 
### FROM THE EYES OF A JUROR

By Frank Terranova

Copyright 2012 Frank Terranova

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, Licenses Notes

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com. Thank you for your support.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to actual persons, living or dead, or real events, are entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

### Special Thanks

To my friends, family, co-workers, and acquaintances that inspired the characters in this novel (you know who you are!).

To the 15 wonderful people I had the pleasure of working with in the month of June, 2008.

And last but not least, to Marianne, wherever she might be in this great big world. You said that I would always be an artist...and surely, an artist I will always be.

### Table of Contents

Slow Death -- A Song to Set the Scene

Prologue - Built to Last?

Chapter 1 – A Summons (He had to Look Back)

Chapter 2 – Momma's Boy

Chapter 3 – Three Horrible Hubbys, One Horrible Vision

Chapter 4 – May God Forgive Me

Chapter 5 – Lines and Queues

Chapter 6 – Tracy Stone's Sad Anniversary

Chapter 7 – On Trial?

Chapter 8 – Ships in the Night and Sacrificial Lambs

Chapter 9 – Rhyme or Reason (God's Plan)?

Chapter 10 – Counselor R. J. Gleason's Colorful People

Chapter 11 – A Bus Ride and 'a View'

Chapter 12 – The Smell of Blood

Chapter 13 – Dreams so Real

Chapter 14 – Saeed Kahn's Gibberish

Chapter 15 – A Wonderfully Terrible Idea

Chapter 16 – Show Time

Chapter 17 – Cam Miller's Burden

Chapter 18 – All Rise, Jurors Entering

Chapter 19 – Just a Theory

Chapter 20 – Meet the Jurors

Chapter 21 – The Wise Judge Gershwin

Chapter 22 – DA Lyons' Roar

Chapter 23 – Jurors and Witnesses

Chapter 24 – First Impressions

Chapter 25 – No Signs of Life

Chapter 26 – O'Toole's Tavern and Grill (Celtics Pride)

Chapter 27 – The Only Woman He Ever Loved

Chapter 28 – Two Tough Cops

Chapter 29 – Rearview Mirror (He Always Looked Back)

Chapter 30 – The Red Car

Chapter 31 – An Unexpected Visitor (Janis Barry's Story)

Chapter 32 – The Riderless Chariot

Chapter 33 – An Unexpected Letter (Marianne Plante's Story)

Chapter 34 – Saeed Kahn's Congregation

Chapter 35 – Monday Morning Blues

Chapter 36 – Fear of Falling

Chapter 37 – Brent Blain, Private Detective Extraordinaire

Chapter 38 – Recommendations & Suggestions, Guns & DNA

Chapter 39 – Two Years to the Day (The Moral Compass)

Chapter 40 – Three Old Friends, One Haunted House

Chapter 41 – Love's Addiction (The Tide Can Turn So Quickly)

Chapter 42 – Remembering the Dead

Chapter 43 – Ringing Phones and Roller Coaster Rides

Chapter 44 – The Temptress

Chapter 45 – A Split Second

Chapter 46 – Saeed Kahn's Vision

Chapter 47 – White Flags

Chapter 48 – Turned to Stone

Chapter 49 – Dead Heads and Love Letters

Chapter 50 – To a Man, To a Woman (We All Make Choices in Life)

Chapter 51 – Mahoney's Pub (Dead on Arrival)

Chapter 52 – Dream a Little Dream...of Me

Chapter 53 – Friday the 13th (Everything's Gonna be Alright?)

Chapter 54 – Saeed Kahn's Errand (A License to Kill)

Chapter 55 – Three Little Letters, S O S

Chapter 56 – More Silent Communiqués

Chapter 57 – Sisters, Only by Name

Chapter 58 – The Good Doctor

Chapter 59 – Domestic Violence

Chapter 60 – A Reunion; 20 Years in the Making

Chapter 61 – Surveillance Systems Converging

Chapter 62 – Who Knows What Another Man Would Have Done?

Chapter 63 – Playing With Fire

Chapter 64 – Landslides and Falling Stars

Chapter 65 – Another Man's Woman

Chapter 66 – An Incident in Progress

Chapter 67 – If Someone Wants You Dead Bad Enough

Chapter 68 – There's not a Damn Thing You Can Do About it

Chapter 69 – Saeed Kahn's Meeting with the Master

Chapter 70 – Childhood Miracles (Live to See Another Day)

Chapter 71 – Brilliant Disguises

Chapter 72 – I've Got a Feeling...Somebody's Watching Me

Chapter 73 – Learning to Let Go (A Mother's Love)

Chapter 74 – The Chase...for Banner 17

Chapter 75 – Bar Hopping

Chapter 76 – The Crime of the Century (Twenty Two Pages)

Chapter 77 – Confrontations (A Gun in Her face)

Chapter 78 – Revenge in Motion

Chapter 79 – Familiar Territory (Welcome to the Club)

Chapter 80 – Real Men?

Chapter 81 – Counterfeit Bills

Chapter 82 – Betrayal & Subterfuge, Legitimate & Imagined

Chapter 83 – Blood on the Tracks

Chapter 84 – Broomsticks and Daggers

Chapter 85 – The Prosecution Rests

Chapter 86 – The Right to Testify

Chapter 87 – His Own Worst Enemy

Chapter 88 -- Arachnophobia

Chapter 89 – Astronomy (Life's too Short)

Chapter 90 – Anyone Else Would Have Done the Same Thing

Chapter 91 – Death by a Thousand Cuts

Chapter 92 – Reason for Hope?

Chapter 93 – A Visit to the Cemetery (Whispers in the Wind)

Chapter 94 – Juror Number 8

Chapter 95 – Symbolic Coincidences or Psychic Revelations?

Chapter 96 – The Master's Edict

Chapter 97 – Not Dead Yet

Chapter 98 – Juror Number 8 (An Alternate Take)

Chapter 99 – Closing Arguments & Crosses to Bear

Chapter 100 – Buns in the Oven

Chapter 101 – Temptations (People Everywhere)

Chapter 102 – Repressed Memories

Chapter 103 – A Stroke of Pride

Chapter 104 – A Sudden Change of Plans

Chapter 105 – Jane's Tricky Day

Chapter 106 – Deliberations Begin

Chapter 107 – There's Always Hope (Until There's no Hope)

Chapter 108 – A Stalemate?

Chapter 109 – They're Ready for you Your Honor

Chapter 110 – Over a Woman

Chapter 111 – Relieved of Duty

Chapter 112 – Dueling Press Conferences

Chapter 113 – Grateful Dead Drinks (More Ships in the Night)

Chapter 114 – A Solemn Goodbye

Chapter 115 – A Combined Evil

Chapter 116 – Shots Fired

Chapter 117 – Fade to Black

Chapter 118 – Closure for Some

Chapter 119 – End of the Road

Chapter 120 – The Man on the Moon

Epilogue – We Will Never Forget

Slow Death -- A Song to Set the Scene

(Words and music by Frank Newlan circa 1989)

I might live to be an old man

But if I died tomorrow I wouldn't care

Because the only girl I ever loved

Is so, so far, away from here

I might live to be a hundred

But what does it matter...what does it mean?

When the only girl I ever loved

Left me alone with a broken dream

Some people die in accidents

Some people die in wars

But me I'm dyin' a slow, slow death

Everyday a little bit more

... _Everyday a little bit more_

I might live to see the second coming

But there's nothing like the first time through

The Gates of Heaven are much too wide

If I'm not walking in with you

I might live to see forevermore

But I may as well burn in hell

Because if I can't have you by my side

Then nothingness is just as well

Some people die in accidents

Some people die in wars

But me I'm dyin' a slow, slow death

Everyday a little bit more

... _Everyday a little bit more_

There's this terrible disease called loneliness

It hurts but it doesn't kill

It breaks your heart in a million pieces

But your blood it doesn't spill

... _your blood it doesn't spill_

Some people die in accidents

Some people die in wars

But me I'm dyin' a slow, slow death

Everyday a little bit more

... _Everyday a little bit more_

... _...Everyday a little bit more_

.........Everyday a little bit more

### Prologue – Built to Last?

Friday morning January 13, 2006 – 7:45 AM

Fred Miller and his 1999 blue Nissan Maxima were both running on empty as he pulled into a small, dilapidated garage next to an equally antiquated office building located in Newton Massachusetts.

The complex, which served as the headquarters for Fred's place of employment, The Barron Insurance Agency, was his central base, and his cubicle was his comfy little home-away-from-home; it was the place where he focused on completing the countless mundane menial tasks that were required of all low-level customer service representatives, like himself, who worked within the small firm's tangled hierarchy. Although on days like today, the plan for Fred was to do as little work as possible.

On days like today, the plan for Fred, as well as for his car, was to crawl along on fumes until he had a chance to refill both of their tanks. On days like today, Job One on the agenda was to conserve as much energy as possible, in a futile attempt to recharge both of their batteries, just in time for another round of rollicking abuse.

Like Fred and his automobile, the garage and the adjacent office building had both seen better days. The run-down office building was the exact opposite of those fancy high rise deals in Boston where some of Fred's friends worked. It was a threadbare four story edifice with the year 1920 neatly carved into the cement at the foot of the building's entrance.

The decaying, covered garage, which was in a general state of disrepair, was a one story structure with room for about 15 parking spots on either side, as well as another 30 spots on the rooftop level. And furthermore, the interior of the garage, which was plagued by a perpetual musty odor, was dark and dank, and the sooty exhaust-fume-coated ceiling was supported by a row of concrete slab beams which were showing serious signs of deterioration.

Fred, who occasionally suffered from bouts of paranoia, believed that the garage, what with its fading graffiti, its numerous patches of burned-out florescent light bulbs, and its lack of exits (other than the one opening where cars pulled in and out of), would be the perfect place for a robbery, and he shivered at the thought of it on this cold, gray morning.

Even though Fred was well aware of the fact that Newton, which was a swank suburb situated about ten miles west of Boston, had a very low crime rate, and that it was actually named one of the safest cities in America for the second year in a row, that didn't stop his irrational fear. He was a big believer in the old saying, "there's always a first time for everything".

When Fred was in one of those unsettled moods, his brain would sometimes fixate on the cracks in the foundation of the garage and his imagination would get the better of him; and on the rare occasions when he found himself in a particularly freaked-out state, the swirling cracks in the ground of the garage would come to life and pour into the drain of his trippy mind, like the rushing water of a sewer hole. And when these disturbing visions reached the inexorable point where they overwhelmed his senses, he'd become frenetically convinced that someday the whole pile of bricks was going to collapse on top of him and put a merciful end to the drudgery of his monotonous daily routine.

The aforementioned garage was more than half empty at this hour of the morning, but it would soon be filling up with Fred's co-workers as well as an assortment of customers who parked in the facility whenever they visited the various business establishments in the area.

As per usual for the regimented insurance industry, Fred recognized a few of his co-workers cars already parked in the same spots they always parked in. This often reminded him of how, when he was in school, and even now as an adult at company meetings, certain people would always lay claim to the same corner of the room, even though there weren't any assigned seating plans.

Fred vaguely remembered some sort of psychology experiment on this subject from his college days, and he was the type of person who took pleasure in shaking things up every now and then, so he would occasionally park in a different spot, or sit at a different seat in the conference room, if for no other reason than just to be different. With that in mind, Fred was thinking about parking in the spot adjacent to where he normally parked. But unfortunately, an unfamiliar, dented-up red car had already staked out that location, so at the last second he pulled into his usual spot halfway down on the right hand side, directly opposite the weathered old red car.

With his car safely parked, Fred glanced at his watch and went through his ritualistic daily checklist of activities before heading into the office just in time for the 8 o'clock Friday morning sales briefing. The first item on the list was a quick peek in the rearview mirror for the purpose of performing a red-eye self-examination; although, most of the time he wasn't sure why he even bothered checking, since his eyes were invariably bloodshot just about every morning and in need of a refreshing Visine bath.

Fred had been out drinking last night, late into the evening, and he was somewhat startled by the tired soul with the unfashionably long hair that he eyed staring back at him in the mirror.

Fred, although only 39, thought to himself that he must be getting old. He remembered the days just after college when he could stay out until 4 AM (or even pull an all-nighter) on a Thursday night, and then go to work the next day without much of a problem.

"Just turn on that metaphorical old cruise control and run on auto-pilot," humorously mumbled Fred, half out loud, to his own reflection. He might be getting older, but he could still fool the stuffy bastards that he worked with. If only they knew what his life was like outside of the office...they couldn't even begin to imagine his gluttonous habits. But then, on the other hand, he rebelliously concluded, "old man Barron can put down a bottle of bourbon with the best of them, so who are they to judge."

One way or another, we all have our fair share of skeletons buried deep within our closets, and of all people, Fred Miller recognized that he was right up there at the top of the heap in that department. And as such, even though the bloodshot eyes might be alarming to the average person, they should come as no surprise in Fred Miller's case, when you consider that a segment of his morning routine also included smoking half a joint during the thirteen mile cruise from his small house in Framingham Massachusetts to his office in Newton, while at the same time listening to his beloved classic rock music on the cheap, factory delivered CD player that he had installed in the dash of his 99 Nissan.

This morning's CD selection was "Built to Last" by his favorite band, the Grateful Dead, and Fred hummed along as strains of the melancholic title song droned in the background.

The music was a perfect complement to the euphoric rush of the reefer, which was kicking in big time as Fred opened his mouth and took in a double blast of breath spray, and then gave the cabin a triple blast of air freshener.

Fred still had about ten minutes to kill so he decided to ring up his new girlfriend, Tracy Breslin, for a quick chat. To be precise, although they had been dating for only a few months, Tracy wasn't literally a " _new girlfriend_ ". In reality, they had been acquainted with each other since high school, and had dated off and on in their younger years before they had a less than cordial parting of the ways.

After their breakup, Tracy went off and got married and had three children while Fred continued his nomadic, fun-loving (albeit self-destructive) lifestyle, well into his middle-age years, all the while showing no signs of slowing down...until recently that is.

Fred had heard through the grapevine that Tracy's marriage was on the rocks, but nonetheless he was as surprised as could be when he received a rapid succession of postcards, phone messages, and letters from Tracy, just a matter of months ago.

Despite his curiosity, Fred didn't immediately respond to Tracy's correspondences. He wasn't altogether sure whether he wanted to get caught up the middle of that emotional whirlwind again. Lord knows she put him through some Hell in their younger days. But as it turned out, now that they were seeing each other again, he was sincerely beginning to enjoy her company, and he found himself constantly wondering what it would be like to get into her pants again after all these years.

"If nothing else," daydreamed Fred, "Tracy was a fantastic lover, that's for sure."

But be that as it may, since Tracy was in the midst of a bitter divorce, she was utterly overwhelmed by her circumstances, and she deemed it necessary to put off the intimacy component of her relationship with Fred until she was in a better frame of mind to take their romance back up to the next level.

Fred realized that he and Tracy were currently not much more than just extra-close friends, but he had a hunch that things were going to start heating up pretty soon, and so he waited patiently in anticipation of that magical moment of surrender.

Fred pulled out his cell phone and dialed Tracy's number, and she picked up the phone immediately after the first ring. In this age of caller ID she knew full well that it was him on the other end of the line and she greeted him in a bright voice for this hour of the day, considering that neither of them was much of a morning person.

"Good morning Freddie. I had great time last night. What's up?"

"Not me sweet cheeks...I guess we're getting too old to party on a work night. Anyway, just wanted to call and wish you a happy Friday the 13th," moaned Fred.

"Oh come on, we're not _that_ old...and don't kid around about Friday the 13th. Haven't you ever heard the expression 'don't tempt fate'?" laughed Tracy.

"How's this for tempting fate? Why don't you try getting rid of those animals you call kids for the weekend...and then maybe we can make a getaway out to the Berkshires like the old days," replied Fred in a hopeful tone.

Tracy wanted to go for it so badly, but since her divorce wasn't finalized just yet, she was hesitant to make that leap of faith; and as Fred kind of half-expected, she was noncommittal in her response.

And yet, although Tracy's estranged husband seemed to be able to manipulate her at will, she knew she held one trump card; that being her womanly charms. All she had to do was whisper something suggestive in her husband's ear and she would have him wrapped around her finger so tightly that she could get him to do just about anything she wanted; so, obviously, getting rid of the kids for a couple of days wasn't the problem. No, the problem was that she was notoriously indecisive. She still wasn't quite sure whether she was ready to sleep with Fred again, and so she said only; "I'll see what I can do honey."

"OK, I'll call you later," sighed Fred somewhat disappointedly.

"Luv ya," blurted Tracy just before Fred hung up the phone.

"Oh well persistence will pay off...and at least I gave it a shot," thought Fred as he gave himself a rather unconvincing pep-talk.

After enduring the fruitless phone call, Fred still had a few minutes to spare, and a dilemma on his hands. As usual, he was running late when he woke up this morning and he had no time for breakfast, so he had to decide whether to run over to the Dunkin Donuts for a caffeine-and-sugar blast, or go for a cocaine pick-me-up. And being the lazy dude that he was, he decided to go for the cocaine snort since he would neither have to leave the comfort of his car, nor would he have to deal with the stoner's "rush of confusion" that was sure to develop as he fought his way through the inevitable line that forms at just about every unit of the famed New England franchise on a workday morning.

Fred also had the urge to sweep the disappointment of his latest conversation with Tracy under the rug of his mind; and what better way to achieve that goal than a little bit of self-medicating?

Fred fumbled around in his pockets for a plastic baggy that contained 21 packets of cocaine. He also pulled out a wad of bills, which totaled 541 dollars, looking for a hundred dollar bill, which he could have sworn was buried amongst the tens and twenties.

"Oh well," stammered Fred as he settled for a fifty and got down to business. He expertly rolled up the bill, chopped up a dash of the crystallized powder on the plastic Grateful Dead CD jewel box, which depicted a house of cards on the cover, and he inhaled the line of blow up his nose like a vacuum cleaner cutting through a mound of dust.

"Aaaah that felt good," exclaimed Fred as he sniffed the last specks of cakey snow up his nostril. _Now_ he was finally feeling good enough to be able to take on another day and bring another week to an end so that he could commence to get his real party on at 5 PM sharp.

Fred took a deep breath, checked his hair in the mirror, turned off the engine, and began to push open the car door when he inexplicably lost his grip on the handle; the door had somehow mysteriously swung open on its own, and Fred was startled to see a figure hovering over him, invading his personal space.

Regrettably, due to his morning buzz, Fred never noticed the shadowy man slip in behind him from some dark corner of the garage and pull open the door just as he was making his way out of the car.

But regardless of his impaired condition, Fred immediately recovered from his surprise, and suddenly he felt very lucid, just like the countless times he got pulled over by the police while driving high as a kite. He was very proud of the fact that he had never gotten arrested (at least not for driving intoxicated) and he would brag to his friends about this fact whenever the topic came up.

Fred was often known to pontificate about his tolerance for mind-altering substances and his ability to neutralize their effects (his standard claim was something to the affect that an adrenaline rush will straighten you up every time). Fred was also known to be a hot-tempered kind of guy, and although he wasn't all that muscular, he could take care of himself with the fists. As a matter of fact, he once broke a man's collarbone in a fight, and he had beaten up more than his fair share of unsuspecting tough guys over the years.

Fred presumed that maybe his robbery premonition was finally coming true, but he wasn't going to give this asshole a dime. He looked straight into the soulless, dilated eyes of the stranger and shouted; "What's your problem motherfucker?"

And with that probing shot to the bow, Fred made a push to get out of his car. But before he could so much as move a muscle, a 38 caliber pistol appeared out of nowhere. It seemed to be happening in slow motion. He could clearly see the barrel of the gun staring him in his face, and the cold dark cylinder, when viewed from this close-up vantage point, seemed a lot bigger than he thought it should be.

At that point, Fred's survival instincts took over and he yelled out, "oh shit, somebody help me." However, his plea for assistance was more of a gut reaction than it was a true attempt at summonsing help. There were no two ways about it, he was on his own on this one, and he knew it, just as sure as the day he was born. The monumental task of upending an armed opponent was comparable to an alley cat taking on a rabid bulldog, but he wasn't going down without a fight. Not knowing what else to do, he tried to duck back into the cabin of his car while at the same time bringing his left leg up in a frantic swipe to kick at his foe's body.

All of a sudden, Fred didn't think that this man had robbery on his mind...but murder. Lord knows he had made his share of enemies over the years, but despite his suspicious tendencies, he never really imagined that someone would truly attempt to kill him; even though he _did_ confess to a few friends recently that he had been troubled of late by a visceral sinking feeling, which appeared to be warning him that he might end up with a bullet hole in his head someday.

But in the end, no matter what Fred believed, his plight was real, and disastrously for him, his defensive strike was unsuccessful. For at the same moment that his leg was reaching up to boot his assailant in the balls, a shot rang out and hit him squarely in the left cheekbone. The bullet then passed though the lower right side of his neck, just by the spinal cord, and landed in the rubbery vinyl arm rest on the passenger-side door of his car.

Just before the bullet crushed Fred's face, the last sounds he ever heard was the metallic voice of his unknown enemy showering him with a few final words of wisdom; "payback's a bitch you fuckin' prick."

And with his vengeful mission accomplished, the assassin calmly slammed shut the door of the car, which wasn't much of a problem since Fred's legs sprang back into the driver's seat, presumably recoiled into place by the force of the bullet, or possibly by some sort of involuntary spasm. The murderer then casually stepped away from the vehicle, and like a magician he seemingly vanished into thin air. Amazingly, despite the daylight hours, and despite the number of people wandering through the busy neighborhood, the translucent triggerman was never seen or heard from by any of the witnesses the police would later interview.

Sometime within the next few seconds, or minutes, or maybe longer, no one would ever know for sure, the unidentified red car slowly pulled out of the garage, much like the ruthless killer, also never to be seen again, or more accurately, never to be positively identified.

The fatal blow left Fred's lifeblood, along with chunks of his brain and skull, splattered throughout the cabin of his already messy automobile. The sanguine fluid also saturated his clothes and pooled onto his lap as it slowly dripped down towards his right hand which remarkably still clung lifelessly to his car keys.

Drops of blood also stained the ground just outside the driver side door of Fred's car, but whether any of that blood got splashed back onto his executioner would be a mystery for another day. And to add to the mystery, the police would later find one spent bullet cartridge in the general vicinity of the car, as well as a half a cigarette butt which may or may not have been recently lit.

A few days after the murder, the medical examiner's report conclusively stated that the concussive force of the bullet stopped Fred's brain from functioning almost immediately, rendering him unconscious before he even knew what hit him. His spinal cord was also severed, which abruptly stopped his breathing, and for all intent and purpose he was dead within a matter of seconds.

Meanwhile, even though Fred Miller had just joined the ranks of the departed, all around him the hustle and bustle of life went on at its usual hectic pace. The garage quickly began to fill up with the employees of the nearby office building, while at the same time the windows of Fred's car began to fog up from the heat of his discharging body fluids.

But then again, for the benefit of the believers among us, perhaps we could make the case that the thick murky fog might also be attributed to the release of the dead man's soul.

Whether the gloomy mist emanating from Fred Miller's corpse could be explained away by scientists, or whether the organic combustion was more metaphysical in nature, is not up to us to decide, but regardless of the origins of this mercurial miasma, the vehicle's windows fogged up so completely that when Fred's co-worker, Melissa Green, parked in her usual spot to the left of his car, she never even noticed his limp body slumped over in the driver's seat with its head slanted slightly upwards.

Fred's earthly remains were positioned in such a way that it seemed as if he may have been trying to make one last ditch effort at determining whether the roof of the garage had in fact, finally caved in. However, he needn't have bothered, for as any fool will tell you, a house of cards...is never built to last.

...

At about the same time that Fred Miller left behind this hopeless world of mortals and sinners, his cell phone rang and it was Tracy Breslin on the other end of the line.

The ring tone, predictably enough was the Grateful Dead song "Casey Jones", and naturally, the tune's tale of a cocaine-addled train conductor was one of Fred's all-time favorites. But of course, since he was now permanently indisposed, the vibrating phone was useless to him, and in a scene that was akin to rigor mortis setting in, the lively mobile device played right on through the sprightly melody before kicking into his eerily stiff voice-message recording.

The lack of an immediate response from her reliable old beau momentarily left Tracy feeling ominously troubled, and oddly enough, she sensed a prophetic, worrisome ache pulsing up from somewhere deep within the pit of her stomach.

"This isn't like Freddie not to answer my calls" whimpered Tracy. But in end, when she thought through the situation rationally, she wasn't overly alarmed that he didn't pick up.

"After all," she reasoned, "the man has to work for a living."

In any event, she took the opportunity to leave him a hastily worded, breathless message on his voice mail.

"Hi Freddie...we're on for this weekend and I can't wait...luv ya!"

But alas, sadly, as we already know, and as Tracy would soon find out, she would never see her beloved Freddie...ever again.

### Chapter 1 – A Summons (He had to Look Back)

Friday evening March 7, 2008 – 5:35 PM

Frank Newlan was just about ready to convert over to "weekend mode" as he pulled into the indoor garage of his condominium complex after a hard day at the office.

"Another long week in the books," sighed Newlan as he hopped out of his car carrying a leather briefcase in one hand, and what looked to be a cardboard suitcase in the other hand (although, in reality, the suitcase actually contained a case of beer; Samuel Adams Boston Lager to be exact).

The pressures of work, and life in general, oftentimes left Newlan feeling a tad absentminded, but his ritualistic Friday afternoon flick of the mental "attitude adjustment" switch always seemed to help clear out some of the cobwebs from his cluttered mind, and so for the first time in a few days he remembered to stop by the lobby to retrieve his mail before heading up to his unit.

Newlan put down his two briefcases, opened up the mail slot, and pulled out the pile of envelopes and circulars which had built up since the last time he had bothered to check his mail...and as he flipped through the stack of mostly bills and junk mail, he came across a small envelope, which he immediately recognized because it was marked with big blue letters that read:

Newlan was momentarily startled by the letter and he complained to himself, "Oh no, jury duty...not again."

In the grand scheme of things, a day of jury duty should be no big deal, but for Frank Newlan it was a very big deal. You see, Newlan was the type of person whose internal balance was easily set off-kilter by anything that caused him to deviate from his normal routine, and so the very thought of having to go to jury duty turned his stomach and filled him with all sorts of irrational fears.

Newlan wouldn't have minded so much, but the majority of his friends and family members had rarely, if ever, been summoned to jury duty, whereas this unwanted invitation, if his memory served him correctly, tallied up to his seventh time being called upon to perform his civic duty.

Newlan contended that there had to be something wrong with the database that made the random selections for jury duty summonses...or even more likely, he figured that the system was purposely rigged to repeatedly solicit suckers like him who always showed up and never complained about it (and on top of everything else, Newlan worked as a programmer/analyst at a local university so he knew a little bit about how these computer systems worked, which in his mind gave added credence to his theory).

As a matter of fact, as soon as Newlan got up to his apartment, he headed straight for his records, which he meticulously maintained, to determine when it was exactly that he had last served on jury duty. He was positive that it had been less than 3 years ago, and if that was the case, he could get himself excused, since by law, no one could be called back to jury duty less than 3 years from their previous date of service.

Before even putting the case of beer into the fridge, Newlan plopped himself down in his office chair and began sifting anxiously through his file cabinet in search of the documentation supporting his claim. And although he was sure that the "Certificate of Trial Juror Service" documents were buried somewhere within that metal drawer, he was having a hard time locating them.

"I guess I'm not as organized as I thought," muttered Newlan as he rifled through files of tax returns, bank statements, mutual fund records, and God know what else he could fit into that tiny little file cabinet.

Newlan was a touch neurotic about saving not only financial records, but also a lifetime's worth of mementos, which over the years had become rather unmanageable, until it had reached the point where that beat-up file cabinet drawer of his had been filled to the brim with just about every useless morsel of information you could ever imagine. Among other things, he had greeting cards dating back 30 years, random newspaper clippings, wedding invitations, report cards, photographs, and of course love letters; lots of faded love letters dispersed from the hands of the countless old flames whose remnants littered his past like the rubbish scattered across Boston's Esplanade after a Fourth of July fireworks display.

And so, organized or not, whenever Newlan had the need to search for something in his personal pile of priceless junk, it was like trying to find a needle in a haystack. And to further exacerbate the issue, he would routinely become inexorably sidetracked by the stack of crinkled letters which were sent to him courtesy of all the girlfriends who had let him down gently with the familiar "it's not you, it's me" excuse. Astonishingly enough, even now, after all these years, he found that wading through these bitterly poignant correspondences could still cut him to the quick.

Why Newlan insisted on keeping these tattered old missives around as a constant reminder of his emotional bloodlettings, even he didn't quite understand, but for some reason, he had to look back, he always looked back...and it never seemed to fail that every time he had the occasion to sort his way through these frozen snapshots from his antiquity, he would invariably find himself being transported counterclockwise back through space-and-time in some sort of a trance-like daze.

Make no mistake about it, Newlan broke a few hearts in his day, but he also had his own heart broken a time or two as well, and now, pushing 50, he had long since reached the point where he had hardened his heart, and he wouldn't even consider letting anyone get too close to him.

It had literally been decades since Newlan reconciled with himself that he was bound to be a life-long bachelor, and for the most part, he was OK with it.

"Sure it's nice to have someone to lay down beside you," he would sometimes rationalize, but on the other hand most of his friends were married and miserable, or divorced multiple times, so in the end he decided, "who needs it."

Newlan had plenty of female companions, and he probably got laid more than the lion's share of his married friends, who, much to his amazement, didn't even sleep in the same beds as their spouses due to supposed back pains, snoring problems, insomnia, and a whole host of psychosexual issues.

Newlan's lifestyle agreed with him, and he unapologetically paid no mind to all the people who felt otherwise about the way he lived, regardless of how often they asked him when he was going to settle down. He kind of enjoyed fostering the romantic notion that he was this untamed bachelor who was considered by one-and-all as being some sort of mysterious contradiction of a human being; part ladies man, part loner, part loyal friend, part extremely private person...all of which added up to one big impenetrable puzzle of a man.

But all that aside, I guess you could say that Newlan was just a sentimental old fool, and as he read through letter after letter, he fell deeper and deeper into a mind-numbing time warp, until he was almost completely lost in one of his infamously lofty omnipotent dream-states; a daunting condition that had the ability to incapacitate him for hours at a time.

Luckily for Newlan however, he was snapped out of his stupor by the sound of the telephone ringing, which he in turn ignored (he made it a dedicated practice of never answering the phone during the dinner hours of 5 to 7 PM unless he knew in advance specifically who it was on the other end of the line, and exactly what it was they wanted).

Consequently, with this temporary "blast-from-the-past" diversion behind him, Newlan promptly went back to the task of locating the jury duty documents which provided him with the indisputable proof that he had, on multiple occasions, done his part to placate the powerful forces who control our system of justice.

After about 15 minutes of exasperated searching, Newlan finally found the documents stashed in a folder, along with his employment records, and he tensely canvassed through the forms until he was able to pinpoint the exact date of his last jury duty experience.

"Friday, February 4th, 2005...son of bitch," mumbled Newlan, "it _has_ been over 3 years after all."

He could have sworn that it had only been a couple of years ago, but then he reasoned, "oh well, I guess it's legit...like the old saying goes, 'tempest fugit...time flies'."

And so with the validity of the summons firmly established, Newlan swiftly resigned himself to the inevitable as he reluctantly unsealed the envelope and skimmed through the booklet of Standard Juror Information, which he was already all too familiar with by now from his previous "tours of duty".

Irked though he may have been, Newlan conscientiously perused the first page of the corresponding official government document, from the letterhead right on down to the page number, and he scanned the details into his memory banks, making special note of the pertinent information:

Summon for Jury Service

You are herby summoned to serve as a TRIAL JUROR commencing on:

Wednesday, June 4, 2008 at 8:00 AM

Middlesex Superior Courthouse, 3rd Floor

200 Trade center, Woburn, MA 01801

He then grimaced and shrugged his shoulders in a "what are you gonna do" sort of gesture as he tossed the envelope down on his desk where it would sit for almost 3 months until that fateful morning in early June of 2008; a day that would change his life...forever.

### Chapter 2 – Momma's Boy

Tuesday evening April 4, 2006 – 8:30 PM

John Breslin carefully pulled his car up in front of his mother Sandra's home in Waltham Massachusetts; a typical suburban town with a population of about sixty thousand people, located 17 miles west of Boston. But before he even turned off the ignition, he had a mind to put her in reverse and get the hell out of Dodge.

Regrettably for Breslin however, there was no escaping his predicament. Whether he wanted to believe it or not, the walls were closing in all around him, in suffocating fashion no less, and so going on the lam wasn't really an option.

At the root of Breslin's quandary was an unforeseen around-the-clock scrutiny which had infiltrated his life in a bad way. And at the core of his discomforting nuisance was a ruthless higher power; a power that was hell-bent on carrying out a divine probe; an unrelenting vigil that might have driven a lesser man to the brink of insanity a long time ago. In short, big brother was watching his every move and there wasn't a blessed thing he could do about it.

And so as Breslin emerged from his vehicle with this ever-present thought of secretive surveillance equipment troubling his mind, he couldn't help but notice a large Ford sedan with two people sitting inside, parked directly across the street. Even though it was pitch black outside, after the events of the last few months, he rightfully assumed that it was another batch of detectives sent down from headquarters to stake him out, and he had learned quickly that the best thing to do under these circumstances was to just ignore them. And yet he was still disappointed to discover that there they were, hiding in plain sight, conspicuously idling in their undercover vehicle; because through it all he had been desperately trying to convince himself that perhaps he had finally seen the last of them.

For the most part, the 47 year old Breslin had been living with his 80 year old mother ever since the lawyer for his estranged wife, Tracy, had him evicted from their marital home in anticipation of their imminent divorce. But, fortunately, his mother didn't mind this arrangement one bit. She had been overwrought with loneliness ever since her husband had died a few years ago, and like most mom's, she took pleasure in the company of her children, particularly her youngest, "Johnny".

Breslin had rented a small one bedroom apartment for a brief time, but he eventually decided to move in with his mother when his financial situation became untenable. In addition to paying the rent on the apartment, he was still paying the mortgage on his former home, and the bills were piling up fast.

But despite his many financial obligations, for years on end Breslin had been providing his mother with a little bit of extra money on the side every month to assist her in making ends meet, just as any good son would do. And as such, he rationalized that since he stopped by his mom's house to check in on her and run errands at least three or four times a week, he may as well live with her until he figured out what the hell he was going to do with himself if and when the divorce finally went through.

Of course, Breslin still had visions of reconciliation with Tracy; especially now that her pain-in-the-ass boyfriend, Fred Miller, was "no longer in the picture" as he liked to put it.

He always got her to conform to his way of this thinking in the past (or so he thought), and he still hadn't given up trying this time. After all, she was ready to divorce him a few years ago, and he talked her out of it then, so he figured, "who's to say I can't do it again?"

You see, much like Frank Newlan, John Breslin was the type of person who was driven to succeed at whatever it was he set his mind out to do, no matter what the cost. And although many of his detractors accused Breslin, who was built like a bull, of being a controlling, conniving, SOB, in his opinion, these people couldn't be more wrong.

On the contrary, what Breslin saw in himself when he looked in the mirror was a man who had devoted his entire life to his wife and children; a man who doted over his mother; a man who would do anything for a friend or co-worker; a man who would even help a stranger change a flat tire; and so he never understood why certain people, Tracy in particular, couldn't see that side of him.

"And now I don't give a damn what anyone thinks anymore," conceded a contemplative John Breslin as he quietly tiptoed into his mother's house for fear that she might be sleeping. But when he found her sitting in the living room watching TV, he greeted her warmly, as always, and gave her a kiss on the top of the head for good measures. He couldn't describe the feeling, but somehow just being physically close to his mother always filled him with an inner strength when he needed it most.

"How was work?" meekly asked a weary Mrs. Breslin.

"Just another lousy day at the office, but there was one good development...it looks like the State Police Detectives have finally stopped coming around and pestering my co-workers for information about the murder of Tracy's friend. I told them a million times that I had nothing to do with, but they don't want to believe me. All this time that they've been harassing me could have been put to better use looking for the real killer," stubbornly insisted Breslin, even though he realized that he sounded more than a little like O. J. Simpson after he made his infamous denial regarding his wife's murder.

By the tone of Breslin's voice, one might have gotten the impression that he was trying to convince himself into thinking that his ordeal was nearing its conclusion, as much as he was trying to persuade his mother that everything was going to be alright.

"Yes, I know...the police stopped by here again today...a very nice gentlemen...but I politely told him that I had nothing to say...and to please get off my property," dutifully reported Mrs. Breslin. And even though her voice displayed the signs of an overburdening fatigue, she still managed to give her son a weak smile. As far as she was concerned, her son's burden was her burden too...and due to his mounting problems, she had suddenly become quite frail, practically overnight; a frailty that was further compounded by a recent hip replacement surgery.

However, despite her many physical ailments, Sandra Breslin was still a spunky woman who would do anything to protect her sons. She was certain that her Johnny would never be involved in something as horrible as a murder, and she was very upset with the way the police were treating him. As a matter of fact, when two rude detectives showed up on her doorstep to speak to Johnny on the day of Fred Miller's death, she had a good mind to tell them off and slap them in the face for good measure.

And now nearly three months later, apparently nothing had changed. Now, nearly three months later, a visibly angry John Breslin roared, "I told them from day one to leave you out of this," as he headed for the front door in an effort to discuss the situation with the detectives who he knew were loitering in their car, across the street from his mother's house at that very moment.

"Please Johnny, sit down. I'm getting to old for this drama. Just leave them alone and they'll eventually go away," demanded Mrs. Breslin, but it was to no avail.

Breslin's life had been a living hell for the past few months, and just when he thought it was finally returning to some semblance of normalcy, the police were back to harass him just a little bit more.

"Maybe they think I'll eventually crack," pondered Breslin.

Breslin was well aware of the fact that the authorities had been investigating him ever since the day that Fred Miller was killed. He also knew that a pair of detectives had been trailing him for some time now, and that they had tapped his phone line as well. But all the same, he was also supremely confident that they had nothing on him.

Breslin enjoyed watching those reality TV crime dramas, so he understood full well that the police always go straight for the spouse in a case where a wife or husband is murdered, or in a case such as this where the third party in a love-triangle is the victim of deadly foul play. Breslin also comprehended that the "dumb bastards" almost never got away with it, because their crimes were usually borne out of passion; spur-of-the-moment violence that wasn't well thought out in the least.

Breslin would be the first to admit that he hated Fred Miller, but that didn't necessarily mean he wanted to kill him. And besides, regardless of the circumstances surrounding Miller's death, he felt that he had good reason to despise him, and he would remain unapologetic about his hatred until the bitter end.

Before Miller's untimely demise, Breslin would tell anyone who would listen; "the guy's a junkie. I don't want him anywhere near my kids, and I'll do whatever I have to do to keep him away."

But now that Miller was dead, he kind of wished he had kept his big mouth shut.

Breslin assumed that, in time, the storm would blow over and that the heat would eventually cool off, and he erroneously miscalculated that that time was coming soon. His wife Tracy even called recently and asked if he would take the kids for a few days; this despite the fact that she realized he was still pissed off at her for blabbing to the police that she was sure he had something to do with the murder. But nevertheless, despite her suspicions, that didn't stop her from calling him whenever she needed something such as babysitter (or more likely money).

Ultimately however, even though there was no questioning the fact that Breslin was at work at the time of the murder, that still didn't prove to Tracy (or to the police) that he had an airtight alibi.

Breslin had all of these thoughts running through his mind as he put his sweaty, shaking hand on the doorknob and psyched himself up for a confrontation with the detectives. But at the last second, he had a change of heart, and he decided to listen to his mother for once in his life. However, at the same instant that he had turned around to go sit back down in the living room, there was a knock on the door.

"Who the hell is bothering us at this hour?" wondered Breslin, although, as he hesitantly opened the door, he had a pretty good idea of just who it might be.

Breslin flicked on the front porch light switch, only to find Newton Police Detective Carolyn Curran and Massachusetts State Police Detective William Donavan standing there before him; not coincidentally these were the same two detectives who had shown up at his mother's house on the day of the murder.

When Breslin recognized that it was his nemesis and her equally adversarial sidekick perched on the other side of the threshold, he indignantly asked; "What the hell do you want now?"

Breslin was fed up with having to deal with what he considered to be "uncalled for" police harassment, and he was about to give these no good cops a piece of his mind when he noticed that there were three squad cars parked in front of the house, as well as six uniformed officers standing outside on the steps, backing up Curran and Donovan who, unbeknownst to Breslin, had just received a call from the district attorney's office with specific marching orders; "go get 'em."

Breslin was suddenly very tense, and with good reason we might add, because before he ever had a chance to launch into his tirade, Detective Donavan calmly announced, "Mr. Breslin you are under arrest for the murder of Fred Miller."

Before he even knew what hit him, a stunned Breslin was standing in the hallway with his hands behind his back secured by handcuffs, and when he finally grasped what was happening, he screamed bloody-murder at the detectives; "you fuckin' assholes. I told you to leave my mother out of this. You could have busted me before I came into the house."

Meanwhile, at the first sign of the commotion, Mrs. Breslin came limping into the hallway to investigate.

"What's wrong Johnny?" she asked, and when she saw her son in handcuffs, surround by law enforcement officials, she collapsed into a chair which luckily happened to be situated in the corner of the foyer.

What are you doing to my son?" wailed Mrs. Breslin as she clutched her heart. "You ruthless bastards...my son is innocent," she screamed and sobbed all at the same time.

"Mrs. Breslin we're going to call you an ambulance," informed Detective Curran while at the same time she attempted to assist the distressed old lady.

"Get your hands off of me you no good bitch," responded Mrs. Breslin with venom in her voice, and Detective Curran immediately backed off and looked towards Detective Donavan with a facial expression that seemed to be asking for advice.

For his part, when John Breslin beheld the angry reaction of his mother, he became concerned that she might be struck down with a heart attack right there and then on the spot, so he did his best to calm her down as well.

"Relax ma...everything's gonna be alright," asserted Breslin. He then turned to Detective Donavan, and with tears in his eyes, he added, "My brother's phone number is written down on the bulletin board in the kitchen, please give him a call and ask him to come over to look after my mom."

"Don't worry, we'll make sure that someone stays with her until your brother arrives," replied the ever calm Detective Donavan in an understanding tone.

...

While John Breslin was being read his Miranda rights, a similar scene was playing out at a seedy barroom on the other side of town. The bartender on duty, a 57 year old gentleman by the name of Samuel Fox was arrested without incident for his alleged role in the murder of Fred Miller.

"Who the Hell's gonna close the bar?" a stunned Fox was rumored to have asked as the police took him away.

...

And at the same time back at the Breslin residence, John Breslin was in the process of making one final attempt to reassure his mother, as the police were hauling him out the door.

"Don't cry ma, I'll be back home by tomorrow night," predicted Breslin as he took one last look at his mother. And for a brief second they made eye-contact and silently communicated their love for each other by some sort of genetic telepathy, which gave them both the strength to carry on.

Unfortunately for Breslin however, he would not be coming home anytime soon. Breslin spent that night at the Newton Police station, and the next day at his arraignment, he was ordered held without bail. He was then transported to the Middlesex Superior Courthouse Jail in Cambridge, Massachusetts where he would be housed for the next two years until his eventual day in court.

Samuel Fox was also held without bail, but his home for the next two years was scheduled to be the Suffolk County Jail in Boston; apparently the district attorney's office wanted to keep these two...as far away from each other...as possible.

### Chapter 3 – Three Horrible Hubbys, One Horrible Vision

Wednesday morning June 4, 2008 – 5:59 AM

Frank Newlan groggily rolled over in his bed and in one swift motion he glanced at the clock on the nightstand and leaned over to turn off the alarm just before it was scheduled to go off at 6 AM.

From a very early age, Newlan's eccentric persona had been more or less riddled with idiosyncrasies, and one of his many quirks was that he couldn't stand the sound of alarm clocks. There was something about the high-pitched beeping that sent an involuntary spasm convulsing through his entire body, and the piercing chirp never failed to kick-start him into the world of consciousness every time, which, after all, is what an alarm clock was intended to do in the first place.

Even on restless mornings when Newlan was lying in bed half-awake, and he was aware that the alarm was about to go off at any second, it would still startle him, and so he made it a point to turn the damned thing off every day, at the crack of dawn, just before it was about to kick in.

Newlan had apparently been gifted with an uncanny ability to routinely wake himself up out of a sound sleep, at a pre-set time, without the aid of a wake-up call of any kind; it was almost as if he had a inborn alarm wired directly into his brain which was capable of rousing him up out of even the soundest sleep, under any circumstances.

And although Newlan's ascending prowess was certainly uncommon, one would think that with time, a person would eventually grow accustom to such a talent. But to the contrary, even after all these years of proven performance, Newlan continued to be amazed by the precision of his own internal clock. It seemed that no matter what hour he set the alarm for, he would always wake up minutes, sometimes even seconds, before it was about to go off, and yet he would still impulsively set his alarm clock every night, just in case.

This particular morning found Newlan up a tad earlier than usual. Once again his jury duty day had arrived, which left him feeling slightly out of whack. Just the thought of a change in his normal routine was guaranteed to disrupt his brain patterns, and today was no exception. But nonetheless he still managed to get a fairly sound night's sleep.

As we have already begun to establish, Newlan was very much a creature of habit, and as such, he wasn't particularly looking forward to spending the day hanging out at the courthouse. But be that as it may, once he dragged himself out of bed, he was feeling unusually refreshed and raring to go.

Newlan figured that at least it would be a day off from work, and well "who knows what the day might bring". Sometimes the little curve balls that come our way in life would leave him feeling both anxious and excited all at the same time. However, when he woke up this morning to an overcast sky, he could never have imagined, even in his wildest nightmares, that this would turn out to be his last restful night of sleep in a long, long time.

Of course, at this stage in his trek, Newlan had no idea of what he might be getting himself into, and so he indifferently had his morning coffee, took a quick shower, and inattentively checked the local news before heading on out the door. He preferred to get an early start whenever he had to travel to an unfamiliar location; although, after reviewing the directions for the Middlesex Superior Courthouse in Woburn, he wasn't too concerned, since the address was located just off the highway, a few miles north of his condo in Medford Massachusetts.

The weather report called for an overcast, drizzly day with a chance of scattered showers in the Boston area, and the big news story of the day was that juror selection was in progress or about to get underway for three high-profile murder cases which were set to begin, coincidently enough, at the very same Woburn courthouse where Newlan was heading to. The news angle for the morning broadcast had to do with whether the courthouse in Woburn, which had just opened for business only a few months ago, would be able to concurrently handle all three "media circus" cases at the same time.

Up to this point in the eye-opener news report, Newlan's fascination for the headlines of the day may have been lacking, but when the TV reporter followed up with a look back at the perilously grim events that were to culminate in the three dramatic trials, she suddenly had Newlan's rapt attention. And furthermore, his absorption was impenetrable, despite the fact that he had already become intimately familiar with the details of all three cases, having just read an article on the subject in the local Boston Record American tabloid newspaper late last week. Actually, there was almost no way he could have missed the story, seeing as how it was accompanied by a bold, attention grabbing, 20 point headline that blared:

### THREE HORRIBLE HUBBYS GOING DOWN

And from there, the report went on to graphically outline the three scandalous trials.

The first trial involved a miserable sex addict, originally from England, named Neal Townshend, who allegedly shot his wife and young daughter, and then fled back to his native land.

The scumbag had a gorgeous house in the affluent suburb of Weston Massachusetts, a beautiful family, and what, by all accounts, appeared to be a perfect life. And when you summed it all up, you had a surefire recipe that was guaranteed to shock and offend; a recipe that indeed contained a perfect mix of the lurid ingredients that were necessary to keep the controversy-starved public captivated for the two years that it took for the case to go to trial.

The fact that Townshend fled to England and almost caused an international incident between the motherland and its former colony before he was returned to Massachusetts just added more fuel to the publicity fire.

Townshend's lawyer was claiming that the incident was an unfortunate case of murder/suicide. His theory was that Townshend's wife shot the kid and then turned the gun on herself. The evidence didn't seem to support such a claim, which led to even more notoriety, and anticipation for the trial had reached a fevered pitch.

The second trial involved the aforementioned John Breslin; an apparently unremarkable, middle-aged man with no prior criminal record who allegedly hired an ex-con to kill his estranged wife's boyfriend.

The third trial involved a shady dude by the name of James McMahn who allegedly poisoned his wife over a number of years by ingenuously spiking her Gatorade with antifreeze; all in an attempt to collect on her sizable life insurance policy.

"What a sorry bunch of assholes," thought Newlan at the time he was reading the story, and he thought the same thing now after watching the latest trial updates on the local newscast.

Newlan had a nutty idea that he should save the article, and whenever some overly concerned friend or relative wondered why he was still single, he could just pull out the clipping and say, "see, this is why...because I probably would have killed the bitch by now!"

Even though he knew that he would never actually make such a vulgar statement, he still insisted that it would be kind of funny, and he chuckled at the thought of how his sister or one of his female co-workers might react to such a crazy pronouncement.

Like most of us, Newlan was a complex individual; good natured and funny on the one hand, but at the same time also guarded and suspicious. However, all in all, Newlan was just a laidback, mellow, easy-going person who would endeavor to avoid conflict whenever possible, and so the idea of him using a sensationalized newspaper story as a prop in response to some annoying question was completely out of character for him. But nonetheless he still maintained that there was some validity to those old fables which insinuate that mankind's eventual downfall will be rooted in the fertile vines of the opposite sex.

Clearly, Newlan tended to blow things out of proportions. Although, it is no exaggeration to promulgate that every time he'd hear another breaking news story about a domestic situation that escalated into violence, it would leave him sadly dismayed over the utter disarray of our 21st century society. And yet, despite his anxieties over all things big and small, he wasn't really too worried about the fact that jury duty selection for the three blockbuster trials was taking place on the very same day that he just so happened to be reporting for jury duty. After all, he had been summoned to jury duty on six previous occasions over the years, and he had never once been selected for a trial before, so he figured that the odds were against it this time as well; at least that was his hope, because he certainly didn't want to see his streak broken by being chosen to partake in one these grizzly murder trials.

It might seem hard to believe based on his current mindset, but the first time Newlan got called for jury duty, he secretly wanted to get in on a trial. At the time, the youthfully exuberant Newlan had this misconceived notion that it would be an interesting experience, and he had taken quite a few law courses in college so he deemed himself to be expertly qualified to serve as a juror.

However, as the years went by, and Newlan was exposed to more and more stories about horrific crimes and the sensational trials that followed, he changed his mind about jury duty in a hurry, and he definitively decided that he wanted no part in making a life-or-death decision on some poor sucker's future.

Newlan was the type of person who always cheered for the underdog in the world of sports, and in much the same way, whenever a big trial was featured on TV, he often times found himself rooting for the sad-sack defendant in the competitive arena of courtroom theatrics as well. And so when a tenacious defense attorney poked holes in what once appeared to be an airtight case, Newlan tended to presume that maybe the defendant's story might be true (regardless of how ridiculous the defense's version of the facts turned out to be).

Because of this penchant for being suckered into believing anything, Newlan rightfully worried that, if he were ever selected to sit on a jury, he just might fall for some cockamamie story and let a violent killer off the hook. Even worse, he hated the thought that he might somehow be involved in convicting someone who later turned out to be vindicated.

On his previous jury duty assignments, Newlan got called as far as the jury box each time, and each time he was challenged (removed without cause) by one of the attorneys. Actually, except for one civil trial, it was always the district attorney. And because of this pattern, Newlan theorized that every DA he had ever encountered must have somehow been able to read his mind regarding his soft spot for the underdog, not to mention the fact that he didn't totally trust most law enforcement officials to begin with anyway.

"Or maybe it's just because I don't look like much of a 'law and order' type," Newlan surmised at the time, referring to the fact that he preferred to let his stringy hair grow long before going to the local barber for a trim, even though his locks had rapidly begun thinning out many years ago.

In reality, it was probably just his age, or his sex, or his racial profile that prompted Newlan to get kicked off the jury on those previous occasions, but he still took it personally, even though the "Juror Information" booklet specifically states _not_ to take it personally if you are challenged and removed from a case.

Even the civil trial that Newlan got himself discharged from, although it didn't involve a DA, heightened his disdain for the libelous attitudes that prevail in the United States these days. That particular case pitted a rather healthy-looking young woman against a supermarket chain who she was suing because she had slipped on a patch of ice in the parking lot of one of their stores. And when the judge in the case posed the standard question; "are there any reasons why you could not be an impartial juror in this matter?" Newlan raised his hand.

Shortly thereafter, the judge called Newlan up to the bench, and he patiently explained how a mailman had once attempted to sue his parents, claiming that he too had slipped on a patch of ice while climbing up the front stairs of their home. No one ever saw the mailman's alleged tumble, but luckily for Newlan's mom and dad, their insurance company offered the deceitful letter-carrier a settlement, which he gladly accepted.

But regardless of the satisfactory outcome of his parents' ordeal, the episode left Newlan with a bitter taste in his mouth. And yet, amazingly enough, even after pleading his case, the judge in the supermarket civil suit decided that he nonetheless met the minimum requirements necessary to serve as an impartial juror.

In the end though, Newlan was immediately tossed from the jury by the plaintiff's attorney, which was a smart idea, given the fact that he would have never voted to award a dime to this ambulance chaser.

And so as Newlan made his way out the door on this dreary Wednesday morning, off to fulfill another round of jury duty obligation, he calculated that based on past experience, he'd be home by 2 PM at the latest, which would leave him a few hours to run a couple of errands later in the afternoon.

In fact, Newlan was so certain he wasn't going to be selected to serve on a case, that when left work on Tuesday afternoon and bid his co-workers goodnight, he informed them that he'd see them all on Thursday morning.

Speaking of work, Newlan lived _and_ worked in Medford, a middle class suburb about seven miles north of Boston, where he owned a condo in a fancy high-rise luxury building called the Medford River Park Condominiums; and as an added bonus, his apartment even had a beautiful view of the Boston skyline from its south-facing deck.

Newlan was employed by Tafts University, where he worked in their Information Technology department. And while, if given his druthers, he would have preferred to have been born into wealth so that he could just hang out and play his guitar all day, he was, for the most part, relatively happy with his lot in life. Deep in his heart of hearts, he realized that he had a pretty good gig going at Tafts, and he took pride in the knowledge that he was doing OK for himself, financially speaking anyway.

Newlan understood that he could probably be making a lot more money working in the private sector, but when push came to shove he didn't need the hassle of commuting into Boston, working late every night, and dealing with unrealistic deadlines.

He recognized that it sounded corny to some people, but to Newlan, "quality of life" issues really did make a difference; his office was so close to his condo that he could practically walk to work, and by car it was no more than a 15 minute commute; his hours were a steady 9 to 5, and he very rarely had to work late, so there was no burning of the midnight oil for him; his assignments were usually stimulating, and the workload was never overly taxing; and to top it all off, everyone loved him at Tafts.

And yet, despite these perks, at times he still had the urge to quit on the spot and maybe write a book or start his own business; although, in all honesty, it's doubtful that the risk-aversive Newlan would ever seriously consider trading in the security of a steady paycheck for such a precarious endeavor.

To the contrary, Newlan was sensible enough to concede that he would be hard-pressed to ever leave Tafts, and as if to prove his own point, he had actually turned down a job offer few months ago for close to 20K more than he was currently making. It seems that after adding up all the pros and cons (more money meant longer hours and a longer commute) he decided that it just wasn't worth it for him to make a change. He absolutely loved the fact that he could leave work at 5 o'clock every night and be home by 5:15; whereas if he took this new job he'd be lucky if he made it home by 6:30. Even better, he could take his sweet time getting ready for work in the morning and still make it in to the office with plenty of time to spare.

But on the other hand, Newlan wasn't about to let anyone at Tafts in on how comfortable he was working there. He preferred to leave his colleagues under the impression that he might be considering a job change at any moment. His thinking was that it never hurt, come salary-increase time, to keep his superiors on their toes and guessing about his future plans. He wasn't the type to brag, but he really was quite proficient at his job, and he knew full well that his skills far surpassed the majority of his co-workers. More importantly, he realized that the management team at Tafts recognized his value as a top performer, so they always did their best to keep him happy moneywise, which was a fair enough deal as far as he was concerned.

Newlan sincerely respected the diverse staff at Tafts, from the janitors right on up to the VPs; although, he had to admit that some of his colleagues did get on his nerves from time-to-time (and for the sake of full disclosure, we are compelled to divulge that he occasionally got on their nerves as well).

One of Newlan's co-workers who fell into the above category was a gentleman by the name of Bob Parant.

Parant was a crusty old-timer who was pushing 70 years old. But despite his advancing age, he had no intentions of retiring anytime soon. Parant was the type of person who wouldn't know what to do with himself if he didn't have a job to occupy his time, although, to be perfectly honest, he didn't actually do much work. The running joke around the IT department was that Parent came in to the office everyday solely to socialize with his peers, and if he ever did decide to call it a career, the assumption was that he'd drive his poor wife crazy.

Every once in a while, just to be an instigator, Newlan would grill Parant regarding his employment status and his future plans.

"Bobby, when the hell are you gonna quit this place and put yourself out to pasture?" he'd ask. And every single time, Parant would comeback with the same reply.

"I'm having too much fun hanging out with you guys to ever retire, Frankie."

Not only was Parant constantly fraternizing with his co-workers when he was suppose to be hard at work, but he somehow seemed to know everybody's business, and so in a mock ceremony a few years back, Newlan dubbed him the unofficial office crier.

In his speech, Newlan quipped that Parant reminded him of Cliff Clavin on the old Cheers TV sitcom because he deemed himself to be an expert on any subject you could ever think of. Whenever a rumor was making the rounds, or if there was a debate over some obscure sports trivia question, Newlan would, as a rule, declare, "Let's check in with Parant, he'll know what's going on."

For some inexplicable reason, Parant was a diehard New York Yankees fan, even though he had lived within the outskirts of Boston his entire life, and this would be cause for lots of good-natured ribbing between him and the rest of the office staff. As is the case with most people who grow up in the greater Boston area, Newlan and his co-workers were all rabid sports fans and they religiously followed all of the local teams, so having a traitor in their midst was good for plenty of heated discussions, which helped to kill the time during a boring day at the office.

All in all though, Newlan considered Parant to be good people, even though he could be a pain in the rear end every now and then.

Parant worked on the university's HR system which probably wasn't a good idea for a busy-body like him. Parant would regularly log into the system and check out everyone's salary, and while he was at it, he would also garner up confidential details such as who was out on disability, and who was signed up for same sex benefits. Worse than that, Parant enjoyed gossiping about these juicy little tidbits of information, and he didn't seem to care whether anyone found out.

Parant figured that at 68 years old, if Tafts decided to can him then so be it; at least he would be likely to collect a tidy little lump sum settlement on the way out the door. And if truth be told, unless he came down with a serious illness, or if he was forced to leave for whatever reason, Newlan and company were probably stuck with him for the duration, since it was unlikely that he was ever going to retire on his own.

A few days after Newlan received his summons letter, he made the mistake of telling Parant that he was scheduled to go on jury duty again, and so for the next two and a half months he had to endure daily doses of legal analysis from Parant, as well as constant reminders informing him that his civic duty was coming up soon.

Not surprisingly, Parant was up-to-date on everything and anything that you could ever possibly want to know about the "big three" murder trials, and so of course as June 4th approached, he kept Newlan fully informed as to the latest happenings in the blockbuster trials as well. However, since Newlan also tended to keep up with current events, the daily updates weren't entirely necessary, seeing as how he was already well aware of the gory details surrounding the "three horrible hubbys".

Not only was Parant overindulgently well-informed, but he was a bit of a prognosticator to boot, and so on Tuesday afternoon, just before leaving work for the day, Parant announced to the entire office staff that Newlan was going to wind up on the Breslin trial.

"How'd you come up with that prediction, Bobby?" wondered Newlan, and Parent mischievously replied that he had done some scientific research and analysis on the subject. He deduced that since the Townsend trial only needed to fill a couple of more juror seats, and since he had heard that the McMahn case might be delayed for a day or two, by process of elimination, this meant that Newlan would end up sitting on the Breslin jury.

"Come on, Bobby," replied a skeptical Newlan, "I'm sure there are lots of other lower-profile trials going on that I could get picked for. And besides I never end up getting on a case, so I'm not too concerned."

But regardless of Newlan's unbelieving attitude, Parant remained stubbornly convinced that he was an odds-on-favorite to end up on the Breslin case.

Just to shut Parant up, Newlan finally conceded that it was a possibility, but with one caveat; "Well you could have at least put me on the Townshend trial."

Newlan figured that if he had to pick one of the three high-profile cases to serve on, it would most likely be the Townshend case. From the trickle of details that had been revealed by a variety of news sources, Townshend seemed to be the most obviously guilty of the three men, so it would be an easier and less worrisome decision to convict him. Plus, it was also the highest-profile of the three cases, so Newlan schemed that maybe he might have a chance to become some sort of minor celebrity for a few days.

In Newlan's twisted mind he was felicitously thinking that, "who knows, maybe I'll finally get my 15 minutes of fame which was promised to everyone by the late Andy Warhol."

And just like that, Newlan suddenly convinced himself that maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all to be on the Townshend case, and get away from the office for while. For the most part, he didn't really like being taken out of his normal routine, but then again, he suddenly rationalized that maybe once in a while a change could be good, especially if it was only for a few weeks. He suddenly had some sort of misguided inkling that maybe it would be kind of stimulating to get himself placed on the jury for one of the "big three" murder trials. He suddenly felt torn between whether he preferred to keep to his daily grind, or to be pulled into some out-of-the-ordinary adventure.

But then out of the blue, an aberrant vision of gunshot victims and bloodshed streaked across Newlan's mind like a shooting star, and just as suddenly he was shocked right back into reality

For pretty much most of his life, Newlan had been plagued by freakish bouts of bizarre, unexplainable apparitions which clouded up his brain when he least expected it. And even though these premonitions rarely, if ever, came to be, he still took them seriously...very seriously.

And on the infrequent occasions when one of these random thoughts had some life to it, Newlan would try to explain it all away as a coincidence. But deep in his mind he wondered what was going on inside his head. Perhaps he was under the false impression that he had a gift which could be used to his advantage; a gift that just needed to be fine-tuned. Or perhaps someone or something truly was providing him with glimpses of things to come, and it is the skeptics amongst us who need to come around to his way of thinking.

But regardless of the origins behind Newlan's afflictions, and even though he couldn't quite make out the identity of the bloodied faces, the vision was so strong and the colors were so sharp that he was forced to grab hold of his desk for fear of falling over. The picture in his mind was so detailed that he anxiously declared to Parant and the rest of his colleagues; "on second thought, I definitely want nothing to do with being on the Townshend trial...or any other trial for that matter."

And as it turned out, Newlan would soon find out that he'd much rather be at work, any day of the week, than to be a juror on a murder trial. He wouldn't wish that stress upon anyone, even his worst enemy.

Newlan's analogy for his jury duty experience was to compare it to a trip to the dentist's office. He was deathly afraid of dental work, and it was a surefire bet that he'd become hysterically claustrophobic whenever he found himself stuck in the dentist's chair, what with the extraneous hands in his mouth, and the scent of tooth enamel being drilled from his teeth, and the chair being pushed back so low that he had trouble breathing due to his sinus problems.

But nevertheless, for the rest of his days, however precious few of them there might be, Newlan's nonnegotiable declaration to anyone who would listen was that he'd much rather have a root canal than to be saddled with the all-encompassing power and responsibility of deciding someone's fate. And as fate would have it, in the weeks to come...jury duty would turn out to be...the least of his worries.

### Chapter 4 – May God Forgive Me

Friday morning April 21, 2006 – 10:00 AM

Samuel Fox, better known by many as "Sammy the Fox", listened half-heartedly to his court-appointed Defense Attorney Gene McCarthy as they sat in the defense consultation room of the Suffolk County Jail.

"This guy's finally giving me a few minutes of his time...how nice of him," thought Fox who, based on past experience, didn't have much faith in the lawyers assigned to him by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

"OK Sammy, here's the deal. I talked to Breslin's attorney and their strategy is going to be that his client had nothing to do with this, and while they are going to cast doubt on whether you killed Miller, they are going to contend that if you did do it, then you did it on your own."

"And what the hell are we gonna do...let everyone shit all over us?" growled Fox, his icy, penetrating eyes drilling holes into his lawyer as he stared him down.

McCarthy was petrified just being in the presence of this hulk of a man, and he didn't doubt that he could have been the one who pulled the trigger that ended Fred Miller's life. But be that as it may, there was no physical evidence against his client, and he planned to defend him as vigorously as possible.

The 58 year old, balding McCarthy, all 5' 3" and 130 pounds of him, was a mild-and-meek looking man, but he was actually a very capable defense attorney who could also be quite ruthless in his own unique forum...that is to say, in the courtroom.

McCarthy was known to tell his clients, "I'm the best attorney that money can't buy," referring to the fact that as a public defender, most of his clients would never pay him a penny.

"Now calm down Sammy. They have every right to use that strategy. In a way it makes perfect sense for both of us, this way we can demand separate trials. Breslin's attorney doesn't want his client to be tried with you because of your past record. He thinks Breslin will be found guilty by association. And we don't want to be tried with him because he had a motive to have this guy killed, whereas you had no motive other than the money that the government is contending Breslin paid you."

