Chapter 84 – Broomsticks and Daggers
Thursday evening June 19, 2008 – 11:45 PM
While Frank Newlan’s subconscious mind was busily leading him along as he conducted an illicit investigation into the murder of Fred Miller, Fred’s brother Cam was also keeping himself occupied with the mentally straining task of setting his own unwittingly enticing plans in motion.
Unlike Newlan, Cam didn’t believe for one second that there was even a remote possibility that John Breslin was an innocent victim of circumstance. And furthermore, Cam didn’t think that anyone in their right mind, anyone who had sat through the same two weeks of damning testimony which he had witnessed with his own two eyes, could find Breslin not guilty. And yet he was troubled by the fact that the prosecution couldn’t seem to come up with one iota of physical evidence which conclusively linked Breslin and Fox to the scene of the crime.
“For God’s sake, we all know they did it…the cops should have just planted some phony evidence on them and lets be done with it,” constantly complained Cam to his ever-patient wife Susan.
“All we need is for one idiot on that jury to nibble on the lure that Gleason’s been casting out, and we’re screwed…and I’m telling you, I’ve had a bad feeling about that guy with the long stringy hair since Day One. You know who I’m talking about, the one on the end of the jury box, the one who never makes eye-contact with anyone? I swear to God, I have an unsettling feeling that that SOB is swallowing up Gleason’s bait, hook, line and sinker,” feared Cam, and based on our intimate knowledge of the illogical inner-workings which were churning like butter inside the mind of the illustrious juror number 8, Cam Miller’s concerns were more justified than he could have ever possibly imagined.
Cam was privy to the fact that the prosecution was very close to resting its case, but from there it was anyone’s guess as to what the wily Gleason had up his sleeves; it was anyone’s guess as to what evil lies and innuendos Gleason would come up with to sully the reputation of his fallen brother; it was anyone’s guess what Gleason would stoop to.
Cam’s latest motto was to hope for the best but expect the worst, and with that in mind, he was now making alternate plans, just in case things started going badly for the prosecution when it was Gleason’s turn to take his whacks at undoing the damage that had already been done to his client, John Breslin.
Cam knew full well that if anyone could snatch victory from the jaws of defeat, it was that cagey bastard R. J. Gleason. As much as Cam hated Gleason with a passion, he had come to view him with a reluctant dose of respect like a prize fighter who has just slugged it out with a despised opponent for fifteen exhausting rounds, and he fully expected that Gleason would leave no bullets in the chamber. He fully expected that Gleason would leave no gas in the tank. He fully expected that Gleason, with all due respect to Tracy Stone, would leave no stone unturned, and he was utterly convinced that any indiscretions in his brothers past would be fair game for the ruthless defense attorney.
And speaking of Tracy Stone, she was, at all times lately, latched onto Cam’s inner psyche like the jaws of a pit bull biting down on a trespassing stranger…and so on the cusp of this peaceful June evening, after his wife and kids had put themselves to bed, with the crickets chirping and the hoot owls hooting, Cam Miller labored deliberately but with purpose in his basement workshop. With his dust goggles on, Cam meticulously carved into an old broomstick until it was just the right size; until it felt like a magic wand in his hands; until it felt like a billy-club in his grip. Cam sawed and filed and shaved and sanded down the dagger-sized piece of wood until he had crafted a finely pointed thicket, and he marveled at his own handiwork as he inspected the finished product.
Cam wrapped a coil of duct tape around the handle and he clutched the improvised weapon tightly while making several swift violent upward stabbing motions into thin air. Cam admired himself in the mirror as he made a few savage downwards thrusts into a cardboard box which was sitting atop of an old table, as if he was sticking a shiv into someone’s back. Cam examined the box after he was through with it, and he was pleasantly surprised at how effortless it had been to inflict such damage on his imaginary foe. And furthermore Cam was equally surprised at how good the piercing jabs made him feel inside, so much so that he felt compelled to sit down at his desk and close his eyes in a serene attempt at self-discovery.
After what seemed like hours of meditative contemplation, Cam Miller was overcome with a strange sense of exhilaration as he imagined various uncontrollable, frantic scenarios in his mind.
