Chapter 67 – If Someone Wants You Dead Bad Enough
Sunday morning June 15, 2008 – 5:15 AM
Frank Newlan was running. He was running down the emergency stairwell of his condo complex. He was running in a desperate attempt to avert a catastrophe. He was running without regard for his own safety. He was running with the misguided intentions of saving every person who lived in his building from certain calamity.
Despite being heavily sedated, Newlan woke up from his nightmare somewhat groggily, and yet strangely alert. He preferred to keep his windows open at this time of the year to let in the cooling night air, and other than the occasional street-traffic noise, it was usually a fairly quiet area, considering that the complex was located on a main roadway. However, on this morning, things were not so quiet in the neighborhood.
On this morning, Newlan was awoken by the muffled sound of a powerful engine idling somewhere nearby.
On this morning, Newlan was awoken by a perceived threat which shook him to the very core of his foundation.
On this morning, Newlan was awoken by the garrulous sound of men barking in some unfamiliar foreign language.
On this morning, Newlan was awoken by the unadulterated sight of pure evil in action.
On this morning, Newlan was awoken by the humming sound of heavy duty machinery.
On this morning, Newlan was awoken by the unmistakable stench of imminent death in the air.
From the vantage point of his bedroom, the startled Newlan couldn’t quite ascertain where the racket was coming from, or for that matter, what the perpetrators’ motives were. But he wasn’t about to let the scheming culprits get away with their noise pollution without at least voicing his displeasure, and so he dragged himself out of bed and peeked out the window, only to find himself peering down at the very same moving van which had just haunted his dreams.
Newlan was so overwhelmed by what he was seeing that he almost didn’t believe his own eyes, and he rubbed them vigorously in a futile effort to ensure that he wasn’t going completely crazy.
“Could it be possible?” he muttered. And it was just then, out of the corner of his eye, that he observed the ambling form of Saeed Kahn, by all accounts, leading some sort of bizarre operation to its triumphant conclusion.
Just then did Newlan observe Kahn directing the aforementioned truck into the opening of the garage as if it where some sort of oversized phallic symbol.
Just then did Newlan observe Kahn’s unknown companion leaping out of the cabin to assist the brazen porter in measuring up the situation.
Just the did Newlan observe his worst nightmare coming true right before his very eyes.
Newlan wasn’t sure what the hell was going on, but he damn sure wasn’t going to let them get away with it on his watch. If anyone knew that there was suppose to be no deliveries on weekends, let alone at five in the morning, it was the enforcer of all things at the Medford River Park Condominiums, Saeed Kahn.
“Maybe someone slipped him a few bucks…but why so early in the morning?” mumbled Newlan as he racked his brain trying to come up with a logical explanation to legitimatize what he was witnessing with his own two illusion-prone optic lenses.
Of course, it didn’t take long for his latest dream to come rushing to the forefront of his mind. It didn’t take long for him to come to the nonnegotiable conclusion that Saeed Kahn was up to no good. In fact, as far as the delirious Newlan was concerned, Kahn was up to more than just no good; no, he was up to something far more sinister than that, and he wasn’t going to settle for anything short of mass-murder.
“My psychic inclinations have been telling me something all along, but I’ve been too caught up in my own little problems to listen to the voices inside my head. That motherfucker is gonna kill us all,” surmised Newlan who was now in full panic mode.
Not knowing what else to do, Newlan dialed 911 and the operator immediately answered with their standard greeting.
“Emergency assistance, how may I help you?” announced the pleasant female voice on the other end of the line, but Newlan could hardly get any sound out of his windpipe.
“Hello…is anyone there, how may I help you?” repeated the operator.
“Yes, I’d like to report a possible terrorist plot,” replied Newlan in a shaky voice.
“Sir, if you could you please provide me with details regarding who is involved in this plot and when it’s going to take place, that would be helpful?” requested the operator in a calm voice that came from years of training and experience dealing with all sorts of nut-jobs and crackpots, while at the same time, Newlan was as ruffled as she was impassive.
“Who’s involved? A fuckin’ terrorist is involved…that’s who’s involved…and it’s taking place right now. The son of a bitch has a truck outside and he’s gonna blow up the building,” insisted an agitated and incredulous Newlan.
“Sir, my display shows that you’re calling from the Medford River Park Condominiums, is that correct?” asked the by-the-books operator.
“Yes, yes, that’s correct…now hurry the fuck up,” growled an impatient Newlan.
“Sir, I’m going to send someone over to investigate. They should be there any minute. But in the meantime I’d like you to stay on the line with me,” instructed the operator…but not surprisingly, Newlan was having none of it.