"I told you already, Breslin gave me a thousand bucks, that's it... and if you don't believe me then get the fuck out of here and bring me in someone who does," demanded Fox.

"Relax Sammy...I do believe you. And I think you have a decent chance to walk out of this place if you just listen to me. Now let's go over your story again," replied McCarthy.

"I already told you the damned story. What are you trying to do, catch me in a lie?" exclaimed an irritated Fox, and for all-the-world it looked as though he was about to jump over the table and choke the life out of his defenseless lawyer.

"Of course not...I just need to know that your story is consistent, and that it will hold up against the evidence that the government intends to present in court," assured McCarthy, while at the same time he was skittishly thinking, "It's a good thing that there are two prison guards standing right outside this door, watching us."

"First of all, I hardly even know Breslin. I met him through my old girlfriend, Nancy O'Brien. She worked with him. The fuckin' asshole got a hard-on hanging around with me because I'm an ex-con. He started calling me day and night....telling me about a problem he's having with his wife...she's seeing some dude...he wants me to go talk to the guy and maybe slap him around a bit to scare him away. I felt sorry for Breslin so I told him I'd do it for a thousand bucks. Breslin gives me the money, but then I never get around to doing the job, and then I had to check into the VA hospital for knee replacement surgery. And wouldn't you know it, Breslin starts visiting me at the hospital. I couldn't get rid of the guy...and he kept calling me every fuckin' day...and eventually I'd had enough. So I finally told him to 'go fuck off and by the way you're not getting your money back' is what I told him...end of story," insisted Fox.

"But there's evidence that Breslin called you the night before the murder," replied McCarthy.

"Like I just told you, he called me so many fuckin' times that he was starting to drive me crazy," added Fox as he shifted nervously in his seat.

"Then on the day of the murder there is evidence that you tried to contact Breslin at his office...and there is evidence that he called you that night...and there is evidence that he met up with you a couple of nights later, and that he transferred a large sum of cash over to you," rebutted McCarthy.

And even though his attorney's statement of the facts caused Fox to become even more agitated than he already was, he grumpily continued with his explanation anyway.

"Look this is how it went down. I heard on the news that this guy Miller got whacked so I tried to call Breslin and ask him what the fuck happened. You think if I killed the guy I'm gonna immediately start calling people and bragging about it? I'm not that fuckin' stupid. And I don't remember him calling me on the night of the murder...and I sure as hell didn't meet up with him after the murder. He never gave me another penny. That's a bunch of bullshit."

"Sammy, I honestly believe you, and I think we can win this case. It's probably going to take a couple of years before we go to trial, but in the meantime I'm going to try and get some of the more damaging evidence suppressed. However, I have to warn you that Breslin might be scheduled to go on trial before you, and if things go badly for him, his attorney might advise him to rat you out...and who knows, he might even turn government's witness. I'm just speculating here, but I want to prepare you for anything that might come up," warned McCarthy, and this healthy dose of reality enraged his client.

Fox punched his fist down on the table so hard that it sent a loud bang echoing through the room which got the attention of the prison guards, but McCarthy waved them off.

"If that motherfucker Breslin tries to pin this rap on me, he'd better hope he's in solitary confinement for the rest of his fuckin' life because I know people in the joint who'll shank a stool pigeon like him without thinking twice about it. And if he's lucky enough to make it back out on the streets, well I got friends out there too who'll be waiting to greet him with open arms," replied Fox with an evil laugh.

"Look Sammy you can't be talking about this stuff in front of me. I'll pretend I never heard that. Now let's go over your record again. What the hell happened in 77?"

"It's a simple story, really. I'm delivering pizzas in the hood, never had a problem before that night...it's around midnight and a couple of brothers decide to rob me. I said to them 'look dudes take the money I don't want any trouble' but one of them has to be a tough guy and he pulls a piece on me...and I just freaked out," explained Fox.

"What do you mean you freaked out?" asked McCarthy.

"What do I mean?" replied Fox incredulously. "Have you ever had a fuckin' gun pulled on you? I thought I was gonna fuckin' die. My fuckin' life flashed before my eyes, so I throw the pizza box up in the air, and lucky for me it distracts them. Then I grab the dude with the gun by the wrist and pulled his arm around his back...almost snapped his limb right off at the shoulder. Then the other dude comes at me with a knife, so I kicked him in the balls with my army boots. Sent him flying in the air, grabbing his nuts. Now he's out of the picture, but the dude with the gun is still struggling for all he's worth and somehow the gun went off...and hit him."

"The evidence shows that the victim was shot in the back," added McCarthy in an even tempered voice.

"THE VICTIM...what do you mean the fuckin' victim? I was the fuckin' victim! I was a fuckin' war hero for Christ Sake's. An honorable discharge from the Army...I served my time in Nam. And this guy tries to rob me...and kill me for all I know. So I defend myself, and after that it don't matter what fuckin' happened. The son of a bitch deserved to die, but the State of Massachusetts they don't see it that way...no, the crook's the victim and I'm a fuckin' murderer. I could still be locked up for that bullshit charge if those law schools students don't come along and help me plead it down to manslaughter. But still, the fuckin' State took four years of my life and for what...for defending myself against some nigger punks," roared Fox, the rage in him still strong, almost 30 years later.

"I understand Sammy...and if it makes you feel any better I think it's a crime that you even did one day in prison for that charge," replied McCarthy in a consoling tone before calmly adding, "and what about the gun charges?"

"The gun charges? I had to make a fuckin' living. No one's gonna hire someone like me for a decent job. Look, the guns I dealt with got smuggled overseas. They weren't used on the street to commit any crimes around here...but anyway, I did my time. I was trying to straighten up my act and now this...now this fuckin' Breslin gets me mixed up in his fuckin' problems," fumed Fox.

By now, McCarthy had all of the information he needed, so he packed up his briefcase as quickly as possible and waved in the guards. However, on his way out the door he seemed to have a change of heart and he hesitantly turned back towards Fox and vowed, "If it's any consolation Sammy, once again I reiterate that I believe you, and I'm convinced that I can get you off."

But Fox apparently didn't hear another word that McCarthy said to him. He was suddenly immersed in austerity; totally preoccupied with a doodling he was making on a scrap of paper. And moreover, the artistic masterpiece that he was in the process of creating depicted the crude sketching of a graveyard filled with crosses, which coincidentally enough, matched a tattoo that was plastered across his upper back.

"Breslin better hope that I never get my hands on him...'cause I'll ring his neck. I'll choke the shit out of him...choke the fuckin' life out of him," seethed Fox as his face began to turn a purple shade of red. And as the guards led him back to his cell, he crumpled up the sullied piece of paper with such a force that his fingernails cut into the palm of his hand, which drew blood...and in the process, lured out the madman that lay hidden within his soul.

...

Meanwhile, as Defense Attorney Gene McCarthy left the jailhouse and slowly ambled back to his car, he made the sign of the cross and muttered to himself; "I just might be able to get this crazy bastard off...and if I do...may God forgive me."

### Chapter 5 – Lines and Queues

Wednesday morning June 4, 2008 – 7:05 AM

Frank Newlan grabbed the jury duty summons letter, which had been sitting on his desk for the past two and a half months, and despite his aversion of all things unanticipated, he was wound-up and ready-to-go on what he thought would be a mini one-day adventure.

Being the neurotic that he was, Newlan made one last canvas through his condo, making sure that all the lights were out, all the windows were closed, and all the blinds were drawn, while at the same time stopping briefly at each aperture to admire the beautiful, unobstructed view of the Boston skyline.

When Newlan initially toured the condo during his house hunting crusade, he fell in love with the place from the outset, and he probably overpaid for the privilege of living in the lap of luxury, but he didn't give it a second thought. He decided for once in his life to just go for it, and he was determined not to fret over a few thousand bucks...and to this day, he still had no regrets.

Sometimes, even now, Newlan would absentmindedly gaze out at the picturesque vista of towering skyscrapers contrasted against the shimmering waters of the Mystic River and he'd vividly recall stepping out onto the deck for the first time; he was absolutely blown away by the stunning view; and he knew right then and there that he just had to have this particular property.

Over the years, Newlan had, for the most part, grown accustom to the panoramic cityscape, and yet, every once in awhile he'd peer out of his oversized master bedroom windows and think to himself, "I can't believe that I live here." And whenever he had guests over for a visit, invariably, all anyone ever wanted to do was to just sit out on the deck all night, sipping wine and admiring the scenery, while throwing out pictorial adjectives such as "breathtaking" and "majestic".

Newlan's condo was your typical 2 bed, 2 bath apartment, but it was also a bright, sunny, south facing corner unit on the 6th floor (unit 630 to be exact) of the 11 story twin-tower edifice. The complex boasted of many amenities that Newlan enjoyed, such as a heated indoor pool, an exercise room complete with modern equipment and saunas, two racquetball courts, a tennis court, and perhaps his favorite frill of all, the deeded indoor parking spot that came with his unit (despite the fact that his irrational fear of enclosed structures left him feeling a bit claustrophobic at times).

The complex also offered a staff of doormen who were on duty 24 hours a day, which was a necessity for such a large building, what with people coming and going non-stop every hour of the day, morning, noon and night. The primary day-time concierge was an elderly gentleman, around sixty-something years of age, who was originally from Pakistan. Most of the tenants referred him by his nickname, which was Sid, but his proper name was Saeed (pronounced CyEd) Kahn. For his part, Newlan preferred to address Kahn by his formal first name, even though he was never quite sure whether he was getting the pronunciation down correctly.

Kahn worked just about every day of the week, and he was usually good for a 10 to 12 hour shift, which made him a convenient target for the many wealthy (not to mention grumpy) occupants of the building.

But the opulence of skyline views and 24-hour concierge services aside, Newlan had some rather important business to attend to this morning, and so once he got his act together, he reluctantly made his way onto the elevator, downward to the lobby. And from there he headed for the flight of stairs that would take him down to the lower level garage where his reserved parking spot was located.

As always, Saeed Kahn was manning the security desk and he greeted Newlan in his Middle Eastern accent with a cheerful; "Good morning Mr. Frank, you are up early today my friend."

It was usually easier for Kahn to refer to the tenants by their first names, rather than to pronounce what to him were their strange-sounding American surnames; and thus, Newlan became known as "Mr. Frank".

"Top secret business this morning, Saeed," replied Newlan, but then he amended his response to include, "just kidding, I have jury duty today."

Saeed appeared to be a nice-enough man, but he loved to run his mouth, or as Newlan would put it; "he has the gift of gab". And so before Newlan knew what hit him, Kahn went into a serious dissertation regarding the American justice system vs. how things were done in his native Pakistan.

Newlan's immediate reaction was, "uh oh, big mistake...too much information," but at that point it was too late to do anything except to let Kahn rant on for a while.

Newlan had had many long discussions with Kahn over the years, and he was too polite to interrupt him while he was rambling. Instead, he'd usually wait until a neighbor distracted him, and then he'd make his getaway. This morning however, Newlan was on a tight schedule, so he had to be direct, and he cut Kahn off short, before the unrelenting doorman bent his ear off with his incessant chatter.

"Sorry Saeed, I'm running late, but we'll have to talk about this some other time."

It was clear from the daggers in Kahn's eyes that he was offended by Newlan's discourteous insolence, but he accepted his excuse nonetheless, and he left him with a somewhat phony half-smile and a polite, "have a nice day sir."

As much as Newlan respected Saeed Kahn, there were times, such as today, when he would anxiously contemplate the immigrant doorman's cross-eyed stare, and mutter to himself, "I hope to hell someone's done a background check on this guy."

For some strange reason, Newlan seemed to think that Kahn bore an uncanny resemblance to some of the terrorists that he'd see on the TV news from time to time, tormenting a kidnapped American; and every now and then his imagination would get the better of him.

Whenever Newlan was in one of these vexed moods, he'd swear up and down that he sensed the presence of evil lurking just below the old man's surface. And when his instincts spoke to him, he listened very intently.

Newlan would occasionally observe Kahn sitting at the security desk in the complex's lobby, ruling like a king on a throne, and he'd see another side to him come shining through; a side that he didn't like so much.

Kahn's dominion -- that is to say, the condo complex itself -- was, in some respects, a cross between an old age home and the United Nations, since it seemed that the vast majority of the residents were either retired couples, or foreigners from every country imaginable.

Newlan should have been used to it by now, but he still would become uncomfortable whenever he found himself trapped on the elevator with one of his decrepit neighbors, or worse, with a Middle Eastern woman wearing an exotic scarf covering her face. In fact, Kahn had recently purchased a unit in the complex directly adjacent to Newlan's, and one day he introduced him to his wife who was, naturally, hidden behind one of those mysterious scarves.

Newlan wondered where Kahn got the money to buy a unit in their complex, which where rather pricy, but he was the type of person who minded his own business, so he didn't dwell on it all that much.

In a moment of weakness, Kahn had confided to Newlan that he was once a successful business man back in Pakistan, which left Newlan thinking to himself, "then why the hell did you leave to become a glorified security guard in the US?"

Newlan's gut feeling was that Kahn had some sort of shady past, and whenever they'd engage in one of their marathon debates, he'd find himself obsessing afterwards over what the real story was behind his reticent doorman's trek to America, which would in turn leaving him grumbling; "Just my luck, I'm probably living in a complex with a secret terrorist cell holed up in one of the apartments, and some night while I'm tossing and turning in bed, the bastards will blow the whole building up."

Of course it goes without saying (since it is already probably quite obvious by now) but Newlan tended to worry himself sick over even the most innocuous dictums, and more often than not, his irrational fears would cause him to get hung up over some stupid nonsensical situation. And truth be told, even he would tell you that some of his theories were pretty farfetched.

And so with erratic thoughts cluttering his brain, Newlan finally made his way down to the garage and headed towards his car, which was located about halfway between the glass door that led into the building and the heavy metal garage doors at the far end of the structure.

Inexplicably, the garage sometimes gave Newlan the spooks, despite the fact that it was well lit and protected by a security system. At this hour of the morning, the lot was eerily quiet, which only added to Newlan's affliction, and wouldn't you know it, just as he got to his vehicle, he thought he heard something move.

"Shit, this jury duty is already making me jumpy and it hasn't even started yet," complained Newlan, but then he took a deep breath and rationalized that the scurrying sound was probably just a mouse or something.

With his mind at ease for the moment, Newlan pressed the unlock button on the car door remote, which was attached to his keychain, and he waited for the double-beeping sound which indicated that the doors were open. Now all he had left to do was to plop himself into the driver's seat and settle in for the ride to the courthouse.

Newlan drove a red 1995 Mercury Mystique LS, which was the fancier six cylinder version of the base GS model, and although the body of the car had seen better days, the engine was still in mint condition. Because Newlan worked only a few blocks away from where he lived, the car had very low mileage on it, but he'd still take her in for servicing every four months or so, even though he never came close to putting in the recommended three thousand miles between oil changes.

Newlan procured the vehicle off of a used car lot about ten years ago, and he got lucky on this one since she had never given him much trouble. The car was in mint condition at the time he purchased it, with only twenty thousand miles of wear-and-tear on its frame, and he bought the puppy for just over ten grand. The relentless negotiating team put the high-pressure sales-pitch on Newlan, but it wasn't really necessary; he recognized a good deal when he saw one, so he scooped her up on the spot, and he surprised the salesmen when he announced that he was going to pay for the car in cash.

The only obvious visible flaw on the vehicle was a streak of rusty, scratched-up, peeling chrome on the front bumper, and although Newlan attempted to touch it up with a splash of spray paint, in the long run he only succeeded in making the damage look even worse than it already did, not that he cared.

Newlan was never big on automobiles, and he typically rode his cars into the ground until they practically fell apart; it seems he just couldn't be bothered trying to impress people by maintaining a fancy ride.

All that mattered to Newlan was that he had reliable transportation to get him from point A to point B. And furthermore, whenever he was out on the town, scoping the singles bars, and he came across a loose woman who seemed to be a bit too interested in what model of car he drove, he'd promptly lose interest, since he was positive that he'd never hit it off with someone whose idea of prestige was being chauffeured around by a sharp-dressed man driving a high-end automobile.

But despite the proven reliability of his vehicle, whenever Newlan had an important appointment to keep, he'd needlessly worry that the old jalopy wasn't going to start up. However, not surprisingly, on this, the morning of his jury duty, he turned the key over and the ignition kicked in like a charm, just as it did every morning.

Newlan carefully backed out of his parking space, which took some skill due to the many support beams that were strategically place throughout the garage (beams that were necessary to keep the building from toppling over we might add). On the flip side however, in Newlan's imaginative mind, the cement columns transformed the task of pulling in and out of the garage into a game of maneuvering around an obstacle course at an amusement park.

In any event, once Newlan cleared the vertical stanchions, which buffeted his car on both sides, he hit the button on his garage door opener and navigated up the ramp. For better or for worse, he was on his way. For richer or for poorer, he was on the road again, ready to face whatever life tossed in his path...or so he thought.

Newlan cranked up the stereo, which was playing a Grateful Dead CD, and the Dead song "Ripple" wafted through the speakers as he quietly hummed along to the tune's "let there be music" theme.

Newlan was tempted to light up a joint which, he reasoned, would make for a more tolerable morning, but then he thought the better of it...for a while anyway. The idea of being stoned in a courthouse, while ironic, was probably a bit too risky, concluded his pragmatic side. But then again, there was something about Grateful Dead music that always got him going, so in the end he compromised and took a few quick tokes, just to get his head together.

Newlan had been smoking marijuana ever since he was a teenager, and base on his own real-life experiences, he never bought into the government's gloom and doom "Reefer Madness" scare tactics. Now all these years later, Newlan and his friends (along with an entire generation of baby boomers for that matter) were akin to a life-long science experiment; for the most part they were an intelligent, articulate bunch of people, which tended to disprove the theory that everyone who smokes pot will eventually become some sort of vegetable, or even worse, a drug-addicted fiend.

Newlan was a huge Grateful Dead fan and an even bigger fan of music in general. He had seen the Dead in concert at least 30 times over the years, and he still loved to listen to their unique brand of psychedelic jams even though their leader, Jerry Garcia, had been deceased for well over 10 years now.

Needless to say, like most "Dead Heads", Newlan was also a big timer partier in his day. Granted, he still enjoyed knocking down a few drinks and smoking a few joints now and then, but this was nothing compared to his younger days when he and his friends would ingest just about anything that they could get their hands on, short of shooting up heroin.

Newlan was also once a very accomplished guitar player in his own right, and he played in a few local bands in his younger days. However, he wasn't one of those naturally-gifted musicians who could pick out a tune on the piano by ear, practically at birth. He pretty much took up the guitar on a whim when he was a senior in high school.

Newlan and his two best friends, Patrick "Pat" Horn and Bruce Reardon were completely zonked-out one night after an incredible concert by the flamboyant rock band Queen, and the show left them so inspired and so totally stoked that they decided to make a pact to take up instruments and change the world.

The three buddies went to the same high school _and_ the same college together, and if that wasn't enough to keep them joined at the hip, they eventually formed their own rock band for a while...and here they were, some 30 years later, still the best of friends. Amazingly enough, after only a couple of years of lessons and lots of practicing, they were proficient enough to perform for their friends at a backyard barbecue (which really didn't take all that much skill, considering the brand of three chord songs that they tended to play), and once they got their confidence up, they actually gigged out at a few local bars with Horn on bass and Newlan and Reardon on guitars.

The trio didn't hang out with any friends who played drums, and so after numerous auditions they settled on a female drummer, Kay Owens, who was very talented but rather on the strange side. And capable though they may have been, they never took their musical careers quite seriously enough; they were just a crew of good buddies having a great time. They never made much money either, but they sure met a lot of women (and on one particularly memorable evening, Owens even hooked up with a grungy-looking long haired dude after a gig at a punk rock club), which deep down is probably one of the main reasons why most kids decide to start a rock band in the first place.

Sadly, as is the case with many of our childhood dreams, life got in the way and the band didn't last very long. Within a few years of their apex, Newlan's band-mates got married and had kids, and they all had jobs and mortgages and responsibilities, but the rock star dream was fun while it lasted.

The band was the deciding factor behind Newlan's reasoning against going to law school. After four years of college, he was tired of school, and he decided that he'd rather give music a chance, so law school would have to wait.

As it turned out Newlan never did become a lawyer, which was just as well as far as he was concerned. But now, here he was again, all these years later, on his way to jury duty; on his way to do his part to help sort out the world's problems.

"There's something wrong with this picture," reckoned Newlan, "when Frankie Newlan is asked to be the voice of reason."

Within minutes of pulling out of the condo complex parking lot, Newlan was merging his car onto the highway ramp for Interstate Route 93 North, which was located less than a mile from his building.

Newlan was cruising along at a steady pace, but traffic was already starting to pick up and the drizzly rain wasn't helping matters either. A day like today made him appreciate the fact that he had an easy commute to work, especially since he didn't really enjoy driving all that much to begin with, particularly in rush-hour traffic.

As far as Newlan was concerned, a tough commute would be cause for more aggravation than work itself was, and he couldn't fathom how some of his co-workers were able sit through an hour-long drive stuck in traffic every morning and evening.

And sure enough, just when Newlan thought he was making good time on his way to the courthouse, traffic came to a complete stop.

"How the hell can we be moving along at 65 miles an hour one minute, and the next minute I'm slamming on the brakes?" grumbled Newlan, and within seconds, horns were blaring out of control as he and the thousands of other morning commuters began to stress out.

"This highway jungle is enough to drive you crazy...no wonder so many people get road rage after a while," justified Newlan as he reached for the ashtray and took another deep puff off the smoldering joint in a futile attempt to relax his frayed nerves.

Newlan should have known that the inevitable slowdown had originated at the merger between Interstates Route 93 and Route 128, which was probably one of the worst examples of bad planning in the history of modern highways. The entrance and exit ramps of the two roadways were designed so close to each other that they basically created collision-course conditions every time more than a few cars tried to get on or off one of the exits at the same time.

Unfortunately for Newlan however, the Middlesex Superior Courthouse was situated just off of Route 128, so he was headed straight into the heart of the traffic jam, and after about 45 minutes of stop-and-go traffic, he finally pulled into the office complex where the courthouse was located; a drive that would normally only take about 15 minutes when traffic is moving steadily.

And as if the hassle of the commute wasn't bad enough, Newlan couldn't believe what he was witnessing as he made his way down the path that led to the courthouse parking garage. First of all, there were police cars and motorcycles parked everywhere, as far as the eye could see, which always made him nervous, and on top of that there were roughly 20 different media satellite trucks parked along the passage-way as well.

"It looks like the three horrible hubbys are gonna make for a big-time circus atmosphere around here for the next few weeks," marveled Newlan, and as he slowly inched his way towards the garage, he observed that there seemed to be some sort of blockade up ahead. The backup reminded him of one of those alcohol checkpoints that the police sometimes set up on major roadways during peak driving holidays, and the delay made him even more uptight than he already was.

It was only when Newlan got closer to the blockade did he realized that the police were checking IDs and credentials before letting anyone into the garage.

"Holy shit, this car probably stinks like Bob Marley's recording studio," muttered Newlan as he hastily searched for the air freshener in his glove compartment, and when he finally found it, he promptly gave the cabin at least 10 quick sprays.

"Great, now it smells like strawberry reefer in here," added a now panicky Newlan as he rolled down the window a crack in an attempt to fan out the smoke with his hands.

With a line of cars already queued up behind him, it was too late for Newlan to do anything other than to move forward and hope for the best, and when he finally got to the garage entrance, the cop in charge of checking IDs motioned him to roll down his window.

"Good morning officer," was the wittiest greeting a puzzled-looking Newlan could come up with as he rolled down the window just enough to be able to communicate.

"What's your business at the courthouse today sir?" the no-nonsense police officer asked.

"Well he called me sir, so that's a good sign" thought Newlan. Even though Newlan was almost 50 years old, he still felt (and sometimes acted) like a kid, and as such, whenever someone addressed him as "sir", it always triggered a reaction of surprise in his mind.

"I'm here for jury duty," replied Newlan, but meanwhile what he was really thinking was; "I'm here on official government business, so take that you asshole."

The officer requested Newlan to produce his jury duty information, and then in an effort to keep up with the ever-growing line of automobiles, he hastily waved him into the parking garage.

"Oh well, I guess the car doesn't reek of weed after all...just me being paranoid again," a relieved Newlan sighed as he rode up to the second level of the garage and pulled into one of the many open spaces.

Newlan was considering taking another couple of hits off the half-smoked joint, which was hidden in his dashboard console, but he thought the better of it when he noticed a police officer on a motorcycle slowly rolling by while at the same time closely monitoring his surroundings.

"Anyway, it's just about 8 o'clock so I might as well get going," surmised Newlan. Even though he knew from previous experience that jury selection never started precisely at 8 AM sharp, he figured that he might as well make his way inside and get on with it. And so after a few drops of Visine to "get the red out" as he liked to say, Newlan was ready for his day in court.

As Newlan approached the front entrance of the courthouse, a vast contingent of reporters and camera crews were milling about. One of the local news teams appeared to be doing a live broadcast, and the attractive reporter assigned to the scene could be heard shouting out to anyone who crossed her path; "Anyone going in for jury duty, please, we'd like to speak to you for a few minutes."

And even though a number of people were entering the building at the same time as Newlan, he assumed the reporter was talking to him, but at the moment he wanted nothing to do with being on TV. The face of the Channel 7 Morning News may have been alluring, but nevertheless he scurried by as quickly as possible, while at the same time exclaiming, "Sorry, running late, gotta go...sorry, running late, gotta go."

But despite his refusal to participate in the media circus, deep inside Newlan was intrigued and amused by the commotion that was ensuing all around him, and the unwanted attention left him feeling as if he was an important cog in the wheel of justice.

However, once Newlan entered the building and he realized that there was another stretched-out queue awaiting him, just to get past the security checkpoint, his air of self-importance rapidly wore off. He suddenly felt as if he was at the airport, and he hated flying as much as he hated rush-hour traffic. Actually, it wasn't so much the flying that he hated, as much it was the inevitable long lines and delays, which only got much worse after 9/11.

Speaking of delays, the line that Newlan currently found himself wading through was almost as unbearable as an airport logjam. And to make matters worse, when he finally made his way up to the checkpoint, he was forced to empty his pockets into a small basket which was then placed onto a conveyor belt for the purpose of having his possessions scanned by an oversized x-ray machine and observed by a court officer who was standing at the other end of the contraption.

Newlan was slightly concerned about putting his wallet (which had around a hundred bucks in it) into the basket, but since he was surrounded by court officers he had little choice in the matter.

The conveyor belt was also necessary so that the contents of Newlan's pockets wouldn't get picked up by the metal detector which another court officer was waving for him to pass through. Of course, with Newlan's luck, predictably enough, as soon as he made his way across the threshold, the alarm went off anyway.

"Oh shit, now I feel like a criminal," muttered Newlan as the court officer glared at him.

"Lift your arms up please," ordered the court officer, and although Newlan had no reason not to comply, the rebel in him was considering making his objections known nonetheless. The procedure reminded him way too much of being arrested, and it caused his manic side to kick in. In fact, Newlan found himself reflexively looking over his shoulder in an effort to ensure that some other court cop wasn't going to come sneaking up from behind him and slap a pair of cuffs on him when he least expected it.

With Newlan temporarily distracted by the awkwardness of the situation, he never even had a chance to raise his arms up as the court officer approached him with a strange-looking wand which he waved first around his legs and then up across his midsection.

All of a sudden, a beeping sound pierced Newlan's ears and startled him like an alarm clock ringing, and the officer sternly commanded; "Please take off your belt sir."

Newlan was wearing a light jacket, which was zippered up past his waist so that his belt wasn't visible, and no one told him to take it off when he had emptied his pockets. The last thing he was expecting was that his belt might cause a problem, and he was surprised to learn that the buckle was actually made of metal since it was a cheap imitation leather belt (Newlan wasn't one to spend a load of money on clothing).

However, in spite of his confused reaction, Newlan took off the belt as ordered, and raised his arms up over his head. The court officer then proceeded with the magic-wand waving, and sure enough the damn alarm went off again, this time as the wand made its way across Newlan's upper-chest. At this stage of the game, the court officer was beginning to get a bit annoyed with him, as the line continued to back-up behind them.

"Didn't we tell you to take off all jewelry?" growled the irked court officer.

"All they told me was to empty my pockets. I guess I must not look like a jewelry guy," protested Newlan as he pulled his "Jesus on the Cross" religious medallion up over his head.

Newlan wasn't a very religious person, but the medallion with its inscription "I am a Catholic, please call a priest" was a high school graduation gift from his girlfriend at the time, Marianne Plante (who pronounced her last name with a silent E), and it had become part of his daily ritual to put the righteous chain on every day ever since.

Newlan eventually passed the inspection, but meanwhile the court officer manning the conveyor belt, was suspiciously eying his car keys.

Newlan's key chain was attached to his car alarm remote which was enclosed in a hard plastic casing. The casing had broken away recently, so Newlan rigged it back together with a paper clip and some electrical tape in a sloppy, yet effective attempt to reattach the door-opening remote onto the key chain. But with all due respect to Newlan's shoddy repair work, apparently the court officer suspected that his do-it-yourself fix-it job might actually be some sort of explosive device, and he wanted an explanation.

Newlan pleaded ignorance, and then with a smirk on his face he added; "Get real...like I'm gonna get myself summoned to jury duty just so I can blow up the courthouse."

Upon further review, the conveyor belt court officer returned Newlan's belongings back to him, but at the same time he also gave him a look that said; "What a pain in the ass this guy is."

But despite the glaring look, Newlan stopped to check his wallet in an attempt to verify that all of his cash was still in place, while at the same time the court officer continued to stare him down.

And when the stare-down didn't let up, Newlan calmly announced; "Relax sir, I'm just making sure that everything's still there." But all the while, he knew full well that the court officer wasn't liking his wise-guy act.

"For Christ's sake they should have had you and your crew working at Logan airport in 2001, and maybe we could have foiled the terrorists," added Newlan with a smile as the now very irritated court officer steamed in silent contempt.

"By the way which floor for jury duty?" wondered Newlan.

"Go down the hall and take the elevator to the third floor," replied the court officer in a tired voice, which comes as a natural outgrowth from answering the same question a million times a day.

"Thank you for your time and have a nice day sir," replied a sarcastic Newlan as he bowed his head and tipped an imaginary cap. And as he made his way down the hall toward the elevator, he muttered, "Well I guess _this_ day is off to a good start...NOT."

And so after well over an hour of winding his way through line after line, and queue after queue, Newlan squeezed his way onto the crowded elevator which would take him up to the third floor...and all the while he was hoping upon hope that his stay inside the Middlesex Superior Courthouse would be a short one. But as we all know, sometimes...you don't always get...what you wish for.

### Chapter 6 – Tracy Stone's Sad Anniversary

Saturday morning January 13, 2007 – 8:00 AM

Tracy Stone was coming unhinged. The former Mrs. Tracy Breslin finally went through with her divorce and she was once again going by her maiden name, Stone, which was an appropriate surname for someone who felt as if she was straddling a ton of bricks on her shoulders.

It was exactly one year to the horrible day that her boyfriend, Fred Miller had been shot and killed for no apparent reason. And even now, one year later, Tracy still had vivid flashbacks of how she collapsed in the driveway and vomited when the police came knocking at her door and, using their standard terminology, informed her that Fred was deceased.

Tracy had been crying all morning, and for the most part she had been crying nonstop for the past year. As time marched on, she couldn't help but think that it was partially, if not totally, her fault that Fred Miller was dead. But in her own defense, she reasoned; "How the hell was I suppose to know that my husband was gonna have poor Freddie killed?"

Tracy wisely stayed away from Fred's funeral, since at the time, even though he had only been dead for a few days, there were already rumblings that she somehow played a part in his demise. In fact, not only had she skipped the funeral, but in the past year she hadn't gone to the cemetery even once to pay her respects. For some reason she just wasn't ready to confront the sight of Fred's grave just yet. Somehow she assumed that if she didn't come face-to-face with the final proof of Fred's death, then maybe she'd wake up someday to find that it had all been one big year-long bad dream.

Tracy had targeted today as the day that she might finally find the strength to make peace with her past, but when she woke up she realized that she wasn't quite ready. Instead, she decided that she would keep a vigil at the bedside shrine that she had dedicated to her fallen lover.

Tracy arranged to leave her children with their auntie Beth for the weekend so that she could wallow in her sorrow alone on this very somber anniversary. She couldn't bear to have her kids witness what a mess she was becoming; even though, it was already much too late for that. The kids might have been young, but they were smart enough to know that they were in for some hard times ahead in their lives.

Much like Tracy, her children had been racked with bad dreams just about every night, ever since the day they learned that their father had been hauled off to jail. In their nightmares, it seemed that they were perpetually reliving the traumatic day when mommy sat them down and told them that daddy had done a bad thing. They just couldn't comprehend what mommy was saying when she apprised them of the fact that the police had sent daddy to prison, and that he wouldn't be coming home for a while.

"Sort of like a grown up's time-out," she patiently explained.

And now as Tracy reflected back on that awful day when she was forced to break the devastating news to her children, she sobbed at the thought of them growing up without a father, and with a mother who was falling apart at the seams.

The kids were constantly asking her when daddy was coming home, and every time they did, Tracy would look away and simply say; "Someday he'll be back." And then she'd reach for the liquor cabinet and cry herself to sleep like a baby.

In fact, from the moment that Tracy learned of Fred's murder, her life had pretty much dissolved into a drunken shambles. In a rare moment of clarity, she had tried AA meetings, but in the end she lacked the willpower to keep it up, and she eventually began drinking heavily again, as well as dabbling in prescription and illicit drugs; anything to dull the pain she had been enduring for so many years now.

And yet through it all, Tracy still tried her best to be a good mother to her children. After all, she was also an animal-lover, and she owned all kinds of pets, ranging from birds and reptiles, to cats and dogs, and even spidery insects, so she knew what it meant to give and receive unconditional love.

Tracy's biggest fear for her kids was how she would handle their fragile hearts if, as she suspected, her ex-husband ended up being sent to prison for life. She rued the thought of having to bring them to the State Penitentiary to visit their dad.

"There's no way I'll have the strength to do it...their uncles will have to take them," mumbled Tracy, referring to John Breslin's brothers.

Tracy realized full well that if her ex-husband ended up being found guilty of murder, she would also be held at least partially responsible by many people, including her children as they grew older, for basically ending his life as well, and this filled her with even more guilt and consternation.

Tracy told the police flat-out that Johnny had said to her; "If Fred doesn't stop seeing you, it wouldn't be good for his health."

However, looking back on the situation in hindsight, Tracy wasn't sure exactly what her ex-husband's remarks were. She was positive that he had said something threatening towards Fred, but she couldn't remember his exact words, and so she told the police what she thought they needed to hear.

Tracy was 100% certain that her ex-husband hated Fred Miller. But at times she wasn't so sure whether that necessarily meant he was involved in having him killed, and she was tormented by so many waves of self-doubts and changes-of-heart lately that she worried she might self-combust one of these days.

On the one hand, Tracy's first instinct was to presume that Johnny had something to do with the murder. "Who else would want to kill Freddie?" she'd reason to herself.

But then on the other hand, when Tracy considered Freddie's temper, and some of the people he had pissed off over the years, she'd agonize; "Well, maybe someone else _could_ have done it."

And when Tracy was lost in one of these bewildered states, she would start balling and screaming; "What have I done? What have I done? I put my husband in jail...the father of my children. Oh dear God what have I done?"

But none of these considerations changed the fact that Tracy had wanted to divorce John Breslin long before Fred Miller reentered her life. And yet she was also a very insecure, confused individual who even now sometimes still yearned for the love-hate relationship that she had with her ex-husband.

Today however -- on the anniversary of her high school sweetheart's death, the so-called love of her life -- was not one of those days where she speculated that she might still have feelings for her ex.

Today was a day when Tracy hated John Breslin with a passion. Tracy hated this controlling, manipulative, jerk of a man who somehow convinced her to marry him and have three kids before she finally came to her senses.

Tracy recalled telling Johnny how she was "dead inside" when for a second time in three years she asked for a divorce, and now she was beyond dead, she was a zombie, a shell of a person inhabiting the body of the living dead.

The DA's office recently informed Tracy that she would be expected to testify when John Breslin's case finally went to trial, and she resolved in her mind that she would have to tell the truth, or some semblance of the truth, even if it meant putting the father of her children away for life.

However, on days like today, Tracy wasn't sure whether she could ever face her ex-husband again. Tracy tried to imagine what it would be like seeing him in the courtroom, and she practically collapsed with fear at the mere thought of it.

"God forbid, he walks and comes looking for me," shuddered Tracy. She didn't trust herself around John Breslin. They both seemed to have some sort of unnatural control over each other, and in her current state of inner turmoil, despite her animosity toward him, he could probably have convinced her to take him back; especially now that she was struggling financially without his regular paychecks coming in.

"No, that can't happen...even if I have to embellish the truth a little bit. Johnny's not walking out of that jail alive if I have anything to say about it. That fuckin' murderer," muttered Tracy out loud to herself as she laughed and cried hysterically at the same time like a crazy person.

"Who knows, maybe I'll be dead by then," stammered Tracy as she washed down two Oxicontin pills with a glass of Jack Daniels whiskey and collapsed onto her sofa where she continued to cry uncontrollably for the rest of the day; a day that would turn out to be...one of the longest days...of her miserable life.

### Chapter 7 – On Trial?

Wednesday morning June 4, 2008 – 8:30 AM

Another long line greeted a weary Frank Newlan as he emerged from the elevator on the third floor of the courthouse. He hadn't even made it through the bulk of the day yet, and he was already physically drained, right down to the very core of his being. After putting up with the traffic jam, the line to get into the parking garage, and the line at the security checkpoint, he was just about ready to go insane. But he gamely tried to make the best of a bad situation by passing the time eavesdropping on a group of middle-aged women who were standing in front of him at the end of the line, waiting to be marked off as present and accounted for.

The women had obviously just met, but that didn't stop them from chatting as if they were life-long friends. The leader of the crew was an oriental woman who, although Americanized, still possessed a slight accent, and she was fervently chronicling everything you could ever want to know about the "three horrible hubbys".

As Newlan curiously listened in on the woman's high-pitched ramble, he had a puckish idea that he should introduce her to his co-worker, Bob Parant, seeing as how they both seemed to get off on dissecting a wide array of scandalous drivel.

The check-in line led to an oversized counter where two more court officers were assigned to the task of processing each prospective juror's vital information and entering the details into their computer system.

When the zoned-out Newlan finally inched his way to the front of the line, he overheard one of the court officer's shout out, "please have your juror questionnaires ready, and make sure you've answered all the questions or you'll have to go to the back of the line."

"Oh shit," whispered Newlan. Although, judging by the scolding look that the oriental woman gave him, his whisper may as well have been a scream.

"Sorry, I never got the questionnaire," rationalized Newlan in an attempt justify his social gaff.

"The form should be in the juror information packet that you received in the mail," explained his newest friend. And although he was skeptical, he leafed through the envelope anyway...and sure enough, there it was.

After being through the "juror for a day" routine so many times before, Newlan figured that he had no real reason to review the juror orientation packet, and thus he neglected to ascertain that he was required to fill out the questionnaire and bring it with him when he reported for duty.

Newlan realized that he had no one but himself to blame for not having the form filled out, so he bid the oriental woman and her friends a good day, dragged himself out of the line, found a bench, and started scribbling away in earnest.

Most of the inquiries were fairly basic, but the flip-side of the form contained a handful of those mini-essay type questions; the kind of quizzes that Newlan always hated when he was in school. But nevertheless he softly read the queries, one by one, out loud to himself as he formulated the answers in his head.

"Are there any reasons why you couldn't reasonably be expected to serve as a juror?"

Newlan was tempted to check the "YES" box and expand upon it by stating that he was a liberal wimp who blamed everyone's problems on some traumatic childhood experience. But then he got serious, and after briefly pondering the question, he checked off the "NO" box and moved on to the next query.

Newlan waded through the remainder of the questions without much of a problem (although, he couldn't resist adding a snippet of commentary, which included his trademark biting sarcasm, to each question), but the last inquiry had him momentarily flummoxed.

"Have you ever been arrested, been a defendant in a criminal trial, or been convicted of a crime?"

The question compelled Newlan to reflect back bitterly on an incident from his younger days where he got arrested for a petty transgression, and so he begrudgingly checked the "YES" box. And in keeping to his form, he expanded upon his answer in the space provided below the question.

"Illegally arrested on the outrageous charge of drinking in public 28 years ago, but was vindicated when I was found innocent by a district court judge."

The words were short and to the point, but if you read between the lines you couldn't help but detect that Newlan was still resentful regarding the circumstances surrounding the incident, even after all these years.

And with that in mind, Newlan's memory banks drifted back in time as he thought to himself; "What a dumb thing to get arrested for."

He then lazily closed his eyes for a moment, and just like that he was able to recall the entire episode, in dynamic detail, as if it had just happened yesterday.

...

Newlan's parents lived across the way from a large park where the local kids hung out, and whenever they had nothing better to do, which was just about every night, they'd invariably end up drinking beers while staying hidden in the fringes of their playground hangout.

Newlan was home from college on a frigid January night back in 1980, and he had just stepped out of the house with the singular goal of joining his partying friends who were about 30 yards away, goofing around in the shivering cold (apparently, even though the temperature reading was below zero when you factored in the wind chill, that didn't stop the boys from pounding down a few beers).

Just as Newlan crossed the street, a high school buddy of his, Jackie Lester, happened to be driving by with his girlfriend, and upon recognizing that it was Newlan, he pulled over to say hello.

Newlan recalled poking his head in the passenger's side window of the vehicle. He recalled how the warmth of the car's heater, not to mention the sweet breath of Lester's girlfriend, felt good on his face. He recalled how they were just shooting the breeze, reminiscing about their good old high school days (which at the time, they were only a few years removed from). He recalled how they were just minding their own business, not bothering a soul.

Meanwhile, a squad car pulled up next to where Newlan's core group of friends were hanging out, and before they knew what hit them, two police officers jumped out of the cruiser and grabbed the first two guys they could get a hold of. In a matter of seconds, the cops had slapped handcuffs on them, while at the same time the rest of the gang dropped their beers and took off into the darkness of the park.

When one of the officer's ambled towards Newlan, he figured he had nothing to worry about since, as luck would have it, he hadn't begun his night of drinking just yet, and on top of that, he was a considerable distance away from where the real action was taking place. But be that as it may, Newlan's old buddy Jackie Lester wasn't taking any chances and so he slowly pulled his car away when he saw the cop approaching, which left Newlan out on an island, on his own to fend for himself.

There was nothing much that the well-mannered Newlan could do at that point but to nonchalantly offer up a friendly, "Good evening officer."

He was expecting the cop to tell him to scram, but what he wasn't expecting was for a pair of cuffs to be slapped on him as well.

"What the hell did I do? I wasn't causing any trouble," protested Newlan.

"It doesn't matter, we've been getting a lot of complaints about you guys drinking, and selling dope, and making noise late into the night, so we're gonna make an example out of you three."

Newlan feebly attempted to plead his case, but the roughhousing cop was having none of it. He shoved his prisoner toward the police car and threw him into the back seat where wouldn't you know it, by some stroke of shared misfortune, his two best pals, Pat Horn and Bruce Reardon, already sat waiting to be transported to the local police station.

"What's your names you punks?" gruffly demanded one of the cops.

"I'm Joe Schmo from Idaho," answered the wise-guy Newlan, which triggered the cop to take a swipe at him as he growled, "You think you're a fuckin' smart ass...well you better be careful big guy because you're not as tough as you think you are."

Newlan snapped his head back to avoid the swing -- a swing which was meant to intimidate more than anything else -- but the sudden movement caused the handcuffs, which bound his wrists, to dig in even deeper than they already were.

The cuffs became so tightly wrapped around Newlan's wrists that he thought he was going to lose circulation in his arms, which, in turn, caused his claustrophobia to kick in.

Newlan was sweating profusely, and his dilemma had him in a state of palpable distress, and the fact that the cops were emphatically lecturing them, nonstop, on the ride over to the police station, wasn't helping matters either. Not knowing what else to do, he interrupted the lawmen and tempestuously complained that his cuffs were on too tight. But the cops just laughed in his face and one of them offered up some sage advice; "You should have thought of that before you decided to become a punk".

"Now wait a minute, I'm a college student and I'm studying law," angrily declared Newlan, but the brutish cops laughed even louder at his foolishness, and the driver mockingly derided, "Like we give a shit."

When it became clear that these particular officers of the law meant business, Newlan decided he had better pipe down and quit while he was ahead. But then, as if his panic attack wasn't bad enough already, about halfway to the police station he remembered that he had a bag of marijuana cigarettes in his back pocket.

Luckily for Newlan, even with his hands tightly secured behind his back, he was able to reach the baggy and pull it out of his pocket. He then nudged Horn, who was seated next to him, and smiled mischievously as he exhibited the illicit contraband.

Based on Newlan's history, Horn and Reardon shouldn't have been surprised in the least by his cache of reefer, but nonetheless they looked on in horror as he calmly stuffed the baggy into the crease of the back seat so that it was no longer visible to the naked eye.

Newlan couldn't definitively say for sure, but to this day he believed that the baggy may have fallen all the way through the fold of the back seat and ended up in the trunk of the cruiser.

With his problem solved, Newlan breathed a huge sigh of relief, and when they arrived at the police station and the cops marched them inside, they were none the wiser that a packet of reefer had just been deposited in the rear of their vehicle, a gift courtesy of one Mr. Frank Newlan.

While they were holed up in the holding area, waiting to be booked, Newlan chortle to himself as he conjured up a scenario where a no-nonsense sergeant found the baggy while doing some sort of inspection, and then he accused the two asshole cops of hiding the weed for their own use. And as the scene flashed through his mind, he boldly boasted, "Serves 'em right for messing with Frankie Newlan."

Newlan wasn't sure how much longer he could have endured being restrained in handcuffs, so he was categorically mollified when the metal cuffs were finally removed from his wrists. But to complete their conquest, the two cops still had to frisk Newlan and his friends before they passed them along to the processing area.

"Thank God they didn't pat us down before we got in the car," implored Newlan in a prayerful tone after the cops left him and his friends unattended for a few minutes, but then he brazenly concluded, "It was probably too cold outside for them...pussies."

And when the obliviously boorish enforcers of the law returned, they had an older cop in tow with them.

"Gentlemen, this is Captain Hansen who is gonna take things over from here," announced one of the arresting officer's, but before leaving, they sarcastically said their goodbyes.

"Have a nice night boys," grunted the antagonizing cops in unison as they tipped their hats to Newlan and his pals.

Newlan had visions of mug shots and fingerprints, which never actually happened, presumably because they were arrested for such a minor offense, and much to his surprise, Captain Hansen turned out to be a nice enough guy. He was as polite and professional as could be, and he followed procedures to a T as he explained that they would have to hand over their possessions, and also remove their belts and shoelaces.

Newlan willingly complied, but at the same time he cynically griped; "don't worry, we aren't about to kill ourselves over something so stupid."

"Well we still have to take every precaution young man," retorted Captain Hansen who had a bit of John Wayne about him; both in accent and in mannerisms.

Newlan emptied his pockets which contained a wallet, a few dollars, and a condom that he kept for good luck since "well you never know", he slyly explained to Captain Hansen with an impish smile plastered across his face.

Newlan also pulled out a folded-up wad of paper from his back pocket and added it to the inventory.

"What the hell is that?" wondered Captain Hansen.

"It's a short story about the meaning of life and love that I wrote for my Creative Writing class," explained Newlan. "So if you find yourself getting bored, hanging out here at the station with nothing to do, maybe you should read it. Hey, you never know, you might actually like it."

Newlan got an "A" on the paper, and he was so proud of his work that he made copies of the story which he carried around with him and distributed to people (mostly women) who he thought might be interested in that sort of thing.

"Believe it or not," Newlan would brag to his friends, "that yarn has actually gotten me laid a few times...you know, the intellectual coed type...they prefer a sensitive guy like me. I'm telling you, don't let those bookworm looks fool you, those gals are wild between the sheets!"

After his belongings had been itemized, Newlan went on to protest his innocence again, this time to Captain Hansen. Despite his uneasy predicament, he recounted the details of his arrest to the best of his abilities (leaving out the part about the marijuana that he had deposited under the back seat of the police car of course), and at the conclusion of his breathless alibi, Newlan was pleasantly surprised to find that Captain Hansen actually seemed to believe him.

"Then again he should believe me since I'm basically telling the truth," muttered Newlan under his breath while Captain Hansen was busy processing Horn and Reardon's possessions.

If Newlan didn't know better, he would have sworn that from the way Captain Hansen was counseling him, this fair-minded solder of the law didn't like the way the younger cops operated any more than he himself did.

"Just explain your story to the judge, and hopefully everything will turn out alright," advised the good-natured captain.

"Judge!" anxiously yelped Newlan as the reality hit him that he was going to have to go to court over this ridiculous trumped-up charge.

Somehow Newlan assumed that maybe he could just pay a fine and be on his merry way, but he was learning the hard way, at a very young age, that everything doesn't always turn out alright, despite Captain Hansen's assurances.

Things got even worse, when after Newlan and his friends had been processed, another cop led them to their cells. It took only a few hours in the slammer for Newlan to come to the realization that the two bastard younger cops were winning the battle since they had in fact taught him a lesson; and the lesson was that he wasn't cut out for jail.

Newlan decided right then and there that he needed to start getting his act together, and soon; after all he was going to be a college graduate in a few months.

With his decision to take the straight-and-narrow finalized, Newlan had nothing much else better to do than to kick back in his cell, and so he flopped up onto the metal bunk and stared up at the ceiling, dreamily admiring all of the intricate graffiti that had been etched into the paint.

"Geez, some of these jailbirds are way too talented to be in prison," gathered Newlan, and with nothing but time to kill, a musical mood struck him. Absentmindedly, he began singing, and for obvious reasons, the song "Who Are You" by The Who, which tells the story of a street-corner drunkard who gets hauled off to the drunk-tank by the local cops, popped into his head.

Newlan and his buddies were all full-fledged, card-carrying members of The Who's "My Generation" ethos, which stated that they'd rather die young and free-spirited than to grow up to become stodgy old buzzards, and they waved that flag proudly. And so when he got to the catchy chorus of the boisterous tune, he wasn't too shocked to find that Horn and Reardon were ready to join in for a rousing off-key rendition of the existential refrain which basically repeated the song's title using vocal phrasings of various lengths.

Then they all joined in for an ad lib coda which included many more expletives than The Who ever dared to slip into the original recording...and then some.

The trio of friends were acting bravely, singing and shouting and swearing at each other as if they were in their bunks at summer camp, but deep inside they were masking the fact that they were all just a little bit scared.

Meanwhile, at the far end of the lockup, an old-timer who was out of Newlan's line of vision, but definitely not out of earshot, was retching and moaning to beat the band.

Newlan thought that the poor guy was about to die, and he felt as if he had to do something. He couldn't just sit there and let the old geezer croak on his watch, and so with panic in his heart, he screeched out to no one in particular; "somebody help this motherfucker."

Between the boozy singing, and the heaving upchucks, and the frenzied cries for help, the cacophonous commotion in the cavernous cellblock was deafening, and so in short order a big, mean-looking cop with a fully shaved head came storming into the dungeon-like chamber and told Newlan and his pals in no uncertain terms to quiet down or he would take them out back to the padded cell and beat the living shit out of them.

Newlan had never given it much thought before, but when he considered the countless stories he had heard about defenseless guys in handcuffs getting roughed up by sadistic cops, he quickly decided that he was done singing and complaining for the night; and furthermore the old drunk was on his own as well.

"Now _that_ would have really taught me a lesson," swallowed a shivering Newlan, and apparently the threat worked to perfection because Horn and Reardon also became noticeably more subdued after the bad-to-the-bone cop left them with his rancid food for thought.

However, a few days later, when he was able to analyze the situation more rationally, Newlan came to the realization that there was probably no such thing as the "padded cell" and he laughed resentfully at what a bunch of gullible idiots they were.

After a few hours of antsy captivity, which found the troika of friends pacing back and forth and climbing the wall of their cells like a bunch of caged animals, Captain Hansen sauntered into the holding area and conveniently announced to the three beaten comrades; "Oh, and by the way, I forgot to tell you guys, but you are each entitled to a phone call."

And so with this link to the outside world suddenly opened up for them, Horn grudgingly offered to call his mother who angrily made her way down to the station and bailed them out for fifty dollars apiece.

As the trio made their mad dash for the exits, free at last, Captain Hansen was counting the bail money, which Mrs. Horn was nice enough to contribute on an emergency loan basis, and he jokingly exclaimed, "nice doing business with you fellas...come again anytime."

"What a jerk...just when I was starting to like the guy," grumbled Newlan, although he couldn't help but chuckle at the wisecrack.

When Captain Hansen returned Newlan's possessions, he recalled counting the meager sum of money in his wallet, just as he did today with the court officer in the security line. Apparently not much had changed in the last 28 years. But nevertheless, as the convoy was getting ready to leave the police station, with Mrs. Horn bring up the rear, giving them one hell of a lecture, Captain Hansen added, "oh and by the way, Mr. Newlan that was an excellent story you wrote. You know, you should consider spending more time writing, and less time drinking beer."

"Thank you officer, you're a good man," replied Newlan and then he added his own reminder; "oh and before _I_ forget, the guy in the last cell sounds like he's really sick, maybe someone should check in on him."

Captain Hansen appreciated the concern in Newlan's voice, but it wasn't a concern he shared, and so he just shook his head vigorously and resolutely replied, "Don't worry about him. He's a regular visitor to our fine establishment. We bring him in to sober up once in a while, and so we have the corner unit reserved for him, but thank you anyway."

After Newlan and his friends had put some distance between themselves and the police station, he recalled that, out of nowhere, a dark cloud of depression came drifting over him. It seems that the plight of the alcoholic in the corner cell weighed heavily on his mind for the remainder of the evening. However, as he and his buddies rejoined the rest of the gang in a remote corner of the suburban park for a few beers and countless exaggerated retellings of the ordeal that they had just experienced, he hid his deeply-seeded despondent emotions from the prevailing winds of his youthful peers. And even though all the while he bit his lip and kept a cheerful outer-disposition, deep down inside he couldn't help but count his blessings and silently ponder; "there but for the grace of God goes me."

To this day, Newlan still recalls having an awful, reoccurring nightmare for the next two months while he apprehensively counted down the hours until his day in court arrived. He dreamed that the judge had decided to make an example of him and his friends, and as a result, he sentenced them to six months of hard labor in the House of Correction.

In his dream, Newlan proclaimed his innocence as the court officers dragged him away in shackles, but he knew full well that if the cops had arrived a few minutes later, he would have been drinking with the rest of his friends, and so in the end, he accepted the fact that he deserved his fate.

On the morning of their real case however, Reardon picked up his co-defendants in his father's car, and as they drove in nervous silence over to the district court, which was located just across the Medford city line, a steely Newlan was unwilling to admit defeat to anyone.

They triumvirate arrived at the courthouse early, so they decided to go across the street to the Dunkin Donuts for a quick cup of coffee, and who should they bump into in front of the coffee shop but the two cops who had arrested them.

Newlan stared them down, but he didn't say a word, although in his mind he was thinking, "If looks could kill, then these bastards would be dead right now."

But in return, the swinish cops just smiled and squealed, "See you in court gentlemen."

However, after enduring months of anxiety, the court hearing itself turned out to be a joke-and-a-half for Newlan and company. The audience in the gallery, which was made up primarily of people who were waiting for their own hearings, laughed heartily at the thought of three young punks being pulled into court for something as stupid as drinking a few beers on a street corner.

Overseeing the proceedings was a Judge DeMarco, who also seemed to be a bit annoyed at the officers for wasting the court's valuable time with such a trivial matter.

There was no district attorney on hand for minor cases such as this, and so the way it worked was that one of the officers was asked to testified, and then some sort of court clerk asked him a few obviously leading questions.

The cop, who Newlan now learned was Officer Graves, told his story fairly accurately as far as the details pertaining to Reardon and Horn's arrests; since they were essentially caught in the act, no hyperbole was necessary. But when it came to the specifics of Newlan's unexpected confinement, Officer Graves embellished his account to such a disturbing degree that Newlan suddenly felt a sense of outrage creeping up from somewhere deep within him.

Officer Graves asserted that when he approached Newlan, he was leaning into the passenger's side window of an unidentified vehicle, and that he dropped a packet into the car which then sped off.

"This guy is trying to insinuate that I'm a drug dealer," conjectured an annoyed Newlan, although in the back of his mind he fully understood just how lucky he was that he had been able to ditch the baggy of high-grade marijuana; otherwise, he truly might be headed off to the House of Correction.

Graves added that he observed Newlan drop a beer bottle into the gutter so he placed him under arrest. And while he was telling his tall tale, his partner approached the podium and handed him a plastic bag that contained two doctored beer bottles. The labels had been peeled off and replaced with an exaggerated skull-and-crossbones sticker which was marked with the word "POISON".

"What a sham," snarled Newlan as the peanut gallery audience howled with muffled glee over the charade they were witnessing. Although to his credit, he reluctantly gave the cops their due for creativity.

After all was said and done, Newlan curiously speculated that the bottles, what with the skull-and-crossbones art, would have made a cool cover for a Grateful Dead album, and he wondered why the band members of the Dead themselves never thought of it.

At the moment however, Newlan had more pressing issues on his mind. The presentation of the bottles marked the end of the prosecution's feeble case, which was Judge DeMarco's queue to address the triune of friends with an inquiry regarding whether they had any questions for Officer Graves. The three youthful friends huddled up and intently discussed the situation before Horn and Reardon bowed out; they decided that they wanted no part in asking anyone any questions. But Newlan, on the other hand, saw this as an opportunity to put to use what he had learned in his college law classes.

When Newlan thought about it now, in the present tense, he realized that he must have looked ridiculous. There they were, three red-eyed burn-outs with long, stringy, greasy hair, wearing dirty jeans and concert tee shirts. Did he really expect to be taken seriously by the judge as he questioned a police officer in a court of law? But serious or not, at the time of Graves' outlandish testimony, Newlan was damned if he was going let this jerk get away with his lies without at least putting up a fight.

Newlan shot up from his seat and roared (probably a bit too loudly but he was so amped-up he couldn't help it); "Officer Graves, if you saw me drop a packet into the car, then why didn't you order the vehicle to stop? Or write down the license plate number? Or maybe even radio in for help?"

Graves was visibly stunned by the audacity of this little punk, questioning his authority, but all he could come up with was that the car sped off too quickly for him to take any of the pursuing actions that Newlan had recommended.

Newlan glance over at Judge DeMarco who nodded for him to continue with a somewhat fatherly look, and he seemed to sense that the judge also doubted what Graves was insinuating, which gave him even more confidence.

"Officer Graves you say that I dropped a bottle of beer into the gutter?"

"Yes," firmly responded Officer Graves with a nod of his head, but it suddenly dawned on Newlan that Graves' partner had only offered up two bottles of beer as evidence, and he seized on the inconsistency.

"Well then, did you pick up the bottle?" demanded Newlan, and again Graves' reaction was one of utter contempt.

"There were so many empty beer bottles in the gutter...I wasn't sure which one was yours."

"What a ridiculous story," silently groused Newlan, and despite the gravity of the situation, he couldn't help but wryly grin at the absurdity of the whole silly affair. And with his wit came a plucky aplomb which was gathering up speed so rapidly you could practically feel it as he addressed Judge DeMarco.

"Your honor, Officer Graves wants us to believe that the gutter was inundated with such an endless sea of debris that he couldn't distinguish the bottle I allegedly dropped amongst all the other bottles. This story just doesn't make any sense, none whatsoever, not one iota. Your honor, if you please, let the record show that my family and I live across the street from the location of which Officer Graves speaks, and I can assure you that the good tax payers of Medford would never allow a nice suburban stretch of road, such as the street in question, to be littered with beer bottles."

And while Newlan was making his final stand, Graves glared at him every step of the way. The insinuation was clear; the roles had been reversed; this kid was calling _him_ a liar.

For his part, Judge DeMarco was equally surprised by Newlan's performance, but in his case, the astonishment was due to the fact that he was quite impressed by the young maven in the making, and he was pretty sure he knew who was telling the truth.

"I have no further questions your honor," announced Newlan, and Judge DeMarco frowned as he peered over at Officer Graves and simply said, "You may step down sir."

Judge DeMarco then took a moment to explain to the court that Newlan and his friends had a right to testify if they so desired. And again, knowing full well that they were guilty as charged, Horn and Reardon decided not to testify, but naturally Newlan took to the stand in his own defense.

Newlan repeated his story, just as he had to Captain Hansen, making sure to mention the fact that the driver of the unidentified car was merely an old acquaintance of his who happened to be cruising by as he tiptoed out of his house.

"Your honor, I had just stepped outside, so I never had a chance to have a beer with the guys even if I wanted to," confessed Newlan, which drew another chuckle from the gallery.

"But in all seriousness your honor, I'm not denying that Mr. Horn and Mr. Reardon are my friends. All I'm saying is that on this particular evening, I was absolutely not drinking a beer in public, and I did absolutely nothing wrong. And on top of that, Officer Graves flat-out informed me that he was going to make an example out of me, regardless of whether I had been drinking or not."

When Newlan completed his well-rehearsed oratory, Judge DeMarco asked the court clerk who had halfheartedly questioned Officer Graves whether he would like to cross-examine Newlan, and much to Newlan's surprise the clerk answered with a meek, "no questions your honor."

After the formalities were out of the way, Judge DeMarco announced, "Let me think about this for a minute," but within thirty seconds he declared, "Mr. Newlan I find you not guilty, you are free to go."

And with his good name vindicated, Newlan was awash with contentment. The entire experience had somehow changed him, and it all felt so surreal. As he traipsed out of the courtroom it seemed as if he was walking on air, and as he ambled down the center aisle of the gallery, he looked directly into Officer Graves' hateful eyes and smiled a short response.

"Have a nice day officer!"

After his victory march, Newlan lingered triumphantly outside the courtroom eagerly waiting to be apprised of Horn and Reardon's fate. As it turned out, Judge DeMarco continued their cases without a finding, which, in essence, meant that if they stayed out of trouble for six months then their arrests would be dropped from the record as well.

Newlan left the courthouse that day with a renewed sense of confidence in our justice system, proudly thinking to himself, "I guess the system _does_ work."

He was unsure whether most judges would have taken the word of a wise-assed college student over the word of a police officer, no matter how unreliable the police officer's narrative seemed to be, and he was pleasantly surprised that Judge DeMarco had the foresight to see through the improbability of Officer Graves' story and find him innocent.

Newlan was so impressed with the jurisprudent machinations of Judge DeMarco's thought-process and his ability to filter fact from fiction that he ended up writing him a gracious letter, thanking him for his impartiality, and for giving the case his full attention, even though it was such a minor offense. He recognized that it would have probably been easier for Judge DeMarco to continue all three of their cases without a finding, and he was duly impressed that the wise jurist went out of his way to treat him differently than his friends based on the details presented before him.

Much to Newlan's astonishment, Judge DeMarco actually wrote back to him; a neatly worded, handwritten note on official Commonwealth of Massachusetts stationary. In his brief letter, he eloquently stated something to the affect that our system of justice may not be flawless, but it is still the best system in the world, and that he treated each and every case with the same level of sincerity.

As a matter of fact, Newlan still had the letter saved somewhere in his file cabinet along with all of his other mementos, which isn't too unexpected, since of course, Newlan had always been obsessive about saving old letters.

...

And now all these years later, as Newlan filled out his juror questionnaire and harked back on the long ago episode, little did he realize that he was once again about to have his faith in our justice system tested to the max. But of course this time it was not he who would be on trial; although, then again, in some ungodly way...maybe he would be.

### Chapter 8 – Ships in the Night and Sacrificial Lambs

Wednesday morning June 4, 2008 – 9:57 AM

Even though it required a rocky detour down memory lane, Newlan managed to fill out the juror questionnaire without doing too much damage to his psyche...and then he returned to the back of the long line just in time to endure another extended wait. But little-by-little he crawled along until once again he made his way to the front of the juror check-in counter.

The court officer on duty at the desk collected Newlan's form and in return handed him a small card which contained his name, badge number, and juror number; and for those of you who appreciate the benefits of the occasional visual fortification, the card looked a little something like this:

As we can plainly see, Newlan's juror number was "33", and the first thought that came rushing into his fanatical head was, "Larry Bird's number...that's gotta be a good omen!"

You see, the Boston Celtics were in the NBA Finals, which were set to begin tomorrow night, and from Newlan's rabid, superstitious-sports-fan vantage point, having the same number as the ex-Celtic great had to be a positive sign that the Celtics were destined to win another championship.

As to whether the number "33" would affect the status of his civic duty in any way, Newlan had no idea, and at that moment he didn't really care. The only thing that mattered was his belief that this random stroke of numerical kismet would bring back the Leprechaun, the Shamrock, and the long lost luck of the Irish to the Celtics...and that was good enough for him.

What factor, if any, Newlan's lucky number "33" would actually play in the Green Team's fortunes is a discussion for another day, but the double three's certainly would not turn out to be a favorable draw in the lottery that he was about to be entered into.

Once Newlan's paperwork was deemed to be in order, the court officer explained that he could take a seat anywhere in the assembly room, or hang out in the hallway, but he had to be sure that he was within earshot of the speaker system. And he then went on to provide Newlan with the same stern sermon that he gave to all the jurors who made their way through his courthouse.

