From the Eyes of a Juror

by Frank Terranova

  Chapter 81 – Counterfeit Bills

  Thursday morning June 19, 2008 – 7:00 AM

  Frank Newlan was all dressed up with nowhere to go.

  Newlan rose up out of bed at the crack of dawn with an idea itching in his head that he should accelerate his morning routine. However, it wasn’t as if he all of a sudden decided to go on some sort of health kick crusade. No, the truth of the matter was that he really wasn’t inspired by anything other than the simple fact that he didn’t quite know what else to do with himself…and now here he was 2 hours later, staring at the ceiling while the grandfather clock in his dining room slowly ticked away the seconds.

  Newlan had already gone through all the major denial stages regarding the recent upheaval in his life, and now his rationalizing psyche was making an all out effort to brush the disturbance away, like dirt under a rug, like water under a bridge; for even though Tom Willis’s bravado had given him much pause for concern, in the end he foolishly concluded that it was all just a swarm of empty threats, not to be taken seriously.

  Remarkably, even though Newlan was fully ensconced in the murder trial of a jealous husband, he nevertheless chalked up Willis’s efforts at intimidation as nothing more than a balloon full of hot air from a big blowhard. Perhaps the fact that Willis was sitting in jail at the moment left Newlan propped-up with a false sense of security, or perhaps he truly was in a state of denial, but whatever the reason, he blindly attempted to convince himself that everything was going to be alright.

  If nothing else, Newlan’s life-experiences had taught him that, at any given moment, things are never as bad, or as good, as they seem, and right about now he decreed that it was necessary for him to put this asshole Tom Willis behind him for the time being, so that he could go about the business of mentally prepare himself for another day of duty as a juror in the John Breslin murder trial. He had a funny feeling that the next few days were going to be crucial in deciding the case and he didn’t want anything distracting him, let alone a piece of shit like Tom Willis; for as much as he had tried to resist the inevitable, he was now very much absorbed in his public service, and he was taking his job responsibilities more seriously than he could ever have imagined.

  Since Newlan had plenty of time to kill before heading out to the courthouse, he took it upon himself to meditate to some relaxing new age music. He figured that putting himself into a deep cognitive state might clear his mind of all the clutter and debris that had built up over the course of the last couple of weeks. But alas, not only did his amateurish meditations fail to produce the desired results, they actually had the opposite effect on him, and before long he found himself calling up his latest nightmare.

  Exactly what club was Fred Miller welcoming him to? Was it the murder victim’s club? No…Newlan wasn’t ready to die just yet, despite Tom Willis’s incoherent blathering. Was it the adulterers club? Well, Newlan had to admit that he was now more than just an honorary member of that club; he was now an official dues-paying associate who just might have a chance at presiding over his own local chapter someday.

  “It couldn’t be something that obvious,” muttered Newlan as he strained his mind in an attempt to reach a higher level of consciousness. At times he treated his bizarre dreams as if they were brainteasers, specifically conjured up by his subconscious to test his mettle. But unfortunately for Newlan, on this morning he wasn’t getting very far in unraveling the mind-twisters which were blowing through his head with enough force to send an old farmhouse straight into the gardens of Munchkin Land. However, regardless of success rate, he had been at it for well over an hour, and when he looked up at the clock he realized that it was getting late, so he boldly headed on out the door to face another day…but not before first making a stop at his CD closet.

  Newlan was in a Dylan mood this morning so he picked out a few CD’s by the revered voice of his generation and got himself into gear. Of course, before he could truly get the show on the road, there was the little matter of navigating past his friendly concierge, the dour Saeed Kahn.

  Kahn was none too pleased to see Newlan; especially after the latest tally showed that Newlan was gaining ground in the Medford River Park Condominiums popularity poll.

  “Mr. Frank, I ask once again that you refrain from your illegal activities, or there will be dire consequences,” threatened Kahn, and although Newlan was fully aware of the fact that he was referring to his marijuana-smoking, the sweet scent of which occasionally wafted beyond his boundaries and into Kahn’s unit, he played it semi-dumb anyway.

  “I’m sorry Saeed, I don’t really know what you’re talking about, but just to let you know, if it is what I think it is, I’d vehemently fight any complaints, based on medical and religious grounds,” countered Newlan who just couldn’t resist being a wiseass.

  “I hardly think that that rank odor could possibly have any religious merits,” articulately stated Kahn.

  “Haven’t you ever heard of Rastafarian culture?” asked Newlan, and when Kahn shook his head in anger, he added, “come on Saeed, you of all people should be respectful of religious tolerance.”

  And with that, Newlan bid Saeed Kahn a good day…and he was off to the races. But Kahn however, wasn’t the least bit amused, in fact he was seething.