Somewhere along the line, Cam’s exhilaration turned into a sorcerer’s vision, and as he went to bed that evening he found himself mesmerized by a soft voice chanting in his ears; a woman’s voice calling out his name; an enchanted voice that was urging him to stake his claim; a spellbinding voice that foresaw his fate; a seductive voice that was calling to him like a pied piper; a captivating voice that was leading him into the black widow’s web of deceit where he would be charmed into submission by the beguiling virtues of the lair’s queen.
Yes, by tomorrow morning Cam Miller would be ready for just about anything. But at the same time, a small portion of his brain, a teensy portion which remained unspoiled by the filth of hatred, a tiny portion which remained untouched by the vapors of the witch’s brew, hoped with all sincerity that it would be unnecessary for him to intercede. However, if the fates deemed otherwise, then may God bear witness to his soul. If the fates deemed otherwise, he would proceed with a reckless abandon; he would attack with every ounce of strength his body could muster; he would throw down his wooden sword where it rightfully belonged; in the belly…of the beast.
Epilogue – We Will Never Forget
Dear reader, it has been said by many a wise man that sometimes the truth is stranger than fiction. Or, to put it in the vernacular, as our crude philosopher Frank Newlan might say, “Man you can’t make this shit up”.
And yet in this story we have “made shit up”. But along with “making shit up” we have also included many characters and scenes in our fictitious account that were based on real people and on real encounters; real people who possess some of the same failings and imperfections as the characters in our saga (and if truth be told, many, many more); real encounters, some which were deadly in nature, some which were perhaps unavoidable (whether due to a momentary lapse of judgment, or to a simple twist of fate, or to a blind rage, who can say for sure?). But regardless of why these calamitous events occur, as Fred Miller so wisely put it, “we all make choices in life”, and unfortunately sometimes those choices can never be undone.
So if you see yourself in any of these characters, chances are that it is purely coincidental. But on the other hand, there is also a distinct possibility that a small part of you lives inside the heart of Mr. Frank Newlan. Yes indeed, on the other hand, there is also a remote chance that a little piece of you resides within the souls of this colorful, yet ordinary, cast of characters who made up this tragic narrative.
But either way, you can rest assured that we regarded each and every one of the characters in this allegory pertaining to life’s struggles with a sense of respect and empathy, and in some cases, with a sense of breathtaking awe; regardless of their role; regardless of their plight. Because, after all, they aren’t so much different than you and me…and as the venerable Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason once said, “You just never know when you might find yourself in the defendant’s shoes.”
For while the idealistic Frank Newlan might try beyond hope to see the good in everyone, most of us know full well that evil lurks around every corner, behind every door. And if pushed too far, that same hatred which consumed John Breslin and Tom Willis could conceivably be mined from the depths of each and every one…of our failing hearts.
…
As for the fate of our characters you ask? Well, we wish we could provide you with a tidier sense of closure, but unfortunately life doesn’t always
clean up after itself as neatly as we might desire it to. In any event, as of this writing:
Mr. John Breslin, who by the way recovered nicely from his stroke, currently resides in the solitary confinement wing of the maximum security Massachusetts Correctional Institution—Cedar Junction (MCI-Cedar Junction) in Walpole Massachusetts, praying for an appeal that might one day make him a free man again.
Mr. Samuel Fox still resides in the Suffolk County Jail in Boston Massachusetts, waiting impatiently for his trial to begin, while conversely, his cunning lawyer successfully argues for continuance after continuance, hoping to delay the trial until a time and/or circumstance presents itself that is to his liking.
Mr. Thomas Willis resides in the medium security MCI-Concord prison in Concord Massachusetts, patiently hoping to one day exact revenge on all who have done him wrong. It appears that the Massachusetts Department of Corrections will still have to do quite a bit more rehabilitative work on Mr. Willis before they could ever even think of releasing him back into society. Apparently Mr. Willis, like Mr. Breslin and Mr. Fox before him, still hasn’t come to fully appreciate the age-old adage that “crime doesn’t pay”.