“Are you shitting me? I’m outta here,” replied the anxiety-riddled Newlan as he made a mad dash for the door without even bothering to hang up the phone. He could hear the operator desperately calling out “Sir, sir…are you still there? Sir, can you hear me?” as he bolted out of his apartment without even bothering to lock the door. But on this occasion he surely wasn’t about to concern himself with the pettiness of the material world.
At that moment, Newlan didn’t care in the least about his personal belongings, nor did he care about the fact that the concerned dispatcher might have perceived him as being mentally unstable. At that moment, he was running as fast as his aging legs could carry him, regardless of the consequences, and, for a change, he wasn’t wasting any time looking back.
On the contrary, for once in his life, Newlan was running for a chance to make amends with his past. He was running with a singular purpose and a ragged determination that just would not be denied. He was running for a shot at redemption. In short, Frank Newlan was running for his life.
However, as much as he desperately wanted to survive the ordeal, in the end, Newlan didn’t care if he had to duel Kahn and his associate to the death. He didn’t care if he had to dive onto an explosive device and transform himself into a human shield. He didn’t care if he had to take a bullet in the belly. In a nutshell, he didn’t care whether he lived or died.
Newlan’s mind was totally focused on confronting Kahn and foiling his vile plot, no matter what it took. He figured that he had lived a long, full life. He had had his share of fun. He even had once last dalliance with the woman of his dreams, and now if he had to take one for the team, then so be it.
All these thoughts were running through Newlan’s mind as he raced down the stairwell of his condo complex faster than he had ever run before. He was running for dear life. He was running for all mankind. He was running to preserve whatever shred of dignity he had left in him. The time had come for sacrifice and honor, whatever the cost might be.
And as Newlan breathlessly made his way down to the lobby level of the building, a cruiser carrying Medford Police officers Jimmy Leach and Gary Graves was racing toward the same destination at breakneck speed.
Leach wasn’t too surprised to be getting a call to go to the Medford River Park Condominiums. In fact, it seemed as if he routinely visited the place a few times a week, usually following up on a medical emergency involving some old-timer, or a domestic situation involving a couple of newlyweds. And as such, his old friend Frank Newlan didn’t immediately come to mind as he barreled his way towards the complex.
“This is car 54…we’re on our way over to the Medford River Park Condominiums. What kind of incident are we talking about there?” asked Leach.
“A resident is reporting suspicious activity…a moving truck in the garage. He thinks it’s a terrorist situation,” explained the skeptical dispatcher.
“We’ll be there in a couple of minutes,” replied Leach as he floored the gas pedal, revving the souped-up police car engine for all it was worth.
“What kind of crazy shit is this? Terrorists!” wondered Leach’s partner Officer Gary Graves, and although neither cop knew quite what to expect, the adrenaline was flowing through their veins like water through a fire hose as they approached the entrance to the complex.
Leach screeched into the parking lot at right around the same time that Newlan hit the last flight of stairs, leaping down two steps at a time.
Newlan kicked opened the door to the stairwell which led into the garage…and there standing before him in all his glory was the ruler of the roost himself, Mr. Saeed Kahn, lost in some sort of ancient prayer ritual.
Kahn was holding what looked to be a garage door opener, but in Newlan’s mind it was a detonation device; a device which was about to trigger a massive explosion; a device which was about to end the life of hundreds of innocent people.
Newlan cantered towards Kahn, screaming, “nooooo,” and as he approached closer to his adversary, he confronted him and demanded that he drop the device. For his part however, Kahn appeared to be slightly confused by the sight of Newlan, and he just stood there rigidly in place as he staring blankly at his next door neighbor.
At this point in the episode, Newlan was utterly perturbed by the phony concierge’s feigned indifference, and he was in no mood for games. He lunged at Kahn, knocking him off his feet. And when Kahn’s assistant became aware of the scuffle, he came promptly to his cohort’s aid. The foul bedlamite’s abettor kicked at Newlan’s exposed extremities as he and Kahn sloshed around on the pavement, struggling for control of the dreaded apparatus.
Kahn clasped onto the gadget as if his life depended on it, which only made Newlan all the more desperate to tear it out of his hands. As the struggle heated up it may have seemed like hours to the belligerent rivals, but in reality the confrontation was merely seconds old when Leach and Graves pulled up to the moving van, and upon observing the intensity of the brouhaha, they exited the cruiser with their weapons drawn.
“Police…nobody move,” shouted Graves, and with a pistol trained at each of their heads, the exhausted foes had no choice but to comply as directed, frozen on the spot, lying face down on the ground, practically arm-in-arm, while at the same time Kahn’s accomplice was forced into a position of surrender as well.
After a preliminary interrogation by Graves, the combatants were eventually disengaged, and Sergeant Jimmy Leach practically went into a state of shock when the now archenemies were rolled over and it was revealed that one of them was none other than Frank Newlan.