  “How dare he mock my religion? Such a crime is punishable by death,” censured Kahn, but at the moment Newlan wasn’t the least bit concerned about the cantankerous concierge. In Newlan’s mind, he had already done his part in exposing Kahn as a fraudulent, suspicious character, lack of evidence notwithstanding, and now it was up to his mistrustful neighbors to carry on the campaign; to wave the flag; to fight the good fight.

  For the time being, Newlan had bigger fish to fry, and he decided that he would deal with Saeed Kahn at some other juncture, if it was deemed to be necessary. But perhaps that time would come sooner than he expected. Perhaps that time would come sooner than he cared to believe. Perhaps that time would come sooner than he could possibly imagine. For unbeknownst to Frank Newlan, Tom Willis wasn’t his only enemy who was licensed to carry a firearm.

  How such unstable people can legally get their hands on a lethal weapon with such ease is a debate for another day, but what is irrefutable was the fact that Saeed Kahn also brandished an automatic handgun which would rival Tom Willis’s cherished weapon of choice any day of the week; a weapon capable of stopping a man dead in his tracks. What is incontrovertible was the fact that Saeed Kahn also teetered on the same brink of no return that Tom Willis had already passed, and if Kahn ever were to reach this unenviable threshold…well then, may God have mercy on the person or persons who crossed his path.

  However, since Newlan was totally unaware of the danger at hand, he puttered along in his red Mercury Mystique, almost halfway to the courthouse by now, obliviously stoned and nonchalantly puffing on a joint, while back in Medford, Saeed Kahn railed in seething anger over his neighbor’s disrespectful attitude.

  A restless impatience for swift justice had Kahn practically climbing the walls, but just when he was about to go off the deep end, he dug in his heels and resorted to the powers of prayer, while at the same time Newlan was digging on the underappreciated Bob Dylan and The Band live album “Before the Flood” with its famous cover of a darkened concert hall lit up with the matches from a thousand outstretched hands. Clearly both of their masters had touched them, one way or another, in a profound manner; for as Kahn looked up above to his Divine Being for guidance, Dylan’s eloquent lyrics rocked Newlan’s spirit all the way down the highway.

  The first song on the CD, entitled “Most Likely You Go Your Way (And I’ll Go Mine)” was an appropriate match for Newlan’s current state of mind, and as was the case more often than not, he found a hidden connection in the music, and he sang along enthusiastically as Dylan, the poet laureate of an entire generation, forewarned his lover of things to come.

  Newlan of course had his own old flame, Marianne Plant
e, planted in his mind like a velvety, flowering vulva, but at the same time, his guilty conscience was beginning to rear its ugly head again…and when traffic came to a halt at the usual bottleneck, it allowed him to make time for one of his regularly scheduled talks with the man in the mirror, which left his tormented mind feeling more than a little bit confused.

  “Maybe someone upstairs is trying to tell me something. Maybe I need to let her go her way, and I’ll go mine. God, how I hate like hell to lose her again, but maybe it’s the right thing to do,” lamented a torn Newlan. He felt as if he were hopelessly stuck between a rock and a hard place. On the one hand, he could throw caution to the wind and start making plans for a life that included Marianne Plante and her two daughters. On the other hand, she was a married woman, married to an obviously unstable husband no less, so maybe he should back off and take a wait-and-see attitude.

  With all this baggage weighing him down, Newlan arrived at the courthouse in need of a bellhop to carry his burden across the threshold of his mind. He was utterly unable to make up his mind as to how he should handle the Marianne Plante situation, and the conundrum was eating away at him at the worst possible time.

  In the past, whenever Newlan came to a fork in the road of his destiny, he tended to do nothing and hope that the decision would be made for him. But that strategy had never served him particularly well, so this time he resolved that it was time for action; it was time to put up or shut up; it was time to say hello or say goodbye; it was time to swallow hard and make a move on the chess board of his life.

  Newlan fidgeted in the waiting room with his confidante, the elderly Patty, by his side, and she could tell right away that something was bothering him, so she gently pried him for information. Without going into too much detail, he confessed to having an anvil of emotionally-charged issues pressed up against his brain; issues that were causing him a considerable amount of stress; issue that couldn’t easily be rectified.

  Patty listened attentively just as any good therapist would do, and after taking in Newlan’s babbling, she presented him with some practical advice.

  “Cheer up Frank…and remember, what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger,” counseled Patty. However, Newlan’s reply left her groping for a response; Newlan’s reply left her stammering for words; in short, Newlan’s reply left her speechless.

  “Yeah, but right about now I’m more worried about the things that could kill me…and less hopeful about the things that might make me stronger,” confessed Newlan.