Mr. Cameron Miller wrangled his way out of his legal troubles with just a slap on the wrist, and to this day he continues to maintain a website, or shrine if you will, in memory of his late brother. We sincerely hope that one day Mr. Miller will discover the power of forgiveness, as difficult as it may be, for only then will he truly find the elusive peace of mind that he has been searching for lo these many years.
Mr. Saeed Kahn, who, ironically enough, saved Frank Newlan’s life so that one day he might have his own shot at vengeance, remains a free man in our country; a country in which he spends his free time plotting for its collapse and praying for the moment when it might meet its eventual demise. Each day Mr. Kahn grows more and more resentful of his adopted homeland, which, after all, as a US citizen, he has every right to do. Nevertheless, Mr. Kahn’s revenge on Frank Newlan, not to mention the promise of his supreme leader’s ungodly zero hour, remain tasks that are, as of yet, unfulfilled.
Ms. Tracy Stone (the former Mrs. John Breslin) and Ms. Marianne Plante (the former Mrs. Thomas Willis), strangely enough (but also happily enough for themselves and for their heartbroken families), seem to have taken the same road to emancipation; strong and fiercely independent single mothers who refuse to place their salvation in the hands of any one man. Once again, as Frank Newlan would say, “man you can’t make this shit up”.
Ms. Plante, as it turns out, was not pregnant with Frank Newlan’s child, or anyone else’s child for that matter. And although Plante and Newlan’s trails continue to be drawn in the same spirited direction, to that same pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, somehow their paths never quite connect. Perhaps their passages through life are destined to be on parallel lines which will never criss-cross, or perhaps one day when the stars are aligned just right, the two lovers might yet meet again. However, it is with a deep sense of sadness that we must report to you that to this day, their reunion has yet to take place, and with each passing day it becomes less and less likely to ever happen. Lamentably, every time it looks as though their story might have a happy ending, a fork in the road comes along, always leading to another dead-end.
And last but not least you ask, “what ever became of that old fool, Mr. Frank Newlan?” Well Mr. Newlan, as you might expect still marches to the beat of his own drummer, as always, living his life like a song. Mr. Newlan continues to abide by his doctrine; a doctrine that even now, after all he has been through, still revolves around his daily routines; his habits both good and bad; his rituals, which at this point are almost spiritual in nature; and yes, despite the overwhelming odds against it, his dogmatic blind faith that one day soon…his wildest dreams…might yet come true.
…
Ladies and gentlemen we may never know for sure exactly what happened on the morning of Friday, January 13th, 2006 in a musty old parking garage in Newton Massachusetts; a life was taken, that much is indisputable.
Only the participants in our story know for certain the roles that they may or may not have played in the life and ultimate death of Fred Miller. Only the participants in our story can look themselves in the mirror and determine whether they can live with the consequences of their actions in this sad tale.
However, for you, the dear reader, like our jurors, we have a different charge. We ask of you, as we asked of our jurors, to do the best you can with the evidence that was presented before you in this courtroom drama and come to your own conclusions, based on your own distinct life experiences. For this is our system of justice. For one day you just might find yourself occupying the same seats in which our esteemed jurors once sat in. One day you just might be asked to take on the unenviable task of placing a man’s life in your hands. One day you just might be asked to decide a man’s fate. And so for the sake of justice, for the sake of humanity, for the sake of decency, for the sake of impartiality, and most importantly, for the sake of the defendant and all involved in the case, please do not take your duties lightly.
Ladies and gentlemen, we can assure you that the jurors in the John Breslin murder trial did in fact do the best job they could with the information that was presented to them, and hopefully, they are all at peace with their decision. Hopefully, they can all sleep at night. Hopefully, they can all move forward…and never look back.
And so alas, the time has come to say goodbye; the time has come to leave the poignant characters in our heart-rending play behind and get on with our own lives. But we will never forget. Until the day we die, we will never forget these sadly flawed people, judge, lawyers and jurors included…and we sincerely pray with all of our hearts that God blesses the souls…of each and every one of them.
(MERCIFULLY) THE END
From the Eyes of a Juror Page 98