"If your number's called and you don't respond, you'll be marked absent and you'll have to come back to serve again another day. And what's worse, you could be fined up to two thousand dollars...so I would advise that you pay attention."

And although the court officer spoke with authority, Newlan was unimpressed by his warnings. He just wasn't in the mood for it. He had been through this drill many times before so he was familiar with the routine by now, and he didn't need some dumb pseudo-cop lecturing him.

"Don't worry, when my number is called I'll be ready, you can be damned sure of that," absent-mindedly grunted a defiant Newlan in what appeared to be an involuntary stream-of-consciousness foreshadowing. Whether he was referring to being seated on a jury, or perhaps contemplating the end of his earthly journey through space-and-time, not even he could say for sure. But in any event, as it would turn out, he wasn't quite prepared to face-off against either one of these momentous turning-points in his life; for there are some milestones in our mortal existence that no amount of foresight can prepare us for.

Newlan's double entendre had him feeling a bit dazed-and-confused as he stumbled into the waiting area, which was getting quite crowded, but he found an empty seat at the front of the room and he pulled out one of a handful of Rolling Stone magazines that he had brought along with him to kill the time.

After ten minutes or so, a petite woman of about 40 years of age sat down next to Newlan, which was no big deal given that most of the other seats in the cavernous room were already taken except for a few chairs in the first couple rows, but it perked his interest nonetheless.

Newlan hastily decided that the situation called for a cool, calm, and collected plan of attack, and as such he gave the woman a slight nod, acknowledging her presence, before promptly going back to reading his magazine...but not before unobtrusively checking her out first. As a single man, Newlan constantly had his radar going, and he considered any social event, be it a wedding, or a funeral, or even jury duty, as a potential opportunity to meet a dating partner.

Whenever Newlan went on one of these reconnaissance missions, he routinely made it a point to glance at the woman's fingers, looking for evidence of a wedding ring, before getting in too deep (after of course first checking out for the all-important physical attributes). And as it turned out, the woman now seated next to him wore no rings at all, and she wasn't bad-looking, so that in itself was a signal to send in the reinforcements.

Passing the wedding ring test was critical to Newlan because he had long ago formulated a strict policy of never fooling around with married women, and the rationale behind this decision was very sound indeed.

"After all you never know when some jealous husband might come around looking for you with a gun," reasoned Newlan, and he had no idea just how astute this observation would turn out to be.

Although, if truth be told, Newlan would be the first to admit that he didn't always obey his own guidelines to the letter of the law...but then again, that was when he was young and stupid. Sure, he had had an encounter or two with a bevy of desperate housewives, but "what's done is done" as he liked to say, and at least he learned from his mistakes.

Beyond the jealous husbands, Newlan's dilemma had just as much to do with the fact that anytime he had one of these illicit trysts, he was guaranteed to be troubled by a guilty conscience afterwards. And what was worse, for days on end, he'd be plagued by a strange feeling that there was some sort of tell-tale sign giving away his cheating heart; it was as if everyone was staring at him, judging him, passing along his dirty little secrets in gossiping whispers; it was as if he had been branded with a scarlet letter which was broadcasting the news of his indiscretions to the entire world, and it always left him feeling vulnerably exposed.

Newlan eventually came to the realization that this was no way to live, and he hadn't shacked up with another man's wife in quite some time. Although, perhaps his respite had more to do with the fact that the opportunity just hadn't presented itself in quite some time. After all, it isn't an everyday occurrence that a married woman drops into your lap like a leaf from a tree; even though, if we are being forthright, we all know that it _does_ happens more often than we would care to admit.

Like most men, Newlan was weak when it came to the sins of the flesh. He was also astute enough to acknowledge that, even now, in a moment of indecisiveness, he might still give in to temptation. And so he did his best to keep his distance from the flirtatious advances of any and all diamond-studded, ring-wearing suitors who crossed his path; he did his best to avoid the smoldering eye-contact that a married co-worker would occasionally send in his direction; he did his best to shield himself from the dangerous liaisons that have led to the demise of so many a man.

On the other hand, when it came to single women, that was a different story; all bets were off and it was every man for himself as far as Newlan was concerned. He still enjoyed the discovery and excitement of a new amour; it was just the predictability and the eventual boredom that came along with long-term relationships that he didn't care for so much.

As it is plain to see, Newlan had some serious commitment issues. However, he was well aware of the fact that he was stubbornly set in his ways, and he didn't need anyone telling him as much. But despite his disapproval, lots of people would remind him of his shortcomings anyway.

As we have already learned, Newlan had plenty of female companions, and he was perfectly happy with the life that he had chosen for himself. Sure he went out on his share of casual dates, but he had pretty much resigned himself to being a life-long bachelor, and he wondered why his so-called "friends and loved ones" couldn't resign themselves to that fact as well. And sure he understood that they all had his best interests at heart, but sometimes he wanted to tell everyone to just leave him alone and mind their own business.

The only woman that Newlan ever _really_ loved was his high school sweetheart, Marianne Plante. But that was eons ago, and lamentably it didn't work out due to his immaturity; or plainly put, he did way too much partying back in those days for Plante's tastes, and as such, he pretty much scared her off for good. But, as he had often said, just because it didn't work out with Plante, that didn't mean he had to stop trying to meet "Ms. Right"; for despite his confirmed bachelorhood status, he still had visions of someday being swept off his feet by the perfect woman...and so when the lovely lady seated next to him in the assembly room struck up a conversation, he was all ears.

"I heard that they're calling in 300 jurors a day just to handle all of these murder trials," exclaimed the friendly stranger.

"Well there gonna need them, since I'm sure, one way or another, most of these people are gonna get themselves out of being on a jury," replied Newlan with a smile.

"How do you figure?" asked the woman who then added, "by the way, my name is Gloria...Gloria Moorhead."

Newlan sensed a friendliness in Moorhead's tone, which put him at ease, and so he extended his hand as he went non-stop right back into expounding upon his theory.

"Hi I'm Frank Newlan, nice to meet you. I just think that most of these people are gonna come up with any excuse they can think of...whether it's work-related...or a medical condition...or some of them will even claim that they can't speak English. You name it and someone's thought of it. I'm telling you, people will do anything to get off jury duty, and who can blame them?"

" _Oh_ , I guess I just never thought of it that way," confessed Moorhead as Newlan inconspicuously gaped at her.

Desperate to keep the conversation going, Newlan chuckled and added, "Now me however, I won't lie to get off jury duty...but I may try acting crazy and see if that helps. Also, if you'll notice, I haven't cut my hair in a while...well that's on purpose. I decided I'd put it off until after jury duty...I figure it never hurts to look a little scraggily."

Moorhead shot Newlan a skeptical look, but he shrugged his shoulders in return as he sheepishly contended; "Hey, you never know."

Moorhead smiled back at Newlan and lightly touched his wrist as she spoke.

"I think you look fine...so don't expect to get off _that_ easy."

Newlan recalled reading somewhere that whenever a woman touches your arm while talking to you, it's considered a sign of flirting, and so his interest in Ms. Gloria Moorhead was definitely perking up.

"And with a name like Moorhead, imagine the possibilities," thought the devilish Newlan.

Moorhead had dark skin and straight, medium length, jet-black hair. She wasn't bad looking at all, although she did have a tiny mole on her upper right lip; not a Cindy Crawford beauty-mark type of a mole, but more of an unsightly blemish. And yet despite her flaws, all things considered, Moorhead wasn't looking too shabby...or so thought Frank Newlan.

"Besides, I'm no prize myself," reasoned Newlan.

At some point over the years, Newlan had come to the realization that he may have set his standards a bit too high, and he was suddenly becoming much more realistic in his old age when it came to the women he dated.

Feeling good about his chances, Newlan was just about to make a provocative comment to Moorhead when the chief court officer approached the podium at the front of the room and asked for everybody's attention.

"Damn it. Just when I was making some headway with my new friend, _Ms. Gloria Moorhead,"_ silently whispered Newlan in the best John Houseman impression he could muster.

From the looks of things, it was time for the orientation speech, which Newlan was already quite familiar with from his previous jury duty experiences. He recalled that the court officer in charge of the orientation would usually begin by trying to tell a few jokes (which if he was lucky might get some muted laughter) before moving on to the crux of the presentation, and sure enough the amateur comedian once again gave it his best stand-up routine.

"Now listen up, if you are one of the ' _unlucky_ _ones_ ' who doesn't get chosen for a trial, we will do our best to get you out of here as soon as possible...maybe even by noon or early afternoon...and you will still be credited for a full day of service. Of course, you are free to go back to work, but don't worry, we won't tell your employer if you decide to go shopping for the rest of the day," explained the court officer to a few smiles, but mostly silent, stone faces.

The court officer then warned everyone against wandering off, and he reminded them that they had to be ready to go if their number was called upon to be taken up to a courtroom.

"Otherwise you will be marked absent, and you will have to return for jury duty again on another day, or even worse you could be fined up to two thousand dollars."

Every scenario that the court officer came up with for missing an announcement, such as being in the bathroom, or going for a walk down the hallway, or going outside for a cigarette, was following by the same mantra of, "otherwise you'll be marked absent and you will have to return for jury duty again on another day, or even worse you could be fined up to two thousand dollars."

The court officer went on to say that they would be watching a brief informational video shortly, and after that a judge would be coming in to address them.

Newlan vaguely remembered the awful video (it apparently hadn't been updated in decades), but he didn't recall a judge addressing the prospective jurors in the past, so he thought that maybe at least that might be somewhat interesting.

The video started off with the soothing voice of a friendly, female, African American judge welcoming everyone to jury duty and thanking them for their time before she began covering some basic courtroom concepts such as the difference between a criminal and a civil trial.

The prospective jurors learned that a trial typically pitted the State (for criminal trials) or the plaintiff (for civil trials) vs. the defendant. They were also educated on the fact that criminal trials required a unanimous verdict while civil trials required a 10 to 2 decision.

The video went on to explained how each lawyer could use "peremptory challenges" to remove a limited number of jurors without cause.

"If you are challenged, you should not take it personally," counseled the celluloid judge, and if Newlan had been paying attention he would have known that she was the powerful, high-ranking Supreme Judicial Court Chief Justice, Margaret H. Marshall.

Newlan again thought back to his prior jury duty experiences, where he had almost been selected onto a few criminal trials, only to get booted off by the district attorney each time; and each time, he did feel slightly offended; each time, he did get upset; each time, he absolutely did take it personally, regardless of what some talking-head on a video monitor was advising him to do.

Newlan regarded the act of being challenged by the DA to be an indication that he was somehow unfit or unqualified to serve as a juror. But in the end, he always rationalized his removal by reminding himself that he didn't really want to be on a jury in the first place.

The video finally finished after about twenty minutes, and as the lights flickered back on, Newlan had to laugh when he looked around the room only to observe countless pairs of sleepy, narrow eyelids peering back at him.

"Great," thought Newlan after the video was over, "now I can get back to my conversation with the lovely Ms. Moorhead."

But before he could so much as get another word in edgewise, the head court officer was back at the podium asking for everyone's attention again.

"Ladies and gentleman, I'd like to introduce you to superior court Judge Paul DeMarco who would like to say a few words to you" declared the court officer, and the announcement immediately captured Newlan's attention.

"Judge DeMarco? It couldn't be the same Judge DeMarco who presided over my stupid case, could it?" wondered Newlan. But sure enough it _was_ him...one and the same.

"He's gotta be close to 80 years old by now," thought an awe-struck Newlan, and all he could do was shake his head and mumble, "man, you can't make this shit up"; it was a favorite expression of his, an expression he would use often in the coming weeks.

The semi-retired Judge DeMarco still possessed a perfectly sculpted head of gray hair, and like Gloria Moorhead, he also had a deep, dark tan, but otherwise, he looked just as Newlan remembered him.

"Jeez, I gotta get me some sun, I look like a ghost next to these people," silently griped Newlan as Judge DeMarco slowly made his way to the podium with his black robe dragging the ground behind him.

The honorable judge then went on to make the following eloquent, albeit well-rehearsed, speech:

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, and on behalf of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, I'd like to thank you for reporting to jury duty today."

"The main point I'd like to stress this morning is that citizens like you, who are willing to serve as jurors, truly form the foundation of our democracy. The right to a trial by a jury of one's peers stands as a safeguard of our civil liberties...and serving on a jury is by far one of the greatest responsibilities that will ever be entrusted upon you as citizens of our great state."

"Ever since colonial times when our first pilgrims came across the Atlantic, they brought with them the concept of trial by jury, and in fact, Thomas Jefferson once said, 'I consider trial by jury to be the only anchor ever yet imagined by which a government can be held to the principles of its constitution'."

"Outside of serving in the military, I, like Thomas Jefferson, also consider jury duty to be one of the greatest duties that we as citizens may perform in order to protect our constitutional freedoms. Ordinary people such as yourselves are entrusted with extraordinary authority; to listen to the facts in a case and arrive at a verdict."

"Sharing the responsibility in our judicial system prevents governmental corruption and tyranny, and as one of our chief justices once said; 'jurors bring fresh minds.' People from any and all walks of life are eligible to serve as jurors. All that is required of you is the ability to listen and to use your common sense."

"Our system is called the One-Day/One-Trial system, meaning that you are only obligated to show up for one day, and, if you are not impaneled, you will be released from your service for at least three years. If you are impaneled, you will be required to serve for the length of the trial which can last anywhere from a few days to a few weeks and in rare cases sometimes even a few months. However, most of you will complete your civic duty within three days, and the overwhelming majority of you will have completed your service by the end of the day."

"The Office of Jury Commissioner endeavors to furnish juries that include a fair representation of our populace. If you were to be charged with a crime, I'm sure you would want and expect the jury to be impartial, and so, naturally, all who appear before the court should be given the same consideration."

"Ladies and gentlemen, each day over one thousand of your fellow citizens report for jury duty at one of the many courthouses across the Commonwealth, so you are not alone. And since we no longer allow exemptions of any kind, other than age and illness, our jurors can come from all sorts of professions, include judges and lawyers."

"Today you are sitting in the Middlesex Superior Courthouse where we hear cases ranging from relatively minor offenses right on up to first degree murder trials. As a matter of fact, we have a number of high-profile cases that are impaneling juries today...and you could very well find yourself on of one of these juries."

"Over the course of the day our court officers will do everything in their power to keep you informed as to your status, but we hope you can understand that oftentimes they will not be able to share any details with you. And even though you might feel secluded here in the waiting area, you can rest assured that we are working hard in the courtroom, taking care of the business at hand; business that we might not be able to complete if you were not here...ready, willing, and able to assist us in the process of meting out justice in a fair and consistent manner."

"In conclusion, let me reminder you that even if you are not selected to serve on a jury, the mere presence of jurors in the courthouse is invaluable to us. You see ladies and gentlemen, just the fact that you are here will influence many parties to come to a settlement before they ever go to trial. I can tell you from my experience alone that it happens quite often. A defendant may be willing to accept a plea bargain in a criminal case, or a litigant in a civil case may agree to a settlement, all because the parties know that good people such as you are here, waiting to be seated on their jury."

"Again, on behalf of the Commonwealth, I thank you for coming, and I want you to know that you truly make a difference in our judicial system."

With his speech finished, Judge DeMarco stepped down from the podium, and as he did, Newlan contemplated running over to him and asking whether he remembered "the case of the street-corner beer drinkers", but ultimately he decided that he'd be best served to turn his attention back to Ms. Gloria Moorhead instead.

"Well, that was a nice gesture, having a judge address us and all...except that it was basically the same speech that the judge in the video gave us," remarked Newlan. "Sure, Judge DeMarco, who by the way is an old friend of mine, added some nice touches, such as mentioning the pilgrims and Thomas Jefferson...but come on now, that stuff's ancient history. Talk about being melodramatic!"

"You're so funny Frank," giggled Moorhead. But all kidding aside, the speech actually did help to foster a feeling within Newlan that he was doing an important service; although at the moment, all matters relating to Ms. Gloria Moorhead took precedence over this coincidental close-encounter with his distant past.

Newlan looked over at Moorhead and casually purred, "So...where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?"

It was clear from her body language that Moorhead was definitely showing an interest in Newlan, but before she could respond, a voice over the intercom announced, "Would jurors number 1 through 75 please take all your belongings and line up in the hallway."

"Aw hell," groused Newlan, "what number do you have?"

"143," replied Moorhead with a pout as she showed Newlan her juror card.

Newlan was now faced with a predicament; should he ask Moorhead for her phone number and take a chance at being rejected? What did he have to lose? If she said no, he'd never see her again anyway.

However in Newlan's mind, he had a lot to lose; a little thing called self-respect. He hated the bitter sting of rejection so much that he'd very rarely ask a woman out on a date unless he was already 99.9% sure that she would say yes. This practice led to numerous occasions over the years where an aggressive, courting female would practically have to hit him over the head with a hammer to get him to notice that she were flirting with him...and only then would he build up the nerve to ask her out.

Because of this irrational fear (one of many by the way in a long list of Newlan's character flaws), he was hoping to converse with Moorhead a bit longer to ensure that she wasn't just teasing him, before proceeding with caution.

But in the end, unable to make a rushed decision, Newlan threw in the towel and simply said, "It was a pleasure talking to you."

Moorhead extended her hand and replied, "you too."

She then winked and added, "oh, and good luck getting off whatever case they're bringing you to."

Newlan gave her an unintentional grimace as he got up and slowly walked away, while at the same time thinking, "Curses...foiled again."

As Newlan got to the arch of the door leading to the hallway, he turned and looked back; he had to look back, he always looked back. He was going to say something to Moorhead; he had to say something to Moorhead, but for the life of him he couldn't think of anything to say.

Meanwhile, it appeared as if Moorhead was about to say something too, but she was tongue-tied as well, and all she could manage was to form a wisp of a smile and wave goodbye.

"Oh well, just two ships that passed in the night," muttered Newlan as he sadly made his way to the end of the growing line that was forming out in the hallway, where all around him a slew of court officers were herding up prospective jurors as if they were a flock of sacrificial lambs...headed off to slaughter.

### Chapter 9 – Rhyme or Reason (God's Plan)?

Wednesday morning June 4, 2008 – 11:15 AM

Newlan and the other prospective jurors stood patiently in the hallway, waiting what seemed like forever for the next set of instructions from the court officers, and after repeated announcements over the intercom of, "would jurors number 1 through 75 please take all your belongings and line up in the hallway," followed by more confused-looking jurors joining in the line, one of the court officers finally gave them a briefing.

"Ladies and gentlemen we are going to be taking you up to courtroom number 630 where a criminal case is in the process of seating jurors. The judge will explain the details of the case...so please don't ask us about it. To save time we are going to take the stairs up to the courtroom, but anyone who would rather take the elevator please remain in the hallway and a court officer will be available to escort you. But first we need to take attendance. Please answer 'here' or 'present' when your name is called."

And so began the roll call which would determine the fate of the 75 common men and women who stood waiting in line. But for a suddenly distracted Newlan, the court officer's news brought yet another numerical omen...this time a bad one; the courtroom number, 630, was an exact match with his apartment number. And while another person may have thought the coincidence to be reason enough to by a lottery ticket, for Newlan it was reason to believe that the odds of courtroom 630 becoming his home-away-from-home was growing by the minute; for Newlan it was just another excuse to mumble his favorite expression; "Man, you can't make this shit up."

But despite Newlan's growing state of disbelief, he forged on, and after the completion of attendance, which also seemed to go on and on, they were ready to roll. Newlan decided he would rather take the stairs, and he watched with curiosity as four court officers hustled back and forth trying to get the procession organized, while occasionally stopping to talk on their two-way radios.

"Ten four," shouted one of the officer's into his radio after another delay, and then he exclaimed to the prospective jurors, "OK everybody...follow me."

The majority of the 74 other jurors also decided to take the stairs, and so began their slow march into the halls of justice, led by a very large, muscular court officer and trailed by his short, older, roly-poly colleague.

If Newlan didn't know better he would have guessed that the court officers were guarding the prospective jurors, as much as they were leading them, to make sure that no one escaped; it was as if they were convicts on a chain-gang, and suddenly he felt as if he himself was a prisoner; it was a feeling he would come to know all too well in the weeks ahead.

Newlan climbed the three flights of stairs without a problem, but he could hear many of the prospective jurors breathing rather heavily by the time they made their way up to the sixth floor. He was in pretty good shape for a 49 year old man, but he realized he could be in even better shape if he gave it more of an effort. Although, either way, he resigned himself to the fact that he was probably never going to have a flat belly again, like he did in the days of his youth.

Newlan would go down to the exercise room in his condo complex a few times a week, which he figured was better than nothing, albeit not by much. On the other hand, he never smoked cigarettes, and he recently decided to watch his diet more closely, so all in all he felt pretty good, health wise. His annual checkup and blood tests routinely came back with normal results, and his blood pressure and cholesterol counts were excellent for a man of his age as well. And yet despite of all of these positive test results, he was a bit of a hypochondriac; it seemed that every little ache and pain would cause him much consternation and have him rushing to see his primary care physician, Doctor Donald Clay.

Doctor Clay had reached the point where he expected Newlan to show up for a consultation every few months, and Newlan finally realized that maybe he was losing it when Doctor Clay recommended some sort of anti-anxiety medication along with psychiatric counseling.

"Don't worry doc, you're not the first person who's told me that they think I'm crazy," Newlan remembered exclaiming to the good doctor.

"I don't think you're crazy Mr. Newlan, I just think you need to learn how to relax," replied Doctor Clay with a friendly yet all-business smile, the kind of smile that they teach you in medical school.

But truth be told, Newlan didn't really care whether Doctor Clay (or anyone else for that matter) thought he was crazy or not. On the flip-side however, he wasn't too happy about an incident where he thought he was having chest pains, and after numerous tests, his perceptive physician prescribed him with heartburn medication and told him that his problems were all in his head.

After that episode, Newlan's trips to Doctor Clay's office decreased dramatically. He reasoned that otherwise, if he really did end up coming down with a serious malady, Doctor Clay might think he was faking it, and he'd wind up being like the boy who cried wolf once too often.

But now after climbing three flights of stairs and walking into a situation that was rife for an anxiety attack, Newlan felt perfectly fine, both physically and mentally, which actually kind of surprised him.

"If only Doctor Clay could see me now," softly groaned Newlan with a sense of mock pride as he waited for the line to catch up to him. And when the rest of the prospective jurors finally did reach the sixth floor landing they were brusquely motioned towards courtroom 630 where a husky court officer was holding the door open while another officer was patiently ushering everyone into the bench-styled pews.

Newlan found the scene to be oddly reminiscent of a seating ceremony that you might find at a wedding service, and it reminded him that he hadn't been to church in ages, which in turn caused his big catholic guilt to kick in.

And while Newlan kept himself busy pondering his existential fate, slowly but surely all of the prospective jurors, many who appeared to be extremely nervous, quietly filed into the courtroom; and from there they were promptly seated in the same orderly manner by the court officers.

The first couple of rows were already filled with what Newlan assumed were people who had an interest in the case, and so he had to take a seat all the way down the end of the fourth pew on the right hand side of the courtroom.

A high-strung young man in his early twenties was seated next to Newlan, and he could tell that the poor kid was petrified, so he leaned over to the lad and whispered; "hey buddy, relax, it's a well known fact that lawyers don't want young guys like you on the jury."

But despite his good intentions, Newlan's calming words didn't seem to help, because he noticed that the youngster appeared to be utterly confused as to why someone was talking to him. If anything, the bambino looked even more freaked-out than he did before Newlan's little pep talk, so he decided to quit while he was ahead, and he didn't say another word to the kid.

The youngster's fear was almost contagious, but at this stage in the game, Newlan himself still wasn't too worried about the situation. He had gotten this far in the jury selection process many times before, and he never ended up making the final cut, so he figured the odds were still in his favor; despite the prophetic fact that he shared an apartment number with the courtroom.

It took a while, but the court officers eventually got all of the prospective jurors seated. However, even with the seating process complete, nothing of importance happened in the way of courtroom activity for at least another fifteen minutes (although to Newlan the delay once again seemed like an eternity). The courtroom became eerily quiet during this break in the action, and Newlan used the time to scan his surroundings, searching for signs of life in the morass of inactivity.

The first thing Newlan noticed was that renowned local Defense Attorney, R. J. Gleason was sitting at the defense table on the right hand side of the courtroom. Gleason was a tall, husky, balding man in his mid 50's with white hair, a bushy white beard, and thick, brown-rimmed glasses. Newlan recalled seeing Gleason on TV on a number of occasions over the years, and for some reason he never forgot his face; for some reason the name stuck in his mind like mud to the side of a car driving through a dirt road in the rain.

Gleason was no stranger to the spotlight. In fact, it had become common practice for him to have to go on TV to discuss the outcome of his cases, and over time he began to relish the notoriety that his occupation brought him, especially after he got over his initial camera-shyness.

Most of the time it seemed as if Gleason took on cases that he had no chance of winning; although, over the course of his career, he _did_ manage to procure reduced sentences for a handful of his clients who were obviously guilty, so that in itself could be considered a small moral victory.

Based on Gleason's presence, Newlan deduced that the courtroom he found himself in was probably hosting one of the high-profile murder cases, although he didn't recall reading Gleason's name in the newspaper story about the three horrible hubbys.

Sitting next to Gleason was a stocky man with a chiseled jaw and few gray hairs in his sideburns. By the looks of his fidgety mannerisms, Newlan assumed that the poor sucker was the defendant, and he observed him closely. He was positive that the defendant wasn't Townshend, who he had seen pictures of in the newspaper, so he figured the bedraggled sap had to be either Breslin or McMahn...and if his co-worker Bobby Parant's inkling was accurate then it stood to reason that it had to be John Breslin who he was now staring at.

In any event, the defendant, whoever he was, appeared to be in his late forties, and he was wearing a light brown sports jacket and a tie, neither of which seemed to fit around his muscular chest and neck properly. He was also wearing bifocal glasses which he nervously adjusted as he sifted through a stack of papers on the desk. As far as Newlan was concerned, the distressed dude could just as easily have been an absent-minded professor at Tafts University, what with the nerdy glasses and the ill-fitting suit, as opposed to a murder suspect.

Two well-dressed professionals sat at another desk on the left hand side of the courtroom, and after a few minutes Newlan turned his attention to them.

"They must be the district attorneys," assumed Newlan, and so far he was correct on all counts; although, it didn't take a genius to figure out what was going on up to this point in his adventure.

One of the DA's was a woman who looked to be well over sixty years old, even though in reality she was actually quite younger than that. She had long frizzy gray hair which, when combined with her big round glasses, contributed to her aged appearance. She also seemed to have a permanent scowl on her face which didn't help matters either. All in all, you could make a case that she was in need of the services of a good beauty parlor, and maybe someone or something to put a smile on her face every now and then.

Sitting next to the elder DA was a junior male lawyer who appeared to be just out of law school, and the contrast between the two of them couldn't have been more pronounced.

The judge's chair, which was raised quite a few feet so that it loomed large as it looked down on the rest of the courtroom, currently sat empty, while at the same time two court clerks, who were stationed behind a long table which was situated just below the judge's bench area, kept themselves busy organizing piles of documents which seemed to be scattered haphazardly all over the place.

To the left of the DA's desk sat sixteen comfortable-looking swivel chairs in two rows of eight, which of course, as anyone who has ever watched a courtroom drama dating back to the days of Perry Mason all the way up to LA Law could tell you was the jury box.

Meanwhile, two court officers were strategically placed on either side of the courtroom and another officer was standing by the entrance doors. Every once in a while one of the court officer's would whisper into his two-way radio, which Newlan found to be reminiscent of a security crew who had been entrusted with guarding the stage at a big rock concert. And at right about this time he was wishing that he was at a concert (or more precisely, he was wishing that he was anywhere other than there in the courtroom).

Newlan's mind was beginning to wander into a daydream about what he was going to have for lunch, when all of a sudden he was jarred back to reality by the sound of one of the court officer's exclaiming, "All rise for the honorable Judge Mindy Gershwin."

And as everyone rose in unison, Newlan once again had the odd feeling that he was at a church service. But unlike a religious ceremony, the gathered throng only had to stand for a few seconds; just long enough for the judge to enter and say, "You may be seated."

Nevertheless, Newlan took a moment to plead his case to the Almighty. He was far from a regular at his local parish, Saint Joseph's Catholic Church, but he attended often enough to feel justified in resorting to a silent prayer every now and then.

"Please dear Jesus, get me out of this one and I'll say a hundred Hail Mary's in your honor," pleaded Newlan. The seriousness of the situation was starting to sink in, and although he still didn't think the odds of him being selected to the jury were very high, he figured that a little talk with the good Lord above couldn't hurt either.

The judge was a frail woman of about sixty years old. She had a long face and stylish, shoulder-length graying hair, and if she weren't wearing a robe, Newlan would never have guessed in a million years that this grandmotherly-looking woman was a superior court judge.

"Ladies and gentlemen we will be proceeding shortly with juror selection for this trial, which pits the Commonwealth of Massachusetts vs. Mr. John Breslin," began Judge Gershwin, "but first we will be joined by the jurors who were selected yesterday."

"Holy crap, it _is_ the Breslin trial...Bobby Parant's prediction is coming true. The bastard must be psychic, and here I was, all this time thinking that that was my area of expertise," moaned Newlan to himself.

"Wait until I tell Parant and the rest of the gang at work about this tomorrow," continued Newlan with a smile that bordered on denial. It seemed that after he got over the initial shock of the judge's introductory comments, he was still, for the most part, completely convinced that he would be back at work in the morning, and that this little adventure would make for some good coffee break conversation; although in the back of his mind, a shadow-of-a-doubt lingered forebodingly.

And while Newlan ruminated, Judge Gershwin paused and then gave a slight nod to one of the court officer's who obediently opened up the door to her left.

"All rise, jurors entering," exclaimed the court officer in a heavy Boston accent, as in through the out-door walked a flock of jurors, many of whom seemed to be a bit dazed by the sight of the packed courtroom with all eyes focused directly on them.

As the jurors entered the courtroom, Newlan tried to count how many of them were already in place, but they were nervously moving about at such an arbitrary pace that it made it difficult to hone in on them; it was as if they felt a need to stay physically close to each other for fear of somehow getting lost in an angry crowd. However, once they were sitting down it was easier to survey the number of empty seats in the jury box, and after a quick scan Newlan came up with five empty seats...but that was before he took into account that one of the male juror's was in a wheelchair, and so by his revised estimation, the final tally was that they were only four jurors short.

Upon the completion of his unofficial census, Newlan's spirits began to pick up again. He realized that only a handful of jurors needed to be selected, and since he was number 33 on today's list, the odds were still in his favor that he'd be back at work tomorrow; the odds were in his favor that once again he'd survive jury duty unscathed; the odds were in his favor that once again he'd walk away with his unblemished record of never being selected to a trial firmly intact.

And although Newlan's odds-making calculations may have been comforting to him, once yesterday's jurors were settled in their seats, Judge Gershwin resumed her opening remarks, so he was forced to temper his enthusiasm and pay attention to what the honorable judge had to say.

"Ladies and gentlemen I am going to tell you a little bit about the case, but at the same time I am also just becoming familiar with the specifics myself, and so I will be learning of the details, along with you, the jurors, as the trial goes on."

"The Commonwealth contends that Mr. Breslin conspired with a Mr. Samuel Fox to commit murder in the first degree. The Commonwealth alleges that Mr. Breslin paid Mr. Fox to murder a gentleman by the name of Mr. Fred Miller," continued Judge Gershwin in a narrative, professorial tone.

"Mr. Fox, as he is entitled by law, will be tried separately, and he will be mentioned in this trial only when and where it is relevant to the case at hand."

"At this time I would like to introduce you to Assistant District Attorney, Ms. Elaina Lyons and her partner, Associate District Attorney, Mr. Paul Gentili," announced Judge Gershwin as the gray-haired female lawyer and the young male lawyer rose and nodded their heads slightly in recognition of her acknowledgement.

Judge Gershwin then went on to present Defense Attorney, R. J. Gleason to the prospective jurors, and with the formality of the introductions out of the way, she proceeded on with the business of courtroom management.

"Ladies and gentlemen I am going to ask you a series of questions, and if you can answer 'yes' to any of these questions, I would like you to hold the card with your juror number on it, high in the air, so that the court officers can see it. And if you raise your hand for any one question, then you do not need to raise your hand again, even if you can answer 'yes' to any of the other questions," instructed Judge Gershwin...and then she paused for a second before adding, "Is that clear?"

"Clear or not...like anyone's gonna speak up. You'd have to be crazy to open your mouth in this charged-up atmosphere," thought Newlan regarding the prospect of addressing a judge in open court.

Nevertheless, Judge Gershwin waited for a reply, and when none was forthcoming she trudged on.

"Firstly, I should let you know that I expect this trial to last roughly three to four weeks before it is turned over to the jury for deliberations, and so if anyone feels that this would be a hardship, then please raise your hand."

"Now, although I assure that you will be given every opportunity to explain your situation...I must tell up front that the circumstances of your burden would have to be quite dire for me to even consider excusing you from your civic duty."

Despite the slim chance for success, hands shot up throughout the courtroom as Judge Gershwin's expression changed from a smile to a slight smirk of irritation, while at the same time one of the court officer's went around the room recording the juror numbers peeking out from the outstretched arms of the inconvenienced.

The next obvious question took into account whether anyone was personally acquainted with Mr. Breslin, Mr. Fox, or Mr. Miller, and although no one responded in the affirmative, a lot of heads pivoted to and fro, curiously looking to see who might have raised a hand.

The next question had to do with whether anyone had heard anything about the case through the media, and this time quite a few people raise their hands, including Newlan, who happily thought to himself; "That's it...if I do make it as far as the jury box then this will be my ticket off the trial. The attorneys aren't gonna want someone on the jury who's familiar with the case, so I guess that keeping up-to-date with the depressing local news is finally gonna come in handy for a change."

Newlan didn't feel the least bit guilty about the possibility that he might be removed from the jury. After all, he couldn't help it that he perused the local papers on a daily basis and watched the news regularly. And as such, surely it was through no fault of his own that he had some knowledge of the case...and thus his wobbly mind was once again at ease.

Judge Gershwin went on to ask the prospective jurors whether they would be more inclined to believe or disbelieve the testimony of a detective or a police officer simply because that person was a law enforcement official...and a few more people bravely raised their hands.

"Well if one of them happens to be named Officer Graves then it might be a problem," thought Newlan as he ruefully recalled his one vexing encounter with the law.

Next, Judge Gershwin read from a docket of what must have been 75 to 100 names and she asked the prospective jurors if they were familiar with any of the people on the list...and once again a gaggle of people raised their hands.

"If raising your hand means that you get off the trial then they are gonna run out of jurors pretty quickly," mused Newlan, and sure enough, by the time Judge Gershwin had finished her informational polling, he estimated that at least ninety five percent of the prospective jurors had raised their hands.

It took almost a half hour for Judge Gershwin to go through the list of questions, and for the court officers to document the juror numbers of all the people who raised their hands, but finally the empanelment process was ready to begin.

The procedure commenced with one of the court officer's asking jurors number 1 through 5 to step up and take a seat on a bench behind and to the right of the defendant's table. It appeared that any of the prospective jurors who raised a hand in response to one of Judge Gershwin's queries (which by Newlan's count was just about everybody) had to be brought up to her desk for an impromptu meeting where she would ask a follow-up question or two, which would ultimately determine whether or not that particular juror was to be excused.

There were so many people scheduled to be taken up to see Judge Gershwin that a court officer had to be stationed by the gallery divider to handle the flow of traffic to and from her desk. Most of the prospective jurors ended up have extensive drawn-out discussions with the astute judge, while the attorneys, along with the defendant, Mr. Breslin, intently listened in. But regardless of whether the prospective jurors' discussions with Judge Gershwin were brief or lengthy, in most cases the conversation ended with the probing judge whispering a few words to the court officer, who in turn shouted out, "Juror number such and such has been excused."

It took fifteen prospective jurors to fill three of the four empty seats, and coincidently enough, one of the prospective jurors who had the bad luck of being selected was the oriental woman who Newlan had been chatting with while standing in the check-in line.

The court officer then called for prospective juror numbers 16 through 20 to step up and take a seat at the lonely bench stationed out there in the middle of no-man's land. One of the 'unlucky one's' in the mix for this go-around happened to be the frightened young man who was seated next to Newlan, and as he gingerly propped himself up, Newlan whispered him a sympathetic, "good luck fella".

"Poor kid...he looks like he's scared shitless," thought Newlan. And when the unfortunate youngster was selected to fill the last empty seat in the jury box, he couldn't help but shake his head over the predictable inevitability of it all.

"That's what he gets for not raising his hand," surmised Newlan. Apparently, due to the fact that the inexperienced young juror didn't raise his hand in response to any of Judge Gershwin's questions, he was forthwith directed to take a seat in the jury box without having to confer with her.

"Looks like I dodged another bullet," muttered Newlan as he breathed a sigh of relief. Although, his choice of words, particularly the word 'bullet', uncontrollably echoed in his mind and hastily turned his solace into trepidation. But, as always, he shook it off. He had more pressing things to worry about at the moment, because even though things were looking up, he knew he wasn't completely out of the woods just yet.

Newlan was well aware of the fact that the lawyers could still "challenge" the freshly minted jurors without cause. But he figured that since he was number 33 on the list, and only juror numbers 1 through 20 had been called so far, he was probably in pretty good shape, even if one or two of the newly appointed jurors were removed from the case.

Newlan felt badly for the young man who had been sitting next to him; the same young man who now looked to be completely terrified sitting up there in the jury box. But then again he thought to himself, "oh well, I guess that's just the luck of the draw."

With the remaining seats in the jury box filled, the courtroom settled into an uncomfortable silence as the lawyers shuffled through a pile of documents, which consisted of the questionnaires for the just selected jurors, as well as the jurors who had been selected yesterday.

District Attorneys Lyons and Gentili as well as Defense Attorney Gleason and Mr. Breslin intently studied the questionnaires, and occasionally whispered suggestions and comments back and forth to each other while the gathering watched on in breathless anticipation.

It took about fifteen minutes of deliberate consultation, but the attorneys finally approached Judge Gershwin and briefly whispered in her ear. The judge in turn waved one of the court officer's over to the bench and handed him a piece of paper. The court officer then scanned the piece of paper, and in a loud, clear tone he exclaimed, "Would the jurors in seats number 2, 7, 12 and 16 please rise...you have been excused."

Mercifully, the frightened young man happened to be one of the lucky jurors who had the good fortune of being removed, but, much to Newlan's surprise, the additional three jurors who got excused were jurors who had been selected yesterday. Newlan assumed that the jurors who had survived yesterday's challenges wouldn't suddenly be removed a day later, but of course he was quite wrong in that assumption.

"They must be looking for a certain mix of men and women from different age groups," speculated Newlan, and just like that, he was on pins-and-needles again. He was happy to see that the terror-stricken kid had been pardoned from his obligation, but not so much if it meant that he might end up taking over the empty seat.

As the four discharged jurors were being escorted out of the courtroom (visibly-relieved jurors we might add), one of the remaining jurors, a tall gangly young man in his late twenties who had been chosen for empanelment yesterday, was directed up to Judge Gershwin's desk, and they proceeded to have an intensely animated discussion which bordered on heated. Newlan monitored the dispute with great interest; he was more than a little curious as to whether the difference of opinion would lead to another dismissal. But even after pleading his case as if his life depended on it, the dissenting juror was nonetheless directed back to his seat in the jury box.

"Wow, he fought hard. He must have really wanted out. I wonder what _his_ argument was all about. I bet he came up with an excuse overnight, and he figured he'd give it a shot. Well whatever it was, it didn't work," deduced Newlan as he began to formulate his own strategy.

Prospective juror numbers 21 through 30 were called up to the bench and three of the four empty seats in the jury box were promptly refilled.

"This is getting too close for comfort...one seat left and I'm third one in the next grouping," mumbled Newlan as he shifted nervously in his seat.

Newlan vigorously rubbed his eyes and ruffled up his long, stringy hair so that it partially covered his face; all in an attempt to come across as raggedy as possible, in hopes that his gruff appearance might cause one of the attorney's to boot his ass out of the jury box if it got that far. Meanwhile, he silently began rehearsing what he was going to say, if and when his turn came up, and at this point it was looking more and more as if his meeting with the esteemed Judge Gershwin was all but a certainty.

And while Newlan concentrated on his lines, the court officer called for juror numbers 31 through 35 to rise.

Newlan and the other four prospective jurors with unlucky numbers 31, 32, 34, and 35, slowly rose from their seats, and they were directed towards the bench in the middle of the danger-zone.

Prospective juror number 31 was sent up to Judge Gershwin's desk, and after another fairly lengthy discussion the court officer exclaimed, "Juror number 31 has been excused."

Newlan desperately tried to listen in on the exchange, in hopes of picking up a few pointers on to how to go about getting oneself removed from a case, and although he couldn't quite make out the exact details of the conversation, he was able to overhear a few snippets of dialogue regarding hardship and employment. But that excuse wasn't going to work for him since he wasn't self-employed.

"Oh shit, we're getting down to crunch time," acceded a panicky Newlan as his last hope, juror number 32, an elderly Spanish lady, was guided up to the eminent judge's desk.

The woman's Provencal accent went from a whisper to a scream, probably due to nerves, and Judge Gershwin shushed her to lower her voice, but Newlan could clearly make out the words, "no speaka engileshe."

"You've gotta be kidding me...she's obviously faking it," grumbled Newlan as the court officer shouted out, "juror number 32 has been excused."

And with that unwelcome announcement, the superstitious Newlan winced as he recalled discussing jurors' excuses, such as not being able to speak English, with Gloria Moorhead. And now he regretted opening his big mouth since he was beginning to feel as if he may have somehow hexed himself.

Newlan silently whispered his favorite expression for the third time of the morning, "Man, you can't make this shit up," just as the court officer pointed him towards Judge Gershwin.

"Here goes nothing," grunted Newlan as he apprehensively approached the waiting judge.

"I understand that you have some knowledge of the case?" verbalized Judge Gershwin in a motherly tone.

"Yes your honor," croaked Newlan; his throat dry from the morning's smoking session.

"And is your knowledge based on newspaper reports and/or other media outlets?" inquired Judge Gershwin...and Newlan went on to explain how he recalled hearing about the murder on TV at the time that the incident occurred, and that he had just read a story about the three high-profile 'horrible hubby' cases in the newspaper just last week.

Judge Gershwin countered by asking whether he had gleaned any additional details pertaining to the case, other than what she had outlined in her overview.

Newlan thought for a moment about lying and overstating his knowledge of the case, but he didn't have enough confidence in his poker-face to attempt such a fraudulent maneuver; not to mention the fact that the courtroom surroundings had him intimidated to boot.

But when weighing the pros and cons of his subtly deceitful gambit, in reality, Newlan's biggest fear was that the intuitive Judge Gershwin would be able to see right through him if he fibbed, and that she'd hold him in contempt of court. He had a vision of himself being thrown into a dark, dank, desolate, dungeon, and so instead of fabricating an untruth, he admitted that he was unaware of anything specific regarding the case, aside from the basic who, what, when, and where. However, in a last ditch effort to wrangle up a dismissal from the case, he added, "But I _have_ seen Mr. Gleason on TV a few times."

But alas, unfortunately for Newlan, Judge Gershwin didn't seem to be the least bit concerned that he had an elemental knowledge of the events surrounding the case, nor did she care that he was vaguely familiar with Mr. Gleason for that matter.

"Please take a seat in the jury box," politely requested the forthright judge.

"But your honor...," responded Newlan in an anxious tone. However, before he could say another word, the burliest of the court officer's gently, but firmly, grasped him by the left elbow and pointed him towards the remaining empty seat in the jury box; seat number 16 to be exact.

Newlan's instinctive reaction was to push away the court officer's hand. In a strange way, he felt as if he had done something wrong and that he was being punished for his indiscretion. Of course, he wasn't that stupid, and so in the end he wisely resisted the urge to take out his hostilities in a physical manner.

As Newlan made the long walk to his seat in the jury box, he rationalized that he wouldn't have known what else to say to Judge Gershwin anyway, even if he had been given the opportunity to have a few more words with her, and he cursed himself for not coming prepared with a good excuse and plenty of back-ups in reserve.

"Damn it, I should have just lied my ass off...but I guess it's too late for that now," moaned Newlan as he squirmed in his swivel chair.

While Newlan attempted to get comfortable with the proximity of his new surroundings, his paranoid side alerted him to the fact that everyone in the gallery seemed to have their eyes focused squarely on the jury box area, and in response to his irrational disposition, he angled his seat in the direction of the judge's desk in an effort to shield his face from the audience.

In the meantime, as the lawyers and the defendant Breslin ambled their way back to their respective desks, for a brief second Breslin made subtle but definite eye-contact with Newlan, or at least Newlan seemed to think he did

For his part, Newlan looked away, almost immediately, and he vowed that if he ended up being selected to participate in the trial, he would never again make eye-contact with Breslin.

During the break in the action, Newlan once again reflected back to his prior jury duty experiences. He had made it as far as the jury box on numerous occasions before, only to get challenged by the DA every single time...and so he persuaded himself that all was not lost. Even now, when things were looking grim, he convinced himself that there was still a glimmer of a chance that an imminent removal from the jury might be in the cards this time as well, and with that thought in mind, his faltering spirits were momentarily lifted like a ghost rising from the dead.

Newlan forced an abrasive frown onto his face, which didn't take much of an effort on his part since he truly was annoyed by the latest turn of events, and he tried his best to portray himself as the sort of person that the attorneys might want to remove from the case, while at the same time the lawyers repeated the routine of reviewing the juror questionnaires.

From his newly commissioned vantage point in the jury box, Newlan was able to get a better look at the attorneys' desks, and the unobstructed view also permitted him to gain a refined perspective on the defendant, Breslin, who now looked markedly out of place wearing his lumpy suit and bifocal goggles. As far as Newlan was concerned, when taken from another angle, his collegial look had all but disappeared, replaced instead by someone or something a bit more sinister in appearance.

With nothing better to do, Newlan kicked back in his chair and prepared himself to wait out what he expected to be another lengthy delay, but, much to his surprise, this time the legal parties only conferred for a few minutes before approaching the judge's bench.

Newlan imprudently assumed that this rapid decision-making process was an indication that he was going to be expelled from the trial posthaste, and so you can imagine his shock when Judge Gershwin looked up and in a calm but bright voice she announced, "We have a jury."

"We have a jury? What do you mean we have a jury? I'm still up here," postulated a stunned Newlan as he nonsensically considered pulling an Al Pacino and jumping out of his seat while frantically proclaiming, "You're out of order your honor. The attorneys are out of order. The whole friggin' courtroom is out of order."

Newlan wistfully smiled as he pictured himself going berserk in the courtroom, and as he did, for some reason, his co-worker Bob Parant's conjecture regarding his selection onto the Breslin jury popped into his head again.

"Wait until I see that old SOB at work...I'm _really_ pissed off at him for jinxing me, and I'm gonna give him hell for sure," cursed Newlan. Although, when he contemplated the situation rationally, he couldn't seriously blame Parant for his woes; deep down inside he knew that it all boiled down the luck of the draw; just like it was the ironic luck of the draw that he was now replacing the petrified kid who he had felt so sorry for.

With no other options available to him, Newlan reluctantly accepted his fate, but at the same time he wondered why the DA's side of the aisle didn't remove him from the case as they had done in the past; as he was positive that they would do this time as well.

However, what Newlan would never come to know was that DA Lyons had a very bad feeling about him from the moment she laid her eyes on him. But unfortunately for her, she had already used up her limited number of peremptory challenges and so she had no choice but to live with him being on the jury and make the best of it.

Lyons was hoping and praying that Gleason might, for one reason or another, remove Newlan from the case. But much to the contrary, as Gleason and Breslin reviewed his juror questionnaire, a hint of recognition came over them; "Illegally arrested on the outrageous charge of drinking in public 28 years ago, but was vindicated when I was found innocent by a district court judge" indeed; it was as if they had finally struck precious gold in a canyon full of worthless rocks.

Gleason gave Breslin a slight wink as he slyly whispered to him, "This one's a keeper."

Meanwhile back at the ranch, the oblivious Newlan was doing his best to come to terms with his misfortune, and as he leaned back in his swivel chair, he found himself shifting nervously back and forth while at the same time he covertly took in his new colleagues' countenances in attempt to catch a glimpse of their hearts. It was as if he were checking out Gloria Moorhead all over again, except that this time it wasn't with romantic intentions in mind that he studied their somber faces.

Newlan wondered who these strangers were. He wondered about the shared destiny that had befallen them; the star-crossed destiny that had brought them together to this place and time and under these trying circumstances. He wondered why _they_ were the chosen ones. Was there any rhyme or reason behind God's plan...or was it all just some random jumble of happenstance?

Newlan seemed to answer his own question as he absentmindedly muttered, "oh well, I guess everything happens for a reason," and then with a wry smile he added, "Man, you can't make this shit up."

### Chapter 10 – Counselor R. J. Gleason's Colorful People

Wednesday morning February 14, 2007 – 10:00 AM

Renowned Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason had a hitch in his stride as he was being escorted towards one of the defense consultation rooms in the Middlesex County Jail by a guard who seemed to know him quite well.

As a matter of fact after over 30 years of working cases in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, Gleason was on first name basis with just about every criminal attorney, DA, judge, and court officer in the Boston area.

Early on in his career, Gleason had worked in both the district attorney's office and later the public defender's office, and being the ambitious sort that he was, in the early 90's he founded his own law firm...and over time he came to be regarded as one of the most highly sought after criminal attorney's in the State.

Gleason recognized from a very young age that he was born to be an attorney, and as he grew into his destiny, he became more and more passionate about his work every step of the way. His fundamental motto was; "I just want to ensure that justice is served."

As far as Gleason was concerned if he got a guilty person off because the government couldn't prove its case, then that was justice "and so be it." Whereas if one of his client's was found guilty by an impartial jury after a fair trial, and that person was given an appropriate sentence, then in his mind that was justice as well, and he could live with the consequences.

Gleason could handle the guilty verdicts; he had lost plenty of cases over the course of his career, and he had a pretty good idea which of his clients deserved to be in prison. On the other hand, what he could never accept was when one of his clients got hit with a life sentence without the possibility of parole when that person realistically only deserved a 25 year sentence. That, in Gleason's mind was not justice at all. That would get his Irish blood boiling every time. That would cause him to fight tooth-and-nail over every inch of evidence.

You see, Gleason was a stickler for details and it showed in his dogged determination. He was known to hammer witnesses into submission over even the slightest inconsistencies, and he made no apologies for his tenacity.

Gleason was well aware of the advantageous power that the government wields, and his oath to his clients was that he would leave no stone unturned in his quest to uncover the truth, regardless of who it might offend. He was also well aware that it wasn't above some ambitious prosecutor to abuse his or her power "for fame and fortune...but mostly for fame," as he was famously known to have said during a TV interview many years ago.

Gleason knew every trick in the book; the insinuations, the embellished testimony, the trumped-up charges, and so whenever a prosecutor would attempt to pull a fast one on him, he would laugh out loud and think to himself, "Don't they realize that I use to be one of them?"

And truth be told, back in his younger days when he worked as an up-and-coming lawyer for the district attorney's office, Gleason wasn't above using some of the same tactics that he now despised. At the time, the running joke around the office was, "never let the facts get in the way of a good story."

To this day, Gleason was still haunted by a case where he successfully prosecuted a young man by the name of Donald Mason, and sent him away on a 20-years-to-life sentence for a rape that the poor guy never committed.

Mason was just a 21 year old suburban kid who had never so much as even been issued a traffic citation before, when his life was turned upside-down; he was a just a carefree kid who was full of vim and vigor, when a most unimaginable spin around the wheel of misfortune became his reality; he was just a young adult coming of age, when he got caught up in an arbitrary chain of events; a rippling domino effect that would most certainly have to be considered an innocent man's worst nightmare.

Mason was working as a janitor in a psychiatric hospital, just minding his own business, when one day, out of the blue, he was accused of assaulting and raping a patient.

And despite his misgivings, Gleason never questioned some of the shoddy police work that was presented to him as evidence in the case...until years later that is, when he was much wiser as to the ways of the justice system.

Like many of his cases, the Mason trial stayed in the back of Gleason's mind and bothered him for years; he had no concrete reason to believe that Mason wasn't guilty, but for some reason he just never thought that the kid was fairly represented, and over the years the case ate away at his conscience. And then one day while he was going through his archives, he came across the Mason files, and as he poured over the details, he came to the realization that he may have made a big mistake.

And in a final twist of irony, Gleason decided to pursue an appeal on behalf of Mason; so in effect he was attempting to overturn his own work, and with the help of modern DNA evidence he was able to get the unfortunate victim of circumstances freed after 18 years in prison.

Gleason was in tears after the hearing, and when he spoke to Mason in the lobby of the courthouse as a free man, he begged for his forgiveness. He was prepared for the worst, but he ended up being totally floored by Mason's reaction, for instead of receiving what would have been a justifiable verbal tongue-lashing, Mason literally hugged him and told him that everything was going to be alright.

From the moment that Mason's conviction was overturned, Gleason admirably gained an even greater appreciation for his chosen profession, and he vowed to ratchet his dedication-level up another notch. He was more driven that ever to fight for his clients; no matter how guilty they appeared to be to the layman; no matter how many feathers he ruffled.

These days Gleason was defending just as many white-collar millionaire criminals as he was your average everyday murderers, and he was making a pretty penny off of all of them. However, to earn all of that money he worked extremely long hours; nights, weekends, holidays, you name it; but all in all, he understood that he was living a dream life.

To balance this life of riches, Gleason made it a point to take on his share of pro-bono cases, and when he was feeling a bit too smug about his life, he would go down to the homeless shelter and do some volunteer work, including giving out free legal advice.

Yes, over the years Gleason had seen it all...or so he thought.

But if there is any doubt to the madness that Gleason had to contend with on a daily basis, we present a few of his more dubious assignments:

There was the case of the delusional Catholic devotee who laid siege to an abortion rights clinic with a shotgun, mowing down four innocent women in the process.

There was the case of the abnormally quiet man who, one day, out of the blue, snapped, and decapitated his wife. He then cut her heart out and stuck it on a fence post in front of their home before calmly calling the police.

There was the case of the deviant man who lured his beautiful teenaged neighbor into his unattached garage, and once he got her there...once he got her alone where she was like a helpless puppy...once he gained control of what he deemed to be her demon-possessed body, he raped her and he murdered her; strangled the life out of her and then left her hanging from the rafters of his garage like a little rag doll.

And this was just the tip of the iceberg; just a small sampling of the literally hundreds of bizarre and grizzly cases that R. J. Gleason had worked on.

Gleason truly believed that some of these defendants were criminally insane, and yet he had never won an insanity defense in his entire career. "Not one," as he liked to say in court for emphasis when highlighting an argument, such as when a case lacked any eye-witnesses for instance.

When a reporter who was doing a profile on Gleason asked him about the assortment of lunatics he had represented over the years, he was mischievously quoted as saying, "I get to meet some colorful people in my line of work."

He was also quoted in the same article as saying, "my family and friends have told me many times that I should have gone into business law, and I realize that I could have become quite wealthy in that field. But I never found that area of law interesting, and I knew from day one that I made the right choice. A lot of people hate the work I do. I guess they don't feel that some of my clients are worth defending. That is, of course, until someone they know is involved in an unfortunate incident...then it's those same people who think that I'm a saint."

So on this cold winter morning as Gleason made his way to visit his newest client for the first time, a man who was accused of hiring a hit-man to kill his estranged wife's boyfriend, he mulled over the government's case in his mind, and as he did, he came away unimpressed by the evidence, which was strictly circumstantial.

Gleason had already reviewed the grand jury's findings numerous times, and every time he did, he thought to himself, "Maybe he did it, maybe he didn't. But they are going to need a lot more than a bunch of telephone records to convince me otherwise."

"You on the Breslin case, R. J.?" asked the guard as he led Gleason to the secured conference room which held John Breslin and his Divorce Attorney, Joseph Catino.

"You got it...typical domestic situation. People just never learn," replied Gleason with a sigh.

For his part, Breslin was so unprepared for his ordeal that he never even consulted with a criminal attorney prior to his arrest. And on his first night in jail, the only desperate idea he could come up with was to call his divorce attorney who was nice enough to represent him on a moment's notice at his arraignment the next morning.

Attorney Catino had grand visions of gallantly representing Breslin, not to mention garnering all of the attention that the case was bound to bring him. Yes, Catino had stars in his eyes for quite a while, but a guilty conscience finally got the better of him after he botched Breslin's latest hearing. It was only then that Catino came to the realization that he was just a two-bit divorce lawyer who wasn't cut out to be working murder trials, and so for the sake of his client he conceded that he needed to remove himself from the case.

Immediately following his latest debacle, Catino pulled Breslin aside and admitted, "Look John we have to get you a real criminal attorney. I'm in way over my head on this one. I have an old friend, R. J. Gleason, who specializes in this type of stuff. He's the best in the business...but he's gonna cost you some money."

"I don't care what it takes. My family's behind me. We'll come up with the money one way or another," hysterically replied Breslin, and after a short pause he added, "Do you think Gleason can finally get me out on bail?"

"I doubt it. Like I told you already, they usually don't let people charged with murder out on bail," replied Catino just as adamantly.

"But as I told _you_ a million times, I'm innocent. Besides they're only accusing me of a payoff...not actually murdering someone," rebutted Breslin.

"As far as the DA's office is concerned, it's the same thing. Look John, I don't know if you're grasping the seriousness of the situation...you could go away for life," exclaimed Catino who then held up his thumb and index finger an inch apart and added, "your ex-wife is this close to wiping you out clean...and you're still thinking bail? My estimate is that it would cost around a million bucks...and even then it's probably out of the question."

In the end, Attorney Catino made the arrangements, and after an initial payment was made, (Catino didn't know how the Breslin family came up with the money, and he wasn't about to ask) the meeting that Gleason was now heading to was hastily arranged.

After submitting himself to a mandatory pat-down, Gleason was hustled passed the bars of the security gate, which even after all these years still made him shudder, and he was pointed to the meeting room by the guard.

"It's the first door on your left, R. J."

"Thanks Timmy," replied Gleason as he opened the door.

"No problem...I'll be waiting here to escort you back out," replied Tim the guard, one of the many people who Gleason had come to know so well over the years.

The jail itself occupied the top four floors of the former Middlesex Superior Courthouse in Cambridge, and it was ridiculously overcrowded; there were four people in cells that were meant for two; there were hundreds of cots in the cafeteria; there were no recreational facilities, no exercise facilities, and the building was in a general state of disrepair; it was cold and drafty in the winter and overbearingly hot in the summer.

As a matter of fact the court itself was closed after having been condemned due to asbestos issues, which was why the Middlesex Superior Court had temporarily moved its operations to Woburn. However, for some reason the Commonwealth of Massachusetts had decided not to close down the jail, and yet the decision was not so inexplicable to Gleason. The obvious reason, as he knew full well, came down to money. Without spending a small fortune, the State had no place else to put all these people, and the quandary had the prisoners overflowing with animosity; it was a dangerous situation which had the potential to lead to a riotous revolt, and everybody in the prison administration knew it.

Never mind the prisoners; Gleason himself wasn't too happy about having to go into a facility where he was breathing in unseen poison, and in fact, he was part of a committee of lawyers who were planning to sue the State on behalf of the prisoners.

"If this place isn't fit for court personnel, then they shouldn't allow prisoners to be housed there," Gleason would tell anyone who would listen, particularly members of the media.

Meanwhile Breslin, who had been in jail for just under a year at this point, wasn't adjusting well to his confinement.

"They put us in these cramp conditions in a condemned building, and we haven't even been found guilty yet. I might as well just hang myself now and get it over with," griped Breslin half-jokingly to one of his prison-mates after only a few days of incarceration.

Breslin was a tough guy who could usually adapt to most situations, but this was taking some getting used to; after all he had never even been arrested before, never mind spending a night in jail.

Breslin could survive the days, but the nights had been tough, what with the countless prisoners moaning and groaning, and sneezing and snoring, and tossing and turning, and talking in their sleep. But the worst offenders were the ones with who were going through drug and alcohol withdrawals (and to be more specific, it was the hair-raising screams that accompanied their affliction which really set him on edge). Breslin sometimes felt as if he was in an insane asylum, not a jail, and he was learning to live with a serious lack of sleep.

"R. J. nice to see you," intoned Catino as Gleason entered the meeting room, and the two old colleagues exchanged a warm handshake and the usual "how's the family?" chitchat before getting down to business.

"This is my...that is to say...your client, John Breslin," announced Catino as Breslin and Gleason now took turns shaking hands.

"Mr. Gleason you gotta get me out of this place. I swear I'm gonna go crazy," exclaimed Breslin who was suddenly close to tears.

"Now Mr. Breslin the first thing I stress to all of my clients is patience. It's probably going to take at least another year before we even get to trial, and then if things don't go well it could take a few more years of appeals," informed Gleason as he looked Breslin directly in the eyes.

"What do you mean if things don't go well? My family's paying you a small fortune," cried Breslin.

"Mr. Breslin, if there is one thing I learned a long time ago, it's that there are no guarantees when it comes to criminal trials. You just never know how a jury is going to react. The only thing that I can assure you of is that I will defend you to the best of my abilities, and that I will be an advocate on your behalf for as long as you are incarcerated, whether its ten years or life...I'll be there for you. My relationship with my clients doesn't end after the trial is over. It only ends when you are a free man," confidently stated Gleason, and unwittingly the words "free man" calmed Breslin down and gave him just the slightest bit of hope. And yet, although Gleason didn't dare say it, in his experience, all too often, many of his clients only became free men when they were removed from prison in a coffin.

"The only thing I ask of you is that you tell me the truth, and do whatever I tell you to do. And one thing I advise to all of my clients is that when we're in court, always look straight ahead, and don't say a word. Don't stare at the jury. Don't look out into the audience. Don't try to intimidate the witnesses. Just let me take care of that. After all that's my job...the job which, as you so eloquently stated, you are paying me a small fortune to do, so let me do it," instructed Gleason with a raised voice and a slight smile. He seemed to be trying to add a bit of humor to an otherwise humorless situation, but Breslin wasn't much in the mood for laughter.

"Now Mr. Breslin I want you to tell me the whole story, and don't tell any lies. Don't leave out even the slightest detail or I'll know it, and it will affect my ability to represent you," forcefully explained Gleason, but force wasn't really necessary because in John Breslin he had an obedient and willing client.

Breslin gladly complied with his new attorney's request...and the tale he told saddened Gleason. Even after all of the senseless violence he had been exposed to over the years, he was still surprised and shocked by the tragedies that befall everyday people.

Of course due to the nature of client/attorney privileges, the content of Mr. Breslin's narrative cannot be provided at this time, but you the dear reader can rest assured that you will be given every opportunity to come to your own conclusions. However, unlike you, Mr. Newlan and the divergent troupe of good soldiers who make up our esteemed jury will have to live with their decision...for the rest of their lives.

### Chapter 11 – A Bus Ride and 'a View'

Wednesday afternoon June 4, 2008 – 12:55 PM

Newlan didn't have much of a chance to mull over the unforeseeable plight that had just been hoisted upon him, because before he could even begin to process what was happening, Judge Gershwin made the following announcement; "ladies and gentlemen of the jury, outside the courthouse sits a bus that is waiting to take us on what we call 'a view'."

After a brief calculated pause, which was meant to let the reality of her revelation sink into the jurors' minds, the distinguished judge went on to say; "we will be visiting a parking garage located in Newton Massachusetts on 435 Commonwealth Avenue, and from there we will be going to the Newton Police Station garage where you will be given the opportunity to examine a 1999 Nissan Maxima that belonged to Mr. Miller."

Judge Gershwin paused again, except this time her goal was to allow herself a moment to methodically ponder what she was going to say next, and after nearly 30 seconds of extended contemplation, she forged ahead with an explanation regarding just what a view entailed.

"Now ladies and gentlemen, I should explain to you that a view is not in and of itself to be considered evidence. However, your examination of the garage, as well as the automobile, is intended to provide you with a better perspective with which to be able to visualize the evidence and the testimony that will be presented to you by the attorneys in this case. The attorneys will only be able to draw your attention to specific points of interest, but they will not be allowed to offer you any additional explanation. The only instructions you will be given are directives such as, 'please look to your left or right, and note such and such'."

Sensing the trepidation in the jurors' faces, Judge Gershwin gave them a warm reassuring smile before adding; "Our court officers will be escorting you to the waiting bus which will be departing shortly, but first, we have ordered an assortment of sandwiches for you to choose from. Also, now that the trial has officially started, we will be providing you with a variety of hot and cold lunch selections starting tomorrow."

"Well at least we'll be getting free meals out of the deal," muttered Newlan under his breath, but then he summarily came to the realization that this perk probably meant that the jurors wouldn't be allowed to leave the premises for lunch, and a sick feeling of dread came over him.

Newlan didn't much care for the type of controlled environment he was convinced awaited them, and he realized right then and there that he was not going to particularly enjoy the jury duty experience. For Newlan, one of the joys of bachelorhood was the fact that he could come and goes as he pleased, and he had a sinking feeling that being selected as a juror on a high-profile murder trial was going to be akin to being married in that someone would be telling him what to do just about every minute of the day.