  Even after she had been afforded ample time to digest Newlan’s veiled utterance, Patty still couldn’t quite figure out what to make of his cryptic remarks, so she reverted to her chicken soup for the soul; a hug and a cliché; a cliché that Newlan was all too familiar with.

  “Don’t you fret Frank…everything’s gonna be alright,” soothingly whispered Patty, and although Newlan nodded his head in agreement, deep down inside, the yo-yo that was his emotional regulator feared otherwise.

  But regardless of Newlan’s fears, before long the rest of the crew began to arrive and he was forced to put his uneasiness on the backburner for a while. Despite their differences, the communal spirit amongst the jurors continued to grow, and as each day went by, more and more snacks were being piled up on the table, mainly courtesy of the women in the group. Some of the ladies even partook in baking homemade delicacies and trading their recipes…and if you didn’t know better, you’d think that their stay at the courthouse was all just one big family-styled dinner party. Photos of children and grandchildren surfaced each morning, and they were lovingly displayed by the proud parent, and many of the jurors even bandied about the idea of staying in touch after the trial was over, with Jane going so far as to suggest an annual reunion.

  Yong, the pretty Korean juror, added to the festivities by bringing in some sort of sweet Asian confection, along with a large box of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee to go, and she went on to tell a story about how her children had been pestering her for details as to what she had been doing for the last two week. Yong laughed as she told her colleagues of her response to her children’s badgering; “I’m making sure that the bad man doesn’t hurt anyone else.”

  Most of the jurors seemed to get a kick out of Yong’s “cute story”, but for Newlan it was just further confirmation that many of them had already made up their minds, which ran contrary to everything he believed in.

  For his part, Newlan was still hoping for a miracle. He was still hoping that some surprise witness or some unexpected bit of evidence would come along to exonerate Breslin at the 11th hour, and then he would be able to triumphantly exclaim, “You see, I knew it all along.”

  But even though he still held out a fading ray of hope, Newlan sensible side didn’t really foresee that “I told you so” moment happening. If he wasn’t already convinced as to what the inevitable outcome of the trial was going to be, then this morning’s jovial attitude told him everything he needed to know, and for that reason alone, he didn’t foresee the cavalry coming to the rescue at the last second; he didn’t foresee that Hail Mary touchdown pass; he didn’t foresee that Perry Mason revelation. And because he didn’t foresee any of these miraculous conclusions, he dreaded the thought of having to go toe-to-toe with the majority of his colleagues for a protracted stay of deliberation time.

  “These are all good people…each and every one of them…but for some reason, we don’t see eye to eye,” reflected Newlan, which was why, in his fragile state of mind, he once again secretly prayed that he’d be chosen to man one of the two remaining alternates seats; he figured that it was going to be a losing battle anyway so he might as well sit it out on the sidelines.

  Despite his inner feelings, Newlan chatted amicably with his associates, and after a brief delay, Billy lined them up for their now monotonous ceremonial morning march into the courtroom; a march which led more than a few jurors to openly wonder how much longer they were going to have to put up with this ordeal…and like clockwork, their question was answered by none other than Judge Gershwin herself.

  For her part, the honorable judge seemed to sense a malaise settling in over the jury box, she seemed to sense a cloud of lethargy pouring out from their weary faces, so she went out of her way to praise them, and she informed them that they were heading down the homestretch of the trial.

  “I must tell you that in all my years as a judge, you are collectively one of the most remarkable groups of people I have ever encountered,” extolled Judge Gershwin as she flashed her motherly smile. “I know you are probably all wondering how much longer the trial has to go…and after discussing the schedule with the attorneys, I can tell you that we hope to hand the case off to you for your deliberations sometime next week.”

  With her latest pep-talk out of the way, Judge Gershwin turned things over to DA Lyons, and another long day in the John Breslin murder trial was set to begin.

  Lyons first witness was a Mr. Robert Jackson from the Federal Reserve Bank of Boston.

  DA Lyons had Mr. Jackson -- who was a high-ranking official at the bank -- explain how he was asked by investigators to examine an envelope containing four thousand dollars worth of one hundred dollar bills.

  “What specifically did the detectives ask you confirm with regards to this envelope full of money?” wondered Lyons.

  “Well, they wanted to know whether all of the bills were in circulation as of September 2005,” replied Jackson.

  “And what did you conclude from your examination?” quizzically asked Lyons.

  “I concluded that the stack of bills included a 2006 series one hundred dollar bill which was signed by Secretary of State Henry Paulson, and that this bill wasn’t in print until June of 2007,” pointed out Jackson.

  While Jackson was speaking, DA Lyons displayed the bill in question on the overhead projector, and using a wooden pointer she indicated the characteristics which Jackson had described.

