From the Eyes of a Juror

by Frank Terranova

  Chapter 52 – Dream a Little Dream…of Me

  Thursday evening June 12, 2008 – 11:55 PM

  Frank Newlan wasn’t the only person who was dreading the fact that his presence was mandatorily required inside of courtroom 630 of the Middlesex Superior Courthouse first thing in the morning. Au contraire, as one might suspect, Ms. Tracy Stone was also drifting helplessly downstream on board the same vessel in which he was figuratively paddling, arms and legs flailing, like a rowboat without an oar, caught in a deadly current.

  But unlike Newlan, who would be playing the role of faithful servant, an anonymous cog in the wheels of justice, Tracy Stone would be stationed front and center, the focus of attention, with all eyes trained squarely on her…and consequently poor Tracy found herself, predictably enough, falling down drunk again. Sadly, even after enduring countless hours of temptation-resisting travail in the form of invasive psychoanalysis, it proved to be all for not; for even though she had long ago surrendered her undivided attention to the lonely world of self-help groups, primarily geared towards the distinctly singular task of assisting her in remaining sober for the past year and a half, her self-restraint had been washed down the drain over the course of 24 incredibly stressful hours.

  Tracy had long since put the kids to bed, and now she was attempting to put herself to bed. But sleep would not come easy, no matter how much alcohol she poured down her throat. For regardless of how much she drank, and regardless of how fast and furiously she tried to persuade herself otherwise, she was utterly unconvinced of her ability to withstand another day spent facing off against the grueling cross-examination being delivered in stealthy blows by her ex-husband’s asshole of a lawyer, Mr. R. J. Gleason…and her health was beginning to suffer because of it.

  And if that weren’t bad enough, DA Lyons pulled Tracy aside late this afternoon, just after court had adjourned for the day, and she informed her that the Commonwealth of Massachusetts was requesting the presence of her son John Breslin Jr. (or “JJ” as he was so lovingly also known as by his parents) at the courthouse tomorrow morning as well.

  So now not only was Tracy overwhelmed by her own untenable situation, but she was also equally distraught over the prospects of having to expose her eldest son to the inevitable circus-like atmosphere which was bound to develop at the courthouse once the ravenous press got word of the impending involvement of an 11 year old boy in his own father’s murder trial.

  “What could DA Lyons possibly want with JJ?” contemplated Tracy. But there was really no need for her to rack her brains, because deep in her heart-of-hearts she had a pretty good idea of what was going on.

  “Lyons wants JJ to corroborate my testimony. Lyons wants JJ to admit that he overheard his father threaten a man’s life…what else could it be?” concluded Tracy, and she dreaded the very thought of it.

  Tracy’s children had already been traumatized beyond belief. They had been exposed to a sudden and unexpected turn of events which would forever change their lives. They would be forced to pay for the sins of their parents with a currency which couldn’t very well be withdrawn from the local bank like an IOU. They had been placed right smack dab in the middle of an awful predicament, through no fault of their own, that no child should ever have to endure.

  Based on past experience, Tracy was well aware of just how mean the schoolyard bullies could be, and now her own flesh-and-blood would have to bear the brunt of their classmates’ taunts, fighting a battle that they could never possibly win.

  “Is it true mommy? Did daddy kill Freddie?” Tracy’s children would ask.

  “Does this make us murderers too?” they would ask.

  “When’s daddy coming home?” they would ask.

  And every time they asked, Tracy Stone would break down in tears and turn to putty.

  It was only a matter of time before Tracy turned to invoking the will of God in her fruitless attempts at answering her children’s questions, and when that didn’t work she turned to counseling; individual therapy sessions; group sessions; family sessions; she even somehow managed to arrange for the children to attend therapy sessions with her ex-mother-in-law (although, in reality, the arrangements weren’t all that difficult to make, because even though Mrs. Breslin hated Tracy with a passion, thanks to the Hell she was putting her son through, she regarded her grandchildren with an equally magnanimous measure of compassion, all of which made for some very awkward moments between Tracy and mama Breslin, not to mention the children).

  Nevertheless, Tracy was quite pleased that after almost two years of intense therapy, the children were finally coming to grips with the reality of their circumstances. But now it could all fall apart in the blink of an eye if JJ was forced to face his own father in open court.

  “It’s outrageous,” railed Tracy. “How could DA Lyons sink so low? I’d rather see Johnny walk than have JJ exposed to such madness. The poor kid could be scarred for life.”

  Justifiably, as the night wore on, Tracy mental condition slowly unraveled into a shriveled-up bundle of nerves…and the more she reflected on her children’s’ lives, and her own life, and what a mess it had all become, the more her tears intensified.

  And yet, as she reflected back on the day’s events, despite the innumerable times she had broken down on the stand, despite the degrading accusations from Gleason, despite the anguish of having to relive her painful past, for some mind-boggling reason, she relished the spotlight just the same; in some perverted way, she basked in her moment of glory; in some twisted way, she savored the pageantry of it all.