Newlan sensed almost immediately that the circumstances called for a very structured routine, which was guaranteed to disagree with his fragile emotional equilibrium, and he softly moaned to no one in particular, "I'm not gonna like this...I'm not gonna like this at all."

As Newlan grumbled his displeasure, he momentary lost sight of the fact that he was in a packed courtroom, and he suddenly realized that his complaint, however softly mumbled, was heard by the juror seated next to him, a heavyset forty-something woman, who gave him a silent but stern look that he interpreted as a "stop your complaining" stare-down.

But as it turned out, the groveling Newlan wasn't going to be given the opportunity to wallow in self-pity much longer, because before he knew what hit him, he heard what would become an all-too-familiar command of "all rise" exclaimed by the court officer with the thick Boston accent, while at the same time his partner, the muscularly built one, waved the jurors out the door to the left of the judge and into the juror deliberation room which was situated directly across from the front of the courtroom.

As Newlan and the rest of the freshly minted jurors anxiously made their way into the room for the first time, they were expeditious in their attempts to get familiar with their new surroundings; surroundings which would become their home-away-from-home for the next few weeks.

Of course, for the jurors who had been selected yesterday, the lay of the land was already becoming old hat, and they politely showed the awkward newcomers the ropes.

Newlan felt instantly uncomfortable with the idea of being jammed into a small room with a bunch of people he had never met before, and judging by the stone-cold look on the faces of the majority of his new colleagues, they were probably all feeling the same way.

One small consolation for Newlan was the presence of an attractive juror who was sitting at the far end of the long conference table. And although her hands were under the table, which made it impossible for him to do his "wedding ring check", he daydreamed hopefully nonetheless.

"Man, being holed up in this room for a month is really gonna suck big-time...but who knows, maybe I'll end up getting acquainted with that fine-looking lady over there, which just might make all of the aggravation worthwhile," imagined Newlan. However, his rapidly crystallizing daydream, starring his latest romantic pursuit, not to mention his silent grumblings over the incommodious accommodations, would have to be put on the back-burner because within minutes of their entrance into the deliberation room, the court officer with the heavy Boston accent came storming into the room with a large box of cold sandwiches and a formal introduction.

"For those of you who weren't here yesterday, my name is Billy, and we're going to get to know each other really well over the next few weeks."

Billy was a forty year old life-long Bostonian who had a receding hair line and a shamrock tattooed onto the fleshy portion of his right arm. And although he may have taken on the look of a prominent individual garbed in his court officer's uniform, what with the handcuffs strapped to his belt and the two-way radio strapped to his shoulder, from Newlan's street-smart vantage point, he didn't necessarily come across as the law-and-order type.

Newlan had Billy pegged as someone who liked to pound down a few pints of Guinness at his local pub; but it was an observation which of course he meant in a complimentary way; in a way that echoed the fact that they had something in common.

"Alright, we have ham and cheese, turkey breast, tuna fish, and chicken salad," proclaimed Billy in an authoritative tone as he dropped the box of sandwiches on the table. But right off the bat one of the jurors asked if there were any vegetarian meals included in the mix of sandwiches. It was as if a test of wills was underway between Billy and the jurors, and it remained to be seen who would blink first.

"Sorry no veggie sandwiches, but tomorrow you'll have more options to choose from...we had to improvise for today since we weren't sure whether jury selection was going to be completed by lunch time or not," explained Billy with a somewhat annoyed look on his face.

"How long do we have for lunch before we go on our little bus ride?" asked another juror, emphasizing the words "little bus ride".

"Oh, no break for lunch today...were gonna have lunch to go. Take a sandwich, and be ready to board the bus in five minutes," commanded Billy as he left the room.

"Five minutes! I'd better find a bathroom before we leave," thought Newlan. Luckily he didn't have to look very far because the facilities were located in the back corner of the deliberation room. Unfortunately for Newlan however, there were at least ten jurors who had already queued up, waiting their turns, and so once again on this longest of days, he found himself making his way to the end of another line.

By the time the line had dwindled down, more than fifteen minutes had gone by. But fortunately still no sign of Billy as Newlan entered the bathroom.

"Billy probably said five minutes just to keep us moving on schedule," presumed Newlan with a chuckle as he locked the door and made a visual pass of the small bathroom which, after being used by a small army of people in a short period of time, was in desperate need of a blast of air freshener.

The bathroom had no separate urinal, just a toilet, along with a small sink and mirror, a paper towel dispenser, and a waste basket; minor details perhaps, but details which nevertheless piqued the interest of the inquisitive Newlan.

"If the deliberation room was a few feet smaller and the walls were removed from this bathroom, we'd basically be in a prison cell," appraised Newlan as he relieved his bladder for the first time since leaving his condo, which, in turn, assuaged him in more ways than one; both physically and mentally.

Newlan couldn't help but think back to his younger days when he could drink up to six beers before having to go to the bathroom. Nowadays however, it was at least one trip to the bathroom for every one beer, and some of his friends were even worse than he was in that department.

Whenever Newlan and his pals went out drinking at the local bar these days, their revelry would routinely be interrupted by constant trips to and from the bathroom, which would, in short order, have them resorting to gallows humor commentary such as; "Guess our prostates aren't what they use to be...you know what they say 'it's a bitch getting old'."

Even so, right about then, Newlan wished he had a few beers on hand to smuggle onto the bus with him.

"Now _that_ would definitely spice up the trip to Newton!" exclaimed Newlan to the man in the mirror as he washed his hands. But since he wasn't drinking beer before this particular trip to the bathroom, he was able to take care of business in no time flat. He then headed for the box of sandwiches, and when he found only a few left to choose from, he settled for a ham and cheese

Right around the same time that Newlan was picking through the remains of the sandwiches, Billy reentered the room and announced; "all right now...it's time for our little bus ride as one of you so aptly put it."

After ten years as a court officer, Billy had seen it all when it came to juries, so he always tried his best to keep the mood light. However, the Breslin jurors had other ideas. Many of them weren't quite ready for departure just yet. One juror asked for more napkins. Another juror asked for utensils. Another juror complained that there were no diet soda's left. Another wanted mayo instead of mustard. And on and on it went.

"Look, we'll straighten all of this out tomorrow, but for today we have to get moving along. Judge Gershwin wants to get the bus rolling as soon as possible," replied Billy in what was now an unmistakably annoyed tone.

Billy found from past experience that some juries were relatively easy to please, some juries were pains in the ass, and some juries could even drive him to drink. And although he wasn't sure quite what to make of this jury just yet, they were clearly not off to a good start.

On the other hand, Billy had befriended his share of juries over the years, usually when his gut feeling told him that they were a bunch of good people, and if they earned enough of his trust where he thought that they could keep a secret, he might even let them in on a few tidbits of information. For instance, he had allegedly confided the following observations to more than a smattering of jurors in his time; "I've seen guilty people walk, and I've seen innocent people go to prison...and it all depends on the luck of the draw. It all depends on whether the jurors are paying attention or not. It all depends on whether the jurors are taking their jobs seriously or not. It all depends on whether some wise-ass thinks he or she is smarter than everyone else...but don't tell anyone I said so, since I'll just deny it anyway."

But getting back to the jury that was currently under Billy's command; he took charge of the situation as he always did, and even though he wasn't quite able to quell all of their complaints, he finally got everyone organized and he led the way towards the elevator while the burly court officer took up the rear. It took two trips for Billy and his co-worker to get everyone down to the ground floor and out a specially secured exit where the king-sized bus sat idling, but at last they were ready to roll.

Once Billy gave the word, the jurors hastily boarded the bus in an effort to escape the slow but steady drizzle of rain, and as Newlan made his way towards the back of the vehicle, he was suddenly reminded of his high school days, or in his case, the term, 'high school daze' might have been more appropriate. He longingly recalled how the 'burn outs' had the back of the bus reserved to themselves, and how they would sneak in a couple of tokes off a joint before first period.

But alas, even though Newlan's smoldering melancholy may have been ignited, he set aside his desire to go back in time long enough to observe Judge Gershwin seated in the first row of the bus, followed by the two district attorneys one row behind her, and adjacent to the DA's sat Defense Attorney Gleason, all lined up as if they were camp councilors leading a field trip.

Newlan scanned the length of the bus looking for Breslin, before coming to the conclusion that he was nowhere to be found, and from there he deduced that the defendant probably wasn't allowed to make the trip.

As Newlan's gaze made its way back up to the front of the bus, he was surprised to find that Gleason was chatting amicably with DA Lyons. For some reason, he assumed that they would hate each other, never mind being on speaking terms.

"It must be the win-at-all-cost mentality that's been bred into me since I was a kid," reasoned Newlan. He was pretty much positive that if he were a defense attorney, he wouldn't be caught dead conversing with the DA, just like an athlete who refuses to shake his opponent's hand.

Newlan also found it curious that none of the jurors sat side-by-side even though the oversized bucket seats were meant to comfortably accommodate two people without a problem. Instead they all chose to sit in separate rows of the bus and quietly stare out the windows, with the exception of a couple of female jurors who were chatting softly across the aisle from one another.

Of course, this behavior didn't totally surprise Newlan, since, after all, at this point they were complete strangers to each other, not to mention the fact that there were plenty of seats on the bus; and yet he still found it all a bit odd.

In any event, Newlan couldn't really complain about his standoffish colleagues since he was as bad as the rest of them. He was perfectly happy sitting alone in the last row on the passenger's side of the bus; that is until he noticed that there was a bathroom directly behind his seat.

"I'd hold it in from here to Idaho before I use that bathroom," croaked Newlan, and he accompanied his declaration with an involuntary shiver.

After getting himself situated, Newlan poked his head out the window of the bus only to find that they hadn't even left the courthouse grounds yet, and he wondered what the holdup was all about. It didn't take long before he realized that the wheelchair-bound juror needed to be helped onto the bus. Fortuitously, the bus was equipped with a handicapped lift, although it took the driver a while to figure out how the mechanism worked; he obviously hadn't had much experience with handicapped passengers.

The delay ended up extending beyond a few minutes of tinkering, but finally, just when it seemed as though they were going nowhere fast, the bus driver waved over to the doorway, and the handicapped juror wheeled himself out towards the lift followed by Billy who was holding an umbrella over him...and with the push of a button, just like that, the wheelchair and its passenger were hydraulically raised into the cabin of the bus.

And so with his jurors all present and accounted for, Billy made his way onto the bus and took a seat in the back row, to the left of Newlan...and at long last the bus slowly pulled out of the parking lot and headed southwest onto Interstate 128 for the 25 minute drive to Newton.

As the bus merged onto the highway, Newlan observed that two Massachusetts State Police motorcycle officers were leading the way with their blue lights flashing.

Wow a police escort...we must be important," softly exclaimed Newlan, and when he instinctively turned around to look out the back window of the bus, he noticed that there were two more biker cops taking up the rear.

"It must suck driving a bike in the rain...although they probably think it is fun," surmised Newlan as he sat back in the surprisingly comfortable bucket seat and tried to relax.

As the bus trolled along, Newlan played back the events of the morning in his mind, trying to make some sense of the situation, but he was having a hard time coming to grips with his predicament.

"How the hell did I get here anyway? One minute I'm minding my own business, reading my magazine...talking to Gloria Moorhead...and the next minute I'm riding on this bus, headed off on some sort of magical mystery tour...but I guess that's life, from minute to minute you just never know what waits around the bend...man, you can't make this shit up."

Even over the din of the roaring engines, Newlan couldn't help but discern how quiet the interior of the bus had become, and even the two female jurors who had been talking up storm were now staring out the windows and picking at their sandwiches.

Newlan himself was suddenly feeling quite hungry, and he made quick work of his ham and cheese sandwich, which was a lot better than he thought it would be.

Newlan typically ate very light snacks when he was at work because large meals tended to made him tired. Although, every once in a while he would go out to lunch with his co-workers for a special occasion such as someone leaving for a new job, and he would invariably feel the need for a nap afterwards. And now after eating the rather abundant sandwich, he tried to keep his mind occupied by perusing one of the Rolling Stone magazine's that he had brought along with him, but he found that he was unable to concentrate.

Whether Newlan's lack of focus was due to the sandwich, or the drone of the bus, or the fact that he had gotten up earlier than usual this morning was unclear, but regardless, as he skimmed through the magazine, his eyelids became very heavy until they slowly closed shut...and he fell into a dream.

Newlan dreamed that he was at a Grateful Dead concert. The band was swinging to a hyperactive version of their song "Bertha" while the audience sang along with bandleader Jerry Garcia as he begged the aforementioned Bertha to get out of his life once and for all.

Meanwhile, a voice reverberating just behind Newlan's skull seemed to be shouting out to him; "Frankie...Frankie Newlan...it's me, Freddie Miller...check out this weed, man...its killer stuff, man...killer stuff."

Newlan recognized the voice from somewhere, but he couldn't quite place it. He couldn't quite make out whether it was a friend or a foe. But nevertheless he turned around to confront the calling of his dark side. He turned around expecting a familiar mug, only to be met by a faceless set of eyes with an arm extended in the communal concert act of sharing a joint. And although he was startled by the presence of this otherworldly wraith, he gladly reached for the reefer stick anyway, expertly making the exchange like a relay-runner passing a baton. However, at the exact moment that both of their hands were holding the joint and the tips of their fingers touched, Miller's hands and arms, and then his body, and then his face, slowly fizzled into a glowing skeleton.

It was as if Miller's bones were the grand finale of a spidery fireworks display, and at the apex of the spectacle, the fuming joint took off out of his hand like a rocket and circled around Newlan's head while it picked up speed before exploding into a ball of flames just as it penetrated his temple.

Newlan let out a sharp scream as he woke up in a panic, and he could plainly see that more than a few of his fellow jurors were staring at him with anxious looks which silently proclaimed; "this guy's weird."

Newlan was disoriented and pale, while at the same time a cold sweat came trickling over his body. And at the moment, he was too confused to be worrying about what any of these strangers might have thought of him.

"That was a bizarre dream," whispered Newlan as he brooded over the meaning of the apparition that had just flooded his mind. Even though at this point in his ordeal, he could never have comprehended just how eerie the connection between himself and Fred Miller would soon become, he suspected that the dream symbolized something important, but what, he couldn't say.

In Newlan's internalized mind, it was a well-documented fact that he suffered from strange dreams which would occasionally come true. And whenever this supernatural phenomenon occurred, it would freak him out for days. Years ago, he had even written a song, called "Omens", about the unexplainable power of dreams, which went in part:

Deep in the back of my simple mind

Where the rivers turn to streams

Thoughts I'm never thinking

Animate my dreams

Then I'll read about it in the daily news

Psychic powers give me clues

Tell me where and I'll tell you when

Tell me the beginning and I'll tell you the end

"But this dream can't come true..." mused Newlan, "...Fred Miller's dead." And try as he might to unravel the riddle, he had no idea what the dream meant...and if the truth be told, he didn't really expect to figure it out, nor did he really want to figure it out.

You see, despite these rare premonitions, Newlan wasn't the type of person who dwelled on his dreams; he would typically forget them by the time the morning came, or more accurately he would subconsciously move them to the inner-most recesses of his mind.

However as the trial moved on, Newlan's dreams would begin to weigh heavily on his heart. As the trial moved on, the significance of his latest dream would become crystal clear. Perhaps in some way, he _could_ communicate with Fred Miller...but what, pray tell, made it all possible?

For his part, Billy, who was also dozing off at the time of Newlan's panic attack, was staggered out of his slumber by the caterwauling juror, and with a look of concern on his face, he leaned in towards Newlan's direction and gingerly whispered, "Are you OK? You look like you've just seen a ghost."

"I think I may have...I think I may have," replied a shaken Newlan as he leaned back in his bucket seat and held on for dear life, while at the same time the bus driver navigated full-speed ahead, onward along the slippery pavement, for the balance of the bumpy ride to that Godforsaken garage in Newton Massachusetts...where Fred Miller...met his violent end.

### Chapter 12 – The Smell of Blood

Wednesday afternoon June 4, 2008 – 1:39 PM

The garage was located on the eastbound side of Commonwealth Avenue (or Comm. Ave. as it is commonly referred to by the locals), and as the bus approached from the westbound side, Judge Gershwin requested that the jurors look out the windows on the driver's side so that they might observe the structure from multiple vantage points.

Judge Gershwin didn't supply any additional instructions, so it was up to the jurors to determine what significance, if any, there was to viewing the garage from the opposite side of the street. But nevertheless, Newlan and the rest of the jurors obediently moved towards the driver's side of the bus and did as instructed.

"Bid deal, it's a parking garage...I don't get why we need to look at it from this angle," softly groused Newlan as the bus drove past a spate of aging office buildings.

Due to the configuration of the roadway, the driver had to take a detour down a few side streets to make the turn-around before they emerged on the eastbound side of Comm. Ave., and from there the bus backtracked down the road until it came to a stop in front of the garage.

The sizable length of the bus was causing it to block the entrance/exit opening of the garage, and Newlan had a comical vision playing in his mind of encountering a carload full of pissed-off old ladies trying to exit the parking lot only to realize that a gargantuan bus was obstructing their way.

Of course, even though Newlan may have been preoccupied with keeping himself entertained, his wandering mind didn't prevent Judge Gershwin from rising up and taking her place in the center aisle of the bus as she prepared to address this diverse gathering of lawyers and common folk.

"Ladies and gentlemen we are going to be making our way into the garage shortly, and once inside, the attorneys will be given the opportunity to provide you with their suggested instructions regarding the viewing."

Upon the completion of her introductory comments, Judge Gershwin gave the go-ahead for everyone to exit the bus, and as Newlan made his way onto the street, he observed that two Newton Police cars were parked just beyond the garage.

The steady drizzle of rain still hadn't let up, so as the occupants of the bus stepped onto the sidewalk, they instinctively made a loping dash for the shelter of the covered parking lot. For his part, Newlan was surprised to find that the garage was completely devoid of automobiles, but then he came to the conclusion that the Newton Police had probably been guarding the entrance all morning just to make sure that it was empty, specifically for the sake of the jury's visit, which must have been difficult to coordinate given the fact that they couldn't be sure exactly when the contingent from the courthouse was going to be arriving.

In any event, the jurors, as well as the attorneys, the court officers, the State Police motorcycle officers, and the Newton Police officers were now all nestled comfortably inside the sooty garage waiting for Judge Gershwin's next set of instructions.

Newlan used the time-out to take a quick peek around at the oil-slicked asphalt, and, inexplicably, the place gave him the creeps, just as the garage at his condo complex sometimes did.

But Newlan's fears notwithstanding, before anything ghastly or otherwise of significance had the chance of occurring, Billy stopped the proceedings when the bus driver made him aware of the fact that the handicapped juror was still in the process of exiting the bus.

"Wait for me," good-naturedly shouted the crippled man as he rolled his wheelchair into the garage. Most everyone got at a kick out of this not-so-minor oversight, but of more importance was the fact that the blunder also seemed to relieve some of the tension that was collectively beginning to build up inside the jurors' synapses.

Now that _all_ of the jurors were finally assembled (Billy took a head count just to make sure) Judge Gershwin requested that everyone come closer together and form a half-circle around her.

"What are we having, a prayer service," whispered Newlan to a fellow juror who was standing nearby. But the middle-aged man just shrugged his shoulders in return and gave Newlan a clueless frown.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, may I have your attention. Ms. Lyons and Mr. Gleason will now make their presentations," announced Judge Gershwin as she waved Lyons over to the center of the assembled half-circle.

"Members of the jury, I'd like you to pay particular attention to this parking space on the right hand side of the garage," commanded Lyons as she pointed to a spot about half way down the length of the structure and began walking towards it.

"Also, please make note of the parking space on the left hand side of the garage directly opposite this location," added Lyons who was now standing on the very spot where Fred Miller had been shot to death.

Lyons was about twenty yards away from where the semicircle of jurors was situated when she began backpedalling towards the garage entrance, while at the same time asking the jurors to make a visual note of a window-like opening on the right-hand side of the garage. She also asked the jurors to look up at the adjacent office building, which was partially visible from that vantage point in the garage.

After DA Lyons had completed her instructions, it was Gleason's turn in the spotlight, which reminded Newlan of the wedding ritual where everyone forms a circle and the over-imbibing guests take turns dancing in the center of it.

As Gleason entered the semicircle, his face turned a bright shade of red, which was in sharp contrast with his bald head, white hair and bushy white beard. Newlan sensed that Gleason seemed to be a bit uneasy about addressing the jurors, and when he spoke his voice came across as mild and meek.

"Could he possibly be nervous?" wondered Newlan.

"Good afternoon. I'd like you to make note of the lighting, or lack thereof, in this garage," began Gleason. "And another unique aspect of the garage is the fact that there are no exit doorways. If a person were to park their car in here, they would exit from the same opening where cars pull in and out of. Also, if you walk to the entrance of the garage and look outside, you will notice that Comm. Ave is a one-way street on either side of the median strip, so if a vehicle were to take a left upon exiting the garage, it would be going the wrong way onto a very busy street."

Newlan observed that DA Lyons made a pouting expression when Gleason mentioned the possibility of a car going the wrong way on Comm. Ave, and he wondered what it all meant, or whether any of the other jurors saw the look of veiled disgust on Lyons' face.

Luckily for Gleason, the more he talked, the more relaxed he seemed to get, and Newlan, for one, could relate to his deficiency because it usually took him a few minutes to get warmed up whenever he had to speak at a work-related meeting (and this was after years of playing in rock band). Based on their backgrounds, one would think that both Newlan and Gleason should have been accustomed to public speaking by now, but the reality of the situation was that deep down inside they were both very private, introverted men.

And yet despite his self-consciousness, Gleason did a commendable job of articulating his points. And when he promptly finished up his summations, Judge Gershwin wasted no time in letting the jurors loose.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you may proceed to walk about the garage...and please take as much time as you need," signaled the honorable judge. And with her figurative green light now flashing, the jurors began to wander aimlessly around the decrepit parking lot, stopping at times to stare up at the ceiling, and out at the adjacent office building.

At this point in time Newlan didn't even know any of the jurors' names yet so he was keeping his distance, thinking to himself that he wasn't here to make friends, and as he trudged around the garage, he tried to visualize in his mind exactly what might have happened inside the confines of these dark walls.

The atmosphere in the garage was dank and musty which reminded Newlan of a creaky, unfinished basement, and his psychic tendencies were clearly telling him that, in the not so distant past, something bad had happened somewhere close by. He realized that Judge Gershwin hadn't given them any specific details as to why they were visiting the garage, but just the same he muttered, "It doesn't take a genius to figure out that this is where the murder took place...not to mention the fact that I vaguely remember the news report stating that Miller was murdered in a garage next to where he worked."

After examining the crumbling support beams, which didn't seem wide enough for someone to hide behind, Newlan ventured over to the parking spot that DA Lyons had pointed out, and he slowly rotated himself in a roundabout circle so that he might view the garage from different angles, when suddenly, out of nowhere, he thought he smelled blood. Truth be told, he didn't really even know what blood smelled like, but nevertheless he was sure he wasn't mistaken.

"Or maybe it's just the stench of death," whispered Newlan.

Newlan closed his eyes as he struggled to retrieve the origins of the foul odor from his memory banks, and it eventually occurred to him that his recollection of the rancid fetor dated back to his teenage days when he worked at a local supermarket, cleaning up the butcher shop. The stink that was emanating from the parking spot was reminiscent of the butcher shop after a long hot day of chopping up the remains of cows and pigs into various cuts of meat. However, due to the fact that no one else was complaining about the putrid malodor, he was uncertain whether the scent was real or just the product of his vivid imagination.

Real or imagined, Newlan hurriedly decided to move along and inspect the side of the garage where the opening in the wall revealed the adjacent office building, and when he reached his destination, he gazed up at the windows on every floor of the structure and tried to imagine what the view of the garage would look like from each aperture.

Newlan was hoping that maybe the jurors would get to go inside the building and look down at the garage from various vantage points, but that exercise didn't turn out to be on the agenda. However, that didn't stop him from reflecting back on a trip he had made to Dallas several years back for a work-related conference. One of the few touristy things to do in Dallas was to visit the School Book Depository building where Lee Harvey Oswald was positioned when he allegedly shot JFK, and looking up at the office building from the garage luridly reminded him of looking down from that old refurbished brick building towards the grassy knoll in downtown Dallas. Even though he was now looking up instead of down, and even though there were certainly no indications that any shots had been fired out of the office building windows here in Newton, the situations seemed analogous to him nonetheless.

Newlan was beginning to feel a little bit like Columbo from the old detective TV series as he made his way towards the garage entrance and briefly poked his head out onto the street. It was still raining, but it only took a few seconds for him to follow Gleason's instructions and take a look-see down the avenue, and he instantly agreed with Gleason that it was obviously a busy street, and that it would be virtually impossible for a car to get very far going the wrong way.

During the course of his brief investigation, Newlan also observed that a couple of the Newton Police officers who were charged with guarding the garage were sipping coffee while standing out on the street under an umbrella. And although his soon-to-be next panic episode could have been filed, part and parcel, in the same folder that held his overactive imagination, he could have sworn that the cops where staring at him. And on top of that, the cold wet air was giving him the chills.

Based on Newlan's idiosyncrasies, it should come as no surprise that he was the type of person who would be plagued by varying degrees of paranoia whenever he noticed a cop car driving behind him in his rearview mirror, and it never failed to make him jittery; so much so that he'd literally end up driving erratically. His affliction was in fact so bad that he even got pulled over a few times. And yet his solution to the problem was always the same; try not to look back. Of course this was easier said than done since, as we will come to know all too well, he had to look back, he always looked back. And now in his presently conflicted condition, he struggled mightily to follow that same strategy as he turned around and uncomfortably put some distance between himself and the cops, who weren't actually staring at him in the first place, but good luck to anyone who tried to convince him otherwise.

At this point, Newlan decided that he had seen all he needed to see, and with the specter of the cops weighing on his mind, he headed back towards the center of the garage where many of the jurors, as well as the attorneys and Judge Gershwin were milling about.

Newlan disdainfully surveyed the handful of jurors who were still making various observations as they wandered around the garage, and he shook his head in exasperation. By now, he was both tired _and_ irritable, and he just wanted to go home, which caused him to involuntarily grumble to himself in frustration, "What the hell are they still looking at?"

Newlan happened to be standing in close proximity to Mr. Gleason when he uttered his bewildering remarks, and Judge Gershwin mistakenly came to the conclusion that he was chatting with the reticent defense attorney.

"Sir, if you could, would you please refrain from fraternizing with the attorneys. If you have any questions, you should bring them to the attention of our quite capable court officers. Do you understand?" asserted Judge Gershwin in a scolding manner.

"Yes your honor," replied a red-faced Newlan as he inched away from Gleason with his tail between his legs.

"Fuck, I've only been on the case for an hour and I'm already getting reprimanded by the judge," silently groaned Newlan, and with another shake of his head, he added, "Man, you can't make this shit up."

Newlan's unintentional fit of temper turned out to be for naught because shortly thereafter, the tarrying jurors satisfactorily completed their review of the garage, and everyone filed back onto the bus for the trip over to the Newton Police station.

The police station was only a few miles from the garage, but due to the typically heavy Boston area traffic it still took an exorbitant amount of time to get there, and in the interim, Newlan once again put his head back and closed his eyes as he attempted to reflect on what he had just seen in the garage...and as he did, he almost dozed off again. But this time he made a concerted effort to stay awake, lest he succumb to another embarrassing nightmare-induced outburst.

When the bus finally arrived at the police station annex, the driver pulled into a parking lot behind the main building where roughly fifteen Newton Police cars were parked. One would think that the sight of all those blue-lighted cruisers lined up in one place should have been comforting, but in the mind of the mistrusting Newlan, it was anything but.

If nothing else, Newlan's trepidation evoked a heightened sense of awareness in his brain stem, and he was on the alert for Judge Gershwin's next dictum. But while he waited for the measured judge to proceed, he scrutinized the police presence that stood surrounding the station's garage, which was situated to the rear of the parking lot. Naturally, the swarm of cops, who were put in place specifically to guard the premises for the jurors visit, did nothing to ease his consternation, and additionally, for some strange reason he was taken aback by the dimensions of the garage, which he estimated to be almost as large as the parking garage that they had just visited on Comm. Ave.

Just as she had done at the aforementioned parking garage, Judge Gershwin addressed the jurors from the center aisle of the bus, and she informed them that they would be viewing an automobile which was being housed in the Newton Police Station garage; a1999 blue Nissan Maxima to be exact. But this time around, the considerate judge allowed the attorneys to address the jurors from the bus as well, and DA Lyons requested that they make note of a hole in the front door-handle armrest on the passenger's side of the car which was outlined with electrical tape to make it easier to see. However, when it was Gleason's turn, he rose slowly and hunched slightly to avoid scraping his head against the low ceiling of the bus, and with a slight grimace he informed the jurors that he had nothing to add.

After getting the go-ahead from Judge Gershwin, the disparate brigade of unlikely bedfellow made their way inside, and one of the many Newton Police officers who were on the scene directed them to the back of the garage where the automobile in question was located. The front doors of the vehicle were already opened wide and the windows were rolled down, eerily welcoming the jurors as they apprehensively approached like an uncertain bunch of first graders entering the haunted house at an amusement park.

Newlan was at the front of the pack as they advanced toward the mid-sized sedan, but he politely nodded for the handful of female jurors in his vicinity to go ahead of him. However, they insisted that he go first.

"I guess this isn't something that any of us really wants to see," acknowledged an understanding Newlan as he ambled up to the car and stuck his head inside the open doorway on the driver's side where, much to his dismay, he was promptly greeted by a most unwanted surprise.

A foul stench that had seemingly attached itself to the inside of the cabin set off Newlan's internal panic alarm and he was almost overcome by a dizzying queasiness; the odor was in fact so acrid that it almost knocked him off his feet and had him gasping for air. He detected the scent of blood again for sure, and this time he was positive that it wasn't just his imagination.

After a taking a few deep breaths, Newlan made a number of repeated attempts to get a quick glance inside the vehicle, and when he finally succeeded, he observed what appeared to be multiple blotches of sizable blood stains congealed onto the front seats of the cabin, which appeared to have been torn apart and hastily put back together. For the brief moment that his head had penetrated beyond the invisible boundary of the car door, he also managed to catch sight of several unidentifiable splatters which he deemed to be organic in nature.

"Who knows, maybe bits of brain," mumbled the squeamish Newlan, while at the same time he noticed that there was a scattering of clothing, sports equipment, newspapers, and trash strewn about the back seat.

Newlan felt as if he was about to vomit, but he staggered backwards just in time to breathe a reviving dose of fresh air into his lungs. From that point on, he made the rest of his observations from well outside the perimeter of the car, including reviewing the hole in the passenger door as DA Lyons had requested. And just to be thorough, he made a quick pass around the vehicle and examined the interior of the cabin from the external vantage point of each of the car's windows.

During the course of appraising the body of the vehicle, Newlan stumbled upon a bumper sticker that read 'Question Authority' affixed to the rear bumper and he nearly blew a gasket due to the fact that he had the exact same bumper sticker slapped onto the back of his own car as well.

"This is way too spooky. What are the odds of us waving the same freak flag? Man, you can't make this shit up," quietly murmured Newlan as he dubiously forged on. The unlikely signage coincidence, a rebellious insignia at that, which when combined with his bizarre Grateful Dead concert dream, understandably shook him, and it left him wondering whether the day's peculiar events might be an auspicious sign of things to come. However, he quickly composed himself long enough to take a prolonged look at the vehicle from every conceivable angle before gingerly retreating from the scene while the majority of the jurors were still in the process of circling the car.

As Newlan observed the procession from a distance, he couldn't help but notice that many of the jurors were visibly shaken by the nauseating funk that was radiating from the vehicle, almost to the point of vomiting just as he had done, while on the other end of the spectrum, a smaller faction lingered around the car; evidently they were having no problem sticking their heads into the cabin for extended periods of time.

"They must have strong stomachs," admiringly assumed Newlan as once again he reflected back on his younger days when he was employed at the local supermarket.

One of Newlan's job duties was to scour and cleanse the butcher's saw at the end of the day, and after eight hours of cutting meat, especially in the summertime, the cross-cutting instrument reeked of an awful scent of a decomposing corpses; and the mere thought of the fetid stink was enough to send a reflexive gut-turning reaction coursing through his body.

As Newlan's mind aroused his memories, there was one notable occasion in particular that came rushing to the forefront of his brain; it was a flashback that was indelibly burned into his retinas. And now here it was once again staring at him in his minds-eye; as he was cleaning the blade of blood and bones and cow flesh, he was startled by the sight of hundreds of maggots crawling through the hunks of leftover meat shavings which had fallen into the receptacle at the bottom of the appliance.

Newlan recalled becoming so violently ill that he quit the job on-the-spot, much to the chagrin of the store manager, who always regarded him highly by virtue of his strong work ethic. And now as he considered the prodigious conundrum which had been placed in his path, a cloudy obstacle which was practically blocking out the sun and moon and the sky from his very soul, he wished that he could relinquish his post on the jury as well. But unfortunately, as he would soon find out, it's not always possible to run away from our problems.

From a very early age, it seemed that the sight of blood triggered a queasy reaction from deep within the core of Newlan's being; and it wasn't just one of those typical youthful motor responses that a person outgrows, for, if anything, this abnormal psychological disorder became worse and worse over the years.

And yet, in spite of his phobia, there was a time when Newlan would render his body at the disposal of the Red Cross whenever there was a blood-drive at work. As long as he looked the other way while the platelets were being drained from his body, he was able to persevere; that is, until one day as he stood waiting his turn in line, when he caught sight of a volunteer rolling away a tray of plastic bags filled with blood. Without a warning, the fortuitous unveiling of the sacks full of crimson liquid sent him scurrying out of the room, teetering on wobbly legs, and he almost fainted as he got up and unsteadily walked away.

As it turned out, that was the last time Newlan ever attempted to give blood, and nowadays, whenever the Health Services department was holding a blood drive and someone asked him whether he was going to participate, he would weasel his way out of his predicament by jokingly pronouncing; "believe me, they wouldn't want my blood."

But today, on the other hand, as Newlan looked back on those less-than-finer moments from his younger days, he was rather proud of himself for being able to withstand the odor that was being emitted from Fred Miller's automobile, albeit just by a nose. And furthermore, he was equally proud of the fact that he was able to endure the sight of what was obviously a collection of mammoth blood stains caked into the plush upholstery of the car's seats.

"Hey, I had to tough it out or the rest of the jurors would have thought I was a wimp," Newlan would later boast to his friends as he recounted the day's events.

But Newlan's silent ramblings aside, once his fellow jurors had viewed the vehicle to their satisfaction, the same routine repeated itself...board the bus...everyone in separate seats...wait for the bus driver to help the wheelchair-bound juror onto the bus via the handicapped lift...and down the road they went.

By now Newlan was completely exhausted, but after considering the morbid implications of the blood stained automobile, not to mention the improbable bumper sticker coincidence, he didn't have any such worries in regards to falling asleep on the ride back to the courthouse. To the contrary, he was suddenly wide awake, and his mind was racing in a million different directions, churning almost as rapidly as the bus which was shuttling them back to their new home-base.

When the legion of justice seekers finally arrived, full-circle, back to where they had started from, the slightly distraught Newlan and his fellow jurors were escorted into a now empty courtroom by Billy, and from there they were addressed by Judge Gershwin one last time for the day.

"The attorneys will present their opening statements first thing in the morning, after which we will begin promptly with witness testimony. Now, I want to take a moment to remind you, as I will every day, not to discuss the case with anyone, be it family, friends or fellow jurors. If the case is mentioned on TV, you should change the channel immediately...and please do not attempt to research the case on the internet. Also, you should refrain from reading about the case in the newspaper, and as a matter of fact, you should have a family member go through the paper first and cut out any references to the trial, as well as any references to the other high-profile cases that are being tried here in the Middlesex Superior Courthouse this week."

The benevolent judge then smiled warmly as she peered directly into the jury box and cordially added; "have a safe trip home and we'll see you in the morning. Please arrive at the courthouse promptly at 8:45 AM. Court is adjourned."

"All rise," mechanically exclaimed Billy as he hustled the jurors back to the deliberation room with a sense of urgency which Newlan took to mean that Billy had plans for the evening, and that the lengthy bus adventure had made him late.

But plans or no plans, Billy had some last minute details to share with the jurors, especially for the newbies such as Newlan who hadn't been in attendance the day before, and he proceeded to dispense explicit directions on anything and everything they ever needed to know about being on a jury, facts both big and small, ranging from their lunch menus to where to park their cars.

Parking in particular was of the utmost importance for jurors who were assigned to high-profile cases. These jurors required "special protection", and thus it was essential that strict protocol be followed. As such, a gated section on the fourth floor of the garage, cordoned off behind a couple of wooden barrier horses, was reserved expressly for their use. They were required to present the security guard on duty with their juror identification badge every morning, and once beyond the barrier, the guard would escort the jurors into a waiting room where Billy or one of his colleagues would take them up to the deliberation room which was reserved for courtroom 630.

"Oh and by the way, I'm gonna switch you with seat number 8 tomorrow so that he can sit with everyone else and not feel left out," explained Billy as he pointed towards Newlan and the handicapped juror.

Newlan's seat number 16 happened to be the last seat on the ground level of the jury box, whereas the handicapped juror was saddled with seat number 8 which was raised up on the back row, directly behind seat number 16, making it inaccessible from a wheelchair.

Seats number 8 and 16 were located at the far end of the seating chart, furthest away from the gallery section of the courtroom and closest to the witness stand, and this fact, although rather insignificant, would prove to be a blessing in Newlan's quest for anonymity.

But putting Newlan's self-centered issues on the backburner for a moment, it was clear that the handicapped juror, who up until now had been placed on an island a few feet away from the rest of the jurors, conspicuously stuck out like a sore thumb. However, the new seating arrangement being proposed by Billy would allow the incapacitated man to sit in the jury box with the rest of his colleagues. Billy simply removed the swivel chair from the spot where seat number 16 was located, which left plenty of room for a wheelchair, and since seat 16 was at the far end of the row, there would be little affect on exiting and entering the jury box.

"No problem," replied an outwardly agreeable Newlan, although inwardly his superstitious mind opposed the change.

But regardless of Newlan's irrational leanings, from that point forward he learned that he would become known as "juror number 8". Apparently, once a juror is assigned to a case, his or her badge number becomes irrelevant, and their identifying number becomes their seat number.

"So much for Larry Bird's number 33...I hope that this doesn't mess up the Celtics chances," ranted Newlan under his breath while Billy hastened on to bigger and better things.

And although Billy rushed through his announcements, he was very thorough in his dissemination of the relevant information, and yet the detail-oriented Newlan still felt as if there were a thousand unanswered questions left for him to ask. But in the end he bit his tongue, since he could clearly tell that Billy was in a hurry.

Billy wasted no time in escorting the jurors onto the waiting elevator, where the majority of them got off on the fourth floor. Since most of them had been selected to the case yesterday, they were already parked in the reserved section of the courthouse garage. But Newlan, who was parked just above street level, stayed put on the elevator and rode down to the ground floor with the handful of remaining jurors.

While the elevator descended, Newlan overheard two jurors, a petite elderly woman in her late sixties, and the same heavyset woman who had given him the stern look earlier in the day, discussing the schedules for Medford-bound buses.

"It looks like they're going my way...maybe I should offer them a ride?" silently debated Newlan in his mind, but then he thought the better of it. Amongst other excuses, he rationalized that they might inadvertently discuss the case, which was an egregious offense that Judge Gershwin had empathically instructed them not to commit.

"Besides, right about now, I'm not in the mood to indulge in a casual conversation with a couple of people I don't even know...and on top of that, I'd feel obligated to give them a ride everyday, which could end up being torture," mutely complained Newlan. As the days went by, he would wind up developing a guilty conscience over not giving the ladies a ride, but for now he was more than happy with his decision.

For now, a guilty conscience was a problem for another day, and when the elevator landed on the ground floor, Newlan hastily exited from the same entrance where he had entered the courthouse in the morning; the only exception being that on his way out of the building, he didn't have to pass through any security checkpoints, which was a relief because he was anxious to get the hell out of there and get back home to the comforts of his condo.

Not surprisingly, the horde of reporters and TV cameras were still in place as Newlan pushed his way out of the revolving courthouse door. In an effort to avoid the media throng, he made a mad dash for the parking garage, and as he got into his car and started her up for the drive back home, the exhaustion that had been pounding away at his aching head all day finally broke through, and it was only then that he truly reflected on what an excruciatingly long day it had been.

It had only been one day, but to Newlan it seemed as if he had been at the courthouse forever and day...and little did he know...just how much worse...it was about to get.

### Chapter 13 – Dreams so Real

Wednesday evening June 4, 2008 – 8:30 PM

By the time Newlan made his way back to the comfortable confines of his condo, he barely had any strength left to prepare dinner...but somehow he managed to make a sandwich and heat up a can of soup. A serious pang of hunger had come over him during the homeward drive, but the day's events, which fueled an inexplicable anxiety that had settled in the pit of his stomach, caused him to lose much of his appetite.

And so after what could hardly be called dinner, Newlan sank down into the black leather sofa in his living room with the weight of the world on his mind and the volume turned up on his HDTV.

Newlan had gone on a rare spending spree when he purchased his condo, and in a moment of weakness he sprang for the new furniture and the large-screen TV. He was never one to go out and buy the latest high-tech gadgets, and he was skeptical of HD from the start, but he figured he'd go for it anyway since he kept hearing about how the high definition resolution on these new TV's was going to make the average picture-tube TV set obsolete, and on top of that, the prices had dropped quite a bit in the last year.

But despite Newlan's cynicism, and much to his surprise we might add, when the cable technician came over and hooked up the HD box to the TV, his jaw dropped the moment he caught sight of the stunning clarity being projected on the widescreen monitor. Close-up shots of people's faces in particular seemed to clarify every little wrinkle or facial imperfection.

"All these aging TV newscasters are gonna hate HD," thought Newlan at the time, and his prognosis turned out to be an accurate one, as even the most photogenic of broadcasters would attest to.

Newlan was the first of his friends to own a HD set, and when the gang came over for the inaugural viewing of a New England Patriot's football game on the TV, they too were also amazed at the sharpness of the picture. HDTVs were pretty much made for sports fans such as Newlan and his pals, and so naturally he promptly became the popular host of many a lazy autumn Sunday afternoon spent watching football games and drinking beer.

Newlan was the typical male channel surfer, and he would invariably end up watching the loop of stories on the New England Cable News network (or NECN as they like to refer to themselves as) when nothing else was on, or in between innings of the ballgame, which on this evening had the Red Sox hosting the suddenly half-decent Tampa Bay Rays.

In keeping to form Newlan switched over to NECN during the commercial break in hopes of catching the latest weather report, and wouldn't you know it, literally within seconds, the newscaster announced, "Juror selection was completed today in the Townshend and Breslin cases...details after the break."

"This is just great...I'm already facing a dilemma over whether I should watch the news because of this damned trial," growled Newlan. And although he ruminated fervently over whether to change the channel, in the end, he grunted "the hell with it" and decided to watch the story, in spite of the honorable Judge Gershwin's stern instructions.

Newlan's concerns turned out to be unwarranted because the report was primarily geared towards the Townshend case which featured the handsome young sex addict from England who allegedly murdered his wife and infant daughter, while the Breslin case was almost an afterthought, and nothing of importance was revealed that he wasn't already privy to.

"It figures, my case is playing second-fiddle to that fuckin' limey pervert," grumbled Newlan out loud...and then with a puzzled expression on his brow, he added, "When did I start talking to myself? I guess Dr. Clay was right. Maybe I do need to see a shrink."

Whether or not Newlan truly required the services of a psychiatrist are debatable, but in any event, after watching the Red Sox game with his eyelids half-closed, he suddenly came to the realization that he needed to contact his office and let everyone know that he was going to be out of work for a while. And with that task in mind, he sleepily sat down at the desk in his spare bedroom and powered up his laptop so that he could shoot off an email to his co-workers, letting them know the bad news regarding his jury duty selection.

Not wanting to get into too many details, Newlan composed a brief message and proofread it a few times as he always did (even though he wasn't sure why he bothered, since it seemed that no matter how often he reread and spellchecked his emails, invariably some sort of grammatical error would slip through).

Of course linguistics were surely a mute point at this hour of the evening, because by now Newlan was much too tired to worry about typos or exhaustive narratives, and so for the subject matter he simply typed, _Jury Duty_ , and then he read the text to himself one last time before hitting the send button.

Hi everyone. Unfortunately, much to my dismay, I have been selected to serve on jury. The case is expected to last at least three to four weeks...but if anything changes I'll keep you posted. Based on the length of the trial, it goes without saying that it is a fairly high profile case, but as you are probably well aware, I'm not allowed to give out any details.

Anyway, I'll be checking my emails and voice mails when I get home at night so leave me a message if anything urgent comes up.

Thanks,

Frank

Newlan painstakingly considered whether he should provide his co-workers with even the slightest of clues regarding what case he was serving on, but ultimately he decided to abide by Judge Gershwin's orders...at least for the time being anyway.

"Fuck them...and besides, I gotta keep Bobby Parant guessing, which will drive the old bugger crazy," mumbled Newlan with a yawn and a chuckle.

With his task completed, Newlan was just about ready to hit the sack, but within seconds of firing off the email, his phone rang and it was his manager from work, Jason Young, on the other end of the line.

Young was only a few months younger than Newlan ("no pun intended" as Newlan liked to say, tongue-in-cheek, apropos the Young/younger reference) and yet he always seemed to have a lot more energy than Newlan cared to deal with, especially right about now with the clock ticking towards midnight and the trial hanging over his head like the blade of a guillotine.

There was no question about it; Young was a workaholic, and he was also the ambitious go-getter type who had dreams of climbing the middle-management ladder. Whereas Newlan had no interest in the management side of the business, even though he had been approached many times in his career with proposals concerning "changing sides" as he liked to put it.

Newlan firmly believed that he had the makings of a top-notch manager, but when all was said and done he'd talk himself out of it every time.

"They don't make much more money than I do...," he'd say, "...and besides who needs the headaches and the aggravations of dealing with all of these prima donnas and head-cases anyway."

And yet despite their differences, Newlan had a pretty good rapport with Young, and he could even get away with ragging on him from time to time. Newlan was a real pro at his job, and Young was appreciative of the fact that he had such a good right-hand man. To wit, Young was confident enough in Newlan that he trusted him to watch over the ship if he ever had to duck out early. And on top of that, Young acknowledged that he could hand out the most complex assignments to Newlan, and he'd be pretty much guaranteed that the work would always get done; done right, on time, and under budget. And furthermore, if the truth be told, whenever Newlan was out on vacation, Young and the rest of the team were constantly on edge; worried sick that some obscure problem was going to arise at any minute which only he could resolve.

Newlan's stock response of reassurance was that "no one's irreplaceable," and for good measures he'd add, "What if I dropped dead or hit the lottery, then what would you do?"

But regardless of Newlan's assurances, on this night, Jason Young _was_ worried...very worried.

"Hey, I got your email. Any idea exactly how long you're gonna be out? We just got some big projects approved today, and we're gonna be really shorthanded without you. I knew you should have postponed your jury duty until the fall," moaned Young in a concerned tone.

"You're amazing Jason. I just sent that email two seconds ago. How the hell did you see it so quickly? What do you want me to say? I had to go on jury duty eventually. Who knew I'd get picked for a murder trial. Oops I shouldn't have said that! Besides I'll check in from home and pick up the slack at night if I have to," replied Newlan in an attempt to assuage his worrywart of a manager.

"All right...but we're gonna be screwed if any issues come up during the day," conceded Young.

"What the hell do you want from me? I've been telling you for years that we gotta give the other guys more responsibility...but just relax will ya, everything's gonna be alright," encouraged Newlan, even though deep inside he knew full well that his obsessive-compulsive boss was on the money as far as his damage-control assessment was concerned.

The fact of the matter was that the IT department at Tafts University did rely heavily on Newlan which was good for job security but bad in the respect that he was constantly busy, which would, in turn, heighten his annoyance level; especially when he'd walk by his co-workers desks and catch them surfing the internet all day while he was busting his hump.

But Newlan's on-the-job frustrations aside, after a few minutes of coaxing, he finally managed to calm Young down, and although it wasn't easy, he was able to talk him off the ledge and convince him that they could get by without him for a few weeks.

"OK, well, keep us posted," requested Young with a sigh, and then after a short pause he added with a chortle, "Oh and by the way...I hope you fry the guy!"

Newlan grinned as he hung up, and he thought to himself, "Young's not a bad guy. A little bit anal maybe...but not a bad guy."

However, shortly thereafter he had an awful revelation.

"Shit, I'm gonna be in court all day... then I'll come home totally exhausted and be expected to work all night...man, these next few weeks are really gonna suck big time."

The reality of the situation may have been upsetting, but the optimist in Newlan decided that thing could always be worse, and since he was already sitting at his computer anyway, he decided to surf the net in an attempt to lift his sagging spirits because, "well, you never know what you'll find out there," he whispered to himself in deference to the outraged politician who once compared the internet to the wild, wild west, what with the proliferation of pornography and all.

While he was at it, Newlan was tempted to snoop around for some juicy information regarding the trial, and after a few minutes of serious deliberation, he Googled John Breslin's name...and sure enough, the ubiquitous search engine returned page after page of hits, mostly from newspaper articles pertaining to the case.

Newlan hesitated momentarily, but his curious side won out and he went ahead and scrolled down through the list of links while skimming through the abbreviated summaries. For instance, the very first link at the top of the page read:

John Breslin Hired Ex-Con to Kill his Wife's Lover...

Detective Carolyn Curran of the Newtown Police claimed that Fred Miller knew he was in a dangerous situation well before he was murdered, even in a rich suburb proclaimed to be one of the safest cities in America. Miller had said that if he wound up...

It wasn't easy, but Newlan somehow resisted the temptation of clicking on the link and reading the remainder of the article, and the dozens of subsequent stories regarding the case.

"Judge Gershwin would be proud of me," boasted Newlan, although he wasn't sure how much longer he could go on before his curiosity got the better of him.

As was often the case, Newlan's inquisitiveness intensified his concentration level, and when he finally glanced up at the clock on the wall, he was shocked to discover that it was well after midnight. He never ceased to be amazed at the way that time flew by when he was surfing the internet, and his postulation was always the same; "No wonder some people get addicted to this shit."

And although Newlan's mind may have been active, his body was physically exhausted, and so as he reluctantly powered down his computer, he thankfully contemplated on the fact that he didn't require as much sleep as it once did, whereas in his younger days he could crash for twelve hours, straight though, at the drop of a hat.

"Of course the drugs might have had something to do with it as well," muttered Newlan as he reflected back in time to his wild-eyed youth. He wasn't quite sure what to expect tomorrow morning when he reported to court for opening statements and the first day of testimony, but he concluded that he had better get some rest so that he would be better prepared to handle the uncertainty of being thrown off his usual routine.

And so with his eyelids reduced to slits, Newlan dragged himself off to bed, and after a restless bout of tossing and turning, which wasn't unusual when he had something on his mind, he fell into a heavy, dream-filled sleep.

A dream fueled by his visit to the garage in Newton where Fred Miller met his downfall.

A dream triggered by that mysterious odor which Newlan firmly believed had been released from somewhere rooted deep beneath the pavement of the slimy garage.

Newlan dreamed backed to his youthful days when he worked at the local supermarket and he had the thankless task of cleaning the insides of the butcher's meat-cutting saw; a task that he hated with a passion; an object that had apparently left a lifelong scar running across his subconscious. An object that looked something like this:

For some reason, to this very day Newlan would still have vivid dreams from time to time, centered around the old butcher's powerful saw.

Dreams so real that he could actually hear the terrifying sound of the saw as it effortlessly cut through flesh and bone like a shredder going through a piece of paper.

Dreams so real that he could actually smell the stomach-turning odor of decomposing carcasses which built up over a long day spent chopping up sides of beef and pork into various cuts of meat.

Dreams so real that he could actually breathe in the bloody mist and the powdery remnants of sawed-up cartilage which lingered in the air and then gathered like sawdust on the floor (in real life he even resorted to wearing a dust mask to prevent from inhaling the sooty organic substance and to block out the odor...but it was all to no avail).

Dreams so real that he could actually taste the oozing blood and gristle of the remains which collected inside the cavity of the saw along with maggots, hundreds, maybe even thousands of maggots.

Dreams so real that he could actually feel the wormy creatures crawling up his sleeves as he stuck his gloved hands into the cavity of the saw and scooped the ground-up mixture of flesh and meat and bones which represented death in every way.

Dreams which were in fact so real that Newlan would wake up sweating and shaking uncontrollably at the unpleasant thought that this unrecognizable mass of leftover debris had once been a living breathing animal.

However tonight when the sleeping Newlan pried opened the door of the razor-sharp saw, which had been locked for safety reasons, it was not the remains of an animal that he viewed in his mind's eye; or more precisely it _was_ an animal, but it was an animal of the human variety.

What Newlan observed in his unconscious reflection was the skeletal remains of a human head rolling towards him like a runaway bowling ball. Not a normal human skeleton head, but a grotesque, larger-than-life object like something that you'd see in an old-time horror movie.

But to Newlan, the skeleton head did not represent a Hollywood prop. On the contrary, it symbolized an unearthly entity, an unholy deity, a tortured soul unable to rest in peace.

The skeleton head rumbled towards the retreating Newlan until it finally came to a stop a few inches from his feet where it mesmerizingly looked up to him and smiled an evil smile. Maggots began to crawl from its eye sockets and blood dripped from its mouth. Its teeth and jaws began to clatter and it spoke three words; three words and three words only; "AVENGE...MY...DEATH."

### Chapter 14 – Saeed Kahn's Gibberish

Thursday morning June 5, 2008 – 5:55 AM

By the time Newlan woke up from his frightening nightmare, his t-shirt was soaked with perspiration and he was utterly unable to fall back into anything more than a light slumber for the remainder of the evening. But even though he tossed and turned in a comatose state of semi-consciousness until the break of sunrise, his internal clock still managed to wake him up just before the alarm went off, as it did every morning.

Oftentimes Newlan didn't even remember his dreams the next morning, regardless of whether they were beautiful fantasies or haunting nightmares. However, on this fine morning, he vividly recalled the obvious connotation of the words "avenge my death".

Newlan also recollected shrieking so loudly that he feared he may have woken up his vigilant neighbor, the condo complex's daytime concierge, Saeed Kahn.

Kahn occasionally had to resort to emphatically banging on the paper-thin walls in an angry request for quiet on the irregular evenings where Newlan found himself entertaining an overenthusiastic lover deep into the night.

"God only knows how he's gonna react to a blood-curdling scream," groaned Newlan as he stumbled out of bed.

Newlan was fairly adept at transporting his nightmares back into his subconscious "where they belong" as he often put it, and so by the time he dragged himself out of bed, he was able to shrug off the whirring butcher's saw, and the rolling skull, and the plea for vengeance, and he attributed the bizarre episode, in its entirety, to a nervous reflex brought on by the start of the trial (sort of like an allergic reaction gone haywire in a fit of uncontrollable sneezing).

After an extended bit of soul-searching, Newlan got himself into gear, and he went through most of his regularly scheduled morning routine as he always did, but he laggardly decided to skip his less-than-grueling workout which consisted of sit-ups, stretching, and lifting a pair of ten pound dumbbells.

On the infrequent days when Newlan was feeling extra motivated, he might even make a trip down to the complex's fitness room for a run on the treadmill...but not on this morning. No, on this most unordinary of mornings, he just wasn't up to the challenge of exercising his body when his mind was already worn-out, long before the day had even begun.

Newlan had more important, albeit mundane, things to deal with today, such as deciding exactly what time he should depart for the drive to the courthouse. On the one hand, he had to ensure that he left himself plenty of extra time to make a punctual arrival into the halls of justice. However, it was a tricky barometer to gauge due to the notorious Boston area traffic. The Route 93 to 128 interchange was especially difficult to judge due to the fact that even a minor accident could back up traffic for hours. But on the other hand, he preferred not to leave too early, lest he wind up in a situation where he would be forced to make small-talk with his new colleagues when what he really wanted to do was to just "veg out" undisturbed, until he was called upon to perform in his official capacity as a juror.

Newlan decided on an 8 AM departure which would give him a full two hours to eat breakfast while watching the morning news, followed by the three "S's" ("shower, shit, and shave, but not necessarily in that order," as his lifelong friend, Bruce Reardon, had jokingly coined his own daily routine) before getting dressed.

And so after the usual requisite machinations, Newlan made his way out the door at precisely 8 AM sharp, just as he had planned.

Newlan waved weakly towards the ever-present condo doorman, Saeed Kahn, as he passed briskly through the lobby. And as headed down to his car in the garage, he hoped that there wouldn't be any repercussions from last night's disturbance...and so far so good.

Kahn, who was a devoutly religious man (or at least that's what he told Newlan on a regular basis), was garbed in some sort of Arabic robe, and his portable CD player had what sounded to Newlan like the sitar-enhanced warble of Middle-Eastern music blaring in the background. And as an added touch, he had placed a stick of burning incense on the counter of the security desk as well.

As far as Newlan could tell, Kahn appeared to be lost in a meditative trance, since he pretty much ignored his gesturing greeting.

"Go figure," pondered Newlan. "Saeed either chews my ear off or he ignores me altogether. Anyhow, it's just as well. On the bright side, at least he didn't mention my late night screaming and thrashing episode. He probably never even heard me...just me being paranoid as usual."

Kahn's odd habits were not a big deal as far as Newlan was concerned. But on the flipside, many of the building's residents complained vehemently about the erratic doorman's strange behavior, sometimes until they were blue in the face. Some of them even went so far as demanding that the board of trustees terminate him for practicing his religion and blasting his insipid music in the lobby when he was supposed to be working.

But in reality, the primary reasoning behind the enraged tenants constant consternations was due to the fact that most of them where just plain prejudiced against anyone who was the least bit different from themselves, whereas Newlan took the contrarian view, much to the chagrin of his petition-waving neighbors.

In Newlan's opinion, Kahn's eccentric tendencies weren't the least bit bothersome, and his viewpoint was such that as long as their glorified watchman kept a wary eye guarding the condo complex's perimeter walls then nothing else really mattered much; and in that regard, no one could question that he took his job seriously.

The fact of the matter was that Kahn watched over the building like a hawk, and truth be told, in Newlan's opinion, he sometimes did too good of a job policing the property, based on the third-degree interrogations he'd routinely put his friends through whenever they stopped by for a visit.

_Although_...as far as Kahn blasting his foreign music at the security desk was concerned, Newlan definitely had to agree with his neighbors on that one. The high-pitched chanting came across as pure gibberish to the rock & roll loving Newlan.

Conversely however, Newlan did enjoy the scent of Kahn's fragrant incense, which never failed in its ability to trigger a few flashbacks to the 1970's, which in turn reminded him of the countless times that he and his friends lit up a sprig of incense to mask the pungent aroma of marijuana after an all-night pot smoking session in his buddy Bruce Reardon's basement while Reardon's unsuspecting parents slept two floors above them.

But Newlan's likes and dislikes notwithstanding, now that he had gotten past Kahn without incident, he pulled out of the condo parking lot feeling much better about the state of affairs in his life.

However, as Newlan made his way towards the courthouse, the unsettling realization that he had actually been appointed to serve as a juror on a high profile murder trial began to sink in like the Titanic on its maiden voyage, and this sent his skittering mood swinging in the opposite direction.

Apparently Newlan still hadn't quite come to grips with the fact that he and his fellow jurors had been shackled with the overwhelming burden of deciding a man's fate. But in the end, he reckoned that they would just have to do the best they could with the evidence that was presented before them.

Newlan should have been comforted by the knowledge that there was going to be a boatload of people helping him to make the final decision, but somehow he had a feeling that before all was said and done, he was going to be clinging to a life raft, alone, as he navigated his way through choppy seas.

It would be fair assessment to say that Newlan's bearings were being hindered by an attack of bewilderment, and that maybe he was even a little bit scared. And in response to his predicament, he whispered to himself; "in times like these there's nothing left to do but light up a joint and crank up the tunes." And that's exactly what he did.

Before Newlan left his condo, he had picked out a disc by the bluesy, confederate Americana rock group from the '70's known only as "The Band"; and that disc was now playing in his car's CD player as the weed kicked in.

And as it turned out, the affects of the marijuana, when combined with the music (the song "The Weight" to be explicit), improved Newlan's comportment considerably, and he sang along exuberantly as the lofty tune's theme of lifting the weight off of one's shoulders jangled through the cabin of his automobile.

Newlan's attitude was clearly improving again and he was making fairly good time cruising up Route 93, happily stoned, when all of a sudden the traffic came to a grinding halt roughly two miles from the Route 128 interchange. And along with the gridlock, his disposition changed on a dime for the worst, almost as quickly as it took for his vehicle to come to a complete stop.

"Oh fuck, this can't be good. But don't panic, it's only 8:15. There's still plenty of time to get to the courthouse," moaned Newlan as he attempted to reassure himself.

After another 15 minutes of crawling through traffic, Newlan decided to turn on the radio in a search for a news channel which ran regularly scheduled traffic reports. And subsequently, when he stumbled upon the eye-in-the-sky details from News Chopper Five, he discovered that the problem was even worse than he imagined; an accident just up the road was the cause of the delay, a major delay at that.

"Just my luck, I'm gonna end up being late for the first day of the trial," mumbled Newlan, while a not-so-pleasant vision of Judge Gershwin scolding him and holding him in contempt of court danced through his head.

"Oh dear Lord help me. My only hope is that maybe a few of the other jurors are trapped in this mess too. That way I won't be the only one who's late," logically appealed Newlan to the Higher Power up above while at the same time he took a couple of deep breaths and attempted to relax.

Although, try as he might to stay calm, when the clock hit 8:45 and he still found himself a quarter of a mile from the exit onto Route 128, panic kicked in.

"Now I'm officially late. Son of a fuckin' bitch," ranted Newlan, and he continued to curse up a blue-streak as he inched on down the road, which, in some strange way, aided him in the relief of his stress.

At some point during the delay, Newlan composed himself and he chalked up his misfortunes to an act of God. And once he reconciled himself to the fact that there was nothing he could do about his circumstances, he cranked the tunes back up and patiently waded his way through the logjam until finally he arrived onto the courthouse grounds at just after 9 AM.

After yesterday's fiasco, Newlan had a good idea of what to expect as he approached the courthouse entrance, and so he aired out his vehicle well before he reached the parking garage, and he skillfully maneuvered his way past the satellite trucks and the police checkpoint without incident.

However, as Newlan recklessly ascended the ramp up to the fourth floor of the parking garage, he gunned the V6 engine of his old Mercury in a last ditch effort to make up for lost time, and in the process he proceeded to almost run over a motorcycle cop who shot him a dirty look for his troubles.

"What the hell is he looking at? I'm a juror," boldly taunted Newlan behind the rolled-up windows of his automobile, and for a fraction of a second, he once again felt as if he was an important cog in the wheels of justice.

But regardless of Newlan's self-purported influential status, with the near-miss of the police chopper behind him, he anxiously made his way up to the top level of the parking garage and he located the blue wooden horses with the words "Jury Parking" painted on them, blocking a section of the parking lot, just as Billy had said they would be.

The juror parking lot was adjacent to a heavily fortified fenced-in parking area which was reserved for judges and attorneys, and the secured juror entrance into the courthouse was located behind this fenced-in area as well.

As expected, a security guard was also situated in the general vicinity of the wooden horses, and when Newlan pulled up his car, the guard politely asked him to produce his juror badge.

"Number 33...go Celtics," cheered the guard as he pointed out the section of the parking lot that was reserved for jurors.

"Am I late?" asked a nervous Newlan.

"No. Actually you're one of the first to arrive," replied the guard with a smile.

"You gotta be kidding me? Here I am thinking I'm gonna get in serious trouble with the judge, and it turns out that just about everyone else is even later than I am," groused Newlan as he guided his car into one of the many empty parking spots. And then with a shake of his head, he breathed a sigh of relief as he muttered his famous last words; "man, you can't make this shit up."

### Chapter 15 – A Wonderfully Terrible Idea

Thursday morning June 5, 2008 – 8:15 AM

Saeed Kahn's meditation came to an abrupt halt when a group of six elderly women who used the condo's indoor pool three to four times a week made their way off the elevator and spotted him in the middle of a sedate prayer.

The women, who weren't as hospitable as Newlan was when it came to Kahn's unorthodox rituals, promptly accosted the pensive doorman, and they were ruthless in their disdain.

"Turn off that music and get to work, you no good Arab. You should be ashamed of yourself, you disgusting mongrel. I'm reporting you to the management, you lazy fraud," were just a few of the many complaints which the grouchy old ladies showered down on the limpid concierge.

"I'm very sorry, very sorry," softly replied Kahn, although he was anything but sorry.

The glare that Kahn gave the women was a look of pure hatred. But the old hags never even noticed his evil-eye salute as they limped away towards the pool with their assorted walkers and canes.

Saeed Kahn had been in America for over ten years so why should he care what these paupers thought of him. And on top of that, he was now officially a citizen of these United States so he had every right to practice his religion, regardless of the vile insults these pompous old ladies threw his way.

One would think that Kahn would be grateful for the gains that he had made in this, the land of the free, but one would be wrong. On the contrary, for many reasons both big and small, he still held a deep and resentful contempt for his adopted homeland, and the scorn he received on a daily basis from the obnoxious tenants who more-or-less employed him didn't help matters either.