“What the hell is going on here Frankie?” roared an agitated Leach as Newlan and Kahn gasped for air…and within seconds the complex was swarming with Medford police cars…and within minutes backup units from the State Police were on the scene as well.
Newlan was still in a sitting position, surrounded by police officers, when he pointed at Kahn and shouted, “ask him…ask him what the fuck he’s got in that damned truck.”
“Sir, I assure you that the only thing you will find in the cabin is the antique furniture I just purchased for my apartment,” explained the unflappable Kahn as the State police placed him and his colleague in the back of one of their cars, while Newlan was forced to wait it out in the back of Leach’s cruiser.
As the parties were being separated, the well manicured lawn of the compound was electric with nervous activity; bomb sniffing dogs were brought onto the scene, and the twin-tower buildings were evacuated, which didn’t go over too well with the hundreds of residents who lived in the complex.
Having no choice in the matter, Newlan stretched out in the back of the police car and anxiously surveyed the scene while the State Police did their work. For their part, Leach and Graves did their best to calm Newlan down as they pried at him for his side of the story. But his explanation made no sense to them at all; none one iota.
“What makes you think he’s got a bomb in there?” inquired Leach, and Newlan sheepishly admitted that his information wasn’t, in and of itself, exactly concrete enough for an arrest warrant to be issued.
“He’s been acting real suspicious lately and well…in the past week or so I’ve had this reoccurring dream about him blowing up the building with a truck.”
“You had a dream? That’s what you’re basing this on? Are you shitting me?” railed Graves, but Leach pulled rank and took over the reins of the investigation.
“Back off Gary, I’ll handle this,” ordered Leach as he turned around towards the back seat and looked Newlan dead in the eyes.
“Frankie, don’t tell me…not this psychic shit again?” complained Leach while a grumpy Graves hopped out of the car and proceeded to chat it up with a few of the State Troopers.
It didn’t take much, other than a brief inspection of the moving van and a few whiffs from the bomb-sniffing dogs, for the State police to confirm Kahn’s story, much to Newlan’s chagrin. And once the verdict was in, Graves popped his head into the open window of the cruiser and let Leach in on their law-enforcement counterparts’ evidentiary discovery, or the lack thereof to be more precise.
“They found nothing Frankie,” relayed Leach as a dismayed Newlan cringed in disbelief.
“How can this be possible? I swear he was up to something,” groaned Newlan while he simultaneously massaged his temples and attempted to bore into the crystal ball of his mind.
Unfortunately for Newlan however, his topographic eye wasn’t currently revealing anything of significance, and after the commotion had subsided, the residents were allowed back into the building. Or that is to say, all of the residents were allowed back into the building except for a certain individual in particular, namely one Mr. Frank Newlan, who found himself temporarily detained by the good men in blue, while at the same time, rampant rumors about the crazy, paranoid tenant living in apartment 630 had already begun to spread in earnest.
But in the end, after being interviewed by at least 10 different detectives, Newlan was free to go without repercussions. After all he hadn’t committed any crimes, and furthermore he was just trying to be a good citizen.
“Come on Frankie, we’ll walk you back up to your apartment,” generously offered Sergeant Jimmy Leach, and as Newlan made his way onto the elevator with his police escort, he noticed that the condo association president, Leo Leone, was staring at him with contempt.
Leone was contemplating fining Newlan, but for the life of him, he couldn’t think of any condo rules violations he could pin on him, other than being a pest and almost causing an international incident.
On the other hand, Leone could and would make life a living hell for his trusty concierge, Saeed Kahn. Leone wasn’t going to fire Kahn, but he would make him pay dearly for his double indiscretion since after all he did break the clearly written rule regarding no deliveries on weekends, as well as no deliveries outside the hours of nine to five.
But condo rules aside, there were far more arduous battle lines that had been drawn on this bloodless Sunday, and the burden of proof lay squarely in the lap of our perplexed standard-bearer, none other than Mr. Frank Newlan.
“You guys want a beer or maybe some coffee with a splash of whiskey? I know I need one,” suggested a still tense Newlan once they got up to his apartment. And even though the sun had practically just risen in the East, that didn’t stop the hard hitting cops from taking Newlan up on his offe
r.
“What the heck, we’re off duty… I’ll take some Irish coffee Frankie,” replied Leach.
“Make that two,” echoed Graves.
“Ok then, take a seat and relax guys,” instructed the hospitable Newlan, who at the moment was anything but relaxed in his own right.
Although it didn’t show in his passive exterior, Newlan was a bundle of nerves, which was only natural after the serious false alarm that he had just triggered. It was apparent to him now that, psychic forebodings or not, his reaction to Kahn’s mysterious behavior was completely over-the-top. But at the same time he still insisted that something wasn’t quite right about the cool-as-a-cat doorman.