  Apparently, Tracy was beginning to view her starring role in this courtroom drama with a healthy dose of self-importance, what with the reporters constantly hounding her for interview requests both night and day. Apparently, she was beginning to view herself as a larger-than-life performer, and when she saw her face on the TV screen, when she saw her face replaying today’s production on the local news, she found herself envisioning a future of fortune and fame.

  “Who knows, maybe I could wind up in Hollywood someday…an award winning actress at that,” dreamily mused Tracy. And so it was that when she finally managed to doze off in a drunken stupor, she found herself wading into a delusional pool of celebrity, her dreams a confused jumble of love and lust; she found herself swimming in a stormy sea of provocative uncertainty, her nightmares a mangled collage of romance and tragedy.

  Tracy Stone dreamed that she was attending a cocktail party which was being held in her honor inside of courtroom 630 of the Middlesex Superior Courthouse. She imagined that her ex-husband John Breslin was there. Fred Miller was there. Sammy the Fox was there. Renowned Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason was there. DA Lyons was there. Judge Gershwin was there. And last but not least, the sixteen jurors who had been watching her every move just a few hours ago were all there, expectantly waiting to receive her Royal Highness.

  Tracy was attired in a stunning formal gown and she was enjoying herself to no end, mingling with the guests as an orchestral version of the Grateful Dead song, “Built to Last” played mournfully in the background.

  In Tracy’s slumbering fantasy land, she had been transformed into a princess much like Cinderella at the Ball. And much like anyone of her regal stature, her identity had taken on the air of a pampered aristocrat, living in a land where life was an endless extravagance of joyful bliss…when suddenly, from somewhere far across the crowded room, her flaming retinas made contact with one of the jurors; the handsome fellow with the long stringy hair; the intense jurist who couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of her all day; the man she knew only as juror number 8; the man we know to be Mr. Frank Newlan.

  Newlan became aware of Tracy at the exact same moment that her soul washed over him, and they were instantly drawn to each other. No words needed to be spoken; no letters needed to be sent; and furthermore, there were no earthly armies in existence, no forces in Heaven or Hell for that matter, which were powerful enough to
keep them apart as they frantically pushed their way through the crowd and glided towards each other as if walking on air.

  Both Newlan and Tracy were overcome by a timeless longing in their hearts for one another. And after what seemed like an eternity, they met in the center of the dimly lit courtroom where they reached out their arms and embraced.

  They held on to each other as tightly as they could. It felt so good, it felt so right. It was their destiny from the very beginning.

  “We belong together, Tracy. It’s fate that brought us here. I’m the best of Johnny and Freddie combined. I’m the man you’ve been looking for all your life,” attested Newlan in betwixt a whispered shower of sweet nothings that Tracy sent drizzling down on her suitor’s ears.

  Newlan gazed into Tracy’s eyes and the smoldering passion which proclaimed their unspoken intentions was being transmitted loud and clear. They were going to kiss; a kiss for all times. Newlan was going to pick Tracy up in his arms and whisk her off to some secret hideaway; they were going to become lovers.

  And then, as has happened untold times in the history of love, their lips slowly came together. Silently they communicated their desire for each other. Their craving for each other was like a magnetic field attracting metallic ions in its sweeping wake. Their allure for each other was like a bubbling chemical reaction that just could not be quashed.

  Their mouths were now in such close proximity to each other that she could feel his hot breath on her face, when suddenly, out of the blue, her womanly instincts detected danger.

  Tracy’s bosomy heart felt so warm and safe in Newlan’s arms, almost invincible, and yet something told her that all was not well with the world. Something told her that the clock was about to strike midnight. Something told her that her fairy tale would soon be over. Something told her that someone was out to harm her Prince Charming. Something told her that someone was out to take him from her forever. Something told her that someone was out to destroy her Baby Blue, just as she stood balanced on the threshold of a dream come true. But valiantly, she was determined to stand tall. She was defiantly poised to do whatever it took to save her Night in Shining Armor.

  As difficult as it must have been, Tracy broke free of Newlan’s embrace and whipped her shoulders around just in time to behold her ex-husband, John Breslin, approaching them bearing a 38 caliber pistol.

  “No Johnny, please don’t…we can talk this over…we can work this out,” cried Tracy, but Breslin was having none of it. He pointed the barrel of the gun at Newlan and fired.

  Not to be outdone, Tracy’s visceral mechanisms took over and instinctively she did the only thing that she could possibly do to protect her Romeo. Impulsively, she arched herself towards Newlan in a protective stance. Impetuously, she shielded him from the force of the deadly projectile. However, much to her surprise, somehow the bullet passed right through her without so much as leaving a mark. She couldn’t even begin to explain the physics of this prodigious feat, but somehow she was still alive; phenomenally enough, she was left unscathed by the ordeal, nary suffering a scratch to her soul.

  But alas, the love of her life wasn’t so lucky. The miniature missile smashed into Newlan’s chest. It was a direct hit. It was a mortal wound. It was the last remaining knothole jarred loose from his broken heart.

  Newlan collapsed on the floor, dead as doornail, while at the same time Tracy sobbed, “nooooo…dear God no…how could you do this Johnny?” as she dropped down on a bended knee to tend to her fallen lover.

