Chapter 74 – The Chase…for Banner 17
Tuesday evening June 17, 2008 – 6:45 PM
Frank Newlan and his red Mercury Mystique limped straight on home without passing Go after another exhausting day at the courthouse, and even though he could barely lift his body out of the driver’s seat of his car, he somehow found the energy to fix himself up a bite to eat when he finally made his way up to his condo.
And after dinner, rundown though he may have been, Newlan nervously attempted to unwind on his black leather sofa as he eagerly anticipated what he hoped would be another championship-clinching victory by his beloved Boston Celtics.
Unfortunately for Newlan however, since the nationally televised game didn’t tip off until after 9 PM, he was left with plenty of time to ponder the latest developments in the murder trial of John Breslin. And if that weren’t enough of a burden, the recent events in his life outside of his duties as a juror in the sensational case weigh heavily on his mind as well.
Despite the circumstantial evidence which was beginning to pile up against the hapless defendant like a heap of trash in a junkyard, Newlan still couldn’t quite bring himself to believe that Breslin was guilty. And as such, his mind continually skipped back and forth between Fred Miller, Tracy Stone, Nancy O’Brien, and the remaining cast of characters who had been marched in and out of the courtroom, all of them slowly building an imaginary cage against the pitiful defendant…a case that he refused to accept; all of them slowly building an abstract case against the pathetic defendant…a case that he was too blind to see; all of them slowly building a theoretical case against the paltry defendant…a case that he was too stubborn to acknowledge.
But on the other side of the equation, Newlan was obsessed with the questionable identity of the red car, he was obsessed with the lack of physical evidence, he was obsessed with the tainted witnesses, and last but not least, he was obsessed with the mysterious Sammy Fox, he of the surgically repaired right knee that left him unable to walk without a limp during the very same timeframe in which he allegedly shot Fred Miller to death.
Newlan had no problems with Miller’s recreational drug use, but he reasoned that if the hotheaded Miller was also a dealer, wasn’t it also possible that he was frequenting with a very dangerous crowd? Wasn’t it also possible that he had angered someone else as well? Wasn’t it also possible that someone else wanted him dead?
And if all of these volcanic rumblings weren’t enough of a drain on Newlan’s psyche, added into the lethal mix was a near constant brooding over the love of his own life, Marianne Plante. What, if anything, was to become of them? Was it just a one-time fling, brought on by a momentary lapse of judgment? Was it just a one night stand, brought on by an insatiable physical attraction? Was it just an attempt to recapture their long-lost youth? Was it just an attempt to relive their past? Perhaps it was all of those things, but deep in his heart of hearts, Newlan realized that it was more, much more.
Newlan also recognized the fact that he was meddling with fire and ice. He appreciated the old adage that if you play with matches, you’re apt to start a blazing inferno. He was quite cognizant of the fact that he was skiing down a slippery slope. He understood better than anyone that if you put your fingers on the stove, you’re going to get burnt. He was well aware of the fact that there was danger hidden around every bend of this frigid course he was navigating.
And on those rare occasions when Newlan was able to put his erstwhile girlfriend out of his mind, in popped none other than Mr. Saeed Kahn. Ah yes, Saeed Kahn, the self proclaimed madman bombardier who, for reasons unbeknownst to Newlan, haunted his dreams of late.
The mysterious darkness pulsating off of Kahn left Newlan questioning the immigrant doorman’s motives, and his radar was surely picking up on something quite dangerous emanating from Kahn’s airspace; something that was much too strong to ignore. And furthermore, he trusted his intuition so much that he would have bet his life that this fraud of a security guard was up to no good.
Perhaps Newlan’s perceived talents were due to nothing more than the simple fact that he was a good judge of character, or perhaps there really was something to his psychic tendencies. But whatever it was that was fueling his visions, the fact remained that when he honed in on an illusion, when he came to a life-altering conclusion, he was, more often than not, right on the money. Yes, he may have been slightly off-base from time to time, but he was seldom ever flat-out wrong.
And yet Newlan was haunted by the fact that he had misinterpreted Kahn’s bizarre furniture truck escapade for a chaotic attempt at destruction. He could have sworn that he had detected an explosive container in his visionary field which was as clear as day; but somehow a meteor storm of cosmic activity must have clouded his seeing and now it left him wondering in which direction he should turn.
Newlan had alienated just about everyone in the building, from his neighbors right on up to the board of trustees, and of course Kahn himself would never forgive his accusations.