  Defense Attorne
y R. J. Gleason only had a couple of questions for Mr. Jackson, but in the mind of the ever suspicious Frank Newlan, the implications of Gleason’s inquiries were staggering.

  “Mr. Jackson, could you tell the jurors where the 2006 series bill was located in the stack with respect to the rest of the bills?” politely asked Gleason while at the same time a curious, devilish look dominated his face.

  “I don’t understand,” replied Jackson with a puzzled frown on his chin.

  “Well was it on the top of the stack, in the middle of the stack, at the bottom of the stack?” elaborated Gleason.

  “Why come to think of it, it was at the very top of the stack,” answered Jackson.

  “And not one of the other bills in the envelope, not one, was put into circulation after September of 2005, isn’t that correct?” added Gleason.

  “Yes sir, that’s correct,” confirmed Jackson, and Gleason, who was wearing his now familiar mischievous smile, excitedly announced, “No further questions your honor,”

  Newlan’s unique take on the exchange between Jackson and Gleason was one of outrage, and he shook his head in disgust as scribbled in his notepad:

  If I didn’t know better, I’d say Gleason is implying that somebody planted that 2006 one hundred dollar bill, and if that’s the case, then it’s an outrageously corrupt action on the guilty party’s part. But who could it be? The police? The detectives? DA Lyons? I can’t image she would stoop to something this low. Well, whoever it is, I’m sure Gleason will get to the bottom of it.

  But despite Newlan’s ire (in all likelihood a misguided ire at that) the proceedings trudged on, and the next witness to take the stand was a gentleman by the name of Mr. Alex McKeon.

  Mr. McKeon was an expert in the field of wireless technology, and DA Lyons directed him as he gave an in-depth spiel regarding the practical application of cell phone utilization, and how these “remarkable devices”, as he put it, are connected to a phone call by way of a network of cellular towers.

  McKeon went on to explain how a cell phone call jumps from one tower to another when the nearest tower is at full capacity, and his testimony had the ever-sarcastic Newlan commenting into his notepad as follows:

  Well if nothing else comes out of this trial, at least I learned a little something about US currency, and cell phone towers, and…oh yeah, handguns and autopsies!

  Meanwhile, Gleason got McKeon to reluctantly admit that a cell phone caller could potentially be miles away from the actual tower that connected the call. However, when he attempted to get McKeon to agree that in some cases a cell phone caller could be as far as six to ten miles away from the actual tower that connected the call, he wasn’t so successful. In Mr. McKeon’s expert opinion, it was very rare, if not downright impossible, for a cell phone caller to be more than three miles away from the tower that connected the call, and he wasn’t budging from his assessment, no matter how hard Gleason tried to get him to give in.

  The next witness was a computer forensics expert from the Massachusetts State Police by the name of Dave Sweeney, and DA Lyons started off by first having him go over his impressive resume, which included an education from MIT along with a multitudinous array of technical on-the-job experience.

  Lyons then had Sweeney lecture the jurors on the intricacies of noninvasive searches of computers and other electronic media, which led him to rhapsodize enthusiastically about hard drives, and authentication methods, and hash algorithms, and digital signatures, which were, as he stated “the equivalent of fingerprints in the world of computers”.

  For most of the jurors, Sweeney’s oration was pure gibberish, but for the handful of high-tech savvy jurors, such as the programmer/analyst Newlan, the detective’s testimony was right up their alley.

  Not surprisingly, other than this nerdy minority, the courtroom was apparently filled with a mass quantity of people, in addition to the bewildered low-tech jurors, who couldn’t comprehend a word of what the brainy detective was saying, including Court Officer Billy and Judge Gershwin to name a few.

  During the bulk of witness testimony, Billy would usually be seated at a small desk to the left of Newlan where he would typically be knee-deep in paperwork such as processing juror attendance sheets and organizing lunch menus, but on this particular day, Detective Sweeney’s un-interpretable jargon was producing the same symptoms in him as those which might be brought on by a powerful sedative.

  Newlan curiously watched on as Billy tried desperately to keep his eyes open, but unfortunately for the cantankerous court officer, it was a losing battle, and before long he was snoring lightly with his eyelids tightly closed.

  Newlan found the scene to be rather comical, but he was nonetheless panicked, and he even considered tossing a crumpled-up piece of paper in Billy’s direction in a covert attempt to rouse him before Judge Gershwin, or anyone else for that matter, noticed his little beauty nap.

  Newlan wondered what, if anything, he should do to correct the situation, while at the same time he shifted a nervous peek over in Judge Gershwin’s direction to determine whether she was onto Billy’s latest misstep. But much to his surprise, the eminent arbiter’s eyes were closed shut as well. Newlan couldn’t tell for sure whether she was in a state of deep concentration, or whether she was also dosing off, but he had a hunch that it was the latter, and he shook his head in amazement.