  Tracy peered deeply into Newlan’s eyes and desperately pleaded for him to wake up.

  “Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

  And as Tracy begged for a miracle, as she begged for forgiveness, something quite extraordinary happened. Something terribly peculiar happened. Even for a dream, even for a nightmare, the apparition that she was about to witness was just too much for her to take.

  As Tracy hovered over the man of her dreams, Newlan’s spiritless face became blurred like a murky reflection shining up from a rippling puddle of water…and when the turbulence finally subsided, there she was, staring down not at juror number 8, but at Fred Miller, lying dead in her arms.

  Tracy turned back toward her ex-husband and shot him a quizzical look as if to say, “What the hell is going on here?” but the man she was staring at was no longer John Breslin. His vision had been replaced by none other than Sammy the Fox.

  Tracy let out a mind-curdling scream that echoed across the now empty courtroom and reached an ear-shattering decibel level.

  Tracy could actually see the translucent sound of her own voice as it left her mouth and took on a gaseous form which engulfed Fox. It engulfed him until he was nothing more than an outlined silhouette in a pea soup stream of a mist. However, when the smoke finally cleared, when the dust finally settled, the person hovering over Tracy and Fred was no longer Sammy the Fox, but a shadowy figure with a faceless smile; a dark torso with a deformed countenance; a gloomy physique with an inhuman visage; a pair of eyes without a face.

  Tracy jerked her convulsing body away from the hideous personage, only to find that the dead man now lying in her arms was no longer Fred Miller but his brother Cam.

  Tracy involuntarily gaped up at the faceless-being, but all the while her brain was lost in a state of total confusion and her eyes formed a befuddled expression, as if she were silently pleading for an explanation. And in return, the monster shot two beams of light from its red eyeballs which attached themselves to Tracy’s pupils and penetrated into the core of her mind.

  Tracy and this vestige of a man had become one. His thoughts had invaded her very soul. And what she learned during this mind-melding enchantment was that perhaps her husband did not have a hand in killing Fred Miller. Perhaps Sammy the Fox did not fire the fatal shot that devastated her for all times. Someone or something was trying to tell her that maybe they did it and maybe they didn’t. Only Tracy’s ex-husband could say for sure. Only Sammy the Fox could profess with any degree of certainty. Unfortunately for Tracy however, she would never become privy to the full story, because her dream was about to come to an abrupt end.

  But just before she awoke, the luminous relic left Tracy with one final thought; one final proverb to ponder; one final maxim to mull over. What the brilliant persona enigmatically communicated to her restless mind was this; “the truth is stranger than fiction, my cunning mistress of the twilight.”

  And with that sage utterance ringing in her head, Tracy woke up in a terrified panic. She couldn’t remember ever having a nightmare of such tragic proportions. But somehow she managed not to scream for fear of frightening her children. Instead she cowered under her sheets and cried like a baby. Instead she curled herself up into a ball and somberly wondered; she wondered what it all meant…this world…this life…this unreal existence. She wondered if perhaps she had it all wrong. She wondered why this evil wrath from Hell had been cast upon her…and then and only then did the mind-numbing shriek of her nightmare become a reality.

  Tracy Stone let out a wail that pierced the peaceful calm of the summer night air, and in the process she woke up her children (and the entire neighborhood for that matter) and sent them scurrying to her room in hysterics. But despite his fright, Tracy’s eldest son, JJ, did his very best to console his mommy while at the same time she repeatedly sobbed, “oh my God, what have I done…oh dear God, what have I done?”

  …

  Meanwhile, miles away in Medford Massachusetts, a comatose Frank Newlan, bewilderingly enough, was in the midst of a dream which vaguely mimicked Tracy Stone’s parabolic illusion right down to the very last detail.

  Just as in Tracy’s dream, Newlan could almost taste her sweet breath on his mouth as they were about to kiss. Just as in Tracy’s dream, Newlan could sense the presence of the Devil as his lips made contact with hers. The only difference being that in
Newlan’s dream, he shielded Tracy from her enraged husband and not the other way around.

  In Newlan’s dream, the bullet vaporized and passed right through him, and from there it exploded into Tracy’s chest.

  In Newlan’s dream, the dead woman he held agonizingly in his arms shed the body of Tracy Stone and took on the form of the only woman he ever loved, Marianne Plante.

  In Newlan’s dream, John Breslin was reincarnated into the face of a man who had journeyed back from beyond space and time; back from beyond his realm of recognition. But despite his amnesia, it was a face that he feared nonetheless. It was a face from Newlan’s distant past; a long, thin, sullen, angular face, resurfacing from the nightmares of his youth; resurrected to haunt him once again; reborn to finish the job once and for all.

  In Newlan’s dream, the solitary stranger who stood over him pointing the smoking barrel of a shotgun in his face delivered an ominous message.

  In Newlan’s dream, the tacit communiqué which was transported into his brain by this hound of Satan contained three words and three words only; three horrifyingly familiar words; “you’re next Newlan.”