,” advised Plante

  “Relax? I won’t be able to relax until this damned trial is over, and even then it might take a while to shake this dark cloud that seems to be following me around lately,” grumbled Newlan. And despite all of the years that had passed between them, Plante could still sift out the fact that something significant was bothering him, so she maneuvered the subject of their conversation towards something less deep in hopes of easing his worried mind.

  “So I heard you bumped into my mother a while back,” gossiped Plante.

  “Yes I did, but truthfully I didn’t even recognize her at first. But of course, once I realized who it was, I went over to say hello. She’s a sweet lady, that mother of yours. She told me that you were married and had two daughters, and honestly I was very happy for you. But for some reason, I admit that I still think about you from time to time…I still think about us from time to time,” conceded a suddenly choked-up Newlan while at the same time he wiped away a tear that appeared out of nowhere and rolled slowly down his cheek.

  “Oh Frankie that’s so sweet,” gaped Plante.

  “So how are things on your end? How’s married life treating you?” casually wondered Newlan as he quickly
recomposed himself; although, unbeknownst to Plante, his curiosity went way beyond the point of indifference.

  “Don’t ask…” replied Plante in a bitterly acidic tone. And as much as she tried, she was unable to mask the resentment in her voice.

  “We’ve kind of been drifting apart lately. Of course, we’re trying to work things out, but its hard Frankie, it’s really hard. But as bad as its been, I honestly don’t want to get a divorce, mainly for the girls sake…I don’t want them to grow up in broken home,” explained Plante. And as the thought of what might lie ahead for her daughters crystallized in her mind, she began to cry softly into the receiver, and at the same time she also felt guilty about being untruthful to Newlan. After all, she knew full well that she and her husband were not even remotely trying to work things out, and in fact they were well past the “working it out” phase at this point.

  “It’s OK Marianne, everything’s gonna be alright. Every marriage goes through some rough spots. I’m sure you’ll resolve your differences,” counseled Newlan, even though he wasn’t quite sure whether he believed what he was saying, or for that matter, whether he selfishly even wanted to believe it.

  “Thanks for the words of encouragement…oh Frankie I miss you,” sniffled Plante, as the longing in her heart broke through its harness like a boat being ripped from its dock by a raging storm.

  “By the way, you asked me in your letter why I’m still single, well what’s happening with you and your husband is one reason. It seems as if every couple I know is going through some sort of problem or another…whether its money, alcohol, drugs, cheating, you name it. And I just can’t handle that pain,” confessed Newlan. But Plante was unwilling to accept the emotional wall that her old boyfriend had built up around himself.

  “Don’t stop believing Frankie…because even through all the heartache, love can be a beautiful thing,” encouraged Plante, even though at the moment she was having a hard time believing her own words.

  “I know Marianne, but for some reason I have never been able to commit to anyone…and well, maybe I’m just a lost cause,” professed Newlan as he once again fought back tears.

  “Please Frankie, whatever you do, don’t give up. You’ll find someone, I know you will. I honestly believe that there’s a perfect match out there for everyone,” pleaded Plante. But at the same time she secretly wondered whether she had anything at all to do with Newlan’s fear of commitment.

  “Thanks for the pep talk,” replied an appreciative Newlan. But at the same time he too sullenly contemplated; “then again, maybe I already found my perfect match. But for some inexplicable reason she walked away and left me looking back…always looking back.”

  However, when it came right down to it, ultimately, and more importantly, both Plante and Newlan, at the very same time, were hopefully thinking; “Is it possible that we still might end up together?”

  But of course neither one of them dared to come right out and say what was on their minds; neither one of them dared to be the first to admit what the other one was thinking.

  Dear reader, who’s to say for sure, but perhaps our world would be a far better place if at moments like this two people could reach out and telepathically read each other’s minds. Who knows how many times in the history of man, in the history of love, two people have had amorous feelings for each other which were left unspoken and never revealed until the end of time. How sad we are as a race that we can’t even communicate our deepest feelings to one another when love waits in vain on the other side of the door. How sad for Marianne Plante and Frank Newlan…how very sad indeed.

  The downcast former lovers desperately desired to share their inner most hopes and fears with each other, and yet as they chatted into the night, they discussed just about every other subject imaginable, except for the most important one, which was seemingly beyond their grasp to broach. He asked about her kids. She asked about his condo. He asked about the missing years in between their breakup and her marriage. She asked about his long since broken-up rock band. He asked about her parents’ health. She asked about the loss of his parents. And before they knew what hit them, the clock on the wall had struck midnight.