You see, Kahn was forced to leave his native Pakistan on short notice, and if he had any say in the matter, the secretive details regarding his sudden departure would never be known to anyone here in the US. He would just assume be tortured to death and take his secrets to the grave with him rather than reveal the shameful circumstances surrounding the deportation that somehow landed him in the home of the brave.

And yet, although Kahn despised our customs, he slowly became integrated into the American way of life anyway; putting himself in credit card debt, buying fancy cars, drinking beer and whiskey, eyeballing sultry women, and basically living the life of your average middle-class American.

More than a few residents of the condo complex wondered where Kahn got the money to afford his lifestyle, but once again this was a secret that he was required to keep to himself or one way or another face the ultimate penalty.

"And now here I am taking orders from these peasant American scumbags for slaves' wages. But one day they'll pay. May God be my witness...one day they'll pay," growled Kahn as he glared at the decrepit women wading in the shallow end of the pool.

A small minority of the tenants, such as Frank Newlan for instance, were tolerable, perhaps even decent folk, reflected Kahn. They treated him with respect and gave him a generous bonus around the holidays (Newlan always made sure that his card didn't include any Christmas references and that it contained only a generic "Happy Holidays" greeting inside). But the rest of them deserved nothing short of a painful lingering death as far as Kahn was concerned.

And as much as Kahn hated most of the tenants, they hated him twofold. However, since he worked long hours and for little pay, no complaint up to this point in his tenure as head concierge, no matter how vociferously it was raised, had ever been serious enough for the condo association management team to justify firing him. And regardless of what the tenants thought of him, if they were being totally honest, they had to admit that he worked hard to keep the condo complex safe and running smoothly.

Kahn's job duties consisted of coordinating all moves and deliveries in and out of the building, screening visitors (he would routinely come close to fistfights with visitors who refused to fill out the sign-in sheet), delivering misplaced mail, organizing electric, phone, and cable utility visits for busy professionals who had to work during the day, and countless other thankless tasks, and all he'd ever get in return for his troubles were complaints.

When it came to deliveries and moves, a strict set of procedures had to be followed. The rules required scheduling the move in advance with the professional management company that was in charge of the building's day-to-day operations. All moves necessitated a $300 deposit and could only be scheduled Mondays through Fridays between the hours of 9 AM and 5 PM, with no exceptions. And Kahn enforced the condo complex's rules to a "T"...when it suited his needs, that is. But if you slipped him a few bucks then maybe he just might bend those rules a smidge for you.

On this particular morning, a large truck which was delivering a refrigerator, a washer/dryer, and a range, arrived well before the 9 AM starting time as specified in the Medford River Park Condo Rules and Regulations handbook, and Kahn wasted no time in telling the driver to come back in forty five minutes. And not surprisingly, the busy delivery driver responded in kind with threats of violence towards him.

Numerous calls were made by both Kahn and the delivery driver to the new tenants, Joanne and Miles Reilly, who had just moved into unit 205 and were excitedly anticipating their new appliances. But after repeated unsuccessful attempts at negotiating a comprise solution, an agitated Mr. Reilly came storming down to the lobby and he was livid with Kahn.

"I just paid three hundred grand to live here, and you're telling me that I can't have my appliances delivered?" complained Reilly who naturally had never bothered to read the Condo Rules and Regulations handbook.

Kahn patiently explained the situation to Reilly, but no read-between-the-lines commentary was necessary in this case. Reilly knew full well how the game was played. Out of the blue, he reached into his wallet and slipped Kahn a fifty dollar bill...and as was typical of the shameless doorman, this covert exchange turned out to be the deal-maker. And so with money in hand, Kahn motioned the driver to back up his truck past the upper level garage doors which led to the freight elevator.

Of course, not to be outdone, when the old lady swimmers caught wind of a delivery taking place before 9 AM, they raced, soaking wet, in Kahn's direction as fast as their walkers could carry them, and they proceeded to read him the riot act.

By the time the women made their way over to where Kahn was standing, he was already holding the elevator door open for the delivery men who were carefully rolling a refrigerator, strapped onto a two-wheeler, into the building.

The senior citizens' complaints meant absolutely nothing to Kahn. He tuned them out completely, and like white-noise, their protests fell on deaf ears. All he cared about was the fact that he just made a quick fifty bucks, their derision notwithstanding.

Meanwhile as the elderly ladies were ranting in one ear and the delivery men were asking questions in the other ear, Kahn's cell phone rang, and despite his disdain for the whole lot of them, he politely excused himself, and stepped outside by the garage entrance to take the call.

"Next meeting 7:30 Sunday morning...plans are in motion...zero hour coming soon," rasped the voice on the other end.

"All praise to God," replied Kahn in a tone that was a shady mixture of utter joy and sheer terror. And as he switched off the phone and turned to reenter the lobby of the condo complex by way of the garage, out of the corner of his eye he noticed that the trailer of the delivery truck was able to pull more than halfway into the garage.

The garage doors needed to be extra wide in order to accommodate moving vehicles which were meant to carry sofas, large screen TV's, and other appliances, and if it weren't for the protracted side-view mirrors, the entire delivery truck probably could have fit all the way inside the garage.

While the truck sat there in the garage, thunderously idling, Saeed Kahn curiously inspected the enormous open trailer, half-filled with boxes of every size, and he wondered why, after all the deliveries he had supervised, he had never been cognizant of this configuration up until now.

Something suddenly registered in Saeed Kahn's mind, and like the proverbial light dawning on Marblehead he had an idea...a brilliant idea...a horrible idea...a wonderfully terrible idea.

### Chapter 16 – Show Time

Thursday morning June 5, 2008 – 9:05 AM

Newlan was nearly overcome by a sudden marijuana rush as he stepped out of his car, and he realized right then and there that he was going to have to fine-tune his morning routine just a tad.

"Whoa...I'm gonna have to cut back a little on the morning weed...can't be wasted while I'm trying to concentrate on witness testimony," acknowledged Newlan to himself as he peeked over the ledge of the rooftop wall of the garage, where from this safe, yet dizzying, vantage point, he had a perfect view of the media circus down below, and he curiously took in the scene.

The fourth and highest level of the parking garage, which housed the juror parking section of the courthouse lot, was uncovered, so Newlan had an unobstructed view of the cloudless blue sky above him on what by all accounts, unlike yesterday, looked to be the beginnings of a gorgeous day in the greater Boston area. Although, much to his chagrin, he and his newly appointed colleagues were destined to be stuck indoors all day.

"At least when I'm at work I can get up and take a stroll around the block during lunch hour," dreamily whined Newlan as he admired the greenery surrounding the courthouse grounds.

It was such a beautiful morning that Newlan decided to loiter outside for a moment, just to enjoy a few whiffs of fresh air before embarking indoors for the day, when who should approach but the same motorcycle cop who had almost collided with his car a couple of minutes ago.

"What the hell are you doing out here? This is a secured area," growled the cop.

"I'm a juror," replied an offended Newlan.

"Let me see your juror identification," demanded the cop, but before Newlan even had a chance to produce the document, the security guard who had let him past the wooden barriers yelled out from where he was standing near the gated enclosure, "he's OK...I already checked his ID."

"Well then get the hell inside," ordered the biker cop, to which Newlan grumpily replied, "Fine...no need to get testy."

Newlan assumed that the cop was upset at him for almost knocking him off his chopper, but the way the stubborn Newlan saw the situation, it was the police officer who wasn't paying attention, not him.

"Geez, I'm off to another great start. An argument with a cop...what else can go wrong? I'll probably end up getting busted before this case is finally put to bed? What would Judge Gershwin think of me then?" wondered Newlan with a laugh as he made his way towards the guard and nodded an unspoken thank you.

This same security guard was also in charge of leading the jurors past the enclosed fenced-in area of the parking lot and through the card-coded entrance door into the courthouse. But in sharp contrast to the motorcycle cop, he courteously directed Newlan to his destination, and he even offered up a smile for the overwhelmed juror.

"What courtroom are you in?" asked the guard once they were securely inside the protected confines of the fortified building.

"630," shakily replied Newlan as he gazed around at the intimidating sterile offices of all things legalese.

"Ah, the Breslin trial...you're waiting room is the first one on the left. Once all of the other jurors arrive, one of the court officers assigned to the case will bring you up to the sixth floor," cheerfully explained the guard, but the inattentive Newlan didn't hear word; his unfocused mind was already preoccupied with scoping out the daunting premises for any signs of comfort he could find.

After his regularly scheduled morning smoking session, Newlan figured that he might be thirsty, so he brought an empty water bottle with him (along with his trusty Rolling Stone magazines) in hopes that there might be a water cooler somewhere in the facility which he could use to procure a free refill.

"The MWRA charges us a fortune for water so I might as well let the State pay for my drinking water while I'm here," rationalized Newlan in reference to the scandalous price-gouging of the Massachusetts Water Resource Authority.

Despite the budgetary cutbacks of recent years, Newlan assumed that the courthouse personnel wouldn't be forced to drink tap water, and sure enough, he spotted a Poland Springs water cooler in the hallway and he took the opportunity to fill up his plastic bottle to the brim.

With his liquid sustenance in hand, Newlan apprehensively made his way into the waiting room, and even though the guard had already informed him that he was one of the first to arrive, he was still somewhat surprised to find that only one other juror had shown up so far.

"Hi I'm Frank," announced Newlan as he extended a hand to the elderly woman sitting across from him (he purposely left out his last name for fear that it might somehow get into the wrong hands).

"The less these people know about me the better," was the paranoid Newlan's latest motto regarding his dubious fellow jurors, no matter how old and wise they appeared to be.

"Hello I'm Patty...seat number 5," replied Newlan's preordained colleague with a smile as she warmly shook his hand.

"Oh, I'm in seat number 16...check that...seat number 8," echoed Newlan as he recalled the last minute seating change with the handicapped juror.

"I guess it makes sense to identify ourselves by our seat numbers as well as our names," added Newlan, even though in the back of his mind he was grumbling to himself that this court-inspired numeric form of identification was a stupid idea.

Newlan was never one to make small-talk with strangers, especially when he was high, and so he squirmed uncomfortably as each awkward second of silence ticked away. He felt obligated to talk to Patty, given that no one else was around, but his heart just wasn't in it at the moment. However, regardless of his reluctance, she was the friendly type, so she took the initiative and struck up a conversion with him anyway, oblivious to his altered state-of-mind.

"I'm still in a state of shock that I was chosen for this trial. I'm sixty eight years old and I really don't need this stress in my life," grumbled Patty. She was a relatively tall, husky woman with short, curly, gray hair, and she had a grace and warmth about her that couldn't help but shine through even the walled-up barriers of the reclusive Newlan's mistrusting heart.

"Tell me about it. No offense, but this is the last place in the world I wanna be right now," replied the stoned Newlan with a dry smile as all the while the second hand in his head clicked away at an excruciatingly sluggish pace. But much to his surprise, as their discussion took root and began to cover more and more personal ground, he found himself taking an instant liking to Patty and her nurturing ways.

Newlan's softhearted perception of time may or may not have been distorted by his marijuana-induced haze, but nonetheless within minutes the rest of the jurors commenced arriving in dribs and drabs, and just about every one of them came equipped with an animated complaint and a nightmarish tale regarding snarled lines of traffic stretching a mile long, which in turn made him feel a whole lot better about his own stressful commute.

Shortly thereafter Billy conveniently popped his head in the door (unbeknownst to the jurors, the security guard at the gate radioed up to him after they had all arrived) and exuberantly asked, "Everyone ready to go upstairs?"

Billy's question was met with a less than enthusiastic response, but he ignored their reaction, and in an upbeat voice he shouted, "All right then...let's go."

And as they made the first of what would be many daily marches through the halls of justice, Billy's thick Boston accent echoed around the ingress while at the same time he led the jurors past a maze of corridors and onto a waiting elevator which took them up to the 6th floor of the courthouse.

In a scene that was reminiscent of the intro to the old 1960's TV series Get Smart, from there Billy led the jurors through another series of locked doors until finally they somehow ended up landing on a spot that was just outside of their juror deliberation room.

"Take a seat and relax for a while. We won't be starting until around 10 o'clock today," declared Billy as many of the jurors immediately queued up to use the bathroom.

"Great...I busted my butt to get here by 8:45 and now we're not even gonna be starting for almost another hour," muttered the ever sarcastic Newlan under his breath.

Newlan's gripe was repeated, almost word for word, by more than a few jurors, but Billy deafly tuned out each and every one of them.

"Shit, by the time we start this damned trial I'll be stone cold sober," silently calculated Newlan as he took a seat in the corner, away from the main table, but still close enough to be able to converse with his fellow jurors; he didn't want anyone thinking that he was antisocial, even though, for obvious reasons, he really wasn't in the mood to chat.

"You'll each be given a pad of paper so that you can take notes during witness testimony," explained Billy, and then he hastily left the room before anyone had a chance to ask any questions.

When Billy returned, he was carrying with him 16 small, steno book notepads and 16 yellow pencils. The notepads were your standard variety 6" X 9" stationary brand which held 80 sheets of paper, and they were marked in bold black ink with the numbers 1 through 16 for identification.

As Billy passed around the notepads, Newlan had a strange feeling that he had morphed back to junior high school and he shook his head at the ludicrousness of it all.

"You can write as much or as little as you want...or if you prefer, you don't have to write anything at all, but you _do_ have to return the notebooks at the end of each day," expounded Billy in an authoritative tone.

"And before anyone asks, I'll tell you right off the bat that no one, not the judge, not the attorneys, not the court officers, I repeat NO ONE, has access to your notebooks...as a matter of fact, they're impounded and locked up every night," insisted Billy just as Newlan was about to ask that very question.

"There are lunch menus from LaCasa's on the table. Circle what you want and write down your seat number in the top left hand corner of the menu. Make sure you have your menu filled out before we start up for the day, or you don't get a lunch," ordered Billy, and based on their rapt attentiveness, he was confident that he had expertly taken over the reins of control from another set of wavering jurors.

"I'm putting you in charge of collecting the menus in the morning and the notebooks at the end of the day," decreed Billy as he pointed in the direction of the handicapped juror.

Billy was about ready to exit the room again when, all of a sudden, he was hit with a barrage of questions just as he had been yesterday afternoon.

"What time do we go home?" "What time do we take break?" "Can we go outside for lunch?"

Clearly Billy had overestimated his influential status as it related to this particular pool of jurors, and he had an incredulous look etched across his brow as he tossed out an angry counter-offensive.

"You weren't paying attention...I thought we went over all this the other day."

"Yes, but some of us didn't start until yesterday," replied a voice from the far corner of the room which paralleled Newlan's thoughts as well.

"We get dismissed between 4:00 and 4:45 every day, except on Monday's and Friday's when we typically, but not always, adjourn at 1 o'clock. Break is usually around 11:30 for a half hour and lunch is from 1 to 2. And NO you can't leave for lunch. Why do you think we're ordering lunches off the menu for you?" curtly explained Billy.

After pondering Billy's schedule for no more than two seconds, the petite elderly female juror who rode down on the elevator with Newlan when they were leaving the courthouse yesterday afternoon became extremely upset over the details of his announcement, and she let him know about it in no uncertain terms.

"This is gonna be a major problem if I can't go out for a cigarette at least once a day."

It seemed that fewer and fewer people were smokers these days, and unless someone, such as this spunky senior citizen juror, specifically brought their concerns to his attention, Billy tended to overlook the fact that he needed to make concessions for this new minority. And so with a look of contrition written all over his face, he lamented, "I apologize...we'll see if we can't get someone to take you out for a walk down to the outdoor garage rooftop during lunch break."

Billy may have come across as brusque character at times, but from Newlan's vantage point, he didn't see a malicious person staring back at him at all; no, he simply saw someone who had a tough job to do, which occasionally forced his hand into taking an iron-fisted approach when it came to juror management.

"And one more thing, make sure to turn off your cell phones while you're in the courtroom. Judge Gershwin gets very upset if a phone starts ringing during testimony, and she takes it out on me...and I'll in turn take it out on you. I'm tellin' you right now, so you can't say that I didn't warn you...if a cell phone goes off, I'll be collecting all of your cell phones every morning and you won't be able to use them for the rest of the day...not even on break, not even during lunch. No second chances. Understood?" stipulated Billy, but apparently it wasn't understood because his warning was followed by another round of indignant questions and complaints.

"Look, if you can't remember to turn off your phones then just leave them here in the juror room. No one's gonna take them. The door is locked at all times while you're in the courtroom," suggested Billy, but this time he abruptly withdrew from the room before anyone could even begin to think about asking another stupid question.

Newlan, who didn't own a cell phone, was getting a quite kick out the commotion that was being triggered by the possibility of his colleagues' phones being taken away. Even though he worked in the high-tech field, he wasn't big on gadgets such as iPhones, Blackberries, cell phones, and the like. For one thing he could do without the extra bill. But more importantly, he concluded that since he didn't have a steady girlfriend to pester him, why should anyone else need to get in touch with him so urgently? He figured if someone needed to contact him about something important, they could just about always get a hold of him, either at work or at home. Of course, if a neutral party where to inject the frugal Newlan with truth serum, they'd find that the overriding reasoning behind his voluntary omission from the cell phone generation was due to his desire to avoid paying an expensive monthly charge for a service that he considered to be non-essential.

But regardless of the thought process behind Newlan's preference to stay conveniently out of touch with the rest of the world, in a strange way, he was proud of the fact that he was so far behind the technology curve, and on top of that, a spontaneous inclination to let his colleagues in on his eccentric source of his pride came over him as well.

"It doesn't matter to me...I don't even have a cell phone," happily broadcast Newlan to no one in particular.

"You've got to be kidding me. You might be the only person left in the entire country who doesn't own some sort of mobile device," replied the same heavyset women who had given Newlan the dirty look yesterday.

Newlan ignored her remark, but meanwhile he was decisively thinking to himself; "I have a feeling I'm not gonna get along with that one."

But alas, much like choosing family members, Newlan had no say when it came to the business of picking his juror colleagues. For that matter, he had little to no control over anything as it related to his current environment, and so with that in mind, he was less than pleased when shortly after Billy left the deliberation room, his chiseled partner entered, uninvited, and announced, "Hi I'm Brandon...is anyone using the bathroom?"

Fortunately for Brandon, the facilities were unoccupied, and he made a beeline for the door, but the implications of his grand entrance left Newlan less than thrilled.

"This is just great...now we have to share the bathroom with the court officers too," groused Newlan out loud, once again to no one in particular, and then he muttered to himself, "Man, you can't make this shit up...no pun intended."

But Newlan's protest aside, Brandon seemed like a nice-enough bloke, and after he came out of the bathroom he asked for everyone's attention.

"Listen up...a few minutes before we're about to get started, I'm gonna radio in to Billy and he's gonna have you all line up against the wall in the order of your seat number. And when you enter the courtroom, I want you to walk directly to your seats, but remain standing. Then I'll say a little introduction and the judge will let you know when to be seated. Now, when you come back into the courtroom after breaks or after lunch you can sit down right away, but we want things to look nice and professional for the cameras when we start off the session in the morning. And remember seats 1 through 8 are in the back row and seats 9 through 16 are in the front row. OK, we'll be ready to go in about a half hour."

Brandon's information was all well and good, but in Newlan's mind, the idea of lining up against the wall by seat number conjured up another image of being locked up in prison; it was a theme that would reinsert itself into the realm of his vivid imagination throughout the trial, but nevertheless he persevered.

By now, all of the jurors had filled out their lunch forms (Newlan went with a steak and cheese sandwich), and used the rest room, so there was nothing much left for them to do but to sit back and patiently wait for their first day of testimony to begin.

Based on their fidgety mannerisms, it was obvious that most of the jurors were on edge, but, one way or another, they all managed to bring their stress levels under control; some of them appeared to be quietly contemplating what was about to occur in the courtroom, while others resorted to small talk, mostly about the weather or the state of the local sports teams.

Boston area weather is notoriously unpredictable, so that alone could keep a conversation going for a while (and as the locals always say, "If you don't like the weather in Boston just wait five minutes and it will change").

On top of that, the Red Sox were coming off a World Series winning season, and the Celtics were in the NBA finals which were set to begin that evening, so there were plenty of sports topics for the guys to discuss.

The Patriots collapse in the Super Bowl against the New York Giants back in February was also broached, and the shear mention of it caused Newlan to wince; he was a diehard Pats fan, and as such he still hadn't fully recovered from their loss in Super Bowl XLII.

"Nothing like talking sports to get a good debate going," interjected Newlan as he thought back to the countless times some stranger at a bar struck up a conversation with a "how about them Sox?" declaration

Newlan had invited his best friends Pat Horn and Bruce Reardon, along with their kids, as well as his on-again, off-again girlfriend, Janis Barry, over to his condo for Super Bowl XLII, and in the heat of the moment during the nail-biting fourth quarter, he announced that if the Patriots lost, he would never watch sports again for the rest of his life. Naturally, he didn't mean it in the least, but truth be told, it did take a few months before he could rouse up even the slightest bit of interest in the local teams again. The fact of the matter couldn't be understated; the Patriots were so close to a perfect season that it truly did break Newlan's heart when they lost in the last seconds of the game and it left him depressed for weeks.

"If they hadn't been undefeated, it wouldn't have hurt so badly," moaned Newlan for months afterwards, and he testified as much again today before his fellow jurors, like an addict baring his soul at some sort of imaginary sports-withdrawal counseling session.

Newlan often wondered how it was that a professional sports team could leave an entire six State region decimated in the throes of a major funk after a crushing loss, or conversely, giddy in a state of euphoria after an improbable championship victory (and the Boston area had seen its share of both emotional extremes over the years).

The fanatical Newlan even resorted to polling his colleagues on the topic, and of course, in true sports-radio talk show fashion, they each had their own interesting theory.

Newlan went on to recall a bit by his favorite comedian George Carlin, where he questioned just why it was that a nation of rabid sports fans placed their contentment in the hands of these rich, overpaid, pampered athletes.

"'If the win, great, but if they don't win, fuck 'em!' is how Carlin put it," paraphrased Newlan to his now captivated audience, except that he used the words "F 'em" instead of the full expletive. He figured he didn't know these people _that_ well yet.

And even though Newlan wasn't much in the mood for conversation when he arrived at the courthouse, he had to admit that he was actually enjoying their male-bonding sports discussion which he now found himself in the middle of. On the other hand however, he wasn't all that appreciative of the repartee he overheard the female jurors engaging in; an exchange that included something about formal introductions.

"Seriously guys, when we have our next break we should go around the room and introduce ourselves," declared the heavyset juror as she purposely stared in Newlan's direction.

"I see this one's gonna be the take-charge type," thought Newlan who begrudgingly had to concede that it was probably a good idea.

"Yeah, whatever," replied one of the male jurors as they went right back into discussing the unfortunate Patriots Super Bowl loss without missing a beat.

For his part, Newlan was becoming so engrossed in the sports talk that he almost lost sight of the real reason they were there in the first place. However, he was brought back to reality in a big way when Billy barged into the room and excitedly howled; "Everybody line up. It's show time!"

### Chapter 17 – Cam Miller's Burden

Thursday morning June 5, 2008 – 9:55 AM

While the clock wound down to "show time" (as Billy the Court Officer so aptly put it), Cameron "Cam" Miller was about to be overwhelmed by the crippling effects of an inconceivable sinking feeling. It somehow felt to Cam as if he were just now waking up from a two-and-a-half-year-long bad dream...only to be thrust into an even worse reality. And although in many ways it seemed as if it were just yesterday that he got the news about his brother's unfortunate demise, in other ways it felt as if he had been frozen forever in an infinite loop of endless sorrow like the laser light of a CD player stuck on smudgy scratch. But either way, no matter which side of the coin he ultimately landed on, here he was sitting in courtroom 630 of the Middlesex Superior Courthouse; five minutes away from the start of a trial that he had been anxiously anticipating ever since the day the two suspects were arrested.

And on top of everything else, for the longest while, Cam wasn't even sure whether he was going to be able to attend the trial to begin with.

First of all, Cam caught a fortunate break when his employer allowed him to take a leave of absence for the rest of the month, and he was very much appreciative of the time off. Otherwise, the only alternative would have been to quit his job, and with a wife and two young children to support, that would have been neither advisable nor feasible.

Secondly, Cam had to get special authorization from the powers-that-be just to be granted spectator status for the duration of the trial, and that in-and-of-itself was no sure thing. Typically anyone who is scheduled to take part in a trial as a witness is sequestered from the proceedings. But since, for the most part, he would only be testifying as a character witness on behalf of his brother, Judge Gershwin made an exception, and Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason had no objections to this arrangement.

And so with all of the provisions made, with all of the continuances exhausted, with all of the endless delays cut short, and frankly with all of the crap he had to deal with finally out of the way, here he was, primed and ready to behold justice in action from his front row ringside seat in the gallery, like a spectator at a championship boxing match.

Cam had completely lost track of just how many times he had met with the DA's office over the course of the last two plus years. He had lost track of the countless hours he had spent working with the police and the detectives. He had lost track of the never-ending investigative pursuits, which seemed to move in fits and starts, like a ten mile traffic jam, and continued to evolve even after the suspects were taken into custody. But in the end, he reckoned that it would all be worth his while, and he was very much looking forward to witnessing the fruits of their collective labor.

And as if Cam's tribulations weren't already disturbing enough, not even a day after Fox and Breslin were arrested, the press engulfed him and his parents like a driving rain overwhelming a swollen riverbank. For a brief period of time, all anyone wanted to talk about was Fred's checkered past. Amazingly, no one seemed to care about the actual killers. No, the crestfallen princess and the murdered drug addict made for a better storyline. Luckily for Cam however, the storm clouds eventually blew over and the media moved on to the next shocking scandal...until now that is. Now that the trial was finally here, the ever-present swarm of TV and newspaper reporters was back in full force like a flock of vultures circling a dying man.

The only difference being that this time, Cam was ready for them. Upon further review, he was much better prepared to handle the thorny press the second time around. But of greater importance, he was bound and determined to keep each and every one of those pesky reporters away from his elderly parents; his dear parents who had already suffered more than their fair share of heartbreak; his frail parents who were still debilitated by the lingering aftereffects of their eldest son's needless death.

As a matter of fact, at this point in the proceedings, Cam was ready for just about anything that anyone dared to throw his way. He had endured the pretrial hearings, the sleepless nights, the motions to suppress, the frustrations, the arraignments, the insinuations...and now he was planning on making the Middlesex Superior Courthouse his home for as long as it took to get the job done, even if it killed him.

Yes, the burden of it all was taking a serious toll on Cam, but he was hell-bent on seeing his vigil through to whatever conclusion lied ahead, no matter what the cost might be.

The soon to be 39 year old Cam Miller was roughly three years younger than his brother Fred, and yet his appearance revealed someone who took on the guise of a noticeably older man than his now deceased sibling.

Clearly, Cam had aged considerably in the last two years; his tall frame had filled out, and his slightly graying temples and stylish glasses lent themselves well to the unnaturally mature look that he had acquired by dint of his constant worrying. But on the plus side, these same features also brought out a more sophisticated demeanor in him as well (at least in the eyes of one secret admirer), especially in the courtroom where he wore his best designer suits.

As one might imagine, the murder, followed by the arrests of the defendants and their numerous court appearances, were major factors in Cam's premature aging, and yet despite the hardships, he was buoyed by the knowledge that progress was being made.

In fact, just the other day, an important hearing ended in a victory when Judge Gershwin ruled that the jury would be allow to hear testimony regarding Sammy Fox's violent past, and Cam was hoping for more of the same once the trial commenced.

But conversely, now that the trial was set to begin, a sense of outraged melancholy had also come over him; his brother was gone and there was no bringing him back, regardless of what happened to these violent thugs who had senselessly murdered him.

Now, in the present tense, as Cam sat in the courtroom anxiously awaiting the start of the trial, all he could think about was his dear brother, in both good times and bad; in both life and death. And with that in mind, his memory drifted back to the funeral; his memory drifted back to his eulogy; his memory drifted back to the gut-wrenching day he bared his soul on the weighty subject of the unbreakable bond that only brothers can share.

Cam delivered a mostly unrehearsed speech, but it was so choked with emotion that it couldn't help but leave everyone who was present in tears.

"Not a dry eye in the house," he would proudly boast whenever he'd recall the speech, which was often.

At the time of eulogy, a mere four days after the murder, no arrests had yet been made, and Cam was baffled by the concept that someone would want to kill his brother (although, on the other hand, the police were remarkably already hot on John Breslin's trail by then), which was just as well, since even the sparsest awareness regarding the circumstances surrounding Fred's death may have tainted his speech with a regurgitated bile of bitterness.

Whenever Cam reflected back on his brother's funeral Mass, he'd find himself thinking about those simpler, innocent days of their youth, and for a moment he'd be at peace with the world. But then when his mind returned to the here and now, which alas it always did, his hatred and anger would bubble over until it nearly reached a nuclear fission; a volatile, combustible boiling-point where he could hardly contain himself and the contempt he felt towards John Breslin.

In that same vein, whenever Cam reflected back on his eulogy, he'd linger achingly on the text as it scrolled across his mind...until invariably he'd find himself retreating into the turtle shell of his past in an effort to shield his heart from the evils that men are capable of committing.

And although Cam's oratory was straight from the heart, he scribbled a few notes to himself on that somber morning, just in case he totally lost it. But the cue cards turned out to be unnecessary, and even now he still remembered the speech, practically verbatim, which came in handy when he decided to create a website in memory of his fallen brother.

The website, which was a combination family scrapbook and guestbook, as well as a resource for news updates pertaining to the trial, had served Cam well on his road to recovery. The site also included his personal touch; a blog section which he entitled "Cam's Crossroads" in reference to the old blues song that has been covered by countless bands, including, most famously, Eric Clapton and Cream.

Cam considered this modern "world wide web" method of communication to be the perfect forum for him to air his views, and on top of that, it was also very therapeutic to his overall well-being. And now that the trial was finally set to begin, the site also served as an excellent tool for keeping his family and friends, who couldn't attend in person, up-to-date on the day's events.

However, as the months went by, Cam was badgered by a nagging suspicion that the website needed something eye-catching to spruce it up; a finishing touch so to speak; and that's when he astutely decided to add the text of his eulogy, as best as he could remember it, into the mix. And as it turned out, his eloquently worded goodbye to his brother was like a silk bow on top of a perfectly wrapped present, and the tear-jerking text, reprinted here in its entirety, reads as follows:

Good morning friends. I am Fred's younger and only brother, and as younger brothers are prone to do, I idolized his every move. I followed him around constantly when we were kids, and if I had it my way, I'd tag along wherever he went. During our teenage years, Fred would occasionally ditch me when he and his mischievous friends were up to no good, but for the most part, he'd let me hang out with him no matter what sort of trouble he was getting into. So in many ways, more ways than I could ever express, Fred was much more than just a brother to me, he was also my best friend.

Fred taught me how to ride a bike and later a motorcycle. Fred taught me how to drive a go-cart and later a car. Fred taught me how to swim and to fish. Fred taught me how to ski and to skateboard. Fred taught me about music of every kind; he taught me about Bob Dylan, he taught me about The Band, he taught me about the Allman Brothers, and he taught me about so many others. And of course, as many of you know, Fred also taught me about our favorite band; the Grateful Dead. Fred took me to my first concert which naturally was a Dead show...and so I guess what I'm really trying to say is that Fred taught me about life, and how to live it to the fullest.

I always knew Fred was extremely popular and loved by all, and that he made friends easily, but up until this tragic event, I never realized just how many people truly loved my brother...how many lives he truly touched. I can't even begin to count the number of people who have pulled me aside these past few days, just to tell me what a remarkable person Fred was.

When I look out at all of the wonderful people who are here today, and as I think back to the long line of people who attended the wake, it is a memory that I will always remember fondly, and I want to thank you all so very much for your compassion and your kind words. In the last 24 hours I've met so many of Fred's friends, co-workers, and former co-workers, many of you who I didn't even know, but who were obviously touched by Fred in some special way. Yes, once you met Fred, you'd never forget him; that warm and generous person who would give you the shirt off his back, that selfless person who would routinely put others before himself; that happy-go-lucky person who could always manage to find humor in even the darkest situations.

Fred was the type of person who just lived to have a good time and go for the gusto. Fred's idea of fun was to push things to the extreme, and to never grow up, to never grow old. Fred was just a big kid at heart and I say that in the most flattering way possible. I sincerely believe that if more people took Fred's approach to life, then this world would be a much better place.

Ladies and gentlemen I'd like to propose to you today that the highest praise we can give to Fred, the most exemplary way we can honor his memory, is by living our lives to the fullest as well, and by being good people. By loving our families and our friends...and making sure they know it while we still can. Life is short my friends but our time apart from Fred will be long...long but lasting...brief but far-reaching.

And yet despite our burden, despite our sorrow, deep down inside I am comforted by a faith which teaches us that we will all be reunited with Fred one day. But in the meantime, as unbearable as the days might be, I ask that you keep him alive in your hearts, for if a person is never forgotten, then that person never really dies.

In conclusion, Fred, I'd like to leave you and all of these fine people with a few words inspired by another Grateful Dead song; I love you brother but Jesus loves you more and I wish you goodnight my friend, goodnight. And we wish you goodnight old friend, goodnight.

So there we have it, the eulogy of Fred Miller. And as Cam once again meditated back on this heartfelt homily to his dearly departed brother, he marveled at his own strength and how he was able to summons up an extra dose of willpower from some untapped reservoir in his soul. Even now he was amazed that he was able to get through the entire speech without breaking down...until the very end that is. It was only when he implored the engrossed audience to remember Fred in their hearts, and of course when he added the final bouquet, his last second inspiration to quote his reworked spiritual Grateful Dead lyrics, did he dissolve into tears.

Lately Cam found himself spending more and more time lost in his thoughts, but now, in the pensive setting of the hushed courtroom, as he dreamily pondered a universe that existed somewhere just out of his reach, at the very moment that his quixotic illusions were whisking him away to parts unknown, he would grudgingly have to put his memories on hold for the time being because he was shocked back into the attentive world of reality by the sound of a voice exclaiming, "All rise...jurors entering."

And with that traditional proclamation ringing in his ears, Cam Miller obediently stood up along with everyone else in the gallery, and he watched intently as the jurors made their way into the courtroom. He studied them closely, and beyond that, he slyly attempted to make eye-contact with any of these randomly chosen arbiters who happened to look his way.

For now the jurors had no way of knowing that Cam was Fred Miller's brother, but that didn't stop him from trying to somehow get into their minds, while at the same time he struggled to understand what it would be like to be in their shoes. He wondered what they were thinking when they viewed the murder scene. He wondered what they were thinking when they inspected his brother's bloody automobile. But more importantly, he wonder what they would think of the evidence that was about to be rained down upon them like a meteor storm from Hell.

By Cam's estimation, all in all, the jurors seemed like a decent bunch of people who would be able to see through the smokescreens that he was sure Defense Attorney Gleason was going to be billowing out at them, but for some reason he didn't like the looks of the juror at the end of the top row.

"The aging hippie type with the long stringy hair...not good," speculated Cam Miller regarding the man we know to be Frank Newlan.

Cam Miller considered himself a superior judge of character, and furthermore, he believed strongly in first impressions; he believe that he could pretty much predict a person's character on appearances and facial expressions alone, which is why he felt good about this mostly middle-aged group of jurors who looked to be your average upright citizens.

A couple of the jurors appeared to be younger that the rest, but Cam had them both pegged as the respectable conservative types who wouldn't hesitate to put away a ruthless murderer for life.

No, the only one that Cam was truly leery about was the scraggly-looking guy who was standing with his back toward the gallery as if he was trying to hide something. Cam's powers of observation didn't seem to be working on this unconventional dude; he couldn't quite place Newlan's capricious persona, but he had a bad vibe nonetheless, and as far as he was concerned, all it took was one bad apple to screw the whole thing up.

But then it hit him...and it hit him hard. The problem with this juror, thought Cam, was that he reminded him way too much of his own rebellious brother Fred.

You see, Fred Miller, much like Frank Newlan, didn't particularly care for the police or the whole authority thing. Much like Frank Newlan, Fred Miller was a "live and let live" kind of guy who would get pissed off when the cops harassed someone for smoking a joint or drinking a beer in public.

As much as Cam Miller admired and looked up to his older brother, they were very different in many ways. Cam was more of a law-and-order type. He didn't party to the extent that Fred did, and he certainly didn't get into anywhere near the kind of trouble that seemed to follow his brother around like the dark shadow of 13 black cats reflected in a broken mirror, sitting under a ladder.

Up until recently, Cam preference was only for the occasional glass of wine, unlike his brother Fred, who had a penchant for all sorts of drugs and booze, and the last thing he wanted to see on the jury was someone who resembled his brother Fred in any way, shape, or form.

"That left-wing leaning guy is probably gonna vote not guilty no matter what the evidence is...just like Freddie would have done," mused Cam. The sad truth of the matter was that Cam wistfully supposed if his brother Fred could have somehow been appointed as a juror on his own murderer's trial, he probably would have ended up letting the bastard walk.

"Oh well, not much we can do about it now but hope for the best, and pray that he ends up being chosen as an alternate juror," concluded Cam as he tried to stay calm, cool, and collected, so as not to alarm his fragile parents who were standing on either side of him.

In short order, Cam Miller turned his attention back to his real nemesis, Mr. John Breslin, who was staring straight ahead, like a statue, as he stood at the defense table.

Cam had taken to calling Breslin and Fox "the cowards Mr. Breslin and Mr. Fox" whenever he discussed the case with the media, and as a matter of fact he had just released a press statement which read in part:

"My family and I are confident that the jury will find the coward, Mr. Breslin, guilty of murder in the first degree and that he will be sent to prison for the rest of his life. And by doing so, my brother Fred will finally be able to rest in peace, and we in turn will obtain some long overdue closure in our lives. Nothing can bring my brother back, but Mr. Breslin must be held accountable for his heinous actions, and we pray that justice will be served in this case so that we may be able to walk away from the courthouse equipped with the satisfaction and understanding that Mr. Breslin will be punished to the full extent of the law, and that he will suffer for his actions as he has made me and my family suffer."

Cam's hope was that the contemptible Breslin would read his comments in the newspaper, and that it would antagonize the murderous creep into making an outburst towards him in front of the jury.

Cam relished the idea of such a confrontation, but truth be told, he wasn't sure whether he could wait that long. He hated Breslin with such a passion that it pierced him with a strong urge to jump over the divider between the gallery and the defendant's table and pound the living crap out of "the coward Breslin" right then and there...and maybe even stick a knife in his back.

And to make matters worse, as the surreal days leading up to the trial counted down, a voice in Cam's head seemed to be egging him on. To be precise, it was a woman's voice. Oddly enough it was a sexy, breathy, barely audible voice urging him on with chants of, "Kill him...kill him."

"Who knows, maybe just maybe, one of these days, I just might get that chance," whispered Cam as he acknowledged the voice, while at the same time a dangerous smile formed across his face. And in addition to a beaming simper, there, in his haunted reflection stood perhaps the most terrifying fragment of his affliction; the overwhelming ecstasy of just how good...the mere thought of it...made him feel inside.

### Chapter 18 – All Rise, Jurors Entering

Thursday morning June 5, 2008 – 10:00 AM

"Everybody ready," yammered a skittish Billy. He never failed to muster up an extra dose of adrenaline whenever a sensational trial was about to begin, and being selected to work on one of the three "horrible hubby" cases was about as big as it got; in fact, he considered it to be an honor.

"Ready as I'll ever be," grunted Newlan as he stood sideways leaning against the near wall of the deliberation room, adjacent to the doorway; number 8 right smack dab in the middle of the line of 16 jurors.

After waiting out the lengthy delay, Newlan's marijuana high had completely dissipated, which was just as well since he was beginning to think that getting stoned before the start of a long day locked up in a pressure-packed courtroom wasn't one of the brightest ideas he had ever had...but of course, by tomorrow morning he might be singing a different tune altogether.

On the plus side (at least in Newlan's ledger), there was the happy coincidence that the juror in seat number 7, by chance, just so happened to be the attractive woman he had been eyeballing, off and on, since yesterday afternoon.

"I still can't believe this is happening," vented Newlan to his pretty colleague, partly in an effort to strike up a conversation, and partly because he truly was still stuck in a state of suspended disbelief over their unanticipated ordeal.

"Well, whether you believe it or not, this is about as real as it gets," replied the comely stranger in a somewhat cold tone, without even bothering to look at Newlan; although, she did turn around just far enough for him to catch wind of a sparkling rock-sized diamond wedding band wrapped around her ring finger.

"Just as well...I don't think little Ms. Ice Princess is my type anyway," wordlessly griped Newlan as he rocked his shoulders to and fro in nervous anticipation of what was about to go down.

As a whole, the jurors' uneasy facial expressions instantaneously guided Billy to the logical conclusion that they were all on pins-and-needles as the stood there in line, waiting to enter the courtroom, and so he attempted to ease their stress by resorting to one of his patented lame juror jokes.

"Relax people...just think, in three more days you start earning fifty big ones," exclaimed Billy in reference to the fact that by law, the Commonwealth of Massachusetts was required to pay the jurors fifty dollars a day for every day of service after their first three days.

"Fifty bucks a day...a lot of good that's gonna do me," good-naturedly groaned Newlan, and then, in a more somber tone, he confessed; "But seriously Billy, I can't relax. I don't know what to expect out there."

And as if on cue, a suddenly solemn Billy looked Newlan dead in the eyes and ominously replied; "A word of advice to all of you...expect the unexpected."

Newlan's concerns were echoed by a bulk of the jurors, but regardless of their fear of the unknown, shortly thereafter, Brandon's muffled voice came squawking out from Billy's two-way radio, posing the million dollar question; "Ready to roll?"

"Ten four," replied Billy as he swung open the door of the deliberation room and barked, "Follow me."

And like dogs on a leash, the jurors obediently followed Billy's lead through the cramped corridor; the narrow passageway was literally the only barrier separating the deliberation room from their entrance into the courtroom; the lonely canal was figuratively the only obstacle standing between them and their seats in the jury box...and as the gruff court officer pulled opened the heavy mahogany door marked "Courtroom 630" he shouted in an authoritative tone, "All rise...jurors entering."

For his part, Newlan took a deep breath as he crossed the awe-inspiring threshold, and he unconvincingly muttered under his breath, "Well, here goes nothing."

As the jurors wended their way into the courtroom, Newlan briefly looked up and out towards the gallery, and when he saw that the courtroom was packed with people, he trained his gaze back downwards; when he saw that all eyes appeared to be pointed directly at him, his entire body shook from a bad case of panic-stricken tremors and his knees nearly buckled beneath him. Needless to say, he was a bundle of nerves.

After this initial "grand entrance" debacle, Newlan concluded that for the remainder of the trial he would keep his head bowed and his eyes focused on the floor each and every time he made his way to or from his seat in the juror box. His plan (and it turned out to be a good one) was to avoid at all costs making eye-contact with anyone in the audience, and to keep his swivel chair pointed away from the gallery at all times.

In order to reach the jury box, the jurors were required to shuffle directly past both the defense and DA's tables, and Newlan could almost feel Breslin's eyes burning a hole through him as he and his fellow jurors trudged on by. He could almost feel Judge Gershwin searching his soul for signs of weakness. He could almost feel the stares coming from every corner of the stifling courtroom.

...

D _ear reader, just as lawyers are compelled to do, at this time we would like to present you with a rudimentary diagram of the courtroom and the juror deliberation room, so that you might have a visual picture of the layouts as have been described thus far. Although we are not attorneys, we take our cue from them in this regard, and so in that respect, we direct you to make special note of the positioning of seat number 8 in the jury box:_

...

The crowded courtroom caused Newlan to come down with a disorienting anxiety attack which affected his equilibrium, but luckily for him, Brandon happened to be strategically stationed just outside the jury box, pointing the jurors towards their seats like an usher at a movie theater.

Slowly but surely, the jurors tentatively filed into the box, and they remained standing just as Brandon had instructed them to do; all the jurors that is, except of course for the handicapped juror, who by virtue of being in seat number 16 was the last person to enter the seating area. He would also be the first person to leave the jury box whenever the jurors exited the courtroom, which, as they would soon find out, would be quite often.

As Newlan stood there like a statue in front of his seat, anxiously awaiting the commencement of the bleak festivities, he detected an almost unbearable tension hovering through the air; a tension that was so thick you could practically cut it with the proverbial knife. And in response to the disquieting circumstances he found himself trapped in, he purposely repositioned his torso so that he was poised at an even sharper angle facing towards the witness stand. He was dead set on making sure that no one in the audience ever got a good look at him, and in turn, he wanted no part of knowing what was going on in the gallery.

"Out of sight, out of mind" was one of the many mottos that worked wonders on Newlan's mentally impaired psyche when it came to the process of filtering out bad memories, and he was hoping that this amnesiac axiom would also hold true for his courtroom experience as well. He deemed himself extremely fortunate to have been assigned a seat at the end of the aisle, as far away from the audience as possible, and he also found it comforting that his fellow jurors were serving as an unintentional buffer which obscured the line of vision between him and the gallery section of the courtroom.

But Newlan's quirks aside, with the jurors now in place, a hush came over the assembled gathering as Brandon began to recite the official courtroom introduction, which he had alluded to earlier when he stopped by the deliberation room to chat with the jurors.

"Here ye, here ye, here ye...all persons or parties having business before the honorable Judge Mindy Gershwin in the 4th criminal session of the Middlesex Superior Court, please draw near, state your name, and ye shall be heard," bellowed Brandon followed by Judge Gershwin's gentler voice proclaiming, "Court is in session...you may be seated."

This same routine would repeat itself every morning throughout the course of the trial, but for the jurors, the drama of Brandon's Old English styled narration never ceased to get old.

However, the analytical Newlan was bothered by the fact that he couldn't quite make out what Brandon was saying in the first few syllables of his spiel. To his ears, it sounded as if the brawny court officer was spitting out the words, "hey, hey, hey" which, in his mind, seemed a bit odd. As such, Newlan made it a point to listen intently to Brandon's homily at the start of each session, in a futile attempt at interpreting his words. But no matter how hard he tried, he was still having trouble deciphering the cadence of Brandon's staccato phrasing.

Newlan gave up on his translational pursuit after just few days, but his inquisitiveness was killing him and at the first chance he got, he tracked Brandon down, and out of curiosity he asked, "What the hell are you saying in your speech every morning?"

And the attention-loving Brandon was only too happy to provide Newlan with the details of his oration, which, as he explained it, dated back to the days of the revolution.

"I understand we had some commuting issues this morning, which I was well aware of, having gotten caught up in the traffic jam along with the rest of you," admitted Judge Gershwin as Newlan gave her a knowing nod.

"I see that one of the jurors is nodding in agreement," observed the ever-pleasant judge; although her acknowledgement only served to further alarm the paranoid Newlan.

"Uh oh...I think she noticed me...I'm not sure whether that's good or bad," silently ruminated Newlan as he turned his head slightly in an effort to avoid direct eye-contact with the probing judge.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, good morning," continued Judge Gershwin with a motherly smile while at the same time she deftly ignored the stupefied look that had incongruously taken shape upon Newlan's brow.

"Have you discussed the trial with anyone...have you been exposed to any media coverage of the trial...have you researched the trial on the internet? If so please raise your hand," requested Judge Gershwin, and when no one in the jury box so much as moved a muscle, she added, "let the record show that none of the jurors have replied in the affirmative."

This line of questioning, pretty much verbatim, would also be repeated every morning throughout the course of the trial, and as the case progressed, Judge Gershwin's daily inquisition would cast a pall over the guilty conscience of many a juror; particularly the internet savvy Newlan.

"At this time dear jurors, these two wonderful attorneys, Ms. Lyons and Mr. Gleason will each make an opening statement of about forty five minutes, after which we will take a half hour break, and from there we will proceed directly on to witness testimony. And so without further adieu, Ms. Lyons you may begin."

On Judge Gershwin's signal, Assistant District Attorney, Elaina Lyons, coolly approached the jurors and stood at the podium which had been moved sideways so that it was facing the jury box (once the opening statements had been completed, the podium would be moved back into its regular position, facing the witness stand), and right out of the gate, she was off and running like a racehorse at the Kentucky Derby.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, throughout the course of this trial you will be presented with overwhelming evidence that THIS MAN, Mr. John Breslin paid his co-conspirator, Mr. Samuel Fox, ten thousand dollars to AMBUSH and EXECUTE a defenseless victim, Mr. Fred Miller."

As DA Lyons shouted the words "THIS MAN" and "AMBUSH "and "EXECUTE", she scowled in disgust for added emphasis, and she fervently pointed toward the defendant John Breslin who in turn responded with an animated facial expression of his own, as if to say that he was taken aback and insulted by her accusations.

"Nothing like getting right to the point," declared Newlan who suddenly felt as if he were trapped in some sort of surreal dream. It seems that even though he was beginning to come to grips with the fact that he had been appointed to serve as a juror on a high-profile murder trial, at times he was still having trouble grasping the reality of the situation, and as he attentively took in DA Lyons' powerful opening statement, he was overrun by a strange feeling that he was watching a dramatic TV show unfolding before his very eyes.

"All we need is some soda and chips," wistfully thought Newlan, and by this point in the proceedings he was ardently wishing he had possession of the imaginary remote control so that he could abruptly change the channel for good.

But unfortunately for Newlan, the courtroom drama that he was so keenly observing was not a bad dream, and it was not a TV show, and he had no such power to tune out the theatrical production, which was being acted out for his benefit...and so by dint of his designated task, he was compelled to listen as DA Lyons went on to methodically elucidate as to how all of the evidence implicating Breslin fit together like the jagged pieces of a labyrinthine puzzle.

"Jealousy pure and simple, that was the motive behind Mr. Breslin's actions," emphatically stated Lyons.

"Mr. Breslin couldn't accept the fact that his marriage was over, and that his wife, Tracy was seeing her high school sweetheart, Fred Miller, and as a result, he obsessively stalked the both of them, desperately trying to dig up whatever dirt he could on Fred Miller. And when that didn't work to his satisfaction, he hired a private detective to tirelessly follow them around."

"Evidence will show that Mr. Breslin also obtain information pertaining to Fred Miller over the internet. Evidence will show without a doubt how a trail of money in the form of the Breslin's IRS refund check made its way into the hands of Sammy Fox."

"Initially Mr. Breslin may have just wanted Sammy Fox to beat up Fred Miller, to send him a message, but over time he came to the deadly conclusion that Fred Miller needed to be eliminated all together. Over time, John Breslin's simmering animosity toward Fred Miller boiled over with rage. As his marriage began to crumble, his resentment was focused squarely on Fred Miller, even though his estranged wife Tracy told him repeatedly that her divorce request had nothing to do with Fred. In fact, Tracy and Fred hadn't even been intimate with each other subsequent to the time-period in which they resumed dating again in the blossoming spring months of 2005, because she felt that it would be best for them to wait until after the divorce was finalized."

Lyons spouted on nonstop for roughly twenty minutes, at which point she was forced to pause ever so briefly, just to catch her breath. But after a quick sip of water she began her assault again in earnest.

"Ladies and gentlemen, evidence will show that Mr. Breslin contacted Sammy Fox repeatedly in the fall of 2005 right on through January of 2006. Close to 100 phone calls, back and forth between the two men. You will see evidence of cell phone records...pay phone records...work phone records...records from the cell phone belonging to one of Mr. Breslin's best friends."

"And finally, through some dumb luck and some good old-fashioned police work, you will see a receipt for a pre-paid calling card which was retrieved from a trash pull outside the defendant's residence...a calling card, which records will show was used to communicate with Sammy Fox and no one else."

"The evidence will show that this barrage of phone calls mysteriously ceased, promptly upon the successfully executed murder of Fred Miller, and that no further contact was ever again made between John Breslin and Sammy Fox."

"And if that's not enough, you will meet Mr. Breslin's co-worker at Tex-Ray Defense Systems in Andover Massachusetts, Ms. Nancy O'Brien."

"Ms. O'Brien will provide us with the critical missing link in the union that formed between John Breslin and Sammy Fox. She was the tie that bound them. She was the straw that stirred the drink. You see, Nancy O'Brien once dated Sammy Fox, and then one day, one fateful day, she introduced him to John Breslin. It seems that Mr. Fox, who has been in and out of prison on a weapons possession conviction, as well as a murder charge, was a person of great interest to John Breslin. Sammy Fox was a name that John Breslin kept on file in his mind for future reference. And when push came to shove, with his marriage on the rocks, John Breslin correctly, but tragically, assumed that Sammy Fox was a person who just might come in very handy when it came to taking care of his little problem."

As she spoke, Lyons mockingly exaggerated the words "his little problem" by going with a raised voice and a disgusted facial expression, and as an additional visual ploy, she simultaneously raised her arms and curled her fingers into the sign of quote symbols.

Meanwhile, Newlan ears immediately perked up when he caught wind of Lyons' statement regarding the government contractor, Tex-Ray Defense Systems in Andover Massachusetts. As it turns out, his nephew Joey Marino was employed by the same company as John Breslin, and his office was located at the very same regional headquarters where Breslin earned his keep. As it turns out, Newlan saw this fortuitous coincidence as a new lease on life. As it turns out, Newlan saw the crevice of an escape hatch forming in his mind, and he pounced on the opportunity.

"This is my ticket off the case. I just tell the judge my situation...she can't keep me on the trial when there's a connection between me and Breslin by only two degrees of separation," surmised a gleeful Newlan.

"If this works out, I'm gonna take my sister and her son out to dinner at Morton's Steakhouse for the juiciest filet mignon's that money can buy," pledged Newlan as a devious smile spread across his face.

Newlan was so absolutely convinced that he was going to be unceremoniously bounced from the trial that he debated whether he should even bother paying attention to whatever else it was that DA Lyons had to say. But in the end he decided that he was enjoying the show too much to zone-out now.

Tex-Ray Defense Systems was in the business of, for lack of better words, building weapons of mass destruction. Over the years, the company had procured numerous multi-billion dollar contracts with a handful of foreign countries such as Germany and Japan, as well as with the US, and the corporation's mission statement wasn't lost on Newlan.

"Interesting how someone who works for a company that sells bombs to other countries is on trial for hiring a hit-man to kill his wife's boyfriend. Sure they sell missile defense systems as well, but they're basically in the business of aiding and abetting mass murder, and I wouldn't be surprised if some of those weapons end up being used against US troops," pondered Newlan who was at the same time both intrigued and saddened by his own analogy.

And while Newlan may have been entertaining himself with his clever imagination, DA Lyons continued to expand upon the burgeoning relationship between the Tex-Ray co-workers, Nancy O'Brien and John Breslin, as well as her ex-boyfriend Sammy Fox.

Lyons claimed that Breslin confided in O'Brien. She insisted that O'Brien's testimony would play a vital role in the case. She assured the jurors that O'Brien would provide intimate details regarding the conspiracy that took place between Breslin and Fox.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, on the morning of January 13th, 2006 when Fred Miller arrived at work and parked his 1999 Nissan Maxima in his usual spot in the garage next to 435 Commonwealth Ave in Newton, he couldn't have known that he was about to be SHOT...SHOT IN THE HEAD BY SAMMY THE FOX as he was so cunningly also known as by both his friends and enemies alike."

"Evidence will show that a red Ford Taurus associated with Sammy Fox was seen in the garage at the time of the murder...and evidence will show that Mr. Fox was motivated by nothing more than greed and money to commit this murder...and evidence will show that John Breslin was motivated by nothing more than JEALOUSY to hire Sammy Fox to commit this murder."

As Lyons weaved her way towards the climax of her summation, she got so worked up that it gave Newlan pause for concern, and he silently whispered; "if you ask me, she's looking pretty exhausted up there on that grand stage. I got a bad feeling that the torrid pace of her presentation is gonna leave her physically drained...I'm telling you, she better pace herself before she ends up passing out."

Lyons may have indeed been running out of gas as the astute Newlan so accurately pointed out to himself, but nevertheless, she was willing to do whatever it took to get her point across, and with a precisely crafted game plan in mind, she finally wound down her award winning performance by tranquilly stating; "ladies and gentlemen of the jury, after listening to _all_ of the testimony, and after reviewing _all_ of the evidence, I will ask you to come to the only conclusion possible, and that is to convict Mr. John Breslin of conspiracy to commit murder, and of murder in the first degree. It is a task that cannot be taken lightly, and it is a burden that you as citizens of our great State have been chosen to bear. On behalf of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts I thank you for the sacrifice that you are making to serve on this jury, and I thank you for your time and your consideration."

With her speech completed, Lyons slowly walked back to the DA's table, and practically collapsed into her seat. By all outwardly appearances, it seemed as if she truly had been sapped of every ounce of energy her soul could muster, and if the truth be told, she truly was teetering on the brink of exhaustion; she truly was totally withdrawn and utterly subdued, just like a Broadway actress who leaves everything she has out there on stage until she has nothing more left to give.

The Hollywood comparison happened to be a simile that also cast itself upon Newlan's wandering mind as well, while at the same time the remnants of DA Lyons' soliloquy reverberated in his head.

"You really do need to be a bit of an actor to do this job," Newlan mused as Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason made his way toward the podium to begin his opening statement.

"Now I'm just gonna kick back and see what Gleason's got...bring it on dude," urged Newlan as he curled up in his comfortable swivel chair...and readied himself...for round number two.

### Chapter 19 – Just a Theory

Thursday morning June 5, 2008 – 10:45 AM

Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason advanced with a purpose as he bypassed the podium and marched his way towards the far end of the jury box until he came to a stop at a location which had him placed squarely in Frank Newlan's line of vision...and it was from this strategic vantage point that he began his understated tirade.

As Gleason spoke, he began pacing back and forth, up and down the length of the jury box while at the same time studying the faces of the sixteen randomly chosen, wide-eyed citizens who sat in the seats directly across from him. He preferred to be as close as possible to the jurors when he made his opening statements, specifically so that he could look into their eyes and get a feel for what he was up against.

However, just like yesterday in the parking garage, Gleason's face contorted into a bloody red shroud of uncertainty, and at the onset of his dialogue, his voice was no more than a murmur. It was as if he was afflicted with an incurable case of stage fright; but as was also the case yesterday, he rapidly hit his stride as he got warmed up.

Whether Gleason was truly frightened or whether it was all part of some master plan, only he could say for sure, but in any event, he began his sermon by sedately stating; "ladies and gentlemen of the jury I would first like to echo the thoughts of District Attorney Lyons and thank you all for taking this time away from your jobs, and your families, and your busy lives, so that you might serve as jurors. Your willingness to participate in this process is the fabric of what makes our system of justice so unique."

"I'm not sure how willing we are. We just happened to be the only fools who didn't come up with a good enough excuse, so stop sucking up to us," silently demanded Newlan. It seemed that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't help himself from being sarcastic, even though, deep in his heart of hearts, he firmly believed that the attorneys and Judge Gershwin were each equally sincere in their praise of the jurors.

Putting Newlan's sarcasm aside for just a moment, as Gleason continued on with his harangue, it was evident from his tone that his summations would be delivered in a much calmer manner than DA Lyons' frenzied approach...and this observation doesn't even begin to take into account the fact that her rancorous style was, at times, already starting to rub up against the wrong side of the acerbic Newlan.

"Throughout the course of this trial you will become familiar with the John Breslin that I have come to know. You will come to know a family man who toiled at two jobs in an effort to make ends meet. You will come to know a man whose life revolved solely around his three precious children...his eldest son John Jr., now age 11...his daughter Rebecca, age 9...and last but not least, his youngest son Kevin, age 7. You will come to know a well-educated man who graduated with honors from Tafts University. You will come to know a man who has been employed at Tex-Ray Defense Systems for 23 years; a man who worked his way up the corporate ladder of success, securing numerous promotions over the course of his career. You will come to know a man who purchased a comfortable home for his family, and who also looked after his elderly mother."

After his initial misstep, Gleason had a nice pace going, but all of a sudden Newlan couldn't care less. He was once again momentarily distracted and floored by the unveiling of another improbable twist; a twist that had John Breslin attending the very same university where he himself had worked for so many years.

"Man, you can't make this shit up," moaned Newlan for what he hoped would be the very last time (or at least as far as this troubling jury duty episode of his life was concerned).

Although, in spite of his purported imminent dismissal, Newlan found Gleason's eloquent speech to be rather touching, and he thought to himself, "too bad I'm gonna be getting my ass kicked off the trial...because I got a gut feeling that this guy might be innocent, and I'd make sure that he got a fair shake. But hey, it's not my fault that my nephew just so happens to work for the same company as Breslin."

"Ladies and gentlemen, as the trial proceeds forward, it will become clear to you that the government's case revolves around two main witnesses. First you will meet Mr. Breslin's wife, Tracy; a confused woman who had her own share of problems...alcohol abuse, substance abuse, psychological issues, just to name a few of her ills. It will soon become crystal clear to you that Tracy Breslin is a woman who, to this very day, doesn't really know what she wants from the men in her life," explained Gleason.

"Was John and Tracy Breslin's marriage rocky?" asked Gleason rhetorically, and then he responded with an affirmative nod as he added, "perhaps...but don't most marriages go through rocky periods?"

Gleason's confidence appeared to be building in leaps and bounds, and he was steadily making up for lost ground like a smoking railway caboose chugging full steam ahead.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the evidence will show that John Breslin was back at home living with his wife and children during the week in-between Christmas and New Years of 2005, and that they in fact had sexual relations on multiple occasions during this period."

"Does this sound like a husband who was fixated on another man? Does this sound like a man who was planning to murder someone?" Gleason plaintively asked the jurors.

"Next you will meet the government's _star witness_ , Ms. Nancy O'Brien," intoned Gleason with sarcasm dripping from his voice like an icicle melting in the morning sun.

"I ask that you to listen closely to this witness...and...well...you'll see for yourself," predicted Gleason.

"You will see a frightened single parent who feared for her own freedom. You'll see an uncooperative witness who was badgered by the police, and even threatened with arrest. The police literally told her that she could go to prison for life. And after the authorities got through with her...then, and only then, will you see a witness who is suddenly inclined to testify...a witness who is suddenly willing to tell everything that she knows...but in exchange for her testimony, Ms. O'Brien was granted immunity, IMMUNITY, just like that, exempt from all criminal responsibility. You will hear from a woman who tells the police her story on one day, and the next day she tells a completely different story, and the next day she adds to her story...and the next day she changes her story, again and again and again over the course of a couple of months. Does this sound like a believable witness?" contended a skeptical Gleason.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the government will then overload you with documents, and a paper trail of records, outlining countless phone calls. Phone call after phone call after phone call, until you are numb from the repetition...but what they won't be able to tell you is what was said during any of those phone calls...not one," assured Gleason.

"Testimony will also show that the government obtained a phone tap on Mr. Breslin...and on Mr. Fox...and on Ms. O'Brien...but what the government doesn't want you to know is that these wiretaps didn't produce a shred of evidence...not a single incriminating statement," insisted Gleason in a forceful yet calm tone.

"Ladies and gentlemen we will also hear from investigators and crime scene experts who came up empty in their search for physical evidence linking Mr. Fox to the murder of Fred Miller; no fingerprints...no DNA...no gun...no hair or fibers...no tire tracks... and no positive identification of Mr. Fox...or his car, despite what you've heard to the contrary."

"As a matter of fact, these so-called experts came up with nothing...absolutely nothing."

"We will also hear about a DNA fragment on the bullet shell that doesn't match Mr. Miller or the alleged shooter in this case, Sammy Fox; evidence that could very well exculpate Mr. Fox and by extension, Mr. Breslin as well," reasoned Gleason.

"And sadly, the evidence will show that the victim, Mr. Fred Miller, lived a less than stellar lifestyle, and that he had many enemies who may have wanted to harm him."

"On top of all this, ladies and gentlemen, the evidence will show a pattern of shoddy investigative work, and even worse, the appearance of impropriety," hinted Gleason, which really got Newlan's attention.

"Whoa, he's skiing down a slippery slope with that statement. He better have the goods to back it up. Although, based on my own past experiences I wouldn't be surprised if there was some shady stuff going on with the police and the detectives."

"Ladies and gentlemen, the only thing the government has is a theory," explained Gleason and then he paused for effect before adding, "Just a theory."

"Sure, blame the victim and incompetent police work...typical...but I gotta admit that this guy is good...real good," thought Newlan who was at times equal parts fascinated and disgusted by both of the attorneys opening statements.

Newlan was struck by Gleason parting words, "a theory...just a theory" and the phrase would stay with him throughout the course of the trial...and for that matter, for the rest of his life.

"Ladies and gentlemen, during my closing statement I will remind you of the oath you took yesterday. I will remind you of an oath in which you swore that you would serve as impartial jurors on this case. I will remind you of an oath in which you swore that the defendant, Mr. Breslin, is assumed to be innocent unless he has been proven to be guilty beyond a reasonable doubt."

Gleason was now firmly in command of the courtroom, although he had the easily distracted Newlan confused again.

"Oath...what oath...I don't remember any oath. I must have still been in a state of shock when the oaths were being handed out," muttered a panicky Newlan. But then, in short order, he conjured up a vague recollection of the oath, and of Judge Gershwin providing the jurors with a set of basic instructions such as just using common sense when examining the evidence.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to once again thank you for giving me your full attention and for the seriousness with which I trust you will approach this trial. I trust that you will review all of the evidence and testimony as thoroughly as you can, and that you will come to the only conclusion possible...and that is a verdict of not guilty of all charges," concluded a solemn Gleason. He then looked Newlan straight in the eye for a second or two before slowly turning away and trudging back towards the defense table.