  “I don’t believe this. We got a guy on trial for murder and half the courtroom is falling asleep. Man you can’t make this shit up,” muttered Newlan under his breath as he chuckled at the sheer lunacy of it all.

  Meanwhile, Sweeney eventually got to the point and he testified that he scanned the hard drives of John Breslin’s computers looking for clues, and based on instructions from Detective Donavan, he searched the internal storage devices for various keywords such as Sam Fox and Fred Miller.

  Sweeney went on to reveal that he found information on Breslin’s laptop which indicated that the defendant had paid ten dollars to use a “People Search” website to obtain information pertaining to a Mr. Fred Miller from Framingham Massachusetts. And although it was debatable whether this information was all that damaging, what with the prevalent use of the internet as a means for social networking and finding distant relatives, to name a few examples, when it came time for Gleason’s cross-examination, he didn’t even attempt to ferret out these distinctions. Instead, he groggily rose up and announced, “no questions your honor…I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

  Gleason’s response had Newlan uncharacteristically disappointed in him for a change. First of all, it appeared the Gleason may have been sleeping on the job as well. Secondly, Newlan was disenchanted that Gleason wasn’t up to speed on the latest computer forensics; after all he was a criminal defense attorney. And last but not least, Newlan didn’t think it was such a big deal that Breslin had done some internet research on Fred Miller, and he wondered why Gleason didn’t ask any questions regarding the commonness of these types of searches. Newlan figured that, when put into proper perspective regarding Breslin’s state of mind and his insistence that Fred Miller stay away from his kids, it wasn’t too surprising that the defendant resorted to the internet as a method to try to dig up some dirt on his nemesis.

  Newlan himself recalled once using the powers of the internet to attempt to find out what his old girlfriend Marianne Plante was up to, and as far as he was concerned, an internet search was far less invasive an act than hiring a private detective to spy on someone; a tenet that he was now all too familiar with.

  “And besides, the guy was messing around with Breslin’s wife, so it’s only natural that he’d want to find out more about Miller. But Sweeney’s testimony made it seem as if Breslin was stalking Miller, and Gleason didn’t even attempt to challenge it,” concluded a frustrated Newlan, while once again he neglected to fully correlate the dangerous similarities between the trial details and his own sticky situation with Tom Willis.

  In any case, re
gardless of Newlan’s misplaced loyalties, next on the stand was a rough-and-tumble looking State Police Detective by the name of Peter Sasso whose main duty in the investigation was to assist in the task of providing 24 hour surveillance on one Mr. Samuel Fox.

  Sasso described how on April the 1st of 2006 he approached Fox at the seedy, dimly lit bar in Waltham Massachusetts where the wily ex-con worked as a part-time bartender. Sasso identified himself as a detective, and he noted that Fox seemed to be well aware of the fact that he was being watched. Sasso peppered Fox with questions regarding his relationship with John Breslin, and Fox, who had concluded that there was no point in denying the obvious, confirmed that he was acquainted with Breslin, and that they met through their mutual friend Nancy O’Brien. If Fox was to be believed, his primary contact with Breslin came only when he used him as a middleman in his attempts to rekindle his romance with Nancy O’Brien.

  Fox went on to wax poetically to Sasso regarding his theory behind Fred Miller’s untimely demise. It was Fox’s opinion that Miller’s past had finally caught up to him, and that it all just happened to be bad timing for Johnny Breslin; it all just happened to be an unfortunate coincidence; it all just happened to be an inauspicious set of circumstances; it all just happened to be one great big misunderstanding.

  Sasso then described an interview he had with Fox at his residence on April the 3rd of 2006 where he flat out asked him whether he had been in the city of Newton Massachusetts at any time during the month of January 2006. In attempt to wrangle an admission out of Fox, Sasso suggested the possibility that perhaps he might have driven through Newton on his way to or from the VA hospital which was about 5 miles away from the scene of the murder. And according to Sasso, Fox answered “no” to any and all attempts to place him in the town of Newton at any point in recent memory.

  Before finishing up with Detective Sasso, Lyons had him identify Fox’s red Taurus by briefly displaying the photo of the vehicle on the overhead projector again, and she then entered the vehicle’s registration as the next exhibit.

  Newlan was visibly irked that Lyons once again pulled down the picture of the red car as quickly as possible, but nevertheless he was still able to inspect the photo long enough to further determine that any damage to the front bumper was at best minimal, and at worst non-existent.

  When it was Gleason’s turn, he focused his cross-examination on a few tidbits of information that DA Lyons, as usual, had neglected to mention.

  “Detective Sasso, Sammy Fox never hid the fact that he knew John Breslin did he?”