However, even though things looked bleak at the moment, Newlan once again implored himself that perhaps after the trial was over, maybe then his life might somehow get twisted back into a normal position; and if not, if all else failed, if he were to be ostracized into action, then maybe he might just sell his condo and find himself a cozy little house somewhere in the country where he could live out his remaining days in peace.
Left to his own devices, the tormented Newlan very well may have tortured himself to death by the time nightfall arrived, but luckily on this evening, as it turned out, he wouldn’t have much of an opportunity to dwell on his preoccupations because as was often the case when a game of this magnitude was taking place, his lifelong friend Pat Horn was on the phone. But this time Horn came calling with news of a much more exciting (albeit expensive) proposition than going to watch the game at the corner bar.
“Frankie I got a hold of three tickets for the game tonight. My boss was gonna take his kids, but something came up at the last minute and they can’t go so he offered them to me. But the price is kinda steep…two fifty a pop and they’re shitty seats, but hey it’s a once in a lifetime chance to be at the clinching game. So whatta ya say?” exclaimed Horn.
“Jeez I don’t know Pat. Two hundred and fifty bucks is a lot of coin for cheap seats,” grumbled Newlan.
“Come on Frankie you can afford it. Don’t bullshit me. I know how much those condos go for in your complex. Besides you have no choice in the matter. Bruce is in, and I’m not taking no for an answer. I gotta pick up the tickets, and then we’ll be by your place in about a half hour…so be ready,” ordered Horn.
“Allrighty then…I guess it’s settled,” replied Newlan with a laugh.
“I knew I could count on you Frankie,” asserted Horn, and once the penny-pinching Newlan got past the shock of shelling out two hundred and fifty dollars for a basketball game, he was fired up about attending the big event.
Newlan rationalized the purchase to himself by uttering a few well worn clichés such as “you only live once” and “it’s only money” while at the same time he hurriedly showered and changed into a pair of jeans.
Afterwards, Newlan decided to go down to the lobby and wait for Horn by the front entrance. Fortunately for him, Saeed Kahn was off duty by that hour in the evening so there was no need to worry about any awkward confrontations with the surly concierge. Instead, he casually conversed with the nighttime guard, Charlie, or “Mr. Charlie” as he was referred to by the prim-and-proper Saeed Kahn.
“What the hell happened out here the other morning?” wondered Charlie in a quizzical tone.
“Oh, so I guess you heard about too,” deadpanned Newlan.
“Who hasn’t heard? The whole building is buzzing about it,” replied Charlie.
Newlan took the high road and admitted to his error in judgment, even though privately he still believed that there was cause for concern.
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nbsp; “I don’t know, I heard a loud noise and I poked my head out the window…and when I saw Saeed with that truck out here at 5 in the morning, I guess I just freaked out. I know I was being judgmental and prejudiced, but for some reason I panicked. For some reason I snapped. For some reason I thought for sure that Saeed was some sort of terrorist bomber.”
“I heard it was quite a scene…police cars…bomb sniffing dogs…building evacuation,” recited Charlie.
“I know…I was there…please don’t remind me,” requested Newlan with a grimace.
“I bet a lot of people were mad at you, weren’t they?” wagered Charlie with a wink, while Newlan could only shrug his shoulders and stammered out a reply.
“Yeah…but what are you gonna do.”
But despite Newlan’s defeatist attitude, the rascally Charlie knew exactly what to do; he drew himself closer to Newlan as if he had a secret to tell, and he whispered a few much needed words of encouragement into his ear
“Don’t repeat this, but word around the building amongst some of the tenants is that they don’t trust Kahn either and they’re glad that you confronted him,” confided Charlie.
And in return, as Newlan stared back at the night watchman with a look of amazement plastered across his face, the only word he could get out of his mouth was, “really?”
“Now I don’t know how many people are on your side, but it sounds like there are more than just a few, so just lay low for a while and maybe this will all blow over,” advised Charlie.
Newlan was about to reply with a heartfelt thank you speech, but just as he launched into his spiel, Patrick Horn pulled up in his roomy Toyota Camry sedan, so he had to cut it short.
“Sorry Charlie, gotta go, that’s my ride. We’re going to the Celtics game! Anyway, nice talking to you and thanks for the info,” exclaimed Newlan, and as he hopped into the back seat he thought to himself, “Well I’ll be a son of a gun, maybe I won’t have to move after all.”