Newlan shifted uncomfortably in his seat as the glance from Gleason penetrated right through him, traveling at the speed of light, like the bullet that ripped through Fred Miller's brain. In his confused state of being, Newlan wasn't even sure whether the fleeting gander actually happened, or whether it was just a product of his overactive imagination acting up on him again. Nevertheless, he looked disconcertingly towards Judge Gershwin for guidance. He was hoping that she would give Gleason some sort of reprimand, but, much to his chagrin, he would get no assistance from the honorable judge, who regrettably had her eyes fixed down on her desk.

As a matter of fact, during the course of both opening statements, Newlan had gazed up at Judge Gershwin's desk on a number of occasions, and every time he did, he observed her taking copious notes, which surprised him, but then again he thought to himself, "Well, she did say that she was learning about the case just like we were...or maybe she was just daydreaming and doodling on a pad of paper."

"Ladies and gentlemen we will now take a half hour break, and when we return, we will proceed directly on to witness testimony from twelve to one, before we break again for lunch," announced Judge Gershwin, and despite Newlan's conflicted belief to the contrary, she had indeed been listening intently to the opening statements the entire time.

Judge Gershwin then nodded towards Billy who uttered his secular phrase, "all rise" and Brandon once again made like an usher as he pointed the jurors toward the exit which led to the deliberation room.

Meanwhile, the only thing that Newlan had on his one-track mind was to corner Billy as soon as he made his way out into the corridor so that he could inform him of the unfortunate coincidence regarding his nephew and John Breslin which would cause him to have to forfeit his seat on the jury (or so he thought).

"Good riddance to this whole wretched affair. Let the rest of the jurors figure it out. I never asked for this responsibility," grumbled Newlan as he left the courtroom for what he assumed would be his final farewell.

However, what Newlan failed to realize is that no one ever asks for the Sword of Damocles...but that doesn't stop it from dropping down on us...when we least expect it.

### Chapter 20 – Meet the Jurors

Thursday morning June 5, 2008 – 11:30 AM

As the jurors made their way back into the deliberation room, Newlan purposely lagged behind in a veiled attempt to apprise one of the court officer's of his newly discovered connection to the case...and fortuitously for him, Brandon was conveniently standing by the doorway, so he gestured over to him with a tilted head signal, indicating that they needed to talk in private.

It took no time at all for the jurors to notice that Newlan was missing from the room, and the same heavyset female juror who seemed to be at odds with him from the get-go grumbled, "Now what's the matter? It's always something with that guy."

Meanwhile, Newlan was standing out in the corridor pleading his case.

"Both of the attorneys mentioned that Breslin worked at Tex-Ray Defense Systems in Andover. Well it's just my luck that my nephew happens to work there too, and it seems to me that this might be a conflict of interest."

Not surprisingly, Brandon didn't see it that way, and his solution was as simple as can be.

"No problem, just don't mention anything about the case to your nephew," advised Brandon, to which Newlan tersely replied, "what if someone finds out? For all I know, my nephew might be good friends with Breslin."

Realizing that Newlan was upset, Brandon came up with a simple solution; "OK, OK, calm down...I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll get you an index card...you write down what's on your mind, and we'll make sure that Judge Gershwin reads your note."

"Thanks...I just want to make sure that this doesn't become an issue later on," countered a contrite Newlan, to which Brandon understandingly replied, "No, it's OK. You did the right thing by coming to us. That's what we're here for. Just don't say anything to the other jurors."

Brandon led Newlan into an empty conference room down the hall, and he handed him a blank index card, along with these elementary instructions; "just write down whatever it is that you want to tell the judge, and I'll pass your note along to her."

Newlan mulled the issue over in his mind for a minute or two before putting pencil to paper, and when he had completed voicing his fears, the card that got turned over to Judge Gershwin was noted as follows:

With his concerns jotted down in writing for prosperity, Newlan stepped out into the hallway, but much to his surprise neither Brandon nor Billy were anywhere to be found. Figuring that they couldn't have wandered off too far, Newlan decided to go searching for the conspicuous court officers, and when he located the both of them, positioned outside of Judge Gershwin's office, he waved them down and made his approach. However, when they realized that a possible wayward juror was roaming the corridors unattended they raced towards him and cut him off at the pass.

The skittish reaction by Brandon and Billy had Newlan thinking that he had just entered an off-limits area of the courthouse, and in response, he fuzzily turned and gazed in every direction, including up at the ceiling, hoping to get his bearings straight.

Why the sense of urgency from the court officers, Newlan would never find out, but in any event, Brandon snatched the index card out of his hand and slipped into Judge Gershwin's chamber, while at the same time, Billy, who seemed to be upset about something, gently, but firmly, guided him back in the direction of the juror deliberation room.

"I hope I'm not being a pain in the ass...you know, sending messages to the judge and all, but I thought that this might be an important issue," confessed Newlan in a guilt-riddled tone.

"Don't worry about it...it's not you I'm mad at," retaliated Billy as he pushed open the door to the deliberation room and pointed Newlan towards the only empty seat available, which was located in the far corner, next to the bathroom.

As soon as the door was closed behind them, Billy, who was never one for wasting time on formalities, barked out, "Alright, whose cell phone went off during DA Lyons' opening statement? You weren't listening again. I thought I made it clear to turn off all cell phones before entering the courtroom. Judge Gershwin was very upset with me."

Almost in unison, the jurors peered around the room, staring at each other in an accusatory manner, until finally the guilty party, a middle aged man with thinning gray hair, meekly raised his hand and admitted, "sorry, I meant to put it on vibrate."

"It doesn't really matter whose phone it was...I told you, the first time a cell phone went off in the courtroom, I'm taking them all away," snarled Billy as he grabbed a large plastic tray from under the table.

"Everybody put your cell phones in here," demanded Billy.

"Can we use them on break?" asked one of the jurors.

"You weren't listening," angrily repeated Billy again, "I told you that if I had to take the phones away from you, they'd be locked up all day."

"How about if we all promise to leave our phones in the deliberation room?" asked another juror, and with the ice broken, the barrage of questions and complaints began anew...and in the end Billy backed down.

"All right, all right, I'll give you a break this time. You can leave you cell phones in here. But there'll be no more second chances. If I catch anyone in that courtroom with a cell phone, there'll be hell to pay."

"I guess people can't live without their cell phones these days," muttered Newlan as he shook his head in disbelief over the commotion that everyone was making, while at the same time he thought to himself, "see, I knew Billy was a good guy...either that or he just got sick and tired of all the bitching and moaning, and he caved in so that everyone would shut up."

Newlan, who, as we have learned, didn't own a cell phone, was finding the uproar that Billy's proposed solution precipitated, to be rather humorous. However, the silent stares that his comment evoked from both Billy and his fellow jurors made him cognizant of the fact that he had hit a nerve, which in the end only encouraged him to come back with another wisecrack.

"See what happens when you get too attached to something?" shot back Newlan, and then, as if a prophetic revelation had come to him like a dream, he added; "Which in a way is what this trial is all about isn't it...getting too attached to something?"

Again, Newlan's remarks were met with stone cold silence by the jurors, with only Billy managing to ask, "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You know...Breslin got too attached to his wife. And what a shocking crime _that_ is," replied the cynical Newlan.

"But seriously, the funny thing is, I never even heard the phone go off," disclosed Newlan with a smile after Billy had exited the room.

"Oh I did," replied the heavyset juror rather sarcastically.

"I must have been engrossed in the opening statements. Either that or I was falling asleep...one or the other, too close to call I guess," countered Newlan. At this point in the proceedings, he didn't particularly care what he said or who he ticked off, especially since he was expecting an imminent departure any minute now, after a grueling one day of service.

For the time being, the heavyset juror chose to ignore Newlan's gibes, irritating though she found them to be, and instead she steered the subject towards her pet project of fostering juror openness.

"By the way, isn't it about time we go around the room and introduce ourselves? Come on, how about if we just give out our first names and our seat numbers...and maybe what we do for work. I'll go first. My name is Jane...seat number 15. I live in Medford and, believe it or not, I'm a paralegal at a small law firm in Boston."

"So she is from Medford. Why the hell did she have to mention where she lives? Damn it, we might even know some of the same people. I hope to hell I get off this jury, but if not, I'm gonna stay clear of her. Man, you can't make this shit up," contemplated Newlan as he recalled his nemesis discussing bus routes to Medford yesterday while they were riding down to the lobby on the courthouse elevator.

Jane was a 46 years old single parent of two teenage sons. Like most mothers, she had gained a few pounds after the birth of her children, but all in all, she was an attractive woman who spoiled herself with regularly scheduled beauty treatments, which accounted for her stylish mane of short, curly, auburn hair. And although she seemed to be giving Newlan a hard time, that didn't stop her from noticing that _he_ wasn't wearing a wedding ring either.

"With a little bit of work I bet I could whip him into shape," silently surmised Jane as she stole a quick glance at the unkempt Newlan while at the same time pushing to keep the introductions moving along with a circular gesture of the hand.

At Jane's urging, the jurors promptly went clockwise around the room, verbally summarizing their laconic bios, starting with an extremely reserved woman who was seated to the left of Jane.

"Hello I'm Lisa...seat number one, and I work as a waitress," murmured the painfully shy woman who would hardly say a word throughout the course of the trial.

Lisa was a tall, plain, single woman, roughly 42 years of age, and she too was secretly scanning the room for romantic possibilities. And just as Jane before her had done, she took notice of Newlan as well. But alas, she was much too bashful to do anything more than to merely fantasize about the magical scenarios that were playing out in her mind.

"So do you get paid for being off of work?" asked Jane in a casual attempt at building a connecting bridge between her colleagues.

"Oh no, I work the night shift. Actually, I'm heading straight to work as soon as I leave here," replied Lisa in a voice so soft she could barely be heard.

"Poor thing...that's so unfair," added a sympathetic Jane to a chorus of agreement.

Next up was the kind-hearted elderly woman who had introduced herself to Newlan in the waiting room upon his delayed arrival earlier this morning.

"Hi I'm Patty...seat number 5. I'm retired and I live with my daughter," confided the pleasant senior citizen.

Patty's daughter was in her mid-thirties and still single, which had the matchmaking Patty constantly on the lookout for potential partners, and after her brief conversation with Newlan, she was already having visions that he might be a good catch for her little girl.

"I'm not going live forever you know, so she needs to get a life of her own. She'll be alright...but she just needs a little nudge out the door," rationalized Patty whenever she got together with her girlfriends for a night of Bingo. She truly did just want the best for her daughter, as any parent would, but she knew full well that it's hard to let go sometimes, so she didn't push too hard.

Meanwhile, the sulky Newlan was obliviously staring out the window, totally unaware of the fact that he was being sized up by three potential suitors. To the contrary, as he sat listlessly in the corner of the room, he groused to himself; "Like I'm ever gonna be able to remember all of these peoples' names. The trial will be over by the time that happens. Besides, with any luck I'm gonna be outta here in a few minutes."

Whether Newlan would actually be "outta there" in a few minutes remained to be seen, but as he whined in silence, Jane's group hug continued its trek around the room and next in line was a plump 26 year old youngster who had been gifted with beautiful, shoulder length, flaxen hair.

"Hello I'm Joanne...seat number 10, and I work at the local air force base. I'm a civilian, but I help out by getting all of the soldiers gear organized...boots, uniforms, stuff like that," explained the buxom blond.

Joanne was also single, although she did have a steady boyfriend; a boyfriend who was none too happy to learn about her involvement in the case. Unfortunately, the trial was going to seriously cut into their quality time, and even though she thought he was acting childish, the truth of the matter was that she wasn't much looking forward to spending the next few weeks stuck with all of these "older" people either.

However, childish steady boyfriend or not, that didn't stop Joanne from eyeballing the other twenty-something juror; the tall, skinny kid who was sitting next to Newlan; the same guy who fought like the Dickens with Judge Gershwin in an attempt to get himself removed from the case.

And while Joanne's wandering mind conceived a soap opera scene of her own, the procession of condensed personal sketches steamed ahead.

"Hi I'm Jim...seat number 6. I work for a telecommunications company right down the road from here," imparted the next juror in the roundtable array.

Jim, a short, stocky, 48 years old ex-soldier, was the proud father of an infant son. Apparently, he and his wife had resigned themselves to being a childless couple, when out of the blue, their miracle bundle of joy unexpectedly arrived. And although he would never dare show his true emotions, much like Newlan, Jim had his own fearful trepidations regarding the trial.

Seated next to Jim was the distracted juror who had the unfortunate incident with the cell phone, and he started off his introduction by stating, "First of all, once again, my apologies about the cell phone. I'm Peter...seat number 12...I'm a software engineer for a large company based in California."

Peter, a 56 years old father of four, was a brilliant man, but, like many an Einstein before him, at times, he too was a bit absentminded, as proven by his forgetfulness when it came to turning off his cell phone in the courtroom.

Huddled next to Peter was the soft-spoken woman who Newlan so callously referred to as the "Ice Princess."

"Hi I'm Natalie...seat number 7... and I work as an editor for a local magazine."

Natalie was so painfully demure that she stared down at the table the entire time she spoke.

"She's either very shy of very antisocial," thought Jane of her fellow juror while at the same time Newlan didn't know what to make of this alluring yet seemingly insecure woman. But despite her personality profile, he did perk up when Natalie spoke.

"I won't forget _her_ name. Now I kinda wish I wasn't getting myself kicked off the case. Hey, even though she has a ring on...you never know," daydreamed Newlan, even though he did indeed know for a fact that, based on first impressions, there was virtually no chance he was ever going to hit it off with the juror in seat number 7.

Natalie was 44 years old and, unbeknownst to Newlan, although she had been married for less than a year, she was already experiencing marital problems, so maybe his chances weren't as far-fetched as he might have thought.

But regardless of Natalie's standoffish nature, there was no questioning the fact that she was a beautiful woman. She was blessed with silky brown hair which flowed freely down past the nape of her back, and she also possessed a shapely figure which Newlan couldn't help but notice, seeing as how she was standing directly in front of him when they walked into the courtroom.

And while Newlan was busily getting lost in his own little fantasy world, next up on the agenda was a woman who, based on her seat number, stood directly behind him in the courtroom lineup marching order, and like everyone else, she kept her introduction brief.

"Hi I'm Pam...seat number 9. I work as a freelance web designer."

As far as Newlan was concerned, Pam's location in the jury box was unquestionably the worst seat in the house because, unfortunately for her, the luck of the draw had placed her at the near end of the front row, as close as you could possibly get to the audience.

Pam was a statuesque woman who kept her jet black hair neatly cropped. She was soon to be 59 years old and she had diligently raised two fine children; and, like Newlan and many of her colleagues, Pam had never before served as trial juror.

Newlan thanked his lucky stars that he didn't end up in Pam's seat number 9, or in Linda's seat number 1 for that matter; because, if the seating arrangements had turned out as such, it would have made it virtually impossible for him to keep to his much touted low profile.

And even though Newlan was supremely confident that his seat location wasn't going to matter much longer, he politely listened in, as positioned next to Pam sat a gregarious fifty-something year old man who, based on their non-stop conversation, appeared to have befriended her. However, despite their budding admiration for each other, he did manage to break off their engaging discussion long enough to say; "Hello I'm Stan...seat number 14, and I work in the sales department for a local software company."

Stan was a happily married father of three children, all of whom were either still in high school or college. And furthermore, he was quite the congenial sort, as proven by his tireless chatter aimed in Pam's direction. He had been affably talking her up all morning; primarily for no reason other than the fact that perchance she just so happened to be seated next to him at the deliberation room table.

Next to Stan sat the elderly woman who occupied the elevator with Jane and Newlan as it delivered them down to the ground floor yesterday afternoon.

"Hi my name is Annie...seat number 13. I work in the HR department as a payroll clerk for a temp employment agency," reported the jittery little woman who at the moment seemed to be experiencing some sort of discomfort.

Annie was a 62 years old single mother of two grown daughters, and she brandished an unruly head of spiky hair which she had dyed in a flaming reddish tint. And on top of that, she bore a fiery disposition which matched her hair color quite nicely; it was an attitude that Newlan would come to admire very much. Annie lived alone, and although she didn't talk much about herself, she would gladly offer you an opinion on just about any other topic, which would soon become evident as the trial moved forward.

Annie, we might remember, was the same juror who had vehemently protested that there would be trouble ahead if she weren't allowed to go outside for the occasional cigarette break, and so not surprisingly, her currently distressed disposition was apparently being caused by her craving for a nicotine fix. Of the 16 jurors, she was the only one who smoked cigarettes, but nonetheless many a juror would later thank her for fighting for their right to get some fresh air during lunch hour.

Seated in the back of the room next to Newlan was the lanky juror who had tried so desperately to convince Judge Gershwin to excuse him from the trial (he was also the same young man who was being secretly admired by Joanne, the other twenty-something juror).

"Hi I'm Mark...seat number 4. I work in the network security group for a large computer hardware company."

Mark was a tall, spindly, 29 years old young adult who maintained a neatly cropped crown of dark brown hair. He had recently gotten married, and the happy couple was already the proud parents of a 10 month old son and another on the way.

Needless to say, Mark was very busy these days. But now that he had resigned himself to the fact that there was no getting out of his predicament, he had taken the attitude that he just wanted to get the trial over with as soon as possible so that he could move on with his life. In sharp contrast to Newlan, Mark was the type of person who could focus forward on the future and never look back.

"What happened up there with the judge yesterday morning?" whispered Newlan after Mark had completed his concise introduction.

"I'd rather not talk about," replied Mark with a smile. "Let's just put it this way...I pleaded my case and she didn't buy it, so here I am."

"I hear you. She's kinda intimidating," agreed Newlan, and he then gave Mark a sly wink as he added, "but I haven't given up trying just yet."

Up next was Newlan. However, with thoughts of an impending dismissal from the trial clogging his mind, he didn't much feel like participating in Jane's familiarization charade, although in the end he conformed as he usually did.

"Hi I'm Frank...seat number 8. I work as a programmer/analyst at a local university," announced Newlan, albeit rather unenthusiastically.

"Oh really, my brother is the Dean of Student Affairs at Tafts University," nonchalantly retorted Jane, and although she meant no harm, this seemingly irrelevant tidbit of information was the last thing that Newlan wanted to hear from her. And furthermore, he was stunned and tongue-tied by the latest in what would turn out to be a long line of many not-so-happy synchronous revelations.

"Oh shit, her brother works at Tafts, that's all I need is for her to somehow find out my identity," silently lamented Newlan as he struggled to keep his cool.

Tafts was a large university which employed a couple of thousand people, so the chances of Newlan being acquainted with Jane's brother were moderately slim. But nevertheless he had a faint recollection of crossing paths with the person who held that job title once or twice over the years at various project meetings, and he felt his face turning a beet red as he stammered, "Oh...really...we'll have to talk about that...later...sometime."

However, deep inside what Newlan was really thinking was; "my cover's definitely gonna be blown if this keeps up. Please dead God let Judge Gershwin remove me from the case...and the sooner the better."

But despite Newlan's trivial concerns, the introductions continued on in earnest.

On the other side of the room diagonally across from Newlan, sat two more male jurors who, for whatever reason, also chose to sit away from the main conference room table which was more than big enough to seat all 16 jurors.

The first of the two men waved and pleasantly proclaimed, "Hello I'm Ron...seat number 11...I'm an assistant branch manager for a local bank."

Ron was 47 years old, and although he had been married for over 20 years, he and his wife were childless by choice. Ron dressed the part of a banker; he showed up to the courthouse wearing finely tailored suits just about every day, and when you paired the wardrobe with his trendy glasses and the few strands of gray running through his thinning black hair, it only added to the distinguished air he carried about him.

Ron's facial expressions and mannerisms uncannily reminded Newlan of one of his own childhood friends, James Leach, who, believe it or not, ended up joining the Medford Police force about 15 years ago.

Even after all these years, whenever Newlan bumped into Leach patrolling around town in his cop uniform, he'd think back on all the crazy things that they use to do in their younger days, and he'd invariably wind up mumbling to himself, "...and this guy's a Medford cop now...God help us all!"

But in spite of Newlan's childhood musings, the census rolled on, and next to Ron sat a short, stocky, buttoned-up gentleman who was sporting a handlebar moustache, as well as a proposition.

"Hi I'm Mike...seat number 2. I work in the sales department for a local auto dealership so if anyone needs a car, please let me know."

"Typical salesman always working the house," silently groused Newlan, but then without thinking, he blurted out, "I'll have to get your card...my old jalopy has seen better days, so who knows, I may just take you up on your offer."

Sensing a sale in the works, Mike promptly passed a business card over to Newlan who figured that since his car was pretty beat-up, it never hurts to know someone "in the business" as they say.

"Unlike me, I guess Mike doesn't mind divulging his full name. Maybe I'm just being paranoid as usual," pondered Newlan regarding one of his many internal phobias which, at this point in his life, were too ingrained for him to do anything about, other than to learn to live with them.

Mike was a 58 years old father of four grown sons, and even though he purposely dressed conservatively for his courtroom duties, Newlan had him pegged as the biker type.

"Must be the moustache," speculated Newlan, and although his stream of consciousness hypotheses were usually based on irrational premises, his first impressions were often times more accurate than even he could ever have predicted.

In Newlan's opinion, Mike's personality seemed a bit too low-key for a car salesman. However, although his demeanor as it related to his profession was open to debate, there was no denying the fact that, like Linda the waitress before him, he would rarely say a word throughout the course of the trial, preferring instead to sit in the corner and placidly observe the proceedings.

Of course, Mike's quietness didn't stop him from passing out his business card to each and every person in the room. And while he went about his business, sitting back at the main table, waiting to make her introductions, was none other than the oriental woman whom Newlan had become remotely acquainted with by virtue of her incessant gossiping in the waiting line yesterday morning.

"Hello I'm Yong...seat number 3. I work as an office assistant for a large company."

Yong's words were conveyed with a touch of shyness, not to mention a pronounced accent.

You see, Yong was a 37 year old immigrant from communist North Korea. Although apparently she wasn't so shy when it came to relationships, seeing as how she was currently working on her second marriage here in the US; and in both instances, she ended up tying the knot with a wealthy American man. How she was able to escape North Korea was a mystery for another day, but much like Saeed Kahn, she was haunted by a painful past that she cared not to talk about.

Yong and her second husband had two pre-teen children who, according to her, were exceptional athletes; her daughter played in the local youth soccer league and her son was an all-star little leaguer. All in all you might say that Yong had indoctrinated herself quite nicely into the American way of life, and in this regard, she was on the polar opposite end of the spectrum from Newlan's bitter neighbor.

And finally, last but not least, to the right of Jane sat the handicapped juror; he had already won over the hearts of his fellow jurors just by dint of his tenacious positive attitude alone, and as such, it should come as no surprise that he waved genially at his new colleagues and exclaimed, "Hello I'm Dan...seat number 16. I work as an accountant for a mutual fund company."

Dan was 39 years old and like Newlan, still single. But despite his handicap, Dan was quite independent and active; he drove his own specially equipped Ford Taurus sedan, and he never once asked for any preferential treatment throughout the course of trial (or in his life in general for that matter).

Dan was paralyzed from the waist down, but he was able to get around fairly well with just the use of his arms. How he came to be in a wheelchair, whether it was some sort of accident or whether he was handicapped from birth, the jurors would never know, since he never offered any information on the subject, and out of respect, none of them dared to ask; for like the secrets of Saeed Kahn and Yong before him, perhaps some tales are better left untold.

For his part, Newlan viewed Dan with a mix of admiration and pity; and of course the latter sentiment is precisely the posture that the disabled population generally doesn't want to hear from the non-handicapped. In truth, all of the jurors' feelings were similar to Newlan's, but luckily they had the common sense and decency to keep their thoughts to themselves.

Empathy for Dan aside however, now that the introductions were at last completed, Newlan took a moment to appraise the group as a whole.

"Interesting bunch of people; mostly intelligent, conservative, middle-class professionals, many who work in high-tech jobs. I wonder whether we fit into a specific profile that the attorneys were looking for."

A handful of jurors were throwing around similar comments as they chatted amicably amongst themselves, but Newlan preferred to keep his own thoughts on the down-low for the moment, primarily because he believed that he would soon be leaving the team for good.

And although Newlan's many beliefs may have had some validity to them, juror profiling was the furthest thing from his mind when at a few minutes before noon Billy barged back into the room and pointed directly at him.

"You...come with me and bring all your belongings," ordered Billy, and Newlan complied without hesitation. As a matter of fact, he jumped up enthusiastically and cordially waved to his colleagues as he left the room.

Newlan was practically giddy with joy and he had the urge to say, "nice knowing ya" or maybe even, "see ya, wouldn't wanna be ya" on his way out the door, but he prudently resisted the temptation.

And yet despite his self-absorbed jubilation, as he rose to leave the room, Newlan did happen to notice Jane putting on a pouting facial expression aimed in his direction, as if to say that she was sorry to see him go.

"See, she's gonna miss me after all," surmised Newlan, However, now that he was experiencing a sudden sense of euphoric reprieve, he was determined not to look back. He had already spent way too much time in his life looking back, and it was high-time he changed his ways.

But surely, as we all know, some resolutions are easier said than done, and for Frank Newlan, old habits were hard to break. He had to look back. He always looked back. And so, just as the door was closing behind him, for some inexplicable reason, he crooked his head and took one last peek inside the deliberation room. However, what he saw wasn't a roomful of strangers; what he saw weren't the stares of fifteen impassive faces; what he saw wasn't an uncertain future; a future that he had just barely managed to escape.

No, what Newlan saw instead...were the remnants of a past...that just would not let him be.

### Chapter 21 – The Wise Judge Gershwin

Thursday morning June 5, 2008 – 11:59 AM

"Judge Gershwin wants to have a chat with you," snapped Billy in a barking tone as he led Newlan towards the judge's chamber, which was located within a stone's throw of courtroom 630, directly adjacent to the juror deliberation room.

Based on their proximity to Judge Gershwin's office, as soon as they left the deliberation room they were practically standing at her front door, which was open. But regardless, Billy knocked anyway, and with a pleasant smile the honorable judge gestured, "Come in, come in," as she waved Newlan to take a seat across from her desk.

Billy slowly closed the door behind them, and as he did so, he whispered to Newlan; "I'll be waiting out here to escort you to your car."

"Mr. Newlan I understand that you have a relative who may have a connection to Mr. Breslin," gleaned Judge Gershwin in a patient tone.

"Yes your honor, my nephew works for the same company as Mr. Breslin," confirmed Newlan, while at the same time he immediately sensed a layer of intimidation building up around him, even though he was raised to believe that no harm can come from telling the truth.

"Now Mr. Newlan, have you spoken to your nephew about the case?" asked the astute magistrate.

"No your honor," respectfully replied Newlan.

"And do you recall your nephew ever mentioning Mr. Breslin or anything whatsoever to do with the case to you?" quizzically wondered the forthright justice of the court, and once again Newlan answered with a solemn "no your honor."

"Mr. Newlan, I'm having a hard time detecting where the conflict of interest exists in this matter, and I can think of no reason to excuse you from the case. As I will repeat to you and the rest of the jurors on a daily basis, you are not to discuss the case with anyone, and if you honor that request, then there should be no issue with you continuing to serve as a juror on this trial," assured Judge Gershwin. However, this time Newlan was positive that he was being lectured to, but he pressed on nonetheless.

"But what if my nephew _does_ say something about the case in my presence? I can't just avoid him for the next month. I visit my sister's house at least once a week," explained Newlan. He realized that he was putting himself at risk of getting on Judge Gershwin's bad side, but at the same time, he also felt obligated to make every attempt possible to relay his concerns to her.

"Well, we'll pass that bridge if and when we come to it," professed Judge Gershwin, but this time with much more authority in her voice.

"Mr. Newlan I sense that you don't want to be here, and if that's the case, then just say the word and I'll excuse you...but I implore you to see this through. You may in time look back on this as a rewarding experience, and by the time the trial is over I'll hazard a guess that we will have lost one or two jurors for legitimate reasons..." predicted Judge Gershwin. But before she could finish her remarks, Newlan unintentionally interrupted her; with no malice intended and no benevolence sought.

"Do you really think that will happen?" asked Newlan in a questioning tone; although, he wasn't really attempting to doubt her so much as he was just thinking out loud.

"Trust me...in my experience I find that it is common for us to excuse a handful of jurors over the course of a long trial, so I would prefer not to lose someone on the first day of testimony unless it is an utterly unavoidable situation," continued a determined Judge Gershwin.

Newlan mulled over the situation long and hard, but in the end, he was still torn over what he should do. He was never very good at making decisions under pressure. On the one hand, he wanted no part of being on the trial. But on the other hand he realized that he didn't have a particularly valid excuse; especially now that Judge Gershwin had enlightened him further as to the irrelevancy of his concerns.

And so after an uncomfortable pause, Newlan begrudgingly announced, "OK, I'm gonna try and stick it out your honor."

"Splendid...have Billy return you to the juror room and let him know that we will be starting up again shortly," replied Judge Gershwin in a much more enthusiastic tone.

And with that, Newlan thanked the prudent judge for her time and slowly trudged out her office saddled with a mixture of afflicted trepidation and a sense of renewed resolve.

Meanwhile, Judge Gershwin was left to pensively reflect on how her Psychology degree had come in handy once again, while at the same time Brandon, who happened to be strolling by her office just as Newlan made his exit, popped his head in the door and asked, "How'd it go with the problem juror?"

"He's still with us," replied the judge with a wink. And then, with the same stern voice she would use when sentencing some of the most hardened criminals in the country, she added, "He seemed to think he had a choice in the matter, but I had no intention of letting him off the hook so easily. I believe it is due time that Mr. Newlan learns to face his fears head-on."

And wise though Judge Gershwin may have been, little did she know that Newlan was about to come face-to-face with his demons whether he liked it or not; little did she know that in short order he would be forced to confront his deepest fears and then some; little did she know, the Breslin case notwithstanding, that Newlan was about to be enrolled in a crash-course lesson pertaining to all matters big and small, in the never-ending game...of life...and death.

### Chapter 22 – DA Lyons' Roar

Thursday afternoon June 5, 2008 – 12:05 PM

Assistant District Attorney Elaina Lyons restlessly lingered at the prosecutor's table for the duration of the morning break, anxiously anticipating the start of witness testimony in the John Breslin murder trial.

Lyons was left both exhausted and exhilarated by her opening statement, but she knew full well that this case was going to be much more difficult to prove than the murder trial she had just wrapped up the week before last.

It had already been a very busy year for Lyons who had heretofore worked on four exceedingly difficult cases so far, including the aforementioned murder case and its horrific details.

The case against that defendant, Mr. Martin "Marty" Bagley, was pretty much irrefutable; however the particulars of the shocking crime still took its toll on Lyons.

Mr. Bagley broke into the home of his ex-girlfriend, Joan LaPrett where he proceeded to viciously bind and rape her. What he was planning to do next only he knew for sure, but unfortunately for him, his crime spree was interrupted when Ms. LaPrett's daughter Alison arrived home early from school.

And upon hearing the commotion coming from her mother's upstairs bedroom, and upon recognizing the voice of Mr. Bagley, Alison dialed 911 and skittishly explained to the operator that her mother was being assaulted by her ex-boyfriend. However, before the dispatcher even had a chance to radio for police backup, multiple gunshots could be heard ricocheting in the background, and by the time the police arrived, both Ms LaPrett and her daughter had been shot dead.

It didn't take long for the police to track down Bagley, and what with all of the physical evidence that he had left strewn about at the scene of the crime, it was basically a slam-dunk prosecution for Lyons. But what made her fiercely angry was the fact that Bagley, a convicted sex offender, in her opinion, should never have been walking the streets in the first place.

Lyons was both repulsed and inspired by her work and she wouldn't have it any other way. The extreme violence she had encountered over the years would at times leave her shaking with revulsion, and yet every time she convinced herself that she had had enough, the courage of the victims and their families compelled her to work harder than ever to put these sociopaths away for as long as possible; if for no other reason than to ensure that those she deemed to be beyond rehabilitation didn't get the chance to destroy some other family.

Like Defense Attorney Gleason, Lyons could have easily left for greener pastures, but she chose to stay, on the simple premise that, "well, someone needs to be an advocate for the victims".

Lyons still made decent money, just not nearly as much as some of her former colleagues, many who had gone into private practice, and others who moved on to political endeavors such as running for Attorney General, or becoming lobbyists for big business.

"What I don't make moneywise, I make up for in personal satisfaction," Lyons would insist to her father anytime he voiced concerns about her financial situation. But in reality what he was really worried about was the fact that she was dealing with ruthless hoodlums who wouldn't think twice about making her the next victim on their list.

Lyons on the other hand, didn't share her father's concerns. She didn't scare easily, and in many ways, she was quite ferocious in her own right.

Lyons usually had too much on her mind to be worried about money or threats. Like a top notch athlete, she feared the losing more than she enjoyed the fruits of her triumphs, so she remained, at all times, totally focused on the task at hand.

For example, Lyons was still consumed by a case she had tried earlier this year where a college student who stabbed and killed his roommate got off on a self-defense claim. Like all of her setbacks, she was mindful of the fact that the defeat was going to gnaw at her heartstrings for years to come, which was why it was essential that she keep herself busy in the courtroom, preparing to face the next big challenge; preparing to do battle with the latest in a long line of high-priced, illustrious defense attorney's to come down the pike.

Lyons didn't believe the kid's story for a second, but he came from a rich family and, "well...sometimes that can make a difference" she told the press without elaborating on the obvious connotation that the defendant had somehow bought his way out of trouble.

But beyond the thrill of the courtroom chess match, Lyons ultimate passion and obsession were the cases that never get solved; the cases that usually involved poor minorities; the cases that seem to fall into a black hole, never to be heard from again; the cases that no one seemed to care about; the cases that included victims who had no family, and therefore no one to fight for them. And in that regard, the unsolved murders were the ultimate puzzles; the most grating of mysteries; and as such, they weighed constantly on Lyons' mind and sent her home crying when she least expected it.

"I just care too much," rationalized Lyons the first time she inexplicably broke down and degenerated into a sobbing ball of inconsolable zeal. And now all these years later, here she remained....more driven than ever to see to it that justice was served whenever possible, no matter what the price of victory might be.

Unfortunately for Lyons however, she also had her share of detractors as well. What with her flamboyant style, her masculine suits, her unruly tangle of long white hair, and her loud, piercing voice, she could rub some people, and more importantly some jurors such as the benevolent Frank Newlan, the wrong way.

But nevertheless, Lyons made no apologies for her lack of perceived "style points" as she called it. In this respect, Lyons and Gleason held the same attitude and beliefs; specifically that in their business you needed to have a strong ego; a competitive desire to win at all costs; and a flair for the dramatic.

"After all, in a way, our profession is a lot like show-business and athletics combined," Lyons was once willing to concede to a group of reporters, and Gleason was quick to second that emotion.

But now Gleason was the enemy, and as Lyons prepared to face her adversary, she had her warrior's game-face painted on in the form of her indelible scowl. She enjoyed the challenge of matching wits with Gleason, and even though she sometimes profusely objected to his tactics, she admired his tenacity nonetheless.

Whenever Gleason's strategy included disparaging the victim, which it often did, one of Lyons' primary tasks was to explain to the victim's family that he was just doing his job.

However, oftentimes, Lyons didn't even buy that explanation herself, and she vehemently resented Gleason for going down that road (although of course, she was also known to use the same ignoble hyperbole from time to time to paint an ill-fated defendant as something that he wasn't; particularly when a case revolved strictly around circumstantial evidence).

And so today as Lyons prepared herself mentally for the arduous struggle that awaited her, she wondered what to expect from Gleason. She was well aware of the fact that the victim, Fred Miller, was no angel himself, and she was sure that Gleason would try to exploit this triviality. But as far as she was concerned, whatever his shortcomings, Miller didn't deserve to be murdered for basically no reason at all.

Lyons was the first to admit that there were extenuating circumstances surrounding this case, and that it was just as many parts a domestic issue as it was a jealousy issue. But be that as it may, she was determined to pin a first degree murder conviction on Breslin, and put him away for the rest of his life; "For the family's sake," as she put it.

Lyons had come to know Fred Miller's elderly parents and his brother Cameron quite well, and she considered them to be wonderful people. And so when she was up there at the podium, doggedly interrogating the witnesses, it was the Miller family who would be first and foremost on her mind.

With the Miller's permission, Lyons gave John Breslin the opportunity to plead guilty to second degree murder and a chance for parole after 25 years. But he refused the offer, so now he was going to have to deal with the full wrath of DA Elaina Lyons...and she was very much looking forward...to putting on a show.

### Chapter 23 – Jurors and Witnesses

Thursday afternoon June 5, 2008 – 12:10 PM

As one might imagine, Newlan was downright despondent after being shuttled back into to the deliberation room by Billy the Court Officer, and he played out the scene, starring Judge Gershwin and himself, in his mind for days on end, wondering whether there was anything he could have possibly done differently to coax a more favorable ruling out of the noble judge.

"I was so close to being sprung free," moaned Newlan. And yet he was unable to seize the moment and finagle his way off the jury. No matter how badly he wanted out, in the end, his guilty conscience reared its ugly head. There was no way he could have lived with himself if there was even the remotest possibility that Judge Gershwin's lasting impression of him was that he had somehow attempted to shirk his civic duty, regardless of the fact that he was convinced his concerns were legitimate. However, after taking her view of the matter under advisement, he was forced to agree that maybe he _was_ overreacting as usual.

"Oh well, at least I didn't say anything stupid on the way out the door," reflected Newlan with a sigh. He was all but certain that when he left the room, he wouldn't be coming back, and he was relieved that, for once, he didn't put his foot in his mouth. And even though he was batting around .500 in his attempts to restrain his big mouth, now that he was back in the saddle, however unwillingly, he made a promise to himself that he was going to be a model juror and not complain about a single thing for the duration of the trial...it was a promise he would find very difficult to keep.

Newlan's unexplained removal from the deliberation room had his fellow jurors buzzing with conspiracy theories, but for the most part they welcomed him back with open arms. Although for some inexplicable reason, he was overcome by a paranoid feeling that a handful of his new colleagues had guiltily looked the other way as he reentered the room.

"How'd you make out?" asked Jim, the juror in seat number 6, more out of curiosity than anything else. But Newlan didn't take the bait and he downplayed the issue by nonchalantly stating; "oh it was no big deal...just had to discuss a minor issue with the judge."

Newlan was mindful of the fact that Jim may have been trying to press him for information, which aroused his suspicious side; and on top of that, he dutifully recalled what Brandon had said about not mentioning anything to the other jurors.

Of course, Newlan wasn't going to get off the hook _that_ easily, for it seemed that Jane had a few follow-up questions in tow, waiting to spring on him; questions which he found to be rather irksome, because although there was no possible way that any of his colleagues could have had the foggiest idea as why he had temporarily left their presence, the incident still left him feeling a bit awkward, and he was almost glad when Billy sauntered back into the room to retrieve them.

"Line 'em up...we're ready to go," ordered Billy as he led the jurors back into the courtroom with the standard command of, "all rise...jurors entering."

Despite his vow not to look into the gallery, Newlan eyes wandered lazily out into the open space anyway; and the fact that every person in the courtroom, including the attorneys, the defendant, and the judge, as well as the audience in the gallery, were all standing in deference to the jurors finally began to sink in.

"It all makes perfect sense, since after all _we_ _are_ the center of attention. _We're_ the ones who'll be making the ultimate decision about whether to send a man away to prison for a long, long time. _We're_ the ones whose lives are going to be disrupted. They need us here. People like us are what make the court system what it is," surmised Newlan, and his revelation left him with a sudden swelling of pride over the reverence with which they were being treated.

Having never been on a jury before, Newlan and most of the other jurors weren't sure what to expect as they gingerly sat down and mentally prepare themselves for what lay ahead. And judging by the colorless look on their faces, one could only assume that they had taken Billy's advice to heart as far as expecting the unexpected.

"If the rest of the trial is anything like the opening statements then it should be intensely dramatic," conceded Newlan; although he would quickly come to learn that while witness testimony could indeed be riveting at times, at other times it could also be very dry and boring.

"Court is in session...you may be seated," began Judge Gershwin before dispensing with a few more choice words of advice for the jurors benefit.

"Now ladies and gentlemen of the jury, as the trial moves forward you may become aware of people and places that are familiar to you, such as Mr. Breslin's place of employment. So I must remind you once again, as I will do frequently, that you are not to discuss the case with anyone, for any reason, and if any circumstances come up that you feel unsure of, please direct your concerns to our quite capable court officers," requested the no-nonsense judge while at the same time flashing an uneasy smile.

Judge Gershwin made a stringent point of always remaining pleasant whenever she spoke to the jurors, which was sometimes in sharp contrast to the tone that she used on the attorneys and witnesses who frequented her courtroom. But nevertheless, Newlan was sure that he observed the all-powerful judge discretely glancing in his direction with derision plastered across her face as she made her draconian plea that the jurors honor their vow of secrecy.

Whether Newlan's observations were real or imagine was inconsequential, because, either way, it left him self-consciously squirming in his seat for a moment or two until he was finally able to talk some sense into himself.

"What am I worrying about? No one other than Brandon and Billy knows what the judge and I discussed...so hopefully it will remain our little secret."

Newlan's perceived slight aside, once Judge Gershwin got her subtle reminder, tailored specifically to his needs, out of the way, she proceeded on to more pressing matters.

"Now for those of you who are unfamiliar with courtroom procedures, the prosecution will present its case by calling their witnesses, and then the defense will have the opportunity to cross-examine the government's witnesses. And once the prosecution has completed its case, the defense will have the opportunity to call any witnesses that they might have. OK, let's begin."

Upon digesting Judge Gershwin's command to get down to business, the jurors sat up attentively in their swivel seats with their pencils held tightly in hand and their notepads at the ready. In some illusionary way, they resembled marathoners, poised at the starting gate, breathlessly waiting to begin frantically scribbling down every subtle movement they observed; every implied statement they heard uttered; and the words "let's begin" could just as well have been the gun going off to start the race.

However, as the days dragged on, many of the jurors began to show signs of wearing down, much like a long distance runner at the 20 mile mark, and more than a few of them eventually gave up on their note-taking practices; most of them came to the conclusion that they'd be better off listening intently, and maybe jotting down a note or two here or there. But there were a few notable exceptions; namely Frank Newlan and the attractive Natalie in seat number 7. Their zeal for note-taking was so obsessive that it caught the attention of the judge and the attorneys, who were duly impressed to find them scribbling down even the most innocuous of comments into their 6" X 9" notebooks. Their attention to detail was in fact so neurotic that before you knew it, they each needed a second notebook...and then a third.

On the other extreme, there were also a couple of jurors, such as the lanky Mark in seat number 4, who didn't record a single word into their notepads; remarkably, not one written observation did they enter into their journals, starting from day one, right on through to the reading of the verdict.

And although the jurors were unanimously in agreement that there wasn't one absolutely right or wrong approach to their appointed task, that didn't stop Jane and others from surreptitiously interjecting that Natalie and Newlan were going off the deep-end with their fanatical diligence...but that didn't deter the impassioned scribes in the least

"To each his own," groused Newlan when after only a few days it became clear that his doggedness was annoying many of his colleagues. He was hell-bent on transcribing every little detail right on down to the last syllable, even if it killed him, and he didn't care what anyone else thought.

But in the meantime, as Newlan fidgeted in his swivel chair, restlessly anticipated the action in the form of DA Lyons' first offensive, he took a moment to scan the courtroom, and his curious attention became instantly focused on the two clerks who were seated at the long table just below Judge Gershwin's bench.

"Those are the same two paper shufflers who were here yesterday. I wonder what they actually do," pondered Newlan as he and his colleagues sat impatiently waiting for something to happen.

Positioned directly at the center of the table was Assistant Clerk, Dan Dente. For some reason, Newlan seemed to think that Dente physically resembled DA Dan Fielding of the old TV sitcom, "Night Court" and he found the similarity rather amusing in ways that only his twisted sense of humor could appreciate.

Dente's job description included, among other things, the preparation of all court papers and documents, and the performance of any additional administrative tasks necessary to ensure that all cases moved rapidly and smoothly to a just adjudication.

Dente's job demanded years of training, and on top of that it required a thorough knowledge of legal and courtroom procedures, as well as the ability to maintain complex and accurate court records.

Dente was also required to number, stamp, and keep track of all exhibits which were submitted as evidence in the case. But from Newlan's uninformed 50,000 foot view, Dente appeared to be nothing more than an overpaid pencil-pusher.

To the right of Dente sat Court Reporter Jerry Montgomery. His job was to repeat every word that was uttered throughout the course of the trial, verbatim, for the purpose of recording a transcription of the proceedings. Montgomery accomplished this task by holding a mask-like device over his mouth for hours on end and whispering into it, as if it were some sort of covert microphone.

Montgomery's job required that he sustain an agonizingly high level of concentration for extended periods of time, without showing any reaction, which could be rather difficult; particularly when he was obliged to focus in on the boring technical details of an expert witness, pontificated in verbose manner, or even worse, when he was compelled to absorb a day's worth of emotionally draining testimony, unintelligibly whispered from the mouth of a traumatized victim of a violent crime.

And Judge Gershwin, for her part, being fully cognizant of Montgomery's challenge, frequently reminded the witnesses to speak loudly and clearly so that he could do his job. She did her best to be compassionate, but regardless of the distress level of the witnesses, their testimony needed to be audible for the sake of all involved. And furthermore, owing to the fact that Montgomery could only record one person talking at any given time, she would often admonish witnesses and attorneys alike if they talked over each other; in short, she wasn't one to allow her tightly managed courtroom to veer out of control.

As a whole, the jurors were amazed that Montgomery was able to listen carefully to the ceaseless courtroom prattle for hours on end, while simultaneously chirping into his strange device, and at the end of the day still capture every word that was spoken throughout the course of the trial without anyone ever hearing his voice.

But regardless of the mysteries surrounding Montgomery's recording equipment, there he sat with the mask cupped to his mouth, just like the jurors who stood by at the ready, pencil and paper in hand; all of them anxiously awaiting the commencement of the testimonial declarations of the first witness.

And after an extended delay that seemed to stretch on ad infinitum as far as the jurors were concerned, DA Lyons finally announced, "Your honor the prosecution calls Ms. Ann W. White to the stand."

As Lyons spoke, the wide double-door entrance into the courtroom opened up and in through the gallery wandered the witness looking very much like a child lost in the supermarket. And when Ms. White hesitated ever so slightly, she was intercepted by an elderly court officer who was also assigned to the case, and she was pointed toward the swinging half-door which separated the audience from the grandiose spotlight.

Ms. White was shaking like a leaf as she apprehensively approached the witness stand, and her nervousness was exacerbated even further when she was unexpectedly halted by Brandon at a point that was roughly adjacent to the center of the jury box.

"Please raise your right hand," requested Brandon and then court clerk Dente took over from there.

"Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help you God?"

"I do," replied Ms. White.

"Well this part seems familiar...although I notice that they don't swear on The Bible anymore," muttered Newlan as he inquisitively looked on.

Understandably, Ms. Ann W. White had a shell-shocked look etched upon her face as she took a seat in the witness box, and her head unwittingly rotated back and forth as she peered out into the crowd of people whose eyes all seemed to be focused on her, not to mention the TV cameras in the back of the room which were also pointed in her direction as well.

Most of the witnesses in the case, including some of the younger police officers, would become stricken with reactions similar to those of Ms. White, which isn't too surprising when you consider it's not every day that one is obligated to testify at a criminal trial, let alone a murder trial.

For the most part, only the veteran detectives seemed unfazed by the circus-like atmosphere that had permeated the courthouse grounds, and even they would occasionally end up stammering their responses when faced with the contentious cross-examination which was routinely administered in ferocious doses by the tenacious R. J. Gleason.

"Ms. White, for the record could you please state and spell your name and tell us what city or town you are from," requested DA Lyons in a slow monotonic cadence.

White, who was a pleasant 35 year old African American woman, cheerfully yet hesitantly responded; "Ann W. White...A-N-N...W...W-H-I-T-E...and I'm from Malden Massachusetts."

And so with that opening salvo out of the way, the inquisition began in earnest.

Lyons: "Ms. White what type of work do you do?"

White: "I work in the insurance industry."

Lyons: "And how many years have you worked in the insurance industry?"

White: "About 8 years."

Lyons: "And are you currently employed?"

White: "Yes...I work for the Commerce Insurance Company"

Lyons: "And where did you work before the Commerce Insurance Company?"

White: "The Barron Insurance Agency."

Lyons: "And where is the Barron Insurance Agency located?"'

White: "Newton Massachusetts."

Lyons: "And how long have you worked at Barron?"

White: "I no longer work at Barron."

Lyons: "Yes, sorry my mistake. Let me put it another way. Could you tell us roughly what time period, in months and years that you worked for the Barron Insurance Agency?"

White: "From about March 2005 through March 2006."

Lyons: "So roughly one year?"

White: "Yes."

Lyons went on to ask Ms. White a bundle of similar scene-setting type questions, almost to the point of ad nauseam. On and on and on she went, and what's more she would repeat the same routine, witness after witness...day after day...week after week.

However, for the remainder of our story, we will spare you, the dear reader, of all the extraneous detail which was requested of each and every witness who took the stand. Our hope is that we could give those of you who are unfamiliar with the inner workings of a criminal trial a little taste of the excruciating level of detail with which some attorneys delve into when questioning a witness. Unfortunately for our venerable jury however, they wouldn't be so lucky.

They had to listen to over 70 witnesses spell out their names, and state where they lived, where they worked, and for how long, before getting into the meat of their testimony

"If I have to put up with a full month of this minutia I'm gonna lose my mind...and we're only on the first witness. They could cut the trial in half if they left out some of this irrelevant crap," grumbled Newlan. Although, it was only a matter of time before he submitted to the sufficiency of the fact that perhaps some of the background information might be necessary, and as such he delivered the following coarsely worded addendum to himself.

"I guess maybe the attorneys do have to include every fuckin' little detail when they question a witness, just to make sure that their cases aren't appealed...or maybe DA Lyons is just being anal."

But Newlan's silent objections aside, Lyons meticulously pressed on.

"Ms. White on the morning of January 13th, 2006 do you recall what time you arrived at work?"

"I pretty much arrived at the same time everyday...around 7:45. I don't drive, so my husband gives me a ride to work every morning, and he is always punctual," explained White.

"Now do you remember anything unusual about that morning?"

"Oh yes, it was a day that I'll never forget," sadly replied White.

"Are you referring to Mr. Miller? Please tell us what happened that morning," impatiently requested Lyons.

"Well, we were getting ready for our weekly Friday morning sales meeting. It was just after 8 o'clock and normally we would wait a few minutes for any late arrivals, but on this particular morning Fred never showed up at all...and he didn't even call, which wasn't like him. After the meeting, I rang Fred's cell phone but I got no answer, so then I called the deli down the street where we'd go for breakfast and lunch just about every day...the waitresses there all knew us by name, but they hadn't seen Fred either," recounted White as her voice suddenly trailed off.

"And then what happened?" asked Lyons in a reassuring tone.

"My co-worker, Melissa Green, stopped by my office, and she mentioned that she saw Fred's car in the parking garage, so I figured that maybe he was passed out in his car, because...well...Fred liked to have a good time. Anyway, we decided to take a walk down to the garage and look for him," falteringly recollected White as all of a sudden she stood on the verge of losing her composure.

"And did you find Mr. Miller?"

"We did," replied White, and after a pause and a deep breath she continued. "We approached Fred's car and I noticed that the windows were all fogged up. Then I thought I saw blood on the ground by the driver's door, and when we looked inside I could see Fred slumped over...and....and...I knew he'd been shot."

As she recalled the scene, Ann White began to cry softly, and Billy, who seemed to be expecting as much, hustled over to her with a box of tissues in hand.

"How did you know that he had been shot?" asked an emotionless Lyons; she appeared to be utterly un-phased by Ann White's tears.

"I just knew," whimpered White as she dabbed her eyes with the tissue paper.

"Objection," shouted Gleason. And in return, Judge Gershwin, who made it a practice to mull over all but the most clear-cut objections in her mind before responding, thought about his challenge for a moment before replying; "sustained."

"I wonder what was wrong with that question?" silently thought many of the jurors; although, they hadn't seen anything yet when it came to objections.

"Let me put it another way," countered an undeterred Lyons. "When you looked into the window of Mr. Miller's car, what did you see that would make you come to the conclusion that he had been shot?"

"It was hard to see because it was dark inside the garage, and as I said the windows of Fred's car were fogged up, but there was just enough light for me to make out a roundish puncture wound on the side of his face with blood running down from it," sobbed White; her crying was becoming more and more uncontrollable by the minute, but she was helpless to stop it.

For some peculiar reason, Newlan persona wasn't fully equipped with the ability to handle the sight of people crying, and so as a result he found himself stirring uncomfortably in his swivel chair. Despite his sometimes aloof exterior, he was a big softie at heart, and he felt a lump forming in his own throat as he watched Ann White struggle to continue on with her testimony while she found herself in an obvious state of torment over the memory of Fred Miller's defiled face.

Lyons, who wasn't totally heartless, paused for a few seconds to allow White to compose herself, but then she got right back down to business.

"What did you do after you observed Mr. Miller slumped over in his car?"

"I felt as if I was going to faint and I remember leaning up against the car for support, and I started hollering to Melissa that something was wrong. At that point we ran back up to the office, crying and screaming, and we immediately rushed over to the receptionist's desk and had her call 911," proclaimed White who was now completely falling apart at the prospect of having to relive the frightening scene.

"Ms. White did any law enforcement officials interview you that day?"

"Yes, and I told them what I just told you," sniffled White.

"And did they ask you any other questions?"

"They asked me if Fred was dating anyone, and I told them that he recently mentioned someone he had been seeing lately, but that I had never met her."

"And did you give the police the name of the person Fred was dating?"

"Yes...Tracy Breslin," mumbled White as a slight gasp arose from the audience.

"No further questions you honor," announced Lyons.

"I think this would be a good time to break for lunch," decided Judge Gershwin, followed by what for the jurors would rapidly become the familiar chant of "all rise" delivered in Billy's distinct Boston accent.

As Lyons headed towards the DA's table, Newlan could have sworn that he detected the slightest hint of a crinkled smile chiseled on her face, as if to signify that she had won round one. But of course...R.J. Gleason...had other ideas.

### Chapter 24 – First Impressions

Thursday afternoon June 5, 2008 – 1:15 PM

The aroma from a tray of sandwiches awaited the famished jurors as they entered the deliberation room with food on their minds. Each sandwich was stored in a carry-out paper bag which was marked with a juror's seat number on it, and Dan, the wheelchair-bound juror in seat number 16, took the initiative of passing out the meals. One by one, the sub-shaped bags made their way around the room until all of the lunch orders had been delivered to the appropriate juror, and they proceeded to dig into their grub, lost in thought.

Newlan meagerly picked at his steak-and-cheese, but after a few feeble bites, he wrapped the sandwich back up and discretely placed it into the plastic grocery bag which currently contained his Rolling Stone magazines. Apparently however, he wasn't discrete enough because, Yong, the pretty Korean juror with the Asian accent in seat number 3, happened to notice that he had hardly touched his lunch, and furthermore, she was concerned.

"No hungry?" she asked.

"Lost my appetite for some reason...and I figured no sense letting a perfectly good sandwich go to waste so I'm gonna bring it home for dinner," explained a subdued Newlan. And for her part, the perceptive Yong, who had digested the fact that he was down-in-the-dumps as easily as she had digested her meal, attempted to snap him out of his doldrums with a pep-talk.

"You have to eat. We need our strength. You can let this bad stuff bother you," she urged.

On the flipside, Ann W. White's emotional testimony regarding finding Fred Miller dead in his car didn't seem to hinder any of the other jurors' appetites. But what the rest of them didn't know was that Newlan was stilling reeling over the knowledge of just how close he had come to being dismissed from the jury, and his melancholy appeared to have gotten the better of him.

While the rest of the jurors quietly concentrated on their lunches, Newlan buried his head in a magazine, although he wasn't getting much reading done. But regardless of his attention deficit issues, shortly after devouring their sandwiches, the jurors began chatting amicably about nothing in particular, and, not wanting to come across as anti-social, he looked up from his magazine and casually listened in on the scattered conversations.

Eventually Newlan and the youngster Mark, who was seated next to him in the deliberation room, began discussing the details of their jobs in the high tech field, and as it turned out, they had a mutual acquaintance; a former co-worker of Newlan's who had left Tafts University a couple of years ago for greener pastures was now working at Mark's company.

"What a small world it is sometimes," exclaimed an eavesdropping Annie, the elderly juror in seat number 13. She was doing everything in her power to keep her mind off of the nicotine cravings that were threatening to overwhelm her...and although she was able to maintain her composure for the time being, she was still dying for a cigarette.

As luck would have it, just as Annie's dilemma was about to reach its apex, Brandon came sauntering into the room with a toothbrush in hand, looking to use the facilities, and she perked right up at the sight of him.

"Can we go out?" asked Annie with a wrinkled pout outlining her face. And even though Brandon was in no mood to be leading an outdoor excursion, he dutifully replied; "Gimme a few minutes and I'll see what I can do. Oh, and by the way, is anyone using the bathroom?"

In the end it was Billy who guided Annie, along with a handful of her colleagues, down to the restricted, rooftop level of the garage, on the fourth floor, where the jurors parked their cars.

One of Billy's many job duties was to keep an eye on the jurors, and if any issues arose, he was to inform Judge Gershwin immediately. And so, in that regard, as he escorted the group back upstairs, he was focused on his responsibilities, while at the same time he thought to himself; "all in all, not a bad bunch of people once we got past the cell phone fiasco...and at least they seem to be getting along so far...the key operative being 'so far'."

"Be ready to go in ten minute," announced Billy as he dropped the jurors off back at their deliberation room, and sure enough, like clockwork, within ten minutes, there they were, being marched back into the courtroom.

The afternoon session began with Ms. Ann W. White still on the witness stand, patiently waiting to be cross-examined by Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason. And like DA Lyons before him, Gleason possessed his own little quirks when it came to interrogating a witness, such as introducing himself to each and every one of them in a calm and pleasant tone.

"Good afternoon Ms. White. My name is R.J. Gleason and I represent Mr. Breslin."

After a day or so, Newlan honed in on the fact that Gleason never referred to Breslin as the defendant during his introductions. And even though Gleason's choice of introductions shouldn't have been too surprising, since the word "defendant" had the potential to connote a subconscious negative impression, the amateur psychologist in Newlan found it interesting nonetheless.

"Smart move but also probably defense attorney 101 tactics," thought Newlan as he settled in for Gleason's cross. And as it turned out, he wasn't the only juror who picked up on Gleason's routine, albeit for entirely different reasons. After a few days of testimony, some of the jurors grew tired of the way in which he presented himself to each witness, with Jim going so far as threatening; "I swear, if Gleason introduces himself one more time, I think I'm gonna scream...we already know who he is for Christ's sake."

Newlan, on the other hand, countered that Gleason wasn't introducing himself for the jurors benefit, and he considered it polite of him to put the witnesses at ease with a formal introduction.

But introductions or no introductions, Gleason was a wily trial lawyer, and he purposely began with a few harmless questions for Ms. White regarding the appropriate usage of the garage, which was situated next to the office building at 435 Commonwealth Ave in Newton, where Fred Miller was employed.

Gleason curiously wondered whether the garage was open to both customers and employees alike, and Ms. White responded by stating that there were no assigned parking spaces in the garage and that anyone could park there. In fact, she stated that there were usually a few early morning customers parked in the garage just about every day of the week, visiting one of the many businesses in the area.

Gleason then changed direction on a dime and asked; "Ms. White, based on your testimony this morning, it appears that you stopped working at the Barron Insurance Agency shortly after the murder of Fred Miller...so would it be fair to say that you left the company _because_ of the murder?"

"Well, I was looking for a new job closer to home at the time anyway, but I started having nightmares after the murder, so I went to see a psychiatrist and he strongly recommended that I changed jobs. So yes, I guess it would be fair to say that the murder was one of the reasons I left Barron," agreed White who seemed to have regained her composure after her breakdown earlier in the day.

Gleason then understatedly asked; "Ms. White, after you observed Mr. Miller's body, you say you slumped up against the side of his car, is that correct?"

"Yes, I was very upset," curtly replied White. She had apparently become instantly suspicious as a result of Gleason's current line of questioning and it showed in the tone of her voice.

"Very understandable," retorted Gleason in a solemn voice as he subtly added, "Ms. White do you remember whether your hands touched the car?"

"My hands? I don't understand," answered White as a puzzled look formed on her face.

"You stated that you leaned against Mr. Miller's car for support because you thought you were going to faint. When you did so, do you recall whether you braced yourself with your hands?" clarified Gleason while at the same time simulating a stance he supposed White may have assumed. He was hoping that this more specific question, along with his rudimentary pantomime, would get the response he was looking for, and his efforts were duly rewarded.

"Oh yes, I believe that my left hand was pressed up against the top of the front windshield and my right hand was resting on the roof of the car," explained White.

"Do you remember whether you were wearing gloves?" added Gleason.

"No I wasn't. Since Melissa and I were already in the office, and I figured that we were just going down to the garage for a minute or so, I didn't bother putting on my gloves," replied White.

"I see," murmured Gleason, and then he politely asked for a time-out.

"Would you excuse me for a second your honor?" requested Gleason, and Judge Gershwin just as politely replied, "of course."

"This is going well. Interesting that Ms. White's palms were all over Miller's car and yet the crime scene personnel only found one unidentified fingerprint smear on the entire windshield," pondered Gleason as he jotted down a few notes regarding White's testimony so that he wouldn't forget to ask the detectives about it later.

Then without missing a beat, Gleason shifted gears again, and out of the blue he asked; "Ms. White, what exactly did you mean when you stated that Fred liked to have a good time?"

"Objection," boomed out DA Lyons, highlighted by her ever-present scowl which was well pronounced and frozen to her face at the moment.

"Sustained," replied Judge Gershwin without giving the matter a second thought.

"Your honor may we approach?" courteously inquired Gleason.

"Yes, of course," once again replied Judge Gershwin, but this time she seemed to be wearing a frown on her face which our ever-observant correspondent Frank Newlan picked up on.

"I thought she was supposed to be impartial," muttered Newlan to himself, but loud enough for some of his fellow jurors to overhear.

Newlan's nemesis Jane, who was seated in front of him and slightly to his right in seat number 15, immediately turned around and shot him a dirty look as if to say, "be quiet."

Similarly, Newlan's self-proclaimed "Ice Princess", Natalie, who by virtue of being seated directly to his right was able to detect any comment he made no matter how softly murmured, also delivered him a look-to-kill as well.

Conversely however, Newlan ignored the both of them and he grumpily thought to himself, "Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke."

But despite his cavalier attitude, Newlan was sensing what he perceived to be preferential treatment by Judge Gershwin towards DA Lyons, and he didn't care for it. Accordingly, his frustrations would build up over the course of the trial as he observed that most of Lyons' objections were sustained, while on the other hand, most of Gleason's objections were overruled.

"Fine, I'm sure that between the judge and the DA they know the rules of law a heck of a lot better than I do...but human nature being what it is they better not blame me if I end up developing a soft spot for Gleason and Breslin. I'll do my best to remain impartial, but if it's not a fair fight then they better not bitch if I decide to vote not guilty," stubbornly evinced Newlan as his affinity for the underdog kicked in; an affinity, we might add, that was not shared by the majority of his fellow jurors.

And while Newlan silently ranted, the attorneys became engaged in a heated but whispered discussion at the sidebar area of the bench, with Judge Gershwin serving as the referee. However, after enduring repeatedly failed attempts at mediation, attempts which were highlighted by the increasingly flared tempers of both lawyers, the wise judge abruptly called for "a quick ten minute recess".

"All rise," exclaimed Billy...and out the door went the jurors. And although the debate in the courtroom may have continued to rage on without them, back in the deliberation room they too were buzzing away non-stop. However, in their case, the uproar pertained to the unexpected respite that they had just received courtesy of the feuding attorneys.

"We were only out there for fifteen minutes and already we get another break," exclaimed Peter, the absentminded juror in seat number 12 who had the unfortunate cell phone incident earlier in the day.

The ten minute intermission stretched out to almost a half hour, and when the jurors finally did return to the courtroom, Judge Gershwin had an explanation waiting in the ready for them.

"Ladies and gentlemen, at the end of every trial I make it a point to have an exit interview with the jurors, and they always ask, 'why do you have so many sidebars? It seems as if you're telling secrets.' Well I can assure that we are not telling secrets. As I mentioned previously, I am as unfamiliar with this case as you are, so from time to time the attorneys will be briefing me on specific details which they want me to be aware of. At times we may also be discussing legal procedures, or the admissibility of certain witness statements. In conclusion however, I want to make it clear that you should not be offended in any way by our sidebar discussions. In fact, feel free to use the time to get up and stretch your legs."

"I'm not buying it. They were arguing," muttered Newlan followed by the obligatory dirty looks simultaneously coming from Jane and Natalie's direction.

In any event, no sooner had Judge Gershwin dispensed of the requisite juror propaganda when Gleason jumped back up to his feet and resumed his interrogation of Ms. Ann W. White as if the sidebar had never happened.

"Now Ms. White before lunch you stated that Fred Miller liked to have a good time, is that correct?"

"Yes, but I didn't mean it in a negative way. Fred was just a happy-go-lucky person who liked to party and enjoy life to the fullest," stuttered White who appeared to be having a difficult time clarifying what she meant by her earlier comments.