  “And Sammy Fox never hid the fact that he had lunch with John Breslin on a number of occasions, mainly as he put it, to discuss Nancy O’Brien, did he?”

  “And Sammy Fox never hid the fact that John Breslin had mentioned his frustrations regarding Fred Miller to him, did he?”

  “And Sammy Fox never denied that he was familiar with Fred Miller through John Breslin, did he?”

  “And Sammy Fox never denied that on the day of Fred Miller’s murder, he heard about the news through various media outlets and that he tried to call John Breslin at his office, did he?” asked Gleason in rapid-fire succession, and Detective Sasso patiently answered “no” to each and every question.

  “And Sammy Fox told you flat-out that he had no firsthand knowledge of Fred Miller, and he also told you that he had, in fact, never even met the man, didn’t he?” continued Gleason.

  “Yes sir, that’s what he told me,” agreed Sasso, while at the same time Gleason’s mind was working on chess moves two steps ahead as he mapped out his strategy.

  Outside the presence of the jury, Gleason had argued for the inclusion into evidence of a newspaper article which contained some derogatory information about Fred Miller’s past. And although he lost that argument, he now saw an uncontestable path to another small victory; a path which would allow the jurors to at least hear what was in the newspaper article; and that path was Fox’s own words, words which were neatly presented in Detective Sasso’s very own police report.

  Reading from the report, Gleason asked, “Detective Sasso, didn’t Sammy Fox also tell you that his theory regarding Fred Miller’s murder was based in part on a newspaper article which appeared in the Metrowest Daily Mercury?”

  “Yes he did,” replied a skeptical-sounding Sasso.

  “And didn’t Mr. Fox tell you that the article chronicled Fred Miller’s many arrests for drug possession with intent to distribute?”

  “And didn’t Mr. Fox tell you that the article also detailed Fred Miller’s brief hospitalization due to a drug overdose a few weeks before his death?”

  “And didn’t Mr. Fox tell you he surmised that Fred Miller’s life had finally caught up to him due to his association with well known drug dealers and reputed mobsters, isn’t that a more precise account of what he told you?” wondered Gleason…and Detective Sasso, reluctant though he might have been, had to admit that the gist of Gleason’s statements were 100% true.

  While all this was going on, Newlan took a glance over at the DA’s table where he observed DA Lyons shaking with anger. But despite her rage, she realized that she had no legitimate grounds for objection, so she had to just sit there and stew while Gleason did his conniving best to distort the reputation of a dead man.

  To be sure, Fred Miller had his share of flaws, and he may not have been an angel, but in DA Lyons’ mind, even in death he didn’t deserve to be disrespected this way, and she offered a consoling glance to Miller’s family. But at the same time she had to remain calm and not to let her annoyances become a distraction.

  “And finally Detective Sasso, didn’t you write in your report that Mr. Fox was a heavyset man and that he was walking with a pronounced limp when you spoke with him in April of 2006?” demanded Gleason.

  “I don’t remember my exact words but yes I made that observation,” replied Sasso with a grimace, just before he gingerly rose up from his seat in the witness box.

  The next witness to take the stand was a young forensic scientist from the Massachusetts State Police by the name of Paul Zambata.

  Zambata described examining a 1995 red Ford Taurus at the request of Detective Donavan in April of 2006. Zambata noted that the car had been impounded after the arrest of its owner, Mr. Samuel Fox. Zambata testified that he found two pairs of gloves, four washcloths, a stocking cap, and a baseball cap inside the vehicle, and then his testimony came to a sudden and convenient end.

  Once again the insinuation was clear to Frank Newlan, but once again he wasn’t buying one bit of it.

  “I’ve had it with this misleading crap. They bring up all of this slippery stuff and they make it sound so shady, and then no follow-up questions. This is bullshit. Do they really expect us to believe that Fox was carrying around incriminating evidence in his car almost three months after the murder?” an angry Newlan ruminated. And if he was angry, then it wouldn’t take a genius to deduce what Sammy Fox’s reaction was when he found out about the latest evidence in the government’s case against his alleged co-conspirator, John Breslin. Rumor had it that Fox’s screams could be heard all the way from his cell in the Suffolk County Jail in Boston, across the Charles River, and into Breslin’s cell at the Middlesex County Jail in Cambridge. And although it is impossible to measure, perhaps R. J. Gleason was even more enraged than both Frank Newlan and Sammy Fox combined.

  Gleason’s methodical line of questioning forced Zambata to provide a systematic analysis regarding how physical evidence can be used to link a suspect to a crime. He then went on to ask Zambata to explain how it was possible for handgun residue to be deposited onto a pair of gloves; how it was possible for hair and fiber evidence to be found on hats; how it was possible for blood and DNA evidence to be detected on a washcloth, often times even after the items had been washed repeatedly.