Newlan was feeling decidedly better about the state of his affairs after the brief but encouraging conversation with Charlie, and now he was breathlessly curious as to whether his friends may have heard anything about the Saeed Kahn spectacle in the local newspaper or by some other means. However, when neither Horn nor Reardon mentioned the sorry incident, he decided he wasn’t going to bring it up either. He didn’t want to chance saying or doing anything that might ruin the positive vibe of the impending showdown between the Celtics and the Lakers, not to mention jinxing his apparent reprieve from condo hell.
As Horn pulled back out onto the roadway, Newlan’s mood continued to trend upwards, and when Reardon handed him a lit joint and an open can of beer, the party was on. The old friends chatted amicably about nothing and everything all at the same time, and of course they pressed Newlan about the latest developments in the “hit-man” murder trial.
Horn decided to take the side roads into Boston rather than run the risk of getting stuck in a traffic jam on interstate route 93. The Boston Garden wasn’t very far from Newlan’s complex, (and in fact, with the aid of his own cheap pair of binoculars, he could see the arena from the deck of his condo) so taking route 28, which was a two lane road that ran parallel to the highway, wouldn’t make much difference in the long run, but it could potentially save them a little bit of time, and since they were running late, Horn decided it was worth a shot.
The cruise into town started out uneventfully but as Horn made his way closer to the city limits, he suddenly blurted out news of an unusual development.
“Hey guys, if I didn’t know better, I’d say that this dude behind me is following us. He’s been one or two cars behind us ever since we left Frankie’s condo. It’s probably nothing, but I’m gonna try and lose him anyway,” announced Horn.
Not surprisingly, Bruce Reardon, who had become locked in a state of permanent paranoia ever since his marijuana arrest a few years back, responded with a barrage of questions when he was apprised of his friend’s odd report.
“What does he look like? What kind of car is he driving? What the fuck does he want from us?” angrily wondered Reardon. And although Horn was concentrating on his next move, he was an excellent driver so he was still able to provide his unenlightened analysis of the situation while he maneuvered the 2,000 pound automobile.
“How the hell do I know who he is? Besides the windows are tinted so I can’t get a good look at him, but he’s driving a big black car. I think it might be Crown Vic but I’m not sure,” detailed Horn, and as he spoke, suddenly and without a warning, he swerved across two lanes of traffic just as his car was almost parallel with the next exit…and miraculously, he somehow made it to the off-ramp without getting them all killed.
As they made their way down the gradient, Newlan took a quick glance towards his left where he caught a glimpse of the oversized black sedan as it lost pursuit and whizzed on by, still stuck on route 28; whether the unidentified driver was unable to make the same surprise maneuver that Horn had just executed, or whether he was never following them in the first place was unclear, but either way, what was clear was that Horn had skillfully evaded the perceived threat.
“We lost him,” announced Horn to hoots and hollers from Reardon and Newlan.
“Just like the old days Pat,” chimed in an admiring Reardon as he exchanged high fives with his pals.
’I’m not sure whether that dude was following us or not, but if he was, then the chump didn’t know who he was messin’ with,” boasted Horn, but then something suddenly dawned on him.
“But why the hell would someone be following us in the first place?”
At right around that same time, something began to dawn on Frank Newlan as well; something quite incomprehensible; something quite evil; and yet as he had discovered after sitting through two weeks of testimony in the John Breslin murder trial, something quite possible. Maybe somebody was following him…not Reardon…not Horn…but little old him.
Newlan broke out into a cold sweat and he decided that maybe it might be best if he came clean and confessed to his fears.
“I think that car may have been following me,” acknowledged Newlan, and his admission immediately sent Reardon jerking around towards the back seat as he expressed his dismaying surprise.
“WHAT! What the fuck are you talking about, Frankie? Why would someone be following you?”
As much as he hated to bring his friends down when they were supposed to be going out for a fun night on the town, Newlan admitted to his affair with Marianne Plante. He admitted to the incident with Saeed Kahn. He even admitted to his fear of the biker dude who was acting as Nancy O’Brien’s bodyguard at the trial. In short, he admitted that he was losing his mind.
Newlan’s friends were momentarily speechless, but as they rumbled on down the road, they eventually attempted to talk some sense into him and they offered him more than a few rational reasons as to why the scenarios he had presented made no sense. However, just when his pals had at least managed to convince themselves that the situation was nothing more than a matter of Newlan being his usual delusional self, he dropped one more thorny detail into the already muddied waters.