“Nice place you got here Newlan,” complimented Graves as Newlan handed the cops a tray of coffee and a bottle of whiskey on the side…and after a spate of conversation about his latest exploits, and some assurances from him that he was OK, the two officers of the law unsteadily rose up with the intention of finally going home. But first, they needed to use the bathroom, which left Newlan briefly alone with each of the cops; enough time for each of them, in turn, to initiate a short but pressing conversation with him.
While Graves was in the guest bathroom, Leach quietly pulled Newlan aside and presented him with some strictly confidential information.
“By the way Frankie…I asked around, and that dude Breslin is as guilty as sin,” confirmed Leach. However, his inside intelligence was met with stone-cold silence and a grimace from Newlan who still wasn’t totally convinced of Breslin’s guilt. But of course, since he was comforted by the fact that the decision was no longer going to be his to make, he let the comment fly by without a response.
And when Leach took his turn to use the facilities, Graves also pulled Newlan aside and secretly confided in him as well.
“Just an FYI, I talked to Kahn, and I think that bastard was up to something too. He was behaving real skittishly if you ask me…a few of the State cops said the same thing. Dreams or no dreams, you did the right thing Newlan. We can’t take any chances with these camel dicks. Do me a favor and keep an eye on that motherfucker,” urged Graves, and in return Newlan smiled that sheepish smile of his as he shook the bulky cop’s beefy hand and weakly replied, “I will.”
“And if we get him, you and me will work on our story…just to make sure it sticks,” added Graves with a wink. But this time Newlan’s smile turned into the hint of a frown.
Newlan wasn’t entirely sure that he approved of what Graves was insinuating, but nevertheless he let it slide. And then for good measures, just as the two cops were about to step out the door, Graves suddenly twirled around and added one more anecdote to Newlan’s already information-overloaded morning.
“Oh, and by the way Newlan, I mentioned you to my father. He didn’t remember your name at first until I told him about how you interrogated him when he was on the witness stand. He said to me, ‘oh that little punk, he should be thanking me for turning his life around’. But he admitted that you were a smart kid and he said to say hello, and to tell you that you still owe him one. He said that he was just trying to keep you guys from going down the wrong path, and if it wasn’t for him scaring you straight…who knows what kind of shit you might have gotten into.”
Newlan laughed in spite of himself, and with a quizzical shake of the head he replied in kind.
“Yeah and I always wanted to get a few thing off of my chest with him too. But seriously, tell him that I said hello and no hard feeling on my side either. After all it’s been almost thirty years…and come to think of it, he did help me to grow up that day.”
And with that, the two cops were gone, leaving our befuddled protagonist alone to contemplate the beginnings of another crazy day in the life of Frank Newlan.
…
Newlan was still extremely jittery after the dust had settled on his little escapade, and not knowing what else to do with his slumping disposition, he swallowed a handful of Lorazepam and tuned his stereo over to the Sunday Morning Blues program on local radio station WXLZ.
A moaning harmonica set the mood, and it left Newlan feeling compelled to shutter the blinds in his condo so that the confines of his apartment were as dark and gloomy as possible. He then collapsed onto his sofa, and in his sorrow he mourned; but for who or what he wasn’t quite sure. Maybe he was mourning for a world that had lost its way. Maybe he was mourning for a race of people who were too blind to see that deep down inside we are all the same. Or perhaps he was simply mourning the human condition which we are all bound by; no more, no less.
But regardless of Newlan’s affliction, his life was about to come undone, no matter how much he grieved for a brighter tomorrow. And as if to make matter worse, the host of the blues program, Allen Carter, fatefully decided to play a portentous song by an obscure blues guitarist named Byther Smith.
Dear reader, the song was titled “The Man Wants Me Dead” and in this case there is no need to describe any of the lyrics, since the ominous title says it all; the vindictive title was in fact powerful enough to send a chill up and down Newlan spine; the menacing title was in fact dangerous enough to bring Newlan to his knees in terror; the perilous title was in fact lethal enough to send Newlan into an oblivion from which he might never return.
Newlan abruptly recalled his friend Jimmy Leach telling war stories at the bar one night back when he was a rookie cop. Leach said something on that long ago evening which got stuck in Newlan’s craw, and he had never forgotten the murderous proverb right up to this very this day. What Jimmy Leach claimed was this; “if someone wants you dead bad enough, there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”
And just like that, Newlan suddenly felt petrified and very much alone in this world. Suddenly his head began to spin and the walls of his condo seemed to be closing in all around him. He tried to get up off the sofa, but he couldn’t move. He tried to get up again and again and again…and when he finally did manage to get up on his feet, his wobbly legs gave out from under him and he collapsed in a heap onto the floor of his living room, incapacitated and barely alive.
And just like that, Frank Newlan’s life…flashed before his very eyes…as the hands of God…watched over…his every move.
From the Eyes of a Juror Page 80