"Ms. White you also stated that you suspected Fred Miller might have been passed out in his car, isn't that correct?"

"Yes, that's correct," replied a now ashen-faced White.

"And are we to understand that you didn't mean this statement in a negative way either?" continued Gleason.

"I absolutely meant it in a positive way," contended White, but at this point she sounded rather unconvincing.

"So you think that being passed out in a car at 8 o'clock in the morning when you should be at work attending a sales meeting is somehow a positive attribute?" retaliated Gleason in a suddenly forceful tone.

"Well I meant it in a positive way," insisted White as she shook her head in disbelief.

"And what exactly did you think it was that would have caused Mr. Miller to be passed out in his car at 8 o'clock in the morning?" demanded Gleason, ignoring the obvious fact that the ill-fated victim was already deceased by that time.

"Objection," wailed DA Lyons.

"Sustained," replied Judge Gershwin, once again almost immediately.

"No further questions," announced Gleason, and as he retreated back to the defense table, he was the one who was now in possession of the smiling face, while at the DA's table, although it didn't seem humanly possible to Newlan, DA Lyons' scowl was more pronounced than ever.

"I get it," deduced Newlan, "even though the objection was sustained, Gleason still made his point...and by the end of the trial we aren't gonna remember which comments were admissible and which ones weren't."

And as if to prove his own point, Newlan wrote into his note pad:

The defense succeeded in its attempt to infer that Ms. White's reference to Fred Miller being passed out in his car had something to do with him being hung over.

"Sounds like this Miller cat liked to party...not that there's anything wrong with it. Been there, done that," mumbled Newlan while at the same time he added more fodder to his notes.

This could help to prove that someone else, maybe a drug dealer, maybe some other jealous husband or boyfriend, who knows, might have been out to get Miller as well.

Meanwhile, the astute Judge Gershwin appeared to be reading Newlan's mind, and she was already one step ahead of him as she turned towards the jurors with another clarification at the ready.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I remind you that when an objection is sustained, you are to disregard the question and any answer that may have been given. And with that, let's take another short break, and when we come back we'll continue with testimony until around 4:30."

Gleason had no reason not expect Ms. Ann W. White to be anything other than a routine witness, but when she unexpectedly speculated that Fred Miller might be passed out in his car, he pounced on the opportunity to make Miller look bad, which was going to be at the heart of his strategy anyway, and poor Ms. White turned out to be an unwitting accomplice in his efforts.

When Gleason returned to the defense table he leaned over towards Breslin and whispered, "That was too easy. Ms. White served us up a free meal on a silver platter...and from there it was like taking candy from a baby."

And furthermore, if R. J. Gleason had only known how his unspoken insinuations had worked their magic on the impressionable Frank Newlan, he would have been even happier...than he already was.

### Chapter 25 – No Signs of Life

Thursday afternoon June 5, 2008 – 2:00 PM

As the jurors settled back into the deliberation room for afternoon break, Jane angrily blurted out, "I can't believe this. We're only on the first witness and Gleason's already starting with the character assassination crap. The poor guy's dead. Let him rest in peace for God's sake. Whether he liked to party or not should have nothing to do with the fact that Breslin was out to get him."

For his part, Newlan absolutely agreed with portions of Jane's assessment, although he was still itching to rebut the accusatory section of her commentary just the same. But to his credit, he wisely decided to bite his tongue this time. However, Stan, the affable juror in seat number 14 took the bait and replied, "Well it's not Gleason's fault that the witness mentioned that Miller might be passed out in his car. What the hell was she thinking?"

Of course, even though Newlan was trying like the devil to avoid getting into any arguments, remaining totally silent was seemingly beyond his grasp, and on top of that, he figured that a gentle reminder might be appropriate anyway.

"Um...we're not supposed to be talking about the case...remember?"

"Oh yeah," replied Jane with a dismissive look and a roll of her eyes, which clearly stated her inner thoughts of "don't bother me with these minor details."

It seemed to Newlan that Jane was already taking sides against Breslin...and he didn't like it one bit.

"Jeez...I'd hate to be on trial for a serious crime and have my life in her hands," imagined Newlan. His own plan was to reserve judgment until the very end. But he had to admit that even he wasn't too comfortable with what was a common defense practice of putting the victim on trial.

"Maybe this Miller dude had some issues...so what...that doesn't mean he deserved to be murdered," silently surmised Newlan. "But on the other hand, if Gleason thinks that certain character issues from Miller's past might raise a reasonable doubt, then I don't blame him for using whatever means possible to help his client. I know we can't lose sight of the fact that one guy's dead already, but another man's life is also at stake here, so I'm gonna make sure that I do the right thing, regardless of what Jane the Pain thinks."

"Hey, I think I got a new nickname for the latest bane of my existence...Jane the Pain...kinda has a nice ring to it," established Newlan as he chuckled to himself.

"Is it me, or was it freezing in that courtroom?" wondered Annie in an attempt to change the subject...and the mood.

"Yes, it _is_ cold in there, and my seat is extremely uncomfortable as well. I'm going to have to bring in a sweater and a pillow tomorrow. Otherwise between the frigid temperature and the rigid chair, my back will never last a month," grumbled the motherly Patty who occupied seat number 5 in the jury box but number one in Newlan's heart.

"It's tough getting old," silently acknowledged Newlan, while at the same time he and the rest of his colleagues were being served up an earful of grievances, courtesy of the two elderly jurors, who were complaining like the old ladies that they were, for the remainder of their break.

Newlan, who was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, actually favored keeping the courtroom as icy-cold as possible. "It helps to keep us awake," reckoned Newlan, and contrary to what Patty had claimed, he also found the jurors' padded swivel seats to be very comfortable.

And speaking of seats, when the jurors returned to the courtroom, Newlan heedfully discerned that his swivel chair was angled noticeably towards the witness stand, while all the other seats in the jury box were pointed straight out towards the center of the courtroom.

Newlan's headstrong knack for taking the unconventional route when it came to coping with life's problems had become almost second nature to him over the years, but this wasn't always the case, especially when he was a youngster just trying to fit in with the crowd. However, in this instance, he took pride in being different. It was only day one of the trial, but he was steadfast in his plan to never look beyond the divider that separated the jurors from the gallery, and he wasn't the least bit interested in anyone else's opinion on the matter.

But idiosyncrasies aside, by this point in the gruelingly long day, all Newlan _really_ cared about was getting the hell out of there so that he could just go home and relax; a rare sentiment which, unlike most of his opinions, was unanimously shared by his fellow jurors as well.

Since this was but the first day of testimony, most of the jurors weren't yet accustomed to the exhausting routine of being marched in and out of the courtroom like prisoners in chain gang. When you included breaks, lunch, and all of the other times they were asked to leave the courtroom due to some sort of legal wrangling, they would end up making an average of at least 7 to 10 trips back and forth from the juror room each day, which left them running very low on energy by late afternoon. But somehow they managed to hang in there. And while the routine may have been arduous, a wide range of extremely important testimony was about to be introduced right out of the gate, so it was crucial that they keep their wits about them.

DA Lyons' next witness was the aforementioned Melissa Green who, as we heard during Ann W. White's testimony, also worked for the Barron Insurance Agency, and along with Ms. White stumbled upon Fred Miller's battered body on that haunted Friday the13th two and a half years ago.

Before Lyons began interviewing Ms. Green, she produced a large cardboard drawing, which, she explained, depicted the garage as it might have been viewed from up above.

"Imagine the ceiling being peeled away like a can of tuna fish," expounded Lyons for the jurors benefit. And as various witnesses testified to the fact that they had parked in the garage on the day of the murder, she took a moment to jot down the pertinent information in the appropriate parking space on the drawing; basic yet critical information such as the name of the person, the model/year of their car, and their arrival time.

Lyons planned to use this visual aid to build a timeline which would assist the jurors in determining approximately when Fred Miller arrived at work, when he was murdered, and when his body was discovered.

"Your honor, I'd like to have this drawing marked for identification," politely requested Lyons.

"No objections your honor," added Gleason, and with the request going unopposed, Judge Gershwin turned towards the jury as she affably explained; "ladies and gentlemen, an item which is marked for identification will only be used to help us to visualize a witness's testimony, whereas an item which is marked as an exhibit will be available for you to review during your deliberations."

"Glad we straighten that out," muttered Newlan who was getting crankier by the minute.

Lyons then handed the garage drawing over to Assistant Clerk, Dan Dente, who in turn announced, "Drawing of the garage marked for identification."

With his stamp of approval in place, Dente returned the drawing back to Lyons who placed it on a pedestal to the right of the witness stand where it was visible throughout the courtroom. The scaled-down diagram, in part, looked something like this, and at the outset, it only included Fred Miller's parking spot, pre-printed onto the cardboard (and as mentioned previously, DA Lyons' plan was to add more details to the drawing as she went along):

For the most part, Melissa Green's testimony corroborated what Ann White had already stated, and her exchange with DA Lyons was largely uneventful, except for the fact the she too began to cry when she described finding Fred Miller slumped over in his car.

Green testified that she arrived to work at around 8:00 AM on the morning of January 13th, 2006 and parked to the left of Miller's car. But she also made it perfectly clear that she wasn't aware of anything in the garage being the least bit amiss as she got out of her car and walked towards the nearby office building.

DA Lyons went on to display a photo for Ms. Green's viewing pleasure, depicting the rear end of her car, with the license plate clearly visible, and she asked her to identify the picture; a request which of course she complied with undisputedly. Lyons apprised the jurors that the photo was taken by one of the detectives on the day of the murder, and she requested that it be entered as an exhibit; she would follow the same routine for every witness who testified that they had a car parked in the garage on the fateful day that Fred Miller was murdered.

Other than that, Lyons had no further questions for Melissa Green.

However, Gleason picked up on what he thought was an important point in Green's testimony and he pounced on the unsuspecting witness.

"Ms. Green is it possible that Fred Miller wasn't in his car when you arrived to work on the morning of January 13th, 2006?"

"I don't know for sure. All I know is that I didn't notice, one way or the other, whether he was in the car," replied Green with a shrug. But Gleason pressed on.

"Ms. Green when you pull into a parking spot next to a car which you recognize to be that of a co-worker, wouldn't you notice whether or not that co-worker was in their car?"

"What can I say, it was dark in the garage, and maybe I was distracted," replied Green rather rudely.

Green wasn't sure what Gleason had up his sleeve, but she wasn't planning on playing along with this bastard lawyer who, in her mind, was trying to get the guy who killed her friend out of jail by making her look bad.

"Your honor I request that you instruct the witness on how to answer questions under cross-examination," demanded Gleason.

Judge Gershwin appeared to be a bit put off by Gleason request, but nonetheless she turned toward the witness stand and patiently explained the rules of cross-examination to Melissa Green.

"Ms. Green when a witness such as yourself is questioned under direct examination, you may give descriptive answers, whereas when you are questioned under cross-examination, and the question can be reasonably answered with a 'yes' or 'no' response, then you must answer accordingly. If you feel that you cannot reasonably answer the question with a 'yes' or 'no' response, then you should say that you cannot fairly answer the question. Is that understood Ms. Green?"

"Yes your honor," replied Green in a tone that was reminiscent of a schoolgirl who was being lectured to by the principal.

"I side with Green on that one," reasoned Newlan, "how the hell was she supposed to know those rules?"

But while Newlan was silently ruling in Ms. Green's favor, Gleason was going right back on the attack.

"Again Ms. Green I repeat, when you pull into your workplace parking lot, next to a car which you recognize to be that of a co-worker, isn't it fair to assume that you'd notice whether or not your co-worker was in the car?"

"I cannot fairly answer that question," replied a now defiant Melissa Green.

"Well let me put it another way. You testified that you didn't see Mr. Miller in his car when you got to work at around 8:00 AM on the morning of January 13th, 2006, so isn't it possible, Ms. Green, that he in fact wasn't in his car?"

"I suppose it's possible," Green finally conceded.

"And Ms. Green did you notice whether a car was parked on the other side of the garage, directly opposite from where Mr. Miller's car was parked?"

"No sir, I really didn't notice one way or another," unenthusiastically replied Green.

"No further questions your honor," declared Gleason, and as he sat down at the defense table, he whispered to Breslin, "so far, so good."

"Wow, this guy is something else. On the one side we have DA Lyons who was obviously going to try and set up the timeline of events with her fancy drawing. But then here comes Gleason, swooping in, and he's already poking holes in the government's theory like a bird of prey clawing into a rat," mumbled Newlan to himself as if he were announcing a basketball game.

The next witness, Ms. Marta Coffman, worked as a receptionist for Newton Chiropractic Associates whose offices were also located at 435 Commonwealth Ave.

Coffman testified that she arrived to work just after 8 AM on January 13th, 2006, and that she parked in her usual spot in the garage. She stated that she didn't notice anything out of the ordinary, but she also went out of her way to make it clear that it was very dark within the bowels of the garage.

Coffman went on to recount how she had heard a commotion coming from the offices of the Barron Insurance Agency at around 9 AM, but that she was too busy to investigate what was going on, and she didn't realize the magnitude of the situation until the police interviewed her later that same day.

There didn't seem to be much Gleason could get out of Coffman under cross-examination, but he had read her police report, and so he decided to take a crack at her anyway.

"Ms. Coffman isn't it true that you complained on numerous occasions about the lack of lighting in the garage?"

"Yes and no one ever listened to me...until after the murder that is. Then the building owners finally decided to install new lighting. Too little, too late, if you ask me," groused Coffman.

'Interesting...it was still kind of dark inside that garage when we visited there yesterday. Even after a murder, the cheapo owners still didn't spring for decent lighting," concluded Newlan, while at the same time Gleason had no more questions for Ms. Coffman, so it was the prosecution's turn at bat again.

"Your honor the government calls Mr. Steve Barron," announced Lyons as the 65 year old owner of the Barron Insurance Agency walked somewhat unsteadily towards the witness stand.

Unbeknownst to anyone in the courtroom, Mr. Barron had had a couple of shots of bourbon at lunch to assist him in calming his nerves, but unfortunately for him, his solution didn't seem to be working, and if anything, the liquor only served to make him even more jittery than he already was.

Based on Barron's fancy designer suit, It was apparent to Newlan that he was probably a man of wealth, and this was confirmed when he appeared to come across as a braggart while proudly name-checking his BMW during Lyons' direct examination.

As a result of DA Lyons' prodding, the jurors learned that when Steve Barron arrived to work at 7:30 AM on the morning of January 13th, 2006 and parked in his usual spot near the front of the garage, Fred Miller's car was nowhere to be found under the covered parking lot.

As a matter of fact, there was only one other car in the garage when Barron arrived to work on that foreboding morning, and he recognized the vehicle as belonging to one of his employees, Ms. Sandra Short.

Lyons handed Barron a long wooden pointer and asked; "Mr. Barron, to the best of your recollection, could you point out in this drawing of the garage, where your car was parked and where Ms. Short's car was parked."

"Who the hell cares what spot he parked in so why bother having him point it out," complained Newlan to himself. He was becoming frustrated by the slow pace of Lyons' questions, and on top of that, her comportment was beginning to irritate him again.

But regardless of Newlan's silent griping, Lyons methodically moved on to the next phase of her interview.

"Mr. Barron did something happen at around 8:30 AM on the morning of January 13th, 2006?"

"Yes, I was in my office preparing for a meeting, but suddenly I thought I heard someone screaming by the receptionist's desk, so I went over to find out what the problem was...and that's when I saw that two of my employees were crying hysterically and bemoaning the fact that something was terribly wrong with another one of my employees, Fred Miller. So at that point, I got out my emergency kit and I directed the receptionist to call 911. I then asked another one of the office managers, Norman Michaels, to take a walk down to the garage with me. Mr. Michaels was very concerned that there might be someone in the garage with a gun, but when we didn't spot anyone lingering around the general vicinity of Fred's car, we cautiously approached. The first thing we noticed was that the windows of the vehicle were extremely dirty or foggy, but as we got closer, we were able to detect that Fred was inside the car, slumped over in the driver's seat. Fred was motionless and bleeding from his mouth and left cheek, so I opened the door and shook him by the shoulder, and I asked him if he was OK, but there was no response...no signs of life," explained Barron who was also beginning to get choked up.

"I can see that this is gonna be one big crying party," complained a beleaguered Newlan, although if truth be told, at times he was having trouble keeping his own emotions in check.

"Mr. Barron at that point what did you do?" continued Lyons.

"I backed off, and by then, Dr. Barnett, who has a dental practice in our building, had arrived with a defibrillator, and a few other people began milling about the car. Dr. Barnett asked everyone to stand back and not to touch anything. She proceeded to check Fred's pulse, and then she turned to me and said, 'Steve, this man is dead'," recalled Barron. He had momentarily recomposed himself, but in the blink of an eye he began welling up again while he was still in the process of relaying Dr. Barnett's assessment of Fred Miller's condition to the jurors.

"Objection," shouted out Gleason, and Judge Gershwin thought about it for a moment before submitting a reply.

"She may have it," came back the response from the honorable judge; a response which Newlan found to be curiously off kilter.

"She may have it...that's not your usual courtroom phrase...I never heard that one on Court TV before. Why didn't she just say overruled? And why the hell did Gleason object in the first place?" wondered the sarcastic Newlan before attempting to answer his own question.

"Hmmm, maybe he objected because a dentist was pronouncing a guy dead at the scene of a murder when she should have been checking out his dental records...who the hell knows?"

And like Ms. Coffman before him, Barron went on to discuss the lighting, or lack thereof, in the garage

Lyons then prompted Barron as to whether he was aware of any personal problems in Fred Miller's life, and he simply answered, "No."

At that point in the proceedings, Lyons presented Barron with a side-angle photo of Fred Miller slumped over in his car with the driver's door open, and she asked him if he recognized the snapshot. And when he said "yes", she asked that the picture be marked as the next exhibit.

The shot wasn't a close-up, so it was hard to tell whether it was a picture of someone who was sleeping or someone who was dead, but Lyons would gradually introduce photos which were more and more graphic, with each one being gorier than the last, until she got the reaction that she was looking for.

Lyons then turned it over to Gleason who didn't have too many questions for Mr. Barron, but the questions that he did ask, hit home with Newlan, and he wondered whether any of the other jurors were following where Gleason was going with his line of questioning.

"I sure hope they do...otherwise our deliberations are going to get real interesting," predicted Newlan who was getting a little bit ahead of himself, seeing as how they had a long way to go before they could even begin to think about deliberations.

"Mr. Barron you testified that there was only one other car in the garage when you arrived to work on the date in question, isn't that right?" asked Gleason.

"Yes sir," replied Barron.

"And do you remember whether the other car was a red car?"

"No it was not," answered Barron.

Gleason already knew that the car belonged to one of Mr. Barron's employee, and that it wasn't red, but his goal was to put into the minds of the jurors the fact that the government couldn't prove exactly when this mysterious red car arrived onto the scene; or for that matter when it left the scene.

"Now Mr. Barron you also testified that you opened the door of Mr. Miller's car...isn't that correct?"

"Yes... well I had to open the door to be able to check on him," explained Barron.

"Fair enough," replied Gleason in an understanding tone and he then added, "and Mr. Barron did you touch any other parts of the car?"

After a long pause Mr. Barron replied, "Yes, at one point I went over to the passenger side of Mr. Miller's car and I opened up that door as well."

"Did you open the passenger door for any specific reason?"

"No...looking back on it now, I'm not really sure why I opened the passenger door. I guess I was just confused and scared, and I wasn't thinking straight," tearfully whispered Barron.

"Please Mr. Barron, you need to speak up so that the court reporter can record your testimony," requested Judge Gershwin in a cold tone. It was as if she had been hardened by years of dealing with crying witnesses, which was in sharp contrast to the revered way in which she typically treated her jurors.

Gleason wasn't as harsh with Barron as Judge Gershwin was, and he tried to reassure him that he had done nothing wrong.

"That's an understandable reaction Mr. Barron."

However, in his own mind Gleason was gleefully thinking, "Wait until I get a hold of that fingerprint expert." But before he lost his focus, he reminded himself that he still needed to do a bit more follow-up work with Mr. Barron.

Gleason paused to allow Barron to compose himself again, before asking; "Mr. Barron were you wearing gloves when you went down to the garage to check on Mr. Miller?"

"No sir...although the emergency kit that I brought down to the garage had a pair of Anthrax gloves in it, in the confusion I forgot to put them on."

"Very well Mr. Barron, I just have one final question. Do you have any idea why Mr. Michaels thought that there might be someone with a gun in the garage?"

"Come to think of it...I have no idea," replied Barron with a confused look etched upon his face.

"No further questions your honor," announced Gleason, and as he returned to the defense table, there was an unmistakable bounce in his step.

"That last question sounded like a left jab setting up a right cross," muttered Newlan, using an old boxing analogy, which Jane and Natalie apparently didn't find amusing, judging by the dirty looks that they once again leveled in his direction.

Next on the stand was Ms. Kathy Boyd, a spunky 42 years old mother of two who was yet another employee of the Barron Insurance Agency.

According to her testimony, Boyd arrived at work and parked in the garage sometime between 7:35 and 7:40 on the morning of January 13th, 2006.

Boyd stated that she recognized Sandra Short and Steve Barron's vehicles already parked in the garage, and that she also noticed an unfamiliar red car, parked backend in, about half way down on the left hand side of the garage.

"Ms. Boyd could you point out to us in this drawing of the garage, where you were parked," requested Lyons, and Boyd aimed a finger at a parking spot which was located near the front of the garage.

"And where was the red car parked in conjunction to your car?" wondered Lyons.

And while Boyd immediately pointed to the parking spot opposite Fred Miller's car, Lyons conveniently produced a red magic-marker and neatly printed the words "red car" onto the diagram, as if she were putting the finishing touching on a masterpiece painting.

"This particular garage has no reserved spots, and parking is strictly first come first serve, isn't that correct Ms. Boyd?" continued Lyons.

"Yes, besides the two handicapped spots, one on either side of the garage, all the other parking spaces are open to anyone."

"And is there a specific reason why you parked in the front of the garage?"

"Well yes, mainly because it is closer to the exit, and being closer to the street, the lighting is better. You see, the back of the garage is very dark in some spots, especially at night when we're leaving work," explained Boyd.

Lyons then got down to the critical section of Boyd's testimony.

"Ms. Boyd, do you remember anything about the red car?"

"Yes, I remember that it was a maroon-colored, mid 90's model Mercury or Ford which appeared to have a number of scratches on the front bumper, or possibly it could have been that the paint was peeling. I think it may have been a Ford Taurus. You see, I recognized the details of the car because at one time I myself once owned a 1995 Ford Taurus," disclosed Boyd.

"Holy crap! She could almost be describing my car, right down to the make and color and year...and even the scratched paint on the bumper. I better come up with an alibi for January 13th, 2006 just in case," wryly presumed Newlan (as we might remember, Newlan drove a red 1995 Mercury Mystique 4 door sedan that had a dinged-up front bumper).

Newlan then nodded his head from side-to-side and whispered to himself, "Man, you can't make this shit up."

Of course, Newlan's ownership of a red car meant nothing to Lyons as she pressed Boyd for more details.

"Now did something happen when you got up to your office that morning, Ms. Boyd?"

"Yes, I was reviewing my emails and enjoying a cup of coffee when I heard a loud bang. I wasn't sure what caused the noise, but I thought that the sound might have come from the garage."

"And then what did you do?"

"Our office is on the fourth floor, so I went over and took a peek out the window which looks down on the garage...but I didn't notice anything unusual, and since we're on a busy street, I really didn't think anything of it. And so I went back to my desk and I didn't give it another thought," acknowledged Boyd.

"About what time did this occur?" asked Lyons to which Boyd replied "I'd have to say around 7:50, maybe 7:55 AM."

Lyons then produced a handful of photographs which depicted the view of the garage from Boyd's office and she introduced them as exhibits.

But as far as Newlan was concerned, all the photographs proved was that the inside of the garage wasn't visible from the vantage point of Boyd's office, and so he wasn't sure why Lyons was making such a big deal over something that really didn't help her case.

"And did something else happen a bit later that same day?" continued Lyons, oblivious to Newlan's unspoken critique.

"Yes, at around nine thirty or so, I heard that there was some sort of incident in the garage involving one of my co-workers, Fred Miller, so I decided to take a walk down to the garage to see what was going on. But by the time I got outside, there were a couple of police officers blocking the entrance to the garage, and they politely instructed us to go back up to our offices," recalled Boyd.

"Did the police interview you that day?"

"Yes...a Newton Police detective came up to our office that morning and took us aside and asked us all a few general questions, and he told us that there would be detectives from both the Newton and State police homicide units coming up to talk to us."

"And did the homicide detectives talk to you?"

"Yes, two detectives stopped by the office later that afternoon and they paired off and took each of us, one by one, into separate conference rooms. For the most part, the detective I spoke with asked the same questions that the Newton Police had asked us earlier in the day, but she also delved into greater detail regarding some of my answers."

"And were you able to provide the detective with any information?"

"Yes, I told her about the loud bang, and then just as the two detectives were leaving I again recalled the unfamiliar red car that was parked in the garage, so they took me back into the conference room and I told them all about the red car as well. Also, one of my job duties is to service and maintain all of the computers in our office, and I was asked to help remove Fred's computer for the detectives...which of course I gladly did."

"Thank you Ms. Boyd...no further questions," intoned Lyons. She was cautiously optimist that Boyd's testimony went over well with the jurors. But meanwhile, Gleason was chopping at the bit to get at the witness.

"Ms. Boyd didn't you tell the police that you thought the loud banging sound you heard may have been a car backfiring?"

"Well I wasn't sure what it was, and I was just trying to come up with some sort of possible explanation," acknowledged Boyd, and after a few more basic questions intended to get the witness to lower her guard, Gleason moved on to the red car.

"Ms. Boyd isn't it common for visitors to park in the garage?"

"Yes, of course," cautiously replied Boyd who appeared to be intimidated and suspicious of Gleason right from the outset.

"And isn't it fair to say that unfamiliar cars are often parked in the garage?" assumed Gleason, and Boyd responded with muted agreement.

"And isn't it also fair to say that you wouldn't have noticed the details of every unfamiliar car that ever parked in the garage?" continued Gleason, and based on Ms. Boyd's facial expressions, one might have gotten the impression that the councilor for the defense was speaking in a foreign language.

Boyd wasn't entire sure what Gleason had up his sleeve, but whatever he was up to, she wasn't willingly going to cooperate, and so she boastfully replied, "well I consider myself to be a very observant person."

"Mrs. Boyd did you work yesterday?" innocently asked Gleason, and again Boyd wasn't sure what his intentions were with this line of questioning. But nevertheless, she was proud of her attendance record and she contentedly acknowledged as much.

"Yes I worked all day...came in at 7:30 AM and left precisely at 5 PM."

"Now Ms. Boyd if I were to tell you that I had arranged for a car to be parked yesterday in the spot next to where you park every morning...and that this car was there when you arrived at work, and that it was there when you left work, would you be able to provide me with any details regarding this particular vehicle?" demanded Gleason.

Not surprisingly, Boyd was stunned by this sudden turn of events. She wasn't quite sure what to say, but finally she hesitantly stammered, "I'm sorry but I don't remember a car being parked next to me yesterday at all."

"And yet you remembered precise details about an arbitrary red car parked roughly 30 yards away from you on the morning of Mr. Miller's murder, is that what you're telling us Ms. Boyd?" challenged Gleason.

"Yes, I certainly did," insisted Boyd. And then in rapid fire succession Gleason asked, "Ms. Boyd did you get the license number of this red car?" "Did you see anyone standing outside of the car?" "Did you see anyone or anything inside the car?"

And much to Gleason's delight, Boyd replied just as rapidly, answering, "No", "no" and "no" to each and every one of his questions. On top of that, she went on to make Gleason's day even more of a success by adding, "It was dark at that end of the garage, and I was too far away from the red car to be able to make out the type of details you're asking about."

"And yet you testified earlier today that you were able to distinguish that there was paint peeling off the front bumper of the red car," skeptically inquired Gleason.

"Absolutely," strongly asserted Boyd who was now beginning to react angrily to Gleason's sarcastic tone.

It was right about this time that Gleason decided to use Lyons' drawing of the garage to his own advantage for a change, and he had Boyd again point out where she was parked in relation to the unidentified red car.

"Ms. Boyd from that vantage point it appears that at best you would only have a side view of the red car, and you wouldn't be able to see the front bumper at all, isn't that correct?"

"Well I may have looked back at the red car as I was walking towards my office building," replied Boyd who wasn't giving in an inch.

"Ms. Boyd, this is very important, a man's life is at stake here. I need to know what you did, and what you saw...not what you may have done, and what you may have seen," shouted Gleason who was beginning to get a bit testy in his own right over what he perceived to be a witness who was trying to play games with him.

"I'm sorry, but I just don't remember the precise details that you are looking for, Mr. Gleason," stubbornly replied Boyd. Although, deep inside what she was really thinking was; "a man's life is at stake...ha...a man who was responsible for the death of my friend and co-worker."

With his point made, Gleason decided that it was time to move on.

"Ms. Boyd, do you remember the name of the detective you talked to on the day of the murder?"

"Why yes, of course...I spoke to Detective Curran of the Newton Police," confidently answered Boyd.

"Detective Carolyn Curran?" clarified Gleason.

"Yes," tersely replied Boyd. She didn't like Gleason, and it was coming through loud and clear to the jurors, or at the very least it was obvious to Newlan anyway.

"And Ms. Boyd, have you spoken to Detective Curran since January 13th, 2006?" wondered Gleason.

"Yes, I spoke to Carolyn before my grand jury testimony," hesitantly replied Boyd who was suddenly unsure of herself.

"Interesting...she's on a first name basis with Detective Curran," gathered Gleason as he continued to interrogate Boyd, and ironically Newlan was thinking the exact same thing.

"And when was the last time you spoke to Detective Curran?"

Boyd was tempted to lie, but she was concerned that Gleason might catch her in the act, and that she would end up getting herself in trouble, so she came clean.

"I believe I spoke to Detective Curran two days ago."

"That would be June 3rd, 2008?" added Gleason.

"Yes," snarled Boyd. She was annoyed with Gleason for constantly filling-in the holes of her answers with what she thought to be unnecessary details and her facial expression told the story as much as her angry responses did.

"And Ms. Boyd do you remember what you told the police, and later Detective Curran on January 13th, 2006, specifically in regards to the red car?" inquired Gleason who had resumed his patient demeanor.

"I believed I told them that it was an older car, possibly a Ford Taurus or a Mercury Sable, and that I picked out the make of the car because I recognized the front grille, which was similar to an old 1995 Taurus that I once owned. And I told them about the paint peeling off the car. And I told them that maybe it could have been road salt as well," recounted Boyd.

"Road salt, that's a new development. Road salt which could be washed off, and which would render the car unidentifiable," mused Gleason as he made a mental note to himself to remember this detail for possible future ammunition. But for now he didn't want to break his momentum by stopping and writing down his thoughts.

"Ms. Boyd you provided the police with all of these details on January 13th, 2006?" asked Gleason in a doubting tone.

"I can't remember my exact words but that was the substance of our conversations, yes," replied Boyd.

It was at this opportune point in Boyd's testimony that Gleason turned towards Judge Gershwin and politely asked, "your honor may I approach the witness?"

"You may," replied the judge who had been listening intently and taking notes just as the jurors were doing.

"Ms. Boyd, I am holding a copy of the report from Newton Police Detective, Gerald Tarani, who interviewed you on the morning of January 13th, 2006, and I'd like you to read the sentence that I've highlighted," requested Gleason as he handed Boyd the report.

Boyd squinted at the report, and with a sour face and an even more acidic tone she slowly read the document.

"The witness stated that she saw a small red car parked in the garage, in the general vicinity of the victim's vehicle."

"Ms. Boyd I also have the report of your interview with Newton Police Detective Carolyn Curran from the afternoon of January 13th, 2006...would you please read to the jurors the sentence that I have highlighted in _this_ report," added Gleason, and he seemed to have a slight smirk on his face as he presented Boyd the stapled pieces of paper.

Gleason enjoyed turning up the heat on people who were being uncooperative, or worse lying, and forcing them to eat their words. And so he was deriving immense pleasure from observing Boyd squirming up there on the witness stand.

Boyd grabbed the report roughly out of Gleason's hand and reread the accentuated sentence at a rapid pace.

"The witness mentioned seeing a small red car, possibly a four door sedan, parked in the garage when she arrived to work on the morning of January 13th, 2006."

Boyd then practically tossed the report back toward Gleason who purposely let it fall to the floor.

"Sorry," offered Boyd, albeit rather unconvincingly.

"Quite all right," pleasantly replied Gleason as he bent over to pick up the critical document, which, by rule of law, had been thankfully preserved for prosperity.

"Ms. Boyd I have read both of these reports from top to bottom and nowhere in the almost 10 pages of your words as transcribed by the very capable Newton Police is there any mention of the details which you provided us with this morning. Nowhere do you mention a 1995 Ford or Mercury," exclaimed Gleason.

"I'm quite sure that I brought some very specific details to the attention of the detectives, on the very day of the murder, mind you. Maybe they just didn't write them down," surmised Boyd with a shrug of her shoulders.

"I see Ms. Boyd...and wouldn't it be fair to say that your memory regarding this red car would have been most accurate on January 13th, 2006 when it was freshest in your mind?" asked Gleason while as the same time forming a probing expression with his eyebrows.

"I suppose," replied Boyd in an uninterested tone.

"But for some reason, there was no mention made of these facts over the course of two interviews with the Newton Police on January 13th, 2006. And yet here we are two and a half years later, and somehow you are just now shedding light on all sorts of important details. Is that what you are telling these jurors, Ms. Boyd?" shouted Gleason as he pointed towards the jury box.

"I guess it's possible that maybe some of these observations came to me later...and let's not forget that I also provided many of these same details during my grand jury testimony which was quite a while ago," admitted an insolent Boyd.

"Your honor I have no further questions for this witness," railed Gleason who went with a disgusted tone in hopes that the added drama might stick in the jurors' minds.

Gleason never came out and said it, but the insinuation was loud and clear; someone provided Boyd with additional details regarding the red car...and he had a good idea of just who that someone was.

"For pure entertainment value that had to rank as a 10," insisted Newlan who was eating up every minute of the standoff between Gleason and the belligerent witness, Ms. Boyd.

Furthermore, Newlan was drinking the Kool Aid that Gleason was selling, and he was totally convinced that Boyd's testimony had somehow been compromised. Unfortunately for Breslin however, not all of the jurors were as impressed with Gleason's performance as Newlan was.

Meanwhile, DA Lyons was aghast. The blistering cross-examination of Ms. Kathy Boyd caught her uncharacteristically off guard; she had wanted to object just to stop the bleeding, but for the life of her, she couldn't come up with anything valid to object about.

However, through it all, Lyons was undeterred and her confidence never wavered. She knew full well that she still had a few aces up her sleeve if she could just get past the next witness, Norman Michaels.

Lyons realized that Michaels was going to present a challenge, but her attitude had always been such that the best way to face a problem was to tackle it head on.

"Here goes nothing," muttered Lyons as she announced, "your honor the Commonwealth calls Mr. Norman Michaels to the stand."

Norman Michaels was a stressed out 54 year old single father of four teenage sons who had worked for Steve Barron and his family in some capacity for over 20 years, and he also just so happened to be Fred Miller's supervisor.

When it came to appearance, the untidy Mr. Michaels was the complete opposite of his boss Steve Barron. Michaels showed up in the courtroom wearing a crumpled polo shirt and wrinkled jeans, and he hadn't shaved in a couple of days which only added to his disheveled look.

Michaels' eyes seemed to be darting in a million different directions and he was obviously on edge as he took the stand. But for the most part he offered nothing new to the case...until the tail end of his testimony that is.

Michaels testified that he got a ride to work from his son who dropped him off in front of the garage at around 8:15 AM on the morning of January 13th, 2006, and that he didn't notice anything of significance as he walked up to his office.

Michaels' deposition pretty much mimicked that of Steve Barron, including the fact that he also placed his hands on Miller's car (which Gleason once again made note of). But at that point, Lyons' questions took an utterly unexpected left turn down the dark alley of surprise.

Speaking in a low monotone, and trying to be as un-dramatic as possible, Lyons asked, "Mr. Michaels how would you describe your relationship with Fred Miller?"

"I would say we had a courteous, professional, business relationship, but at the same time we were also friendly towards each other. You know strictly co-workers, but we also occasionally went down the street for a couple of beers," explained Michaels.

"Mr. Michaels, was Fred Miller dealing with a disgruntled customer?" nonchalantly inquired Lyons, trying to get through the final questions for Michaels as quickly as possible.

"Yes, as Fred's manager he kept me posted regarding a client who was causing him some difficulties," replied Michaels.

"And did you tell the police about this particular client?"

"Yes, I made both the Newton Police and the State Police aware of the situation since I thought it might be relevant to the case," reasoned Michaels, and just like that, Lyons was done with her interview.

"Jeez, she brings up this disgruntled customer and then she doesn't ask any follow-up questions...what's up with that?" wondered Newlan, but then he smiled to himself as he added, "Although I'm pretty sure that R. J. Gleason will have a few follow-up questions for Mr. Norman Michaels."

And of course R. J. Gleason did have a few follow-up questions for one Norman Michaels. In fact Gleason, who had been looking forward to speaking to Mr. Michaels all day, had quite a few follow-up questions for him.

Gleason didn't even bother asking Michaels whether he was wearing gloves when he touched Fred Miller's car. Instead he cut right to the chase, hoping to capture the attention of the jurors and leave them with something to think about at the end of what was turning out to be a very long day.

"Mr. Michaels do you remember how you described this disgruntled client to the police?"

"I believe I characterized him as unstable," replied Michaels after a moment's thought.

"And why did you use the word unstable?" wondered Gleason.

"Well, to tell you the truth, I'm not exactly sure why I used that word...it just seemed appropriate I guess," replied Michaels.

"Could you please at least make an attempt to tell the jurors why the word 'unstable' seemed to be such an appropriate adjective to describe Mr. Miller's client," requested Gleason who was being very polite with Michaels.

"Well, the gentleman came in one day to meet with Fred and me regarding his life insurance policy, and at times he was rambling incessantly and he was almost incoherent. It was as if he may have been affected by drugs or alcohol," recalled Michaels.

"And when did this meeting take place," asked Gleason, to which Michaels replied, "I'd say it was sometime around early December of 2005."

Gleason then asked, "Mr. Michaels, did you share a voice mail message, which was left to you by this malcontented customer, with the police?"

"Yes, Fred had confided in me that this particular customer was becoming worrisome to him and that he had left him a couple of bizarre and sometimes threatening messages on his voice mail. But unfortunately Fred had deleted the messages, so I instructed him that the next time this gentleman called, to please transfer him over to me, which he did."

Michaels paused momentarily, and then proceeded on, unprompted by Gleason, "and yes, I did share a couple of digital recordings with the police."

After another short pause, Michaels clarified his comments by adding, "...and actually they weren't voice messages, but conversations I had recorded while talking to this gentleman on the phone."

"So you were concerned enough about this customer's behavior that you decided to record your conversations with him?"

"Well yes...I was alarmed by some of the things that he had said to me in a previous conversation, and I felt it might be prudent to record any future calls with him for legal purposes," replied a hesitant Michaels who was well aware of the fact that it was illegal to record his conversation with the petulant customer without first telling him.

"Great, now I'll probably be indicted, or even worse, sued because of this damned recording," thought Michaels as he cautiously awaited the next question from Gleason.

In an earlier hearing, minus the jury, Judge Gershwin had declared that the recorded conversations between Mr. Michaels and the irritated customer were inadmissible and irrelevant to the charges against John Breslin. Naturally, Gleason obviously disagreed, and now he wanted to delve into the details of these recordings using any means possible. But first he had to ensure that he fastidiously approached Michaels' testimony in a manner that wouldn't cause an objection from DA Lyons, and of course he didn't want to incur the wrath of Judge Gershwin either. As such, Gleason hesitated for a good thirty seconds of deliberate contemplation before pressing on.

"Mr. Michaels, could you tell us what was said in your conversations with the disgruntled customer which would cause you to become so alarmed."

Gleason held his breath, expectantly waiting for an objection, and he was actually quite surprise when one never came.

Michaels described the suspicious comments from the sulky client as follows; "well, he told me that Fred was being a disrespectful wiseass, and that he had a mind to submit a formal complaint to the Better Business Bureau, or maybe even come down there and personally settle the score with that 'punk', referring to Fred."

"Was there anything else Mr. Michaels?" pressed Gleason.

Michaels was momentarily unresponsive and he was obsessively fidgeting in his chair, but finally he stammered, "uhm...no."

"Are you sure?" insisted Gleason.

"Nothing that I can recall," whispered Michaels.

Gleason was now facing a dilemma; he had listened to Michaels covert recordings countless times, and Michaels had clearly left out one crucial statement which Gleason was determined to have the jurors hear.

Up until now, Michaels had been a good witness; he had thoughtfully answered each and every question from both sides of the aisle, and he was very detailed in his responses, so why, wondered Gleason, is he leaving out the most important detail of all?

Gleason was suddenly irritated and he thought to himself, "Because someone got to Michaels and told him not to mention it, that's why." And once again, he had a very good idea of just who that someone was.

Gleason knew in advance that his question was going to cause an outburst, and he fully realized that he'd probably be admonished by Judge Gershwin. But he could play dirty too, and now was the time to do it, so out of nowhere, with a booming voice, he exclaimed, "Mr. Michaels, did this disgruntled customer say to you, 'I do my best work with a 38'?"

"Objection your honor...for God's sake," screamed Lyons with her familiar scowl in top form as gasps and whispers echoed throughout the courtroom.

"Order in this courtroom," shouted Judge Gershwin, and she demonstratively pointed towards the attorneys as she angrily demanded, "I will see you at sidebar."

Judge Gershwin's order was followed by another heated conversation which Newlan watched with much interest until she called for another break, and the jurors were once again escorted out of the courtroom.

While the jurors were out of listening range, the stalemate was somehow miraculously resolved, and when they were finally returned to the courtroom after about 15 minutes, Gleason was allowed to ask, "Once again Mr. Michaels, did this disgruntled customer say anything else that caused some trepidation on your part?"

Michaels peered into the courtroom as if he were looking for advice, or possibly some sort of unspoken signal, but when none was forthcoming he sheepishly replied, "Yes...now that you mention it, I do recall this gentleman saying, in a threatening manner, that he did his best work with a 38."

"No further questions you honor," announced Gleason in a respectful tone, but inside he was joyfully thinking, "I got what I wanted and it was well worth the risk of being held in contempt of court by Judge Gershwin."

DA Lyons preferred not to end the day with such a volatile exchange so she felt obligated to ask a rebuttal question.

"Mr. Michaels, do you speak to this disgruntled customer on January 13th, 2006?"

"Not that I can recall," replied Michaels.

"That seems kind of odd...you would think that he'd definitely remember something like that, one way or the other," surmised Newlan who made a note in his pad to that affect and underlined it several times.

Gleason then followed up with his own rebuttal.

"Mr. Michaels did you speak to this disgruntled customer at any time after the murder of Fred Miller?"

"Yes I did," replied Michaels in a timid tone. At that point Gleason decided to quit while he was ahead, and once again he announced that he had no further questions.

"Sure...leave us hanging. What good was that exchange if we don't know what Michaels and the pissed-off client discussed after the murder?" contemplated a frustrated Newlan. Nonetheless, he jotted down in his notepad:

Gleason attempts to raise reasonable doubt by showing that someone else held a grudge against Miller. Could it be that simple??? PROBABLY NOT!!!

"I believe that this would be a good spot to break for the day," announced a weary Judge Gershwin, while at the same time Newlan was still furiously scribbling away into his pad of paper. She then looked toward the jury box with a smile and added, "ladies and gentlemen please do not discuss the case with anyone...have a safe trip home and we'll see you promptly at 8:45 AM tomorrow morning."

"All rise," shouted Billy, and as the jurors entered the deliberation room, he growled, "Wait here and I'll be back in a few minutes to escort you down to the garage...and make sure you don't take your notebooks with you."

Newlan immediately tossed his notepad over to the wheelchair-bound Dan who was in charge of collecting them, and Billy happened to notice that Newlan's court issued pencil wasn't in the metal binder of the notepad, which prompted him to ask in a gruff tone, "where's your pencil?"

"I'm gonna take it home and sharpen it. I've been taking notes all day, so it got really dull around the edges...just like I did," explained the smart-alecky Newlan.

Billy didn't say anything, although his glare spoke for him; his glare made it clear that he was offended. However, Newlan wasn't disturbed in the least, and he thought to himself, "Jeez, what's the big deal...it's only a damn ten cent pencil?" But the next morning he noticed that an electric pencil sharpener was sitting on the window sill of the juror deliberation room, so he figured he must have done something right.

Pencil sharpeners aside, as the jurors waited to be ushered out to their cars, some of them, including Jane, were gossiping about the day's events, and debating why Gleason always seem to make such a big deal out of the littlest of details, such as whether or not Melissa Green observed Fred Miller sitting in his car when she showed up for work on the morning of the murder.

Of course they weren't supposed to be discussing the trial in the first place, but Newlan couldn't resist replying to Jane.

"Gleason's setting this up so that he can question the timeline that the prosecution is trying to present."

"Oh...interesting theory...you're smarter than you look," replied Jane jokingly.

However the "dumb like a fox" Newlan didn't take the bait, and he ignored Jane's insults; seeing as how many of the other jurors, including Natalie, were looking at him with what he thought might be a newfound sense of respect, he didn't want to say anything to upset the rest of his colleagues.

Newlan's only comment in return was, "as Gleason said about the government's case, it's only a theory....just a theory."

The door to the juror deliberation room happened to be open while this conversation was taking place, and Brandon, who overheard every word of it, sternly requested that they not discuss the case any further.

After getting the scolding out of the way, Brandon paused and added, "look, we're all adults here, so what you discuss when the door to this room is closed is your business, but you have to watch what you say in front of the court officers...understood?"

"Sorry we won't discuss the case anymore," replied the jurors almost in unison. But the reality of the situation was that it was nearly impossible for 16 people to stay mum for days on end while the explosive details of a murder trial were unfolding right before their very eyes.

"From the eyes of a juror...no man escapes unseen," exclaimed Newlan in a stream of conscious fashion. And although his cryptic comment may have had some sort of extemporaneous religious overtones buried in its roots, his words nevertheless left Brandon and a majority of the jurors shooting him a look as if to say, "this guy's nuts."

And upon glimpsing the reaction that his unintended wisecrack triggered from his fellow jurors, Newlan added with a smile; "I'm not sure what that even means...but I like it."

### Chapter 26 – O'Toole's Tavern and Grill (Celtics Pride)

Thursday evening June 5, 2008 – 7:45 PM

For all intent and purpose, Frank Newlan was numb to the world as he drove home from the courthouse in a state of utter exhaustion, and he envisioned a nice quiet evening focused on another court; except tonight it would be a basketball court, and nothing short of murder would prevent him from watching Game One of the NBA Finals where his beloved Boston Celtics would be taking on the hated Los Angeles Lakers.

To appease a national television audience, the TV network powers-that-be scheduled the opening tipoff for just after 9 PM, so Newlan was uncertain as to whether he was going to be able to stay awake for the entire game, but he sure was planning on giving it the old college try. The Celtics hadn't been to the finals in over 20 years, and he was hell-bent on doing his best not to let this damned murder trial spoil the experience of watching another Boston team make a run for a championship.

While waiting for the game to get started, Newlan indecisively mulled over what to do about dinner, but then he remembered that he never ate his lunch; a steak-and-cheese sandwich which was now sitting in a plastic shopping bag next to his Rolling Stone magazines. After his long, emotional day, he didn't feel much like cooking, or ordering out for that matter, so he whipped up a salad, warmed up the sandwich in the microwave, and treated himself to an ice-cold beer.

"Ah that hit the spot," exclaimed Newlan as he stretched out on the leather sofa in front of his wide screen HDTV. "Now for some NBA action...FANtastic, as the commercial says."

"Nothing like a world class sporting event to get your mind off your troubles...well maybe a little bit of sex and drugs and rock & roll, but sports comes in a close fourth," murmured Newlan as he popped open another beer and attempted to get his game-face on while at the same time trying to ignore the backdrop of the trial which was ominously floating through his mind like a slow-moving dark cloud.

But try as he might, Newlan couldn't help but reflect on the day's events, no matter how many beers he guzzled down. As such, he dutifully tallied up the points for and against the government's case, much as one would decide an athletic contest, and he came to a telling conclusion.

"Not a good day for the prosecution...not even Jane could convict Breslin after what we heard today."

And despite his insistence that he wasn't going to let the trial rule his life, Newlan was having a hard time putting the proceedings out of his mind; sure he'd be able to block out the echoing memory of the courtroom battle for a little while, but then something would suddenly remind him of the case, and Breslin's uncertain fate would commence to rankle at his brain again like an irritating itch that no amount of ointment could ever sooth.

For example, as Newlan pondered the Celtics chances against the Lakers and their high flying star, Kobe Bryant, he thought to himself, "win or lose...no matter what happens tonight, it's only game one." But somehow that thought morphed into, "it's only day one of the trial as well...too early, either way, for me to come to any definitive judgments. I just gotta be patient and let this thing play out...and at the same time, not let it consume me."

Newlan's mind would continue play these ping-ponging games on him throughout the course of trial, but since it was only the first day of testimony, he erroneously concluded that for now, maybe he could control his anxieties by smoking some weed.

Newlan had cut back on his partying ways quite a bit over the years, but as he was known to say; "Drastic times call for drastic measures."

And so after a few puffs of a pregnant joint, Newlan was sufficiently numb and stretched out on the sofa. With nothing better to do, he decided to catch up on the news until game-time, and sure enough, as soon as he changed the station, the anchorwoman declared, "Opening arguments were heard today in the John Breslin murder-for-hire case."

A clip of DA Lyons' opening statement was shown as a lead-in to the segment and regardless of what Judge Gershwin had instructed the jurors, Newlan decided to watch the clip anyway.

"Hey I was there...what's the harm in watching the replay? I'll pretend it's a basketball game replay," figured Newlan with a yawn, and truth be told, the news report didn't really reveal anything that could have gotten him in much trouble with the honorable judge anyhow.

The game hadn't even tipped-off yet and Newlan's droopy eyelids were already beginning to grow heavy on him when the phone rang, startling him back into consciousness; and on the other end of the line was none other than his lifelong friend, Patrick "Pat" Horn.

"Hey Frankie...me and Bruce are going over to O'Toole's to watch the Celts game. Why don't you meet us there?" offered Horn, referring to their old pal, Bruce Reardon, and their local watering hole, O'Toole's Tavern and Grill.

"I don't know Pat, I'm really tired, and I'm already sprawled out on the sofa," griped Newlan, and as a compromise he suggested a more convenient option, at least for him anyway. "Why don't you guys come watch the game over here?"

"Come on Frankie...come out for a couple of beers...you only live once," countered Horn who preferred to watch the big game at a crowded bar.

After all these years, Horn understood that when it came to going out for a night on the town and hoisting down a few beers on a work night, Newlan just about always needed to be plied with a fair amount of coaxing before giving in, and so little-by-little he chipped away at his old pal's resolve.

Although, technically, Newlan would be commuting to the courthouse instead of the office for the next few weeks, it was just semantics as far as he was concerned. He might as well have been going to work in the morning since he was going to have to get up even earlier than usual in order to make it to the courthouse on time. And on top of that, he had a feeling that after listening to witness testimony for hours on end, he'd routinely be coming home from the courthouse even more worn out than he ever would have, had he been at work all day.

In any event, regardless of where Newlan's destination was destined to be in the morning, and how grueling of a day he was expecting, Horn ended up getting his way, as he usually did when the debate involved convincing his old friend to come out for a night of liquid merriment.

"Alright already, Pat! I'll meet you guys at O'Toole's by game time. Tipoff's just after 9 o'clock, right? Besides, remember I was saying that I had jury duty coming up? Well I got on this big case so I gotta tell you guys all about it," blabbered Newlan

Of course, in retrospect, knowing full well that he wasn't supposed to be discussing the trial, as soon as he put the receiver down, Newlan mumbled to himself, "shit, I should have kept my big mouth shut."

But on the flipside, Newlan promptly changed directions in midstream and thought, "What harm can come from me throwing the guys a bone or two to pick on? Besides, if I have to keep this trial a secret for the next month then I'm gonna totally lose my mind."

While Newlan internally debated the quandary even further in his mind, he swiftly changed out of his grubby sweatpants and into something more appropriate to wear out in public, and he arrived at the bar, which was less than a mile from his condo, in no time flat.

O'Toole's was located in Malden, Massachusetts which was the next town over to the East from Medford, and it was your basic run of the mill sports bar/restaurant. A place for the locals to go to watch a ball game and have a few beers, and if you were hungry you could order up your essential pub food; burgers, fries, steak tips, buffalo chicken wings, and the like.

Medford was a partially dry town in that it was licensed to allow larger restaurants to serve drinks with a meal, and it had its fair share of liquor stores, but if you wanted to go to a local pub strictly for a few beers, then you had to pop over to one of the adjacent towns such as Malden or Somerville which were overrun with seedy barrooms.

O'Toole's itself was your typical neighborhood pub; equal parts cozy and sleazy, just a notch above a dive, but for the regulars who frequented this locally owned and operated establishment it was a home-away-from-home. The majority of the patrons were familiar with each other, but strangers were more than welcome, particularly strangers of the female variety, preferably unencumbered by significant others.

For the most part, O'Toole's maintained a welcoming environment as far as watering hole's go, but like any ale-house where the drinks flowed freely, an occasional barroom brawl wasn't out of the question, usually instigated by the young lions who claimed a corner of the room as their own personal clubhouse.

There was a time when Newlan's gang of friends would have been right in the thick of things whenever a fight broke out, but by now they had outgrown their fisticuffs phase, and as a result of this peacekeeping attitude, they avoided even making eye-contact with any of the boyish hoodlums who currently ruled the roost, so to speak; for just the act of looking at one of these punks the wrong way was cause enough to start a ruckus.

And although one could never predict when a spilt drink or a misinterpreted signal might ignite an incident, Newlan and his crew of burly friends didn't dwell on the possibility of a rowdy encounter too much, seeing as how they had been regulars at O'Toole's from day one (and if need be, they could still roughhouse with the best of them). In fact, at one time, their band, Don't Panic, played every Saturday night at this very same pub, although at that time the place was called Dino's Bar and Grill (infamously named after the bar in the Thin Lizzy song, "The Boys are Back in Town").

The three old friends were roughly the same age and furthermore, they shared an indescribable kindred spirit of defining moments which had bonded them for life. Horn was a tall, handsome man of 6' 3" who possessed a healthy head of neatly cut hair which was slowly going gray. Whereas Reardon was the shortest of the three and he tended to let his stringy hair grow long, similar to Newlan's, except that his was a lighter shade of brown.

There was a time when all three men were as skinny as a toothpick, but as the decades passed by, their metabolism, and in turn their body shapes, changed for the worst. Over the years, each of them had packed on quite a few pounds, especially around the midsection. Horn, who could eat with the best of them, had a particularly large paunch belly which was hard to miss, and Newlan easily spotted his buddies at a table in the back corner of the bar with a good view of the large screen TV. The lifelong friends didn't make it over to O'Toole's as often as they once did, and Newlan was genuinely happy to see some familiar faces after the events of the last couple of days.

Newlan truly loved these guys like they were his brothers, but unlike many brothers, their personalities balanced each other nicely, which only begins to scratch at the surface of why they got along so well.

Horn was an easy-going, happy-go-lucky type who trusted everybody and didn't have an enemy in the world. Whereas Reardon could come across as an extremely cynical and suspicious character when placed in the company of strangers, especially strangers from foreign cultures which were unfamiliar to him, and so not surprisingly, he had antagonized his fair share of interlopers over the years with his brusque attitude.

Newlan's temperament was somewhere in the middle. By and large, he was a people person, but he could also become very standoffish until he got to better know and trust a newcomer who dared to invade the inner sanctity of his closed circle of acquaintances.

Conversely however, if you somehow made it past the transitional "feeling out" period with Newlan, he would welcome you with open arms and quickly transform into the good-natured, outgoing person that he was; a person who would do anything for a friend.

Newlan sometimes felt as if Horn and Reardon's polar-opposite attitudes rubbed off on him, which he considered to be a good thing since it kept him on an even keel.

Of course, before joining his drinking buddies at their table, Newlan had anything but the straight-and-narrow in mind as he first stopped off at the bar to order a round of suds from the bartender, Quentin or "Q" as he was referred to by the regulars.

"Hi Q...three Guinness's please."

After all these years of hanging out at pubs and nightclubs, Quentin was still the only bartender who Newlan got to know well enough that they were on a first name basis with each other.

"What's up Frankie?" asked Quentin. "Long time no see."

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you. I had jury duty yesterday and I got picked for a big trial."

"It's not the Townshend case, is it?" wondered Quentin as he towel-dried an empty mug.

"No, but even if it were, I wouldn't be able to talk about it anyway," replied Newlan with a smile.

Newlan and Quentin exchanged in the usual sports small talk while he waited for his pints of Guinness, which, as anyone who has ever been to an Irish pub will tell you, take a few minutes to pour correctly.

When the thick creamy heads of the chocolaty brown drinks had sufficiently stabilized, Quentin handed them over to Newlan, and with a wink he offered up his generosity as well.

"This round's on the house, Frankie...for doing your civic duty."

"Thanks Q...I owe you one," replied an appreciative Newlan.

With drinks in hand, Newlan carefully balanced the three pints as he carried them over to the table where his friends were sitting, and the three amigos, who were truly thrilled to be in each other's company, rowdily slapped each other with high fives and exchanged hugs all around.

"This place never fails to bring back memories," marveled Newlan as he gazed at the tiny stage on the other side of the room which was flanked on the far wall by the photos of all the deceased former patrons of the bar. The stage was empty tonight, due to the fact that the current owners only had bands playing on Friday and Saturday nights these days, but otherwise the interior of the bar hadn't changed a bit in over 20 years.

Within minutes, the deserted stage had the friends reminiscing about the good old days, and invariably their memories drifted back to the rock & roll nights of their youth.

"Remember the time that chick wrote her phone number on a dollar bill and stuck it down your pants in the middle of song," Horn chirpily asked Newlan in between gulps of Guinness.

"Yeah...but the funny thing was...I got pissed off because she distracted me from my solo. I had no idea who she was...and by the way, I never did call her. Come to think of it...what an idiot I am! What the hell was I thinking?" replied Newlan with a sarcastic laugh. "I wonder if I still have that dollar bill saved somewhere. Knowing me, I probably do. I should dig it out and punch up the number, just to see who answers. I could use a hot new babe in my life right about now...I'd just say 'hey bitch this is Frankie Newlan, do you remember stuffing a dollar bill down my pants twenty years ago?'"

As they pictured the scene in their minds, Newlan's friends howled with laughter, and they sucked down their stouts with a reckless abandon.

"Dudes, remember our theme song? How the hell did the words go?" slurred Reardon who was already well on his way to achieving the nirvana of complete intoxication.

Their band had started out playing simple three chord cover tunes, but they eventually branched out into writing some of their own songs, and Newlan served as their primary songwriter. One day, out of the blue, he decided that they should have a theme song with a title that matched the band's name, Don't Panic (he was the first to admit that he got the idea from the Bad Company song called "Bad Company"), and the resulting tune wasn't half bad.

It took a moment for them to remember all of the lyrics, but after a while they were cheerfully singing the words to themselves, taking turns with the verses just as they did when they performed the song live all those years ago.

Newlan still had the handwritten words saved, along with the hundreds of other songs he had written over the years, and he would occasionally go through the pile of lyrics and think to himself, "Mostly crap...but a few masterpieces too" and in his mind "Don't Panic" belonged in the latter category, but you the dear reader can judge for yourself:

DON'T PANIC (words and music by Frank Newlan)

Don't panic

Come what will

Relax yourself

Take a pill

Don't Panic

It's out of your hands

Let the pieces fall

And see where they land

Dooon't Panic...DON'T PAN-IC

Dooon't Panic...DON'T PAN-IC

Don't Panic

Take it in stride

The pedals to the metal

So just go for the ride

Don't Panic

Don't get down

Do your thing

And I'll see you around

Dooon't Panic...DON'T PAN-IC

Dooon't Panic...DON'T PAN-IC

Don't Panic

We all have to work

The money sucks

And the boss is a jerk

Don't Panic

What else can you do?

Just do the best you can

And may your dreams come true

Dooon't Panic...DON'T PAN-IC

Dooon't Panic...DON'T PAN-IC

Don't Panic

Let's just say

This is the end

And live for today

Don't Panic

I'll tell you what

You let it get to you

And that's the deepest cut

Dooon't Panic...DON'T PAN-IC

Dooon't Panic...DON'T PAN-IC

"You know something guys...that was actually a decent song. Man, we shouldn't have given up on the band so quickly. We were ahead of our time. If we were still playing today we could probably do a hip-hop version of that song," predicted Reardon, whose two teenage sons kept him up-to-date with the current trends in music.

"Yeah right...but hey, you know how I felt about calling it quits? We should have at least booked a studio and cut a few tracks," replied a skeptical Newlan who, unlike Reardon, didn't even keep up with the contemporary fads in rock music, never mind the rap artists. But regardless of the direction that modern music was headed in, they unanimously agreed that their band might have had potential for bigger and better things if they had only given their music careers a little more time to develop.

"I should listen to my own advice sometimes," admitted Newlan as he brooded over his uplifting musical composition, even though at the moment it seemed as if it had been written in another lifetime. But if nothing else, the cryptic, lyrical blast from the past had the unintended effect of serving as a reminder that he and Reardon had some important business to attend to.

Reardon was Newlan's marijuana connection, and so, for convenience sake, he made a purchase while they were seated at their table; and to complete the transaction, Reardon passed Newlan a plastic baggy full of reefer under the table in exchange for a hundred dollar bill.

"Thanks Bruce...man, if it weren't for you...I'd probably be straight by now," predicted Newlan with a laugh.

"I can't help it if you don't know what's good for you boy...its killer stuff by the way...just came in...we'll have to go out to my van at halftime and check it out," replied Reardon with a broad smile in return.

Newlan and Horn still enjoyed taking the occasional hit of a reefer over the course of their busy days, but their smoking habits were relatively minor compared to Reardon who, even after all these years, still got stoned morning, noon and night.

Newlan would often jest with Reardon that he might as well grow dreadlocks and become a Rastafarian, referring to the Jamaican religious movement that, as far as he was concerned, seemed to go hand-in-hand with smoking ganja.

Reardon and his moody wife, who was also a pot smoker (which was probably the main reason why they hadn't filed for divorce by now), had even gone so far as setting up a closet-sized "smoking room" in the basement of their house, which he appropriately nicknamed, "the launch pad."

Newlan himself had staked a claim for his extra bedroom to serve as his "smoking room" shortly after moving into his condo, "but only for weed, no cigarettes allowed," was his stock response to anyone who dared to light up a butt.

Reardon's curious kids were strictly forbidden from his basement "smoking room", but Newlan wasn't sure how much longer his buddy would be able to keep his little secret from his sons. The last time Newlan saw Reardon's boys was when they came over to his place in February to watch the depressing Patriots Super Bowl loss, and he was stunned to see how far they had evolved, not only physically but in a street-smart sense as well, in such a short period of time. They seemed to have magically sprouted up like beanstalks; close to a foot, in the last six months alone. And to top off their growth spurt they were sporting the drooping pants, the sideward's baseball caps, and the studded fake diamond earrings that were popular with the kids these days.

Newlan immediately recognized the changes in Reardon's budding teenagers as they shuffled into his condo on that cold winter day, and he took him aside as he warned; "Bruce, you won't be able to hide the weed from your kids much longer...they're probably already smoking themselves."

"Awesome...then we'll be able to get baked together," jokingly replied Reardon before adding, "But seriously, they're respectful kids. I got them playing football and taking karate lessons...I don't want them to make the same mistakes that we made."

"That's all well and good. But remember when we were that age? Just keep an eye on them is all I'm saying. Hey, remember Windowpane?" cited Newlan, referring to an old song that he had written specifically for the band; an old song which was sprinkled with double-meaning lyrics that coyly described a psychedelic experience; an old song which popped into his head out of the blue (although, of all the songs that Newlan had ever written, the fact that "Windowpane" was Reardon's all-time favorite may have had something to do with his sudden recollection).

As if on cue, Newlan and Reardon recited a line from the song; a verse which could never be confused for anything other than a chemically-induced, reality-avoiding trip; "now and then I'm floating out in space, the kids today disown the human race."

And as the rebellious words melted into their souls like butter on a warm ear of corn, they laughed heartily at their unspoken telepathy.

Meanwhile, halftime found the Celtics trailing by 5 points when Horn, who was a decent athlete in his time, and a member of the Medford High School basketball team, admitted to his concerns.

"Fuck, I'm nervous...the Celts are playing like shit. Bruce I'll take you up on your offer. What do you say we go out to your van and smoke a spleef," suggested Horn...and out the door they went.

By the time the partying trio returned back to the barroom they were sufficiently stoned, and Horn caught Newlan off guard, like a basketball player throwing up a full court inbound pass, by tossing out a topic which he had managed to forget about for a few minutes.

"So Frankie what where you saying about being on jury duty?" wondered Horn.