  Newlan was wallowing in the conversation to such an extent that he wished he could have mustered up the energy to stay up until dawn and reminisce the night away. But when his yawning wouldn’t let up, he reluctantly called it a night.

  “Well Marianne, I really enjoyed talking to you, but I better get going to bed…I gotta rest up for another long day at the courthouse tomorrow,” lamented Newlan.

  “OK…I’m sorry I kept you up, but I’m glad we finally got a chance to talk. Oh and by the way, whether you believe it or not, I want you to know that I’ve always felt guilty about the way things ended between us,” apologetically replied Plante. And then, just as she was about to hang up the phone, she tacked on a hastily considered addendum to the conversation; “Hey, maybe I can call you again sometime if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure, feel free to call me any time. Oh and Marianne, before I forget, I just want to say that I hope things work out between you and your husband,” insisted Newlan. Although, in much the same vein as Judge Gershwin’s attitude towards renowned Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason, if Newlan were forced to take a lie detector test, it remained to be seen whether he would have passed the exam if the question posed before him was; “do you truly hope that things work out between Marianne Plante and her husband?”

  And so as the melancholic phone call ended, it triggered the start of an emotional avalanche in Newlan’s heart; a landslide that would find him moping around his condo, buried in a state of despondent despair

  Upon hanging up the phone, Newlan sat there in his dimly lit living room for over an hour, dumfounded and practically unable to move as he thought long and hard about the conversation that he had just had with his old flame. He wondered whether there was something more to Plante’s unexpected phone call than met the eye, or whether it really was just an old friend saying hello. But after agonizing over the matter until his head hurt, he finally conceded that it was the latter, and he sighed to himself; “Well, I guess that puts some closure on our relationship once and for all.”

  Based on recent events in the John Breslin murder trial, Newlan wasn’t sure whether he even wanted to have anything to do with his ex-lover in the first place, and so he dragged himself off to bed thinking that his tête-à-tête with Marianne Plante would lead to the same old ending, not a new beginning. But the old fool couldn’t have been more wrong.

  Newlan eventually drifted off to sleep, and if the facts of the murder trial that he was helping to referee were any indication, his dreams took him to a very dangerous place.

  Newlan dreamt he got a call from Marianne Plante, who was requesting that he meet her at secret location; a location that turned out to be a desolate cemetery. And like a good little boy, Newlan followed Plante’s orders and did as he was asked…and sure enough their clandestine meeting ended up in a passionate embrace followed by a long romantic kiss.

  The kiss seemed so real that Newlan could practically feel Plante’s sweet breath on his lips, and yet as was often the case in his waking life, the reality of a disappointing climactic scene left his spirit broken.

  Newlan’s ecstatic moment was interrupted by a tap on the shoulder, and when he grudgingly disentangled himself from Plante’s embrace and turned around, he observed a shadowy figure standing there before him; he observed that it was none other than Fred Miller staring back at him with vacant eyes and a bloody bullet hole scarring his face.

  Miller’s gaze bore into Newlan’s pupils as if he was trying to warn him of something by way of a mind meld. And although it took all the strength he could muster, in the end, he dredged up the will to deliver his dire advice; “better watch out Newlan or you’ll end up like me.”

  And as Miller transferred these ominous words into Newlan’s memory banks, blood began to
gurgle from of his mouth, and his body slowly melted away until all that was left was a skeletal form, which instantly zapped Newlan back into conscious reality with a resounding thud.

  Newlan lifted himself up from his bed and screamed in terror. His heart was racing in his chest like a churning locomotive and a rush of adrenaline had him flailing his arms like a dog being attacked by a swarm of mosquitoes. This time however, the significance of his dream was not lost on him, not in the least. As a matter of fact it seemed rather obvious; if he were to find himself in Fred Miller’s shoes what would he do? If Marianne Plante wanted him back after all these years what would he do? Would he resist temptation? Would he go for it regardless of the consequences?

  As Newlan sat there in his bed, in the middle of another sleepless night, and pondered these hypothetical questions, he had to admit that he wasn’t altogether sure just how he would react. On the one hand, he was unsure as to whether he was ready for another ride on the emotional roller coaster that Marianne Plante had put him through all those years ago. However, on the other hand, if push came to shove, he wasn’t quite sure whether he’d be strong enough to resist her magnetic allure either.

  But ready or not, the ride was about to start up again, and all Newlan could do was to hang on for dear life…as he breathlessly descended…into hell…in a hand-basket.