“Also, Marianne called me last night, and for some reason she had a feeling that her husband was on to us,” added Newlan, and suddenly the cabin of Horn’s car went silent again.
Fifteen minutes later, as they approached a large underground parking garage which was located a few block from the Boston Garden, in a section of town that straddled the Charlestown, Northtown, and North End neighborhoods of Boston, not one of the three men had said a word, not even a peep, and as Horn took a parking ticket from the attendant and descended down the ramp, Newlan decided that it was high time he blurt out what his two friends were already thinking.
“I got a feeling that Marianne’s husband may have hired someone to spy on me. Oh God what did I get myself into?” gasped Newlan, and as the implications of his words took root, he rapidly descen
ded into full panic mode (and his irrational aversion to underground garages wasn’t help matters either). As such, it didn’t take long for his lifelong friend Bruce Reardon to recognize the look of fear etched upon his face.
Reardon, who possessed a hairpin temper of his own, suddenly became incensed at the thought of someone trying to intimidate his best friend, and he slammed his fist down on the dashboard as he began spewing out a stream of expletives that would have rivaled the movie Scarface.
“If this motherfucker wants to fuck with you, then he’s fuckin’ with me too. I don’t give a fuck who he is…I’m gonna find him, and we’re gonna have a little talk. Don’t you worry about a thing Frankie…trust me, that motherfucker will back down after I get through with him, and if he doesn’t, I’ll fuck him up big-time,” predicted Reardon.
Although Reardon’s words didn’t totally devoid Newlan of his consternation, the expletive laden pep talk did manage to lift his spirits to some degree. He knew for a fact that Reardon had access to his own share of seedy friends, and he didn’t doubt for a second that his lifelong friend would take care of the situation in a heartbeat if he gave him the go ahead.
In the end however, Newlan decided it might be best to leave well enough alone, and he bravely requested that Reardon back off.
“Thanks for the offer Bruce, but please dude stay out of it for now. I think I need to handle this one on my own. I made my bed and now I have to sleep in it. I swear if it becomes a situation that I can’t deal with, you’ll be the first to know, but for now anyway, let’s just see how this all plays out, OK?” requested Newlan, and although Reardon didn’t particularly care for the proposed solution, he reluctantly complied with his friend’s wishes while Horn interjected with his own calming influence.
“You know, I’m beginning to wonder whether that car was even following us in the first place…are you sure you’re not overreacting Frankie?”
“Well it wouldn’t be the first time,” admitted Newlan with a rueful smile. “And besides how the hell would someone know I was going out with my friends to the Celtics game? When you think about it, unless the driver has been tailing me all day and all night then that car couldn’t possibly have been following us.”
Meanwhile, Reardon decided to lighten up the mood a tad, thinking that maybe, just maybe, a little bit of comic relief might help them to enjoy the game within the framework of a proper state of mind, and so he playfully punched Newlan on the shoulder as he waggishly prodded his old friend for the salacious details regarding his hazardous rendezvous.
“So Frankie you dog…you’re doin’ Marianne Plante again after all these years? How the hell did this come about, you sly motherfucker?” heckled Reardon, and soon enough, Horn joined in the fray.
“Yeah, I remember her. I always thought you two would have made a good couple. Is she still a cute little fox Frankie? A lot of guys had a crush on her back in high school, but no, she wasn’t interested in anybody except for the mysterious Frankie Newlan,” interjected Horn.
Newlan was practically blushing over the good-natured ribbing from his pals, but he finally managed to get a word in edgewise.
“Cut it out you guys. Oh and by the way, yeah, she’s still looking pretty good.”
The barbs continued to fly as the old pals strolled towards the arena, when out of the blue, a major flashback simultaneously came over all three of them as they thought back to their younger days when they’d journey in to the old Boston Garden for hockey games, basketball games, pro wrestling matches, and of course rock concerts.
Back in the 70’s “The Garden” (as it is refer to by the locals) was the lone venue in the six State New England region that was large enough to host big name acts such as the Rolling Stones, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin and a whole slew of others, and of course Newlan and his crew attended just about every show that came down the pike.