"Oh that...thanks for reminding me Pat," replied Newlan rather dryly. He was having such a fun time shooting the breeze with his buddies that he had completely put the trial out of his mind for the moment. But Horn's innocent inquiry brought it all rushing back to the forefront of his brain and turned his stomach at the very thought of having to be in attendance at the Middlesex Superior Courthouse first thing in the morning.

Newlan initially reasoned that it would do him some good to discuss the trial with his friends, but now that he was out on the town, having a good time, he just didn't feel like talking about it, so he shrugged Horn off with what was a very valid excuse.

"Oh it's no big deal...and besides the judge made it clear that we aren't allowed to discuss the case with anyone...but believe me, after everything is said and done, I'll fill you guys in on all the gory details."

However, Reardon, who after all these years could read Newlan like an open book, intervened with his own cross-examination.

"You sure you're OK? I've had this feeling that something's been bothering you all night," scrutinized Reardon, and then, as if he were scanning Newlan's mind, he added "don't let anyone influence you Frankie...always stick to your guns dude...always."

"Oh believe me I will," confidently replied Newlan, even though in reality he wasn't so sure just how resolute he would be in his ability to stand up to the rest of the jurors if it turned out that he was the only one in the minority.

Consequently, Newlan preferred to change the subject, so he cleverly broached Reardon on a topic from his recent past which he had wanted to ask him about for the longest time, even though he was pretty sure that it was an episode Reardon probably would have rather not discussed.

"Bruce what ever happened to _you_...you know, that time you got busted for selling weed?" inquired Newlan, and although it was a sore subject, Reardon took the bait anyway.

Reardon had gotten arrested a few years back carrying a half pound of marijuana in a secret compartment under the rug of his van; he had just dropped off a delivery to a friend/customer, and he got pulled over as soon as he left the guy's house. It was obvious to him that someone had tipped off the cops since they knew exactly what they were looking for, and his response made it clear that he was still bitter about the unfortunate episode.

"What do you think happened? I got ratted-out by someone who I thought was an acquaintance, but who turned out to be an asshole. The guy had just gotten busted himself so he probably turned me in to save his own skin. When I was at the police station, the detectives told me that they'd go easy on me too, if I'd give up my source, which of course I didn't do. It cost me ten grand for a lawyer, and court fees on top of that, so I guess you could say that I bought my way out of a jam, but it was worth every fuckin' penny. Granted, I'm still on fuckin' probation, but luckily I didn't end up doing any time. Hey, you know what they say...keep you friends close, but keep you enemies closer."

"Sorry I brought it up...no sense reliving bad memories," replied Newlan in a sincerely apologetic tone. But on the bright side he had successfully steered the conversation away from his role as a juror in the John Breslin murder trial which was his goal in the first place.

"Speaking of jury duty and getting busted, remember that time during our junior year when we had to put on a trial for our Criminal Law class?" reminisced Horn who was always one to keep the mood positive.

Before deciding to take up instruments and forming a rock & roll band together, the high school classmates had made a pact to attend the same university, and the three of them wound up enrolling at Boston State College. The inseparable friends even made it a point to meet before every semester and sign up for all the same classes, so back in those days they were practically joined at the hip.

Their assignment for the Criminal Law class which Horn was referring to was to pair up into teams and stage a mock trial, and the trio decided to recruit a few of their pals to help out with the acting. Many of their friends were the creative types, but most of them didn't have the drive to go to college; although they were definitely up for spending a day hanging out on a college campus, gawking at the coeds.

The crew of studious college classmates and their high school dropout friends met for breakfast and got wasted before attending class on the day of the mock trial, but they still managed to put on an entertaining show which revolved around a limo driver who got into an accident while driving under the influence of drugs and alcohol.

"Yeah, and to this day I insist that Professor Hemmingday knew we were all stoned," replied Newlan with a laugh as he pounded down another Guinness.

"No way," countered his friends as they made a toast to life in general...and with the clinking of their mugs, just like that, Newlan's memory went drifting back in time to the end of his senior year in college; baked to the gills as he walked into his advisor, Professor Hemmingday's office.

Hemmingday was a hip African American criminal defense lawyer who also doubled as a professor, and in Newlan's opinion, he was also one of the college's most respected lecturer's.

"Are you OK? You look a little tired," remarked Hemmingday as Newlan took a seat in his office. The observant professor made it a point to peer directly into a person's eyes when he spoke to someone; and on this particular morning when he met with Newlan to discuss his future after college, all he saw were blank, red eyes staring back at him in return.

"Oh you know...been staying up late, studying for finals," explained Newlan, who back in those days was an expert at the art of sleepwalking his way through life in a foggy haze.

"Mr. Newlan, have you given any thought as to what you'd like to do for a career, post graduation?" inquired Professor Hemmingday, after having decided to ignore Newlan's red-eye symptoms.

"I'm not sure...but lately I've been thinking more and more about giving music a chance and forming a rock & roll band," replied a dead-serious Newlan.

"It's nice to have dreams Mr. Newlan, but I think you should give some consideration to law school. I've observed you oratory skills in class, and I've been very impressed with your essays. I think you would make a fine litigator," encouraged Professor Hemmingday.

" _Really_? I'll think about it," promised Newlan, even though he knew full well that he had his heart set on being a rock star.

After a brief pep talk, Newlan awkwardly got up out of his chair, shook Professor Hemmingday's hand, and then with one long accidental sweeping motion of his right arm, he promptly proceeded to knock the telephone off his advisor's desk.

"I'm so sorry professor," moaned Newlan as he stumbled to picked the phone up from off the floor.

Back in his college days, Newlan's gangly, growing frame would betray him from time to time, which in turn led to the odd fit of uncoordinatedly spastic limb movements. However, on this particular occasion, his clumsiness was due primarily to the fact that he was flying with his head in the clouds, as high as a kite.

"It's quite alright... but are you _sure_ you're OK?" gestured Professor Hemmingday again.

"Trust me, I feel fine," replied Newlan, but of course his definition of the word "fine" may have differed from Professor Hemmingday's interpretation.

"Well, take care of yourself...and stay out of trouble," advised Professor Hemmingday as he stared skeptically at Newlan.

"I'd bet a million bucks that he knows I'm stoned, and he's probably mad at me because I didn't offer him any," surmised the comical, if somewhat paranoid, Newlan with a laugh as he exited Professor Hemmingday's office for the very last time.

Newlan never crossed paths with Professor Hemmingday again after that day, but he'd still think about him from time to time, and in fact he'd even see his name mentioned in the local newspapers every once in a while for his role in defending some down-and-out criminal. Much like R. J. Gleason, to this day, Hemmingday still vigorously represented his share of inner-city youths who had gotten themselves into serious jams with the law, some of them, violent gang members.

And now in the present tense, as Newlan hypnotically stared into his thick mug of foaming Guinness, he wondered what direction his life would have turned in had listened to Professor Hemmingday's advice all those years ago.

"Who knows, maybe _I'd_ be defending John Breslin. How strange would that be? I should look up Hemmingday...I bet he could advise me on how to get off this fuckin' trial," conjectured Newlan. But like many of his brainstorms, he was fully aware that it was just a fleeting thought; a thought that he'd never follow up on.

With all of these random patterns flowing through his mind, Newlan was ripe to fall deep into one of his legendary trances, but luckily he was snapped out of his flashback by a loud groan that echoed through the crowded bar. The Celtics star forward, Paul Pierce had just injured his knee and was being carted off the court in a wheelchair.

"Shit, we're screwed now...there goes the fuckin' series," lamented a disgusted Horn.

"Come on, hang in there Pat...remember how we thought the Sox were cooked after they went down three to nothing in 2004?" replied Newlan semi-hopefully.

Ever since the Red Sox improbable comeback against the New York Yankees, Newlan had finally became a reluctant believer in the old Yogi Berra saying, "it aint over 'til it's over," which for some reason, suddenly reminded him of the Breslin trial as well, and he sullenly thought to himself, "I have a feeling that this trial's gonna be one hell of a white-knuckle ride."

Newlan's labored attempt at concentrating on the basketball game, alongside the rest of his barroom-mates, was proving to be a futile effort. Once again, due to the omnipresent Breslin trial hovering around his brain like a swarm of locusts, he was having trouble focusing his gaze on the TV screen.

Although, as far as Newlan was concerned, his lack of focus on the fast-paced, back-and-forth action was no big deal, because he totally agreed with the old saying that you really only needed to tune in for the last two minutes of an NBA basketball game, which was the only time that the score really mattered. And so being the pragmatic person that he was, he figured he'd wait until then to lock-in his suddenly poor attention span.

"I wonder if there are any single women floating around the bar," mused Newlan as he got up to go for another one of his many trips to the bathroom...and by chance, as he was making his way back to the table, he glanced upon a supposedly happily-married old girlfriend locked in a passionate embrace with a man who definitely wasn't her husband.

"That's depressing...her husband's a decent guy. I have a good mind to squeal on her. Although on second thought, that's a big dude she's swapping spit with. I better just stay out of it. But is it any wonder that so many men end up killing each other over a woman?" contemplated Newlan, and at that exact moment, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a man at the bar who looked a lot like John Breslin.

"Shit, the resemblance is eerie...that guy could be his brother," hissed Newlan while at the same time he was overcome by a reflexive urge to duck down his head, just to make sure he wasn't in the suspiciously familiar man's range of vision.

As was often the case, Newlan was left physically shaking by the tricks that his mind so callously played on him. However, by the time he rejoined his friends, he had come to his senses, and he muttered to himself, "What the hell's wrong with me? What are the odd that that guy could be related to Breslin? I gotta stop letting this trial get to me. Man, you can't make this shit up."

But just the same, Newlan realized full well that he was in for a few rough weeks. And yet despite the fact that, invariably, he always looked back, he was confident that once the trial was over, regardless of how it turned out, he'd be able to at least regiment the grim episode to a remote corner of his mind and chalk it up as an unavoidable life experience. Nevertheless, for the foreseeable future, while he found himself stuck, smack dab in the middle of this inconvenient ordeal, he was just as sure that the trial would weigh on his mind until it drove him to the edge of insanity.

And as if by some celestial symmetry, at the very moment that Newlan was attempting to convince himself that everything was going to be alright, a roar came sweeping across the bar like a tsunami as Paul Piece returned from the locker room, apparently none the worse for wear. The crowd's reaction to the miraculous return of the Celtics star player onto the court brought to mind another analogy which Newlan illogically related to his own situation.

"After the trial is over, I'll walk out of that courtroom unscathed...you can count on it," predicted a suddenly determined Newlan, and with that simple little bit of self-encouragement egging him on, he was now pumped to put the Breslin case out of his mind and watch the riveting end of the basketball game with his lifelong friends.

"Crunch time," shouted out Horn as he held up his dripping mug for a toast.

"Yeah, but I wish it were garbage time," slurred Reardon.

"Whether it is crunch time or garbage time, you just gotta go with what you know," insisted Newlan with a mischievous laugh. But what his friends would never know was that he was referring to the Breslin trial and not the basketball game.

In the end, the Celtics won Game One of the 2008 NBA Finals by a score of 98 to 88, and as the three friends got up to leave the bar, Newlan eagerly remarked, "...and a good time was had by all."

However just as they reached the door of the bar, in walked two partially uniformed Medford cops, which momentarily spooked the liquored-up pals, none more so than Bruce Reardon. But when the imaginary sawdust settled in their minds, they were relieved to discover that one of the cops just so happened to be their lone ally on the other side of the fence, Newlan's childhood friend, James "Jimmy" Leach.

The two defenders of the law had removed their hats, their ties, their weapons, and their equipment belts...and yet they still could not be mistaken for anything other than the police officers that they were.

"Relax Bruce, we're off duty...and beside we have no jurisdiction in Malden," explained Leach who immediately recognized the temporary look of fear in the predominantly cop-hating Reardon's face.

With the case of mistaken identity cleared up, Leach enthusiastically shook hands with his three old buddies and offered up a greeting.

"So what's going on boys?" curiously wonder Leach as he stopped to chat with the departing trio. Over the years, Leach had worked his way up to the rank of Sergeant, and as such he nodded over to his subordinate partner and barked out the orders.

"Grab us a table and I'll be right over," instructed Leach before turning back to his friends, and in a tempting tone he added, "Why don't you guys stay for another beer? I'm buying."

"Maybe some other time," replied Horn and Reardon almost simultaneously; they were both drunk and tired, not to mention the fact that they had to be up bright and early in the morning, so another drink, inviting though it may have been, was absolutely out of the question. However, for the trooper Newlan tomorrow suddenly seemed like a long way off, and although he thought long and hard about calling it a night, in the end, he indiscriminately decided, "The hell with it...I'll take you up on that beer Jimmy."

And with that devil-may-care proclamation as his calling card, Newlan strolled unsteadily back into the bar...but this time...with police protection.

### Chapter 27 – The Only Woman He Ever Loved

Thursday evening June 5, 2008 – 11:45 PM

At roughly the same time that Frank Newlan was making his way back into O'Toole's Tavern and Grill for another reinforcing shot of liquid courage, his former girlfriend from years gone by, Marianne Plante, lay sprawled out on the edge of her bed, despondent and tearful, as she struggled to compose a letter.

Plante wasn't quite sure what she was going to say in this letter, but she was hoping that the words would swell from somewhere deep within her heart.

Over the years, Plante had attempted to write similar letters, but every time she did, she would inevitably find herself trapped in an epic internal struggle of good vs. evil, which would ultimately result in her ripping up the powder-blue stationary into little pieces and, to be on the safe side, she would burn the evidence in an oversized ashtray as well. However, this time she was determined to go through with her covert communiqué, and she prayed for God to give her the strength to send out the desperate SOS to its intended recipient.

"After all, how hard can it be? Just put the sheet of paper in an envelope, stick a stamp on it, and drop it in the mailbox," murmured Plante. But deep down inside she knew full well that it was a task which was easier said than done.

Meanwhile, Plante's husband Tom was an immovable object, drunk and passed out downstairs on the sofa, oblivious to the TV, which was tuned in to the Celtics game.

Luckily, Plante's two preteen daughters were already asleep by the time her husband had come home and immediately started hollering at her for no good reason...and now twenty minutes later there he was, out like a light, blind to anything and everything around him.

Before we delve too deeply into Marianne Plante's plight, we would first like to inform you, the dear reader, that, these days, Ms. Plante goes by her married name which is Mrs. Thomas Willis. Nevertheless, in deference to our flawed protagonist, Mr. Frank Newlan, unless otherwise necessary, we will refer to his high school sweetheart by her maiden name, just as he still does.

The Willis's currently reside in the quaint little town of Tewksbury Massachusetts, a tiny suburb about 15 miles north of Marianne Plante's childhood home of Medford Massachusetts; the same hometown where she blossomed and came of age; the same hometown that housed some of her fondest memories; the same hometown where she came to know and love Frank Newlan. But of course, that was a long time removed from where she stood today, perched on the precipice of a failed marriage.

Plante couldn't remember exactly when her dream life, married to her dream husband, living in her dream house, began to take a decidedly sharp, hairpin turn for the worse, but the one thing she knew for sure was that she was miserable these days, and to make matter worse, all of a sudden, her husband was accusing her of cheating. And if that weren't bad enough, along with the emotional abuse that Tom Willis had been heaping on his wife for so many years, he was now trending towards becoming physically abusive to boot.

Plante's husband never actually beat her, but he would force himself on her sexually, and then he would make her feel guilty with his psychological taunting. One day Tom Willis would grouse about her cooking; another day he would nag that the house was a mess; and just about every night, right before bedtime, he would complain that she was getting fat. But the worst critiques came when he would insist that she was an unfit mother, just because she occasionally had one too many drinks.

And in retaliation, Plante would bitch-and-moan until she was blue in the face.

"I can't help it if I'm bored...maybe if you'd come home once in a while I wouldn't have the urge to get so drunk," became her words of lament, but invariably her grievances fell on deaf ears.

Plante loved her two daughters more than anything in the world and she would sacrifice her life for them if came to that, and in her way of thinking, it was her husband who was the neglectful parent, not her.

And as we all know, more often than not, when a marriage begins to slowly dissolve in this manner, at some point, both husband and wife contemplate looking for shelter in the arms of another, and sadly the Willis's marriage had reached that breaking point of no return.

Marianne Plante was no fool. Not for one minute did she believe that her husband was working late all these nights while she was sitting at home, alone, crying her pretty little eyes out...and so he had no one but himself to blame if, lately, her hungry heart had a tendency to stray like a cat in heat. Sure, Tom once caught her on the phone with a man she met at the supermarket. And sure, Tom caught a man leaving their home one night while he was pulling into the driveway. But as far as she was concerned, she was lonely, and she had every right to have friends, even if they were male friends.

Not surprisingly, Tom Willis didn't see eye-to-eye with his wife when it came to flirtatious behavior. You see, he had old fashioned values. He believed it was OK for a married man to be out and about on the town, carousing, and maybe even engaging in a meaningless dalliance now and then. But when it came to hanky-panky, he was a firm advocate of the old saying that it was a man's world, and that a married woman belonged in her home taking care of her children, no exceptions.

Willis wasn't quite sure what his wife was up to lately, but he was determined to find out, one way or another. Of course, with him spending less and less time at home these days, he realized that he was unable to keep an eye on her himself, and so he decided on the next best thing; he decided to find someone who _could_ keep an eye on her, strictly to satisfy his own ingrained insecurities.

And sure enough, Tom Willis came up with the perfect solution; a private detective.

Over a week had passed since Willis hired his friend, Brent Blain, owner/operator of the Boston Intelligence Group, to spy on his wife Marianne. And in that time she had been observed acting very suspiciously, but so far nothing overtly incriminating had been uncovered by the seasoned private eye.

However, Willis had procured Blain's services for the next month, so it remained to be seen what he would come up with. But as far as Tom Willis was concerned, the Boston Intelligence Group had better not find _any_ compromising evidence pertaining to his wife Marianne. Otherwise, she was going to be in for one messy divorce, and he would make damn sure that he got the kids. And on top of that, whatever asshole dared to mess around with the wife of Tom Willis was going to be in for a rude awakening.

"Maybe even a deadly rude awakening," grunted Willis on more than one occasion, which, in a roundabout way, leads us full circle, right back to an inconsolable Marianne Plante and her tearstained letter; right back into the scheming mind of John Breslin; right back to the untimely demise of Fred Miller; right back into the oncoming path of Frank Newlan.

And so as fate would have it, on this beautiful early June evening, as Newlan was in the process of getting obliterated at his local watering hole, his dear old high school sweetheart was about to make a monumental decision.

"I've had it with this life...I'm gonna do it this time...I'm gonna do it. I'm gonna get in touch with Frankie," whimpered Plante as she took pen to paper like she'd done so many times before.

To help motivate her, Plante rose unsteadily from her bed and proceeded to retrieve a tape which was hidden in the corner of her sock draw; not a VHS adult film tape as many a man has been known to keep in his sock draw, but an old cassette tape marked with the words "Marianne's Mix Tape" on the label. Side A of the tape was also marked with the words, "Love Songs" while Side B was marked with the words, "Breakup Songs".

The tape had been sent to Marianne Plante via US mail, eons ago, by none other than Mr. Frank Newlan.

A sampling of the tunes on the "Love Songs" side of the tape included "Nights in White Satin" by the Moody Blues; "And You And I" by Yes; "Give a Little Bit" by Supertramp; "Melissa" by The Allman Brothers; "Just the Way You Are" by Billy Joel; and "More than a Feeling" by Boston (a song which, coincidentally enough, included a lyric that referenced a woman named Marianne).

...

Newlan once met the lead vocalist for the band Boston, Brad Delp, at a local club where he was fronting a Beatles cover band, and on a whim, between sets he timidly approached the singer's table and asked him about the Marianne in the song, "More than a Feeling".

After a brief introduction, Newlan went on to recount how he had an old girlfriend who was named Marianne, and how the song's lyrics held an added significance to him, and how had always been curious about the identity of the woman in the song.

And although Delp was reluctant to discuss the origins of the song, Newlan's acutely keen intuition picked up on a glimpse of sadness emanating from the shy troubadour's warm smile as they discussed his band's deep album cuts.

Newlan could have sworn that he even detected a hint of misty dew forming in the corner of Delp's cloudy eyes, and so, sensing that he had touched a nerve, he changed the subject, and they chatted amicably about music in general for a moment or two.

"Now that's a true artist and one hell of a down to Earth good guy...you'd never know he was a rock star," mused Newlan as he turned and walked away from the friendly and extremely gifted musician.

About a year after this encounter, Newlan was shocked and saddened to learn that Delp had committed suicide; a note found pinned to his body read: 'Jai une ame solitaire. I am a lonely soul.'

As the word of Delp's death spread, Newlan scoured the internet, searching in vain for an answer to a riddle which could never be properly explained. And as he grieved for another fallen hero, he agonizingly thought to himself, "Maybe sometimes the pain in these three minute pop songs is the real thing after all."

...

And speaking of three minute pop songs, on the "Breakup Songs" side of "Marianne's Mix Tape" were tunes such as "Mixed Emotions" by The Rolling Stones and "Can we still be Friends" by Robert Palmer (although, this particular song was actually written by another one of Newlan's favorite artists, Todd Rundgren).

A couple of Rundgren's songs also graced the tape, including the achingly beautiful ballad, "A Dream Goes on Forever". The song's lyrics were so powerfully heartbreaking, and yet somehow at the same time hopeful, that they never once failed to leave Newlan with a spine-tingling case of the goose-bumps.

Another example of the type of sad songs of love-and-loss which Newlan had hand-selected for the mix tape was the Billy Vera tune "At This Moment" which included a scorned lover's "give me one more chance" plea, delivered on bended knee.

But the pièce de résistance on Side B of the homemade tape was the song "Babe" by the band Styx. This was Plante's favorite song back in the day when she and Newlan were an item, and Newlan, who was known to overanalyze lyrics to the nth degree, had a feeling right then and there that this tune was going to come back to haunt him someday. How could it not, what with lines that chronicled the story of a man who felt as if he had no other choice but to walk away from his one true love?

Even to this day, if perchance the song "Babe" were to be played by the DJ on the soft rock radio station while Newlan was tooling around town in his car, his reflexive reaction would be to immediately change the station. And truth be told, he really had no choice in the matter, because he knew full well that this futile out-of-sight, out-of-mind defensive recoiling was his only hope at avoiding the inevitable pangs of heartache which were bound to overtake him and swallow him alive. Otherwise, if he elected to listen to the song, he ran the risk of falling apart at the seams, on the spot, which in turn would have forced him to pull his car over, regardless of sentimentality, until the tune ran its course, for fear of getting into an accident.

But other than the heart-wrenching Styx song, "Babe", which was off-limits as far as Newlan was concerned, he was a sucker for a tear-jerking ballad any day of the week, and whenever he'd crank up one of these silly little love songs while taking a joint-smoking cruise with his partner in crime, Bruce Reardon, the cynical Reardon would end up putting the screws to Newlan with the same age-old question, over and over again.

"Frankie, what the hell do you see in these sappy, emotional, mush-filled songs anyway?"

To which Newlan would just shrug his shoulders and contemplatively reply, "Hey everyone has different tastes in music... and I guess I'm just a sentimental old fool."

And while there is probably nothing dramatically out-of-the-ordinary about someone sending a mix tape of meaningful songs to a former lover in a futile attempt to win that person back, there _was_ something on this tape that was rather unique.

Newlan, being the amateur musician that he was, owned a rack-full of rudimentary recording equipment at the time, as well a Casio keyboard, complete with a built in drum machine, and so each side of the aforementioned mix tape began with a Frank Newlan original song written specifically for Marianne Plante. The song on Side A of the tape was simply titled, "Marianne", while the song on Side B was entitled, "Fade Away".

Newlan wasn't a sound engineer by any stretch of the imagination and his equipment wasn't sophisticated enough to produce a quality recording, but he managed to come up with a haunting intro to the song, "Marianne" by repeatedly whispering the word "Marianne" on one track of his multi-track tape recorder, and the words "I wanna marry you" on another track.

The fruits of his labor might not have been so memorable if it weren't for the fact that Newlan somehow rigged up his guitar effects box into his singing microphone, and he recorded the intro with as much echo, reverb, and delay as he could muster. The final outcome of his tinkering was that the words "Marianne" and "marry you" overlaid each other on the master tape and bounced from speaker to speaker, and he made the special effects even more pronounced by adding a touch of fade and pan to the already altered vocals.

When Newlan played the recording back for the first time he was stunned by the chilling results of his experimentation. He wasn't much of a singer, but the flanging sound-effects masked the deficiencies in his voice just enough so that his confidence soared, and with a ragged determination he resolved to himself; "Someday I'll send her a copy of this song." And of course, as we have learned, Marianne Plante now held that very copy in her hand.

Plante decided to play the A Side of the tape, and she clumsily sang along with Newlan's raspy voice, since, by now, after hundreds of repeated plays over the years, she knew every word by heart...and at this time we would also like to present these same words to you, the dear reader, for your consideration:

MARIANNE (words and music by Frank Newlan)

Marianne, Marianne, Marianne

I wanna marry you, I wanna marry you, I wanna marry you

Marianne, Marianne, Marianne

I wanna marry you, I wanna marry you, I wanna marry you

The time for me is coming soon to put down all my toys

Walk out the door on my own and face things like a man

But boys will be boys and I might never change

Can't you see I'm finding it oh so hard to change

But all I can hope for, is that I do all I can

Can't you see I need you

Marianne, Marianne

I wanna marry you

Marianne, Marianne

I've got to live up to my mistakes and fight right back with all it takes

Build a home in this angry world and find my peace of mind

I promise you the Promised Land, if you promise me your hand

You know what you mean to me, now it's up to you

You said they'd catch me when I fall

But I love you more than them all

Can't you see I love you

Marianne, Marianne

I wanna marry you

Marianne, Marianne

I know you get so afraid, we're growing up so fast

But you'll never know how much I've paid, 'cause you're my first and last

Someday we will meet again, pack our bags and run away

Build a home in the country side, and watch the world grow old

And I'll hold your body next to mine

' _Til the winter chill becomes sunshine_

Can't you see I need you

Marianne, Marianne

I wanna marry you

Marianne, Marianne

Should all my dreams fall apart, fall apart and fade away

I sincerely hope that in your heart, I still have a place to stay

Because more than all the precious gold, scattered across the land

More than anything in this world, I need your love so bad

I'll try to say, best as I can

I'm in love with you, Marianne

Can't you see I love you

Marianne, Marianne

I wanna marry you

Marianne, Marianne

Marianne, Marianne, Marianne

I wanna marry you, I wanna marry you, I wanna marry you

Marianne, Marianne, Marianne

I wanna marry you, I wanna marry you, I wanna marry you

And so, there you have it, written in stone for all time; Frank Newlan's ode to Marianne Plante.

As you peruse Newlan's very personal if somewhat schmaltzy lyrics, some of you might sympathize with his yearning quandary, while others might instead see a pathetic man clinging onto something that never really was.

Newlan's old friend, Bruce Reardon fell into the latter category, and he spent many a night with Newlan back in the 80's after his breakup with Marianne Plante, trying to convince him to forget about her once and for all.

"There are plenty of fish in the ocean...it's time to move on," Reardon would plead to his best buddy who was going through a period of deep depression. And as Newlan was prone to do, he sheltered his heart by quoting a song which he deemed meaningful to his condition, such as the Doobie Brothers tune, "What a Fool Believes".

"Bruce it doesn't matter what you or anyone else says because...well...you just can't change what a fool believes," was just one Newlan's many clever rejoinders meant to mask his sorrow and deflect the pain away like an armored shield combating a sword-wielding warrior in the days of yore.

Ironically enough, years later, Newlan would return the favor by helping to guide Reardon through a similar situation when his previous fiancé called off their wedding engagement.

But in any event, regardless of what we might think of Newlan as an idealistic lyricist, or as a conflicted person, as the love songs tape played softly in the background, the object of his affections all those years ago, Marianne Plante, neatly composed the following letter:

Dear Frankie,

Surprise! It's your old friend Marianne Plante (although my legal name is now Marianne Willis). How/what are you doing these days?? Hope all is well.

I'm sure you're surprised to hear from me after all of these years, but for some reason I've been thinking about you lately and I decided that its high-time I should write to you and somehow try to express what's been on my mind for so long now.

I know that things didn't end well between us, and that we were both young and immature, but I've come a long way since then as I'm sure you have too. I remember when I gave you my high school picture I wrote on the back that I'd never forget you, and one thing you need to know is that I have NEVER, ever, forgotten about you, Frankie.

I still regret that I never came to see your band play after you made it out to the nightclub circuit (although I'm sure you were great!), and even though I know you never became famous like you dreamed about, in my eyes you will always be a star.

My mother told me that you work at Tafts University now. She's been working there for almost 30 years herself (actually since around the time when we first met). She also told me that you bumped into her and reintroduced yourself, and that you asked for me, which must have been hard (or then again, maybe not).

She mentioned that you're living in that fancy luxury high-rise complex in Medford near the mall, so I imagine that you must be doing OK for yourself. She said that you even have a view of Boston...NICE!! She also told me that you're still single. So why no one special in your life yet??!!

I know I told you when we broke up that you should forget about me so that you could make room in your heart for the woman who you really belong with...but honestly a piece of me is glad that you haven't found her yet, because at times I think that maybe we were meant for each other all along. Does that make me a bad person?

As for me (as you know from my mother), I'm married, and me and my husband Tom have two beautiful daughters. We waited a while before we had kids (Tom was a little slow in that department), and although I love my daughters more than words could ever express, I wish I could say that I'm happily married. But I imagine that all marriages go through rocky periods at some point or another.

Well I'm sure I've bored you enough for now. I hope you don't hate me for sending you this letter. I don't want to mess up your life like I did before. I guess I was just was hoping that maybe we could put the past behind us and be friends again. The truth is I miss you Frankie.

BTW: I drove by your complex one day while I was down that way visiting my mother, and I saw the address on the sign out front so I stopped in the parking lot and wrote it down. I know this sounds crazy, but I could almost feel your presence, and I kept looking for you to hopefully pull up and recognize me. Of course we probably both look different by now...it's been a long time Frankie.

Love,

Marianne

PS: Maybe I'll call you sometime, you know just to say hello. I looked you up in the phone book which was easy since you're still the only Frank Newlan listed in Medford!

And so Marianne Plante completed another letter addressed to Frank Newlan, but this time she actually got up the nerve to tiptoe past her comatose husband and slip on out the front door. This time she got up the nerve to make her way beyond the white picket fence that bordered her neatly landscaped front yard. This time she got up the nerve to walk on down the street over to the mailbox and open up the lid...but just as she was about to drop the letter in the box, at the last minute she hesitated and had second thoughts.

"Why am I doing this? I ruined the poor guy's life once already. God knows what this will do to him," she pleadingly debated with herself as a tear ran down her cheek. At that point, she had lost her nerve, and she was just about to turn around and go home, when all of a sudden, out of nowhere, a black car sped by with its headlights turned off.

The rumbling automobile startled Plante, and her jitters caused the letter to slip out of her right hand, while her left hand still held onto the slightly opened mailbox lid. And as fate would have it, this unintentional convergence of destinies sent the envelope falling serendipitously into the slot; so like it or not, it was too late for Marianne Plante to do anything other than to accept the notion of karma in action.

"Oh well, what's done is done. I guess it was meant to be. God must have wanted me to send that letter. Everything happens for a reason...and whatever happens next...good, bad or indifferent...it's out of my hands," whispered a decidedly indecisive Plante. And although she had resorted to speaking in well-worn clichés, her mood was cheered considerably by the mere act of pondering the unknown consequences that the letter might bring wandering into her life.

As to whether a high power had a hand in delivering Marianne Plante's letter to Frank Newlan, we cannot say, but what we do know for a fact is that the driver of the car which startled her was none other than Brent Blain, Private Detective extraordinaire of the Boston Intelligence Group.

...

Dear reader, while the text of Marianne Plante's letter only hints at the depths of her despair, the amateur psychiatrist in each of us might find ourselves stumbling upon a veritable treasure trove of confusion, buried deep within the lines of her scrambled words, if only we were to look deeply enough. On the other hand, one of the more concrete details that we are able to ascertain from her missive is the fact that her mother, like Newlan, was also employed by Tafts University.

However, Mrs. Plante's office was located in a building on the other side of campus, and for the longest time their paths never crossed. In fact, Newlan didn't even know that she worked at the University until one seemingly insignificant day about nine years into his tenure at Tafts, there happened to be a going-away party in the cafeteria for a woman in the Accounting Department who was leaving for a new job, and on the other side of the room Newlan spied what looked to be a familiar face...but he couldn't quite place it.

Not knowing what else to do, Newlan consulted with his know-it-all colleague Bob Parant, asking "Hey Bobby, who's that woman sitting over there in the corner?"

And when Parant replied, "Marie Plante," Newlan almost fainted and muttered his favorite words of disbelief; "Man, you can't make this shit up."

"Thanks Bobby...finally some information I can use for a change," sarcastically exclaimed Newlan as he excused himself, and with some trepidation he ambled over to the mother of his long lost, but never forgotten, lover, and quietly said hello.

As Newlan and Mrs. Plante exchanged pleasantries and got caught up on the state of affairs in her daughter's life, his observant intuition became in tune to the fact that she never once mentioned her son-in-law, and she also appeared to be quite interested in the fact the he was still single.

Newlan and Mrs. Plante must have chatted for at least a half hour, and when it finally came time to say goodbye, with a twinkle in her eye, she offered her regards; "It was a pleasure talking to you Frank... and I'll let Marianne know you were asking for her."

And so with a pang of nostalgia lingering in his suddenly aching heart, Newlan listlessly retreated from the conversation, but just the same, he thought to himself, "what a small world, bumping into Marianne's mother like this...I'm glad to hear that she's doing well. But wait a minute...I never said I was asking for her."

Newlan wistfully wondered about the encounter with Mrs. Plante for many months afterwards, and in his impressionable mind he agonized over whether the chance meeting could somehow be a sign from high up above, apprising him that he might someday be miraculously reunited with his high school sweetheart. However, as day after day went by, and nothing miraculous in the least happened, he came to a sad conclusion.

"Give it up...she made it clear long ago that it was over between us, and that I needed to get on with my life...so why am I still thinking about her all these years later when I know full well that she's a married woman and the mother of two young kids?"

And yet the truth was that Newlan had never really completely gotten over Marianne Plante, and being the hopeless romantic that he was, sometimes late at night, he still longed for...the only woman...he ever loved.

### Chapter 28 – Two Tough Cops

Friday morning June 6, 2008 – 12:05 AM

Frank Newlan and his childhood friend Sergeant Jimmy Leach of the Medford Police Department didn't see much of each other anymore, so they were both quite happy to use this chance encounter outside of O'Toole's Tavern and Grill as an excuse to catch up on current events and have a few drinks for old-time sakes.

These days Leach was just as likely to go out for a beer with his cop buddies after work as he was with his old gang. And although Newlan, Horn, Reardon, Leach and the rest of their crew were still close friends, between jobs, and families, and other commitments, they were lucky if they all got together as a group once a year. And to make matters worse, Leach worked his share of overtime, graveyard, and weekend shifts in attempt to make ends meet on his less than stellar police department wages, so his availability for partying with his old friends was limited at best, and practically non-existent at worst.

In their younger days before Leach joined the force, it seemed as if there was a blowout scheduled just about every weekend, and invariably, Leach was the life of the party every time.

Back in those days, Leach did just as much partying as anyone in their gang of friends, which is why to this day a strange sensation would come over Newlan whenever he'd bump into his old friend patrolling around town, toting a gun and a pair of handcuffs; it was a feeling akin to being trapped in some sort of bizarre alternate universe, and the irony of Leach's contrasting lifestyles never ceased to amaze him.

Leach, who was also around the same age as Newlan, was a squat man of about 5' 5", and although he possessed a stocky build, he kept himself in decent enough shape, working out at the Medford Police Academy gym. But nevertheless, he had always been encumbered by a bit of a complex when it came to his height, which, when combined with his quick Irish temper, got him and Newlan into their share of barroom brawls back in the wild-eyed days of their youth.

Of course, Newlan wasn't too worried about some random group of punks starting any trouble with them on this night, because despite their age, they could still take care of themselves, and when you added Leach's fellow cop friend into the equation (he was much younger than they were and built like an ox to boot), it was unlikely that anyone would even look at them the wrong way, never mind start a fight.

"Two tough cops and one crazy drunk...no one's gonna mess with us...that's for sure," presumed Newlan. And even though his barroom brawling days were over as far as he was concerned, as they walked back into the pub, a semi-scandalous thought occurred to him anyway.

"Hey Jimmy are you allowed to be out drinking in uniform, especially with your cruiser parked outside? That's all we need, is to end up on the front page of the daily newspaper because some liquored-up dudes decide to take on the off-duty lawmen."

"What do you mean drinking? We're just stopping off to get a bite to eat after our shift. You know...on the restaurant side of the tavern...at one of the tables with the private booths...and besides we're peace-loving cops," replied Leach with a wink. "Plus we're not really in uniform. Do you see a gun on me? Oh and by the way, we're driving an unmarked car."

"Hey Gary this is a good buddy of mine, Frank Newlan...Frankie this is Gary Graves," added Leach as he turned to introduce Newlan to his partner.

Newlan shook the bulldog of a cop's enormous hand and sat down as Leach got a waitress's attention and ordered up a round of beers...but something about Leach's partner struck him...and then it finally sank in.

"Graves...that name rings a bell...I wonder," thought Newlan as he studied Graves warily, and hesitantly said, "you're not related to..."

But before Newlan could even finish his question, Graves answered it for him.

"My father's on the force...so if that's what you were gonna ask...you can give it a rest."

Upon the dissemination of this upsetting news, Newlan discreetly glanced over at his friend, Jimmy Leach, who was having a good laugh for himself, seeing as how the unfortunate episode from Newlan's past had just dawned on him too.

"That's right, your old man busted Newlan once. It must have been 20 years ago...right Frankie?" trumpeted Leach, and he went on to fill in some of the sordid details for his partner's amusement.

"Oh sure, you had to remind me...and by the way, it was 28 years ago. And believe it or not I was just thinking about that little episode yesterday. Man, you can't make this shit up," sheepishly replied Newlan.

"And incidentally I was found not guilty," added a defensive Newlan as he stared down the massive Officer Graves.

"Relax pal...you're not the first person I've ever met who got busted by my dad," gruffly retorted Graves.

Based on the tone of his response, Newlan realized that he may have upset the younger Graves. But regardless of the blood relations that Graves shared with Newlan's former rival, his intentions were never meant to get on the bad side of Leach's cop partner, and so he apologized with all the sincerity he could muster.

"Sorry, but I'm a little tense right now...long story," confided Newlan.

"No problem...if I had a buck for every dude my dad hauled in, I'd be a rich man by now," replied Graves with a chuckle.

In an attempt to lighten the mood, Newlan mischievously winked at the two cops and admitted, "Hey I gotta stay on your good side. You never know when I might get pulled over someday...and I'm not above throwing out names."

"As long as you are in Medford...if you ever get pulled over...just tell 'em you know me. Even if you're shit-faced...they'll drive you home, no questions asked" offered Graves in a reconciliatory tone.

"Thanks...I'll drink to that," exclaimed Newlan as he raised his glass and shook Graves' hand again, and now that the ice was broken, they all had a good laugh, and Newlan let down his guard a few degrees. It wasn't every day that he got a chance to hang out with cops, drinking at a bar, so he was a little bit uptight about the company that he was presently keeping, and of course the Breslin trial continued to pop uncontrollably into his head when he least expected it, which didn't help matters either.

"Hey Jimmy, how come you've never offered to arrange a chauffeured ride home for me, just in case I ever get hauled in for being drunk? I've known you since I was 13 years old for Christ's sake," demanded Newlan in a teasing manner.

"Because I'm the one who'd probably be pulling your ass over, you son of a bitch," jokingly replied Leach, and his humorous banter elicited another guffaw from his partner.

"By the way, Graves...Newlan here works at Tafts," sidetracked Leach in a covert attempt to steer the subject away from the possibility of an old friend uttering his name in a veiled attempt to get out of trouble with the law.

Leach would occasionally get calls from people he hadn't talked to in 20 years wanting him to fix a parking ticket, which would annoy the hell out of him. And besides, most cops didn't really have the type of pull that Graves was insinuating they had, so he didn't want Newlan getting any ideas.

" _Really_...I use to work on the Tafts Campus Police force before I became a Medford cop, and truthfully, sometimes I wonder why I ever quit. Granted I make more money now, but those college girls love a man in uniform," slyly explained Graves.

"Speaking of on-the-job perks...it's not just the college girls who love a man in uniform. You wouldn't believe how many babes have hit on me over the years just because I'm a cop...and some of these chicks I've pulled over have gotten really outrageous on me. I swear, I've been offered blow jobs on the spot. And one time I'm writing up this fox, and I swear to God, as I bring her the ticket, I look down, and there's her naked bush staring up at me," insisted Leach.

"Yeah but admit it Jimmy, half the time they end up being transvestites," added Graves as they all howled with laughter.

"Medford's finest...gotta love it," exclaimed Newlan as he raised his glass for another toast.

To a man, Leach and his cop buddies enjoyed telling their war stories, and it seemed that the more drinks they pounded down, the raunchier their stories got; and tonight was no exception.

Not to be outdone, Newlan, who had his own share of titillating adventures to recount, joined in on the fun as well, and it didn't take long before the three men became engaged in a good natured game of "top this", both on the story-telling _and_ the drink-guzzling front.

And so after a few more rounds of drinks, and a few more rounds of bawdy tales from the naked city, a slightly drunk Officer Graves slurred, "You're a good egg Newlan...what did my father bust you for anyway?"

"You're not gonna believe this one but...drinking in public," dramatically announced Newlan, and the drunken trio proceeded to roar hysterically at the ridiculousness of it all.

"His dad is actually a good guy. He's mellowed a lot over the years...the senile old bastard," attested Leach, as the laughs resumed anew.

However, laughter and kidding aside, at some point during one of Graves' animated yarns, Newlan observed that the roughhousing cop's right hand appeared to be bruised and swollen, and without thinking twice, he asked, "What the hell happened to your hand?"

As soon as the words left his mouth, Newlan groaned to himself; "Oh shit, I shouldn't have gone there...when am I gonna learn to mind my own business?"

But of course it was already too late for that.

As it turned out, Newlan had nothing to worry about because Graves was enjoying the attention and he drunkenly replied to the inquiry without giving it a second thought.

"I busted some punk earlier tonight...and his face accidentally fell into my fist," explained Graves, and once again the two officers of the law laughed heartily at their "cop humor", but this time Newlan didn't find the joke quite so amusing.

"If I didn't know better Graves, I'd think you were high or something," speculated Newlan, and for the second time in less than a minute, he immediately regretted vocalizing his observations, for fear of offending the hard-living cop.

However, by this late hour of the evening, Gary Graves was having too much fun to be offended by anything a scrawny civilian like Frank Newlan had to say to him. On the contrary, Graves broadcast his intentions rather loudly, and in a tone that seemed to imply he didn't care who heard him.

"Speaking of getting high...I have some business to take care of...so gentlemen if you'll excuse me for a minute, I'll be back shortly," proclaimed Graves, and off he went out to the unmarked patrol car, to take care of "business" as he so succinctly put it.

Newlan, who wasn't born yesterday when it came to the ways of the world, frowned suspiciously over at his life-long friend, but Leach just shook his head in return, and in an authoritative tone, he simply said, "Don't ask."

On the plus side as far as Newlan was concerned, now that it was just the two of them at the table, he felt as if he could open up to Leach about a couple of topics of discussion that were suddenly grating on his mind.

"Jimmy, did Graves really beat up some punk tonight?" wondered Newlan.

"I wasn't there at the time, but knowing him, I'm sure he did, and I'm sure the punk deserved it," replied Leach quietly as he glowered into his beer, and the seriousness of his response was in sharp contrast to the jovial stories that he had been telling just a few minutes ago.

"Come on Jimmy. Remember that time we were loitering in the McDonald's restaurant in Medford Square when we were kids, and the cops told us to screw...and you moved a bit too slowly for them, so they beat the shit out of you?" asked a now dead-serious Newlan.

"Yeah, but I deserved it...I was a punk back then," replied a defensive Leach; the police officer in him taking precedent over his former youthful self to the point where he was actually defending the bastard cops who had beaten him up all those years ago.

"I wanted to help, but the cops told me to take a hike or I'd be next, and I was scared shitless," confessed Newlan in a voice tinged with panic.

"Hey, there was no sense in both of us getting our asses kicked. Let me give you a tip Frankie...once a cop starts getting aggressive on you, just go limp. Same as they teach us to do if we're attacked by a wild dog or something. You show the least bit of fight, and they're gonna pound you even harder."

"And then they charged you with assault and battery on a police officer, and resisting arrest...when all you did was stand there and took their beating," added a now outraged Newlan.

"Yeah, but then they didn't show up for the court hearing, and I got off, so it all worked out. That's the way it works Frankie, we beat someone up, and then we let 'em go...no harm done," explained Leach as he vainly attempted to expound on the dog-eat-dog laws of the land for Newlan's benefit.

"So what are you saying...the cops get to play judge, jury and executioner?" stammered a drunken Newlan, a bit more forcefully than he had intended to, as he drained down another beer.

"Yeah, that's basically it. Look Frankie, it's fucked up out there, you wouldn't believe the shit that goes on...and I'm just talking about quaint suburban Medford. Try driving through certain sections of Boston late at night, and you'd be lucky to get out alive," rationalized Leach in a philosophical tone.

And even though the two old friends were having a lively discussion, they weren't even close to being mad at each other...but then again, everyone has their breaking point.

Newlan could feel himself drifting off into a pensive mood as Leach went up to the bar to order another round of beers...and when he returned to the table, Newlan had a probing question waiting in the ready for him.

"Hey Jimmy, remember that time you told me that you guys do whatever you have to do to make an arrest stand up in court...what did you mean by that?"

"I never fuckin' said that...what the hell are you talking about Frankie?" growled a defensive Leach, albeit rather unconvincingly.

"Your full of shit, Leach," uncharacteristically boomed Newlan as he practically spit into his beer. He even surprised his own self with his angry reaction, but he was too drunk to back down now.

"Fuck you Newlan...you wanna go outside and settle this," shot back Leach with a glaring look that clearly stated; "Now you're pissing me off."

However, just as the contentious conversation was on the brink of disintegrating into a full-scale argument, something struck Newlan funny about the idea of going outside with his childhood friend and settling their differences, which caused him to crack up laughing, and soon both men were in hysterics.

But when the laughter finally died down, Newlan withdrew back into a pensive mood again, which had Leach resorting to a bit of soul-searching.

"What's eating at you Frankie...all of a sudden you don't seem like your happy-go-lucky self tonight?" wondered an inquisitive Leach.

"Well, I really didn't want to talk about it, but I guess I can tell you since you're a cop and all. I'm on jury duty...a murder trial...a fuckin' murder trial, Jimmy. It's only been one day and I'm already a basket case," acknowledged Newlan who was now on the verge of tears. "We might have to put this guy away for life...for life, Jimmy...and it's eating away at me."

As Leach became aware of the pain that was being emitted from somewhere deep within the core of Newlan's emotional words, he felt a sudden swell of sympathy for his old friend.

"Come on Frankie...pull yourself together...there's no need to worry yourself sick over this. These guys we bring in for murder are usually thugs or lunatics."

"Yeah, but the lawyers are already playing games, and I have a feeling that it's only gonna get worse as the trial goes on," replied a sniffling Newlan.

"Relax Frankie...you said it's only been one day. Just use your common sense and let it play out," reassured Leach, but then his police mentality kicked in again and he added a few more words of wisdom to his sage advice. "These guys are never innocent...give us some credit. We don't bust innocent people for murder. All right, I admit it, granted sometimes the detectives have to stretch the facts a hair to make sure we get a conviction, but what would you prefer, a murderer walking the streets because of a technicality? It's the lesser of two evils."

"But what if they make a mistake? I saw on the news recently where they let an innocent dude free after twenty years in prison. I don't want that in the back of my mind for the rest of my life," whimpered Newlan as he covered his head in his hands. Clearly he had had too much to drink.

"It doesn't work that way Frankie. If someone gets screwed over for something they didn't do, then they usually did something worse that they were lucky enough to get away with, or no one ever found out about. These guys who are supposedly innocent and somehow get out of the slammer, they usually end up right back in the can within a year...it's a fact...look it up," affirmed Leach.

However, in Newlan's current state of mind, Leach's arguments were only confusing him even more than he already was, and he began tearing up again.

"I gotta get off this fuckin' trial," muttered a slobbering Newlan, but then just as quickly, he got a handle on his failing emotions, and he was primed for more booze.

"You ready for another beer, Jimmy?" spritely asked Newlan, but Leach had other ideas.

"No, you're shut off Frankie...let me get you a cup of coffee," offered Leach. He didn't mean to insult Newlan, but rather he was just trying to be a good friend, and when he returned with two cups of strong Columbian brew, he pried a little deeper into his buddy's problem.

"So what case are you on anyway that's got you all wound up like this?"

"Believe it or not, I somehow got myself roped into the John Breslin hit-man murder trial...have you been following it on the news?" dubiously replied Newlan.

Upon taking in Newlan response, Leach's demeanor turned unusually somber, and a look of concern spread like crab-weed across his face. But after a moment of quiet contemplation, he offered up a revised dishful of advice for Newlan to chew on.

"You better watch yourself Frankie...and whatever you do, don't talk to the press."

"Why, have you heard something about the case?" wondered an alarmed Newlan. He sensed the air of dismay in his friend's facial expression, and the distress was rubbing off on him.

"Well, I have heard that Sammy the Fox, the dude who supposedly pulled the trigger, has mob ties. Now I'm not saying that he did it...all I'm saying is that you need to be careful," interjected Leach.

"Understood," obediently replied Newlan.

"Now Breslin, on the other hand, he's a lightweight. I'd be much more worried about you if you ended up on Fox's jury. Breslin just got mixed up with the wrong crowd of people, and he thought he was a hot shit...and now...well, look at where it got him. He's probably gonna end up in prison for the rest of his life. Not to say that I wouldn't have done the same thing if someone was fuckin' around with my wife. I'd just be more careful that I didn't get caught. I don't know, but this Breslin character doesn't sound like he's the brightest bulb on the block if you ask me," theorized Leach.

Newlan wasn't sure whether Leach's hypothesis was strictly a case of conjecture, or whether he had a cache of inside sources funneling him information, after all he was a police officer. But regardless, he stubbornly made his doubts known, loud and clear.

"Well so far, I think he's innocent, and it's gonna take a shitload of evidence to convince me otherwise."

Newlan's proclamation, in turn, left Leach seething with frustration and shaking his head in surrender. Everything he had just tried to explain to his old pal about how the system worked seemed to have gone in one ear and out the other. But after a few minutes of back and forth jabbering, Leach offered up an empathetic proposal.

"I tell you what. I'll see what I can find out, and if I come up with anything, I'll give you a call. But this is between you and me. I could get screwed over big-time for doing this. But hey, you're my friend...and friends come first. I just want you to have some peace of mind, regardless of how the case turns out."

"You're a good friend," driveled an emotional and very drunk Frank Newlan. Yet despite his dual impairments, he was aware enough to recognize a good deed when he saw one. And furthermore, he was touched by Leach's offer, and it showed in his demeanor.

Leach, on the other hand, promptly considered the feasibility (or lack thereof) of his generous offer, and he preferred not to dwell on his impulsiveness.

"What do say we change the subject Frankie? Are you still enjoying the condo lifestyle? We get calls to go to your complex all the time...nothing serious...usually just your typical domestic stuff. You know, drunken husband slaps around wife...that sort of thing," elucidated Leach, while at the same time trying his best to stifle a persistent yawn which was an inevitable byproduct from working all kinds of crazy hours.

"Yeah, it seems as if the cops show up at the complex just about every other day, but it's not too surprising...there are 260 units between the two buildings...it's like a little city. We should probably have our _own_ police force," expounded Newlan, and then in a neighborly tone he urged; "Hey if you're ever in the vicinity you should stop by and say hello."

"I'd love to, but when I'm in your neck of the woods, it's strictly business," replied Leach with a laugh, and just like that, the two old friends were back to having a relaxed conversation, reminiscing about their boisterous past.

"Hey Jimmy, remember that time back in high school when I got so drunk that I ended up passed out in the park, and you stayed with me all night until I was sober enough to crawl home?"

"Yeah Frankie, I remember it well. Ah, those were the days. But what about all those times when _I_ was so drunk that I'd black out, and the next day you'd fill me in on what happened...and I'd be like, 'are you shitting me, I did that?'"

Meanwhile, after about twenty minutes of doing whatever it was he was doing outside in the unmarked cruiser, Medford Police Officer Gary Graves made his grand re-entrance into O'Toole's Tavern and Grill, with his head in the clouds and his feet walking on air.

Apparently the punks that Graves had busted earlier in the evening were in possession of some unknown contraband, which he decided to keep for himself, and all it took was one sampling of the haul for him to determine that his efforts were quite fruitful indeed.

And although Newlan wasn't privy to exactly what Graves was up to, he wasn't the least bit shocked to see him come strolling back into the bar even higher than he was when he left on his mini sojourn.

As Graves ventured toward the lounge area of the pub, he happened to stumble upon a table which held three young women ranging in age from their late 20's to their early 30's, and of course, being a man in uniform as he was, he attracted the ladies attention.

"Good evening ladies," exclaimed Graves as he tipped an imaginary cap, while at the same time he attentively observed that their table was littered with empty drinks, and on top of that, they appeared to be quite receptive to his friendly advances.

"Hmmm, three drunken bitches without dates...in a dive of a bar...at this hour of night...they can only have one thing on their mind," deduced Graves and it was clear what he would do next.

"Ladies, would you care to join us for a nightcap?" he asked, and sure enough, the party girls accepted his invitation.

As Graves approached his partner's table accompanied by the three tipsy women, Leach nudged Newlan with his elbow and happily rendered his stamp of approval.

"Looks like my boy brought back some presents with him. I taught him well...never show up at the party empty-handed."

And in turn, Newlan smiled widely and replied with the glee of a child on Christmas morning.

"Despite his lineage, I'm starting to like you partner more and more by the minute. Those babes gotta be at least 20 years younger than us. But hey, if they don't mind then I'm not complaining."

"Fellas, I'd introduce you to the ladies, but we just met ourselves, and I haven't had the pleasure of getting their names yet," drawled Graves as he pulled up a few chairs for their female guests.

Newlan discretely sized up the giggly girls, and sure enough, as if it were some sort of law, two of the young ladies were hot, while one of them was, as he liked to put it, "well...not so much."

And when he realized that he was going to have a tough time competing with the two semi-uniformed cops for equal attention, he mapped out his strategy; "go for the ugly one."

Newlan and the cops were having a good old time for themselves entertaining the impressionable, drunken women, while a few tables away, a handful of the local fledgling regulars sat seething, ready to take on all comers.

Is seems that the six youngsters had been buying the girls drinks all night, and they had squandered most of their meager cash flow on the them, only to have these smooth-talking, asshole, Medford cops and their sleazy friend come swooping in at the last minute and pull the rug out from under them.

And truth be told, if Newlan had realized what was going on, he probably would have sympathized with the young studs to some degree. He and his friends had been burnt in the same manner many a time in their younger days until they finally smartened up.

Actually, for Newlan it only took a few wasteful evenings spent buying drinks for a cute girl all night, and then ending up without even a phone number to show for his troubles, before he rapidly learned his lesson.

Now-a-days Newlan made it a strict policy to only buy drinks for women he was acquainted with. He would just assume spend his hard-earned money buying his friends drinks, rather than using the lure of free drinks as an enticement to try and score a date with some floozy.

But unfortunately the young punks hadn't learned this lesson yet, and they weren't taking defeat as gracefully as Newlan once did in his younger days.

"Fuckin' cops, they think they own the place," grumbled one of the youngsters; and then another added, "yeah, get them alone and they're not so tough"; and then a third added a gaggle of "oink, oink" piggy sounds for good measure.

"Uh oh...I think this could be trouble. I guess I was wrong about no one messing with us," silently surmised a suddenly tense Newlan.

"Ladies, are those guys over there in the peanut gallery friends of yours?" calmly asked Leach while Graves sat waiting in the wings, chomping at the bit for another round of fisticuffs.

"No...no...we just met them," explained the flirty girls, conveniently leaving out the fact they had been drinking for free all night courtesy of the "peanut gallery".

"Good, because if they don't shut up, I may have to re-arrange their faces...which would be an improvement I might add," grumbled Graves, as his hairpin temper began to kick in.

Graves appeared to be experiencing an adrenaline rush at the mere prospect of brawling, and it didn't take long for Leach to concur with his partner's assessment of the situation.

"You ready for some fun and excitement Frankie?" intoned Leach, to which a concerned Newlan cautiously replied, "I don't know...I think I might be getting too old for this stuff."

Even in his heyday, Newlan was usually a peacemaker, not a fighter; although if push came to shove he could handle himself pretty well, and he was always at the ready to assist a friend in need.

"They got us outnumbered, but don't panic, we'll do all the heavy lifting, just watch our backs," instructed Leach.

"You know I'd never bail on you Jimmy. Whatever happens, I'll stick it out until the bitter end," anxiously replied Newlan. And even though he was scared beyond wits end, he meant every word of his vow.

But regardless of whether Newlan was frightened on not, it goes without saying that the young-and-restless locals weren't about to stop their verbal assault. In fact, it seemed for all-the-world as if they were intent on taking down the women-stealing cops and their wimpy-looking friend even if it meant spending the night at the local police station.

However, the punks were about to learn that sometimes it's best to just leave well enough alone, because after enduring a few more rounds of unabated badgering, Gary Graves had had just about enough.

"If you all will excuse me for a minute, I think I'm gonna go have a talk with these fine young gentlemen over here," declared Graves as he uncoiled his 6 foot 4 inch, 235 pound frame and approached the hecklers' table by himself.

"You guys have a problem with me and my friends?" unflinchingly asked Graves, and when the locals got a good look at his linebacker's build, he wasn't too surprised when not one of the young roughnecks so much as said boo to him. But that didn't stop him from spitting out his expert analysis.

"I didn't think so," mocked Graves. He was content with being the bigger man for now, but as he turned around to walk away, the leader of the punks, a pimply, red-faced, husky blond kid who was wearing a scaly cap, threw out a taunting jab, just loud enough for him to hear.

"Go back to Medford, you asshole," came the battle cry from the antagonistic instigator, followed by a few choice words from his cohorts.

Of course, the punk ringleader wasn't planning on waiting around for Graves to respond. The kid was spry and agile, and so within a split second he was out of his seat with an empty beer bottle raised up high, ready to send a haymaker crashing down on the back of Gary Graves' head.

But alas, unfortunately for the young pugilist, he made one fatal tactical error. In retrospect, he should have just silently attacked, because all Graves needed to hear was that last swath of jeering insults from his foes, to set him off like a silverback gorilla. The sneering derision was enough to send him instinctively whipping around with a roundhouse right, primed to make contact with whoever happened to be the closest hoodlum to his rather large fist.

But as fate would have it, the empty beer bottle smashed into the front of Graves' forehead at the exact same moment that his fist absolutely leveled his attacker.

The pulverizing punch connected squarely against the young punk's nose, and sent a sickening thud echoing through the bar, while at the same time, the shattering glass had Graves seeing double.

The force of the blows buckled both men's knees and they collapsed to the floor, knocking over a row of tables in the process, which sent half-empty bottles and glasses flying in every direction.

The punk was unconscious and severely injured, while the hardheaded Graves was rolling around in agony with blood pouring from a cut above his eye. Needless to say, at that point, the melee was on...and mayhem ensued.

After observing what had just taken place, the local gang, along with Leach and Newlan, all converged on the spot where Graves and his opponent were laid out on the floor.

Since Graves was momentarily knocked out of commission, and it would have been one against five, Newlan was once again forced into duty; he was forced into being an unwilling combatant; he was forced into give up his conscientious objector's status. He had promised to stick by his friend; and being a man of his word, that's just what he did, and he did it with a vengeance we might add.

As the scrum developed, one of the youthful thugs began to kick the prone Graves, which enraged Newlan. The kid was so focused on kicking the downed officer that he never noticed Newlan wind up and send him sprawling across two tables with a sucker punch of his own.

When the brawl ensued, Quentin the bartender immediately called 911, and within minutes (although it seemed like hours to Newlan) the Malden Police arrived and restored order.

All five of the brawling punks were arrested, but predictably, Newlan and the two Medford cops were treated like royalty.

"Professional courtesy," Leach whispered to Newlan with a sly wink.

The sixth young punk however wasn't as fortunate as his friends. He would rather have spent the night in jail any day of the week, but instead he was being rushed to the hospital with every bone in his face cracked and splintered like a hardboiled egg.

For his part, Graves refused medical treatment. He was much more concerned with whether he was going to wind up getting into any legal trouble because of his latest transgression. But as he stood outside the bar, with an ice pack on his head, discussing the situation with Malden's finest, they agreed that the five locals would be let go on the condition that everything got hushed up. If anyone asked, their semi-comatose friend got too drunk and slipped, and in the process he smashed his face up against the corner of the bar.

And so with all of the thorny little details ironed out, Graves took a moment to search out Newlan and he thanked him profusely for his help in removing one of the punk's feet from his belly.

"Anything I can ever do for you...you just let me know," offered an insistent and appreciative, not to mention extremely inebriated, Officer Graves.

"No problem...all in a day's work. I'm just pissed off that the ladies took off when the fight started," replied Newlan nonchalantly (understandably, the women made a bee line for the exit as soon as the hostilities began), even though, in reality he was still shaking like a leaf.

"You pack quite a wallop there partner," exclaimed an enthused, albeit exhausted, Leach as he patted Graves on the shoulder.

"Like father like son," declared Newlan, and for the third time of the evening he regretted talking out of turn. He was once again concerned that his commentary might be taken as an insult. He didn't mean any harm; the words just sort of came out without him thinking about what he was saying. But as usual, his concerns were unfounded, because Graves took his remark as another compliment and he proudly replied, "You bet your ass, like father like son."

"And you Frankie...you've done me proud brother," grinned Leach like a proud papa as he wrapped Newlan in a big bear hug which almost knocked him over.

"Are you OK to drive Frankie?" asked a concerned Leach after he caught wind of just how unstable Newlan's balance appeared to be.

"I'm fine," Newlan fibbed as he leaned up against Leach's unmarked cruiser. However, when he attempted to walk over to his car he was definitely a bit wobbly; an observation that didn't go unnoticed by any of the assembled lawmen in his presence.

"Just follow me Frankie, we'll get you home," instructed Leach. And as they pulled out of the parking lot, he turned on the hidden flashing lights of his stealthy car and peeled on down the road with Newlan in hot pursuit.

And so, for the second time in two days, Frank Newlan was being treated...to a police escort.

### Chapter 29 – Rearview Mirror (He Always Looked Back)

Friday morning June 6, 2008 – 6:05 AM

After a night spent alternating between the bedroom and the living room, Frank Newlan was back on the sofa where he lay sprawled out in a fetal position, suffering from a hellacious hangover.

By the time Newlan made it home from his memorable night at O'Toole's Tavern and Grill and dragged his aching body off to bed, it was after 2 o'clock in the morning, so he realized full well that he was going to be in for a long day ahead of him come morning.

It's funny how when we are out on the town, overindulging ourselves, we tend not to consider the repercussions until the next day when we vow, "never again," and right about this time, Newlan was having a "never again" moment for what must have been around the thousandth time in his life.

Newlan should have been exhausted, but for some reason he couldn't sleep, and after tossing and turning in bed for a couple of hours, he decided to try the sofa, which didn't turn out to make a significant difference, so he just lay there with the TV on mute, wide-eyed but blind to the world, like a deer caught in the headlights.

Whether Newlan's sleeplessness was due to his massive headache, or whether it was due to the fact that his body felt as if it had been through a 15 round boxing match, or whether it was due to the adrenaline rush from the barroom brawl, or whether it was due to the fact that the Breslin trial weighed heavily on his mind, we can't be quite sure, but most likely it was a combination of all these things.

But whatever the reason for his insomnia, Newlan grasped the fact that he'd better get some shut-eye soon, even if it was only for an hour or two. Otherwise, he would end up having no choice but to call in sick for jury duty, or worse, he might end up passing out in his comfortable swivel chair, right there in the jury box for all the world to see. And when it came right down to it, he wasn't sure which of the two scenarios frightened him more, and he sure as hell didn't want to find out.

At some point in the middle of the night, Newlan decided to try a few more Advil in hopes that 600 more milligrams of the analgesic might help his pounding headache. He had already taken three tablets as soon as he got home, but he figured a few more couldn't do him any harm. He recalled that when he visited Dr. Clay for a bout of acute back spasms last year, the good doctor prescribed three Advil every six hours, while explaining; "You're a big boy...your body should be able to handle it without a problem" (of course at the time, Newlan was hoping for something a bit stronger, but that's a story for another day).

In any event, as Newlan stumbled around in the darkness on his way to the medicine cabinet, he stubbed his toe on the corner of the coffee table which left him hopping around on one foot...writhing in pain and screaming like a madman.

"If I keep this up, I'm gonna wake up the entire complex...never mind Saeed," groaned Newlan as he limped into the master bathroom and turned on the light. But as luck would have it, the sudden brightness intensified his headache, leaving him feeling nauseous and wobbly, and as is often the case when these types of symptoms occur, projectile vomiting