  At Gleason’s urging, Zambata went on to describe how evidence such as hair, fibers and DNA from skin tissue and blood splatter, can be trans
ferred between a perpetrator and a victim…and after Zambata had finished enlightening the jurors as to the intricacies of physical evidence, Gleason blew up and lashed out at him for his troubles.

  “And yet, despite this potential to uncover additional information, you never once recommended that any of these items be tested or analyzed in any way, did you?” howled Gleason. And when Zambata admitted as much, Gleason was incredulous.

  “Why wouldn’t you at least consult with your colleagues?” pleaded Gleason, and Zambata’s unexpected answer proved to be another uncut diamond of suspicion uncovered by the well-traveled defense attorney.

  “As a matter of fact, I did go over the findings with lab chemist Jessica Bias and she agreed that no further testing was warranted,” explained Zambata; and although Gleason was furious with his revelation, at the same time he made a note to squeeze this latest example of the preponderance of sloppy police work into his closing arguments.

  Much like Gleason, Newlan was compiling his own scandalous list of complaints into his notepad, and regardless of how attractive the cute little chemist Jessica Bias happened to be, he was none too pleased with her decision-making.

  At this point in the day’s proceedings, Judge Gershwin determined that it was a good time for morning break, and Newlan’s blood was still boiling as he took his seat back in the deliberation room.

  Break started innocently enough with the jurors queuing up to use the restroom. Newlan made it a point to wait until after everyone else had taken their turn before using the facilities himself, and so when he got out of the lavatory, all of his colleagues were already seated, and they were laughing heartily about something or other.

  Being the paranoid soul that he was, Newlan assumed that they were laughing at him and he wanted an explanation.

  “Alright, what did I do now?” demanded Newlan as he looked down to make sure his zipper was pulled up.

  “No, no it’s not you,” proclaimed more than a few jurors as they continued to laugh hysterically.

  “Alright then, let me in on the joke,” pleaded Newlan, and as it turned out, the joke really wasn’t on him after all. As it turned out that the jovial mood was entirely at the expense of one Ms. Elaina Lyons. Apparently as Lyons was standing upright next to the enlarged image of Benjamin Franklin’s face on the 2006 series one hundred dollar bill, one of the jurors, who shall remain nameless, made an observation that the pit-bull of a DA bore an uncanny resemblance to the noted polymath, who, more importantly, was also one of the founding fathers of this great country.

  Newlan resisted the temptation to join in on the laughter, but he had to admit that DA Lyons and old Ben Franklin both possessed the same style of round glasses, the same pouty cheeks, and remarkably, the same long, unruly, gray hair; although Franklin was bald on the top and Lyons obviously was not.

  And although their ribbing was all in good fun, the mood took a decided turn for the worse in a hurry when Ron the banker happened to mention that the money placement testimony was something akin to a Keystone Cops episode, which was all the lead-in that Newlan needed to get him up on his own soapbox.

  “I’m not sure whether I ever really bought Mrs. Breslin’s lockbox testimony, but why did someone have to go play that same game and plant a current hundred dollar bill in the envelope?” questioned Newlan.

  By now the façade of not discussing the trial had long since been breached, and Newlan’s comments sent many of his colleagues into a frenzied attack mode.

  “What do you mean ‘planted’? I assumed that the 2006 bill was just a case of the defense being dumb and sloppy,” piped in Jane who was vocally supported by the usual suspects.

  “What about the fact that the only 2006 bill in the stack was on the very top of the pile…doesn’t that seem suspicious? Doesn’t that seem a bit too convenient?” pointed out Newlan, but his theory was falling on deaf ears.

  Newlan followed up his suppositions with a passionate rant that probably didn’t change anyone’s mind, but it sure made him feel a whole lot better inside.

  “None of us knows for sure what the hell happened with that hundred dollar bill. Maybe Mrs. Breslin borrowed the money and then she put it back. And maybe she’s too old to remember that she even did it. But regardless of what really happened with that money, I’m tired of all the innuendos and I just want the facts. But no, both lawyers keep slinging crap at us, hoping that something sticks…and I don’t know about anyone else, but the whole stinking mess is making me sick,” fumed Newlan. And although his oratory may not have made much of a difference in the grand scheme of things, there was one juror who didn’t need much convincing, and that juror of course was the feisty little HR clerk, Annie.

  “I agree wholeheartedly with Frank, and if Gleason can prove prosecutorial misconduct then watch out…this whole damned trial will be in jeopardy as far as I’m concerned,” steamed Annie as she once again shot Newlan a covert wink.