Newlan was feeling a bit nostalgic for the old days as they entered the relatively new antiseptic hockey rink; for although the arena still bore the name Boston Garden (along with the name of the building’s third corporate sponsor tacked on to the front of it), the similarities ended there. The cookie cutter sameness of the structure was reminiscent of countless other new arenas which had been built in the last decade or so, and in Newlan’s humble opinion, every one of them lacked the charm of the gritty, grimy, dirty, funky, ancient Boston Garden; lack of heat and air conditioning be damned.
“This place is OK, but I’d still take the old Garden any day of the week…rats and all,” Newlan joked as he gazed up at the championship banners which had come to define the tradition of the old building. And as the childhood friends, each armed with a double-fisted dose of watered-down beers, took their seats along with the twenty thousand or so other people in attendance, they settled in for what they hoped would be a festive celebration.
The new Garden may have lacked the history of the old building, but on this night anyway, the energy and electricity in the arena came as close as it ever would to matching the intensity of the old Garden; witnessed by the fact that the ear-bleeding chants of “Beat LA” started up well before opening tip off, and the roaring decibel levels never once let up throughout the course of the entire game.
The game itself was somewhat anticlimactic, but if you were a fan of the Boston Celtics it was pure Heaven nonetheless. After a seesaw first quarter, the Celtics took a 23 point lead into halftime, and unlike Newlan, they never looked back. By the time the fourth quarter began, drunken fans were dancing in the aisles, and every Celtics basket was met with a raucous ovation.
The three best friends were celebrating heartily along with the rest of the boisterous crowd, but when the game wound down to its final seconds, Newlan, in spite of himself, couldn’t help but feel sorry for the downtrodden Lakers. Boston’s archrivals had been humiliated so convincingly that it left Newlan wondering whether the crushing defeat would sting them for a long, long time to come.
And wouldn’t you know it, try as Newlan might to put the Breslin affair out of his mind and enjoy the moment, he just couldn’t do it. For the life of him he couldn’t understand why, but for some reason, watching the Lakers depart from the court with their heads hidden under their towels reminded him of John Breslin and what the scene might look like if the wretched defendant were to be found guilty. He imagined Breslin walking out of the courtroom, head bowed and hidden under a towel, hands and feet chained to manacles, and the mere thought of it filled him full of a despondent gloominess.
After the final buzzer, the trio ran out onto the court along with hundreds of other diehards, but when they finally called it a night, for some reason, Newlan’s mood was one borne more out of melancholy than jubilation. As thrilled as he was about the victory, for some reason, an emptiness seemed to have pervaded his soul. For some reason, he longed for the good old days when all that mattered in life was a victory for the home team. For some reason, his mind wandered back to those simpler times when life’s problems didn’t seem so insurmountable.
For some reason, as Newlan dozed off in the back seat of Horn’s car, he was transported back to a time when a Boston championship was guaranteed to release a chemically induced, euphoric rush of endorphins which rivaled the strongest marijuana he had ever smoked, a natural high so to speak. For some reason, he was transported back to a time in his early adolescence, when he didn’t require anything other than his inquisitive and often fantastical mind to entertain his lonely spirit.
However, for some oppositely unforeseen reason, Newlan’s time in paradise was cut short by the faceless madman who had been haunting his dreams ever since he was but a child. For some contrastingly inconceivable reason, as Reardon shook Newlan out of his slumber, the masked marauder put a gun to his head and victoriously crowed, “You’re next Newlan.”
Newlan awoke from his friend’s jogging tap in a hysterical state of confusion, and he screamed in terror, unaware of his surroundings.
It took a minute or two, but Newlan was finally able to vacuum the sawdust from his mind and regain some semblance of sanity, and then with a mixture of somberness, solace, and subdued cheerfulness, he shook hands with his two friends and bid them goodnight.
“Don’t mind me, just the usual bad dreams. Anyway I had an awesome time guys. And it’s great to be able to finally say that the Celtics are champions once again,” proclaimed a contented Newlan.
But alas, Newlan’s serenity didn’t last very long because when he got up to his condo and checked his answering machine, his noticed that his caller ID signified that nine new incoming calls had been placed to his phone number while he was at the game, and he also observed that there were no new messages on his machine.
“Why would someone keep calling and not leave a message?” wondered Newlan. But then he promptly answered his own question when he clicked through the caller ID and saw that each and every call was from the exact same number. A number and name that was now very familiar to him. A number belonging to a party that went by the name of “T & M Willis”.
From the Eyes of a Juror Page 87