  Much like the hordes of JFK assassination theorists, Newlan was becoming obsessed with his own conspiracy theories as they related to the John Breslin murder trial, and Annie’s encouraging words were the impetus for him to throw some more fuel onto the fire.

  “And furthermore, I know that Gleason will never be able to prove it, but I wouldn’t be surprised if that stuff they found in Fox’s car was also planted,” insisted Newlan. But of course, most of the jurors just shook their heads in disbelief, with Mike, the usually reticent car salesman, going so far as to insinuate that Newlan had a few loose screws in his skull which might require psychiatric attention.

  Newlan was somewhat surprised by Mike’s critique, but he could take as good as he could give, so he just laughed off the ribbing. For someone who seemed to be so sensitive to criticism, Newlan could also be thick-skinned when he needed to be, and right about that time, he definitely needed to have a level head about him because he and his colleagues were about to be marched back into the courtroom where they would be subjected to more gory details related to the murder of Fred Miller…and scheduled next on the stand was none other than John Breslin’s old pal, one Charles “Charlie” Mercurio.

  Mercurio had somehow managed to make it through the night with blowing a hole in his head, and now here he was, the center of attention, saddled with guilt, but determined to get on with his life.

  As Mercurio’s testimony slowly unwound, as he revealed his close relationship with Breslin, a relationship which apparently ended in betrayal, Newlan peeked over at the defendant’s table where he observed the inanimate defendant, staring straight-ahead, emotionless as always.

  Mercurio was a large balding man who nervous mannerisms almost made it appear as if he were mentally challenged in a “Rain Man” sort of way, and DA Lyons worked within his limitations as she got him to neatly relay the unquestionably damaging information which you the dear reader has already been made privy to…and, considering his mental state, he did a commendable job of impartially telling his tale.

  But of course, once Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason got his hands on poor Charlie Mercurio, the picture was painted in an entirely different shade of gray.

  “Mr. Mercurio you’ve known Mr. Breslin for a long time and you were in fact interested in going to work for him at Tex-Ray Defense Systems…and because of that, you and Mr. Breslin spoke frequently during the fall of 2005, isn’t that correct?” asked Gleason.

  “Yeah sure” responded the dense Mercurio.

  “And during that time, Mr. Breslin occasionally discussed his pending divorce with you in passing, didn’t he? And you told the police that Mr. Breslin didn’t appear to be angry about situation, but rather, he was sad because he couldn’t be with his kids, isn’t that correct?” added Gleason

  After initially nodding his head, Mercurio quietly replied “yes” when Judge Gershwin informed him that he needed to respond verbally so that the court reporter could record his answer.

  “And when you took that ride out to Marlboroug
h with Mr. Breslin so that he could check up on his wife Tracy, you told the police that the reason for the visit was to determine whether Tracy had gone to her AA meeting as scheduled. Didn’t you tell the police that Mr. Breslin was concerned about his wife’s drinking problem, and how it might affect their children?” pressured Gleason.

  “I don’t remember my exact words but that sounds about right,” agreed the soft-spoken Mercurio.

  “And yet the prosecution never mentioned any of these details,” rhetorically muttered Gleason loud enough for everyone in the courtroom to hear.

  Mercurio seemed to think that Gleason’s observation was directed at him and he appeared to be quite confused by the question, while at the same time DA Lyons immediately objected…and not only was Lyons objection sustained, but Gleason also received a harsh scolding from Judge Gershwin, who warned him to refrain from any unnecessary commentary, which elicited a few ooohs and aaahs from the gallery.

  And as much as Newlan would have preferred to be anywhere other than in that courtroom, he had to grudgingly admit that he was rather enjoying some of the more dramatic moments in the trial, such as the latest exchange between Gleason and Judge Gershwin.

  But regardless of the tongue-lashing, Gleason shook off Judge Gershwin’s admonishment and continued on as if nothing ever happened.

  “And finally Mr. Mercurio isn’t it true that Mr. Breslin never specifically told you what to say, or what not to say, to the police? Isn’t it true that he never instructed you to withhold any information whatsoever from the police?” asked Gleason.

  At this point in his ordeal, Mercurio was petrified by the notion that somewhere during the course of his testimony he had been caught in a lie, and he gulped down hard before he spit out his final reply. But ultimately, he felt fairly confident that, based on the manner in which the questions had been posed, and based on the fact that no one was privy to his private conversations with Breslin, he could get away with answering “yes” one last time, without being brought up on perjury charges…and so that’s just what he did.

  As Mercurio shakily made his way off the witness stand, he felt weak at the knees, and once he got beyond the general vicinity of the courtroom doors, he immediately collapsed onto the nearest empty bench he could find.

  And with his obligation finally fulfilled, Charles “Charlie” Mercurio put his head in his hands as he began to cry the bitter tears…of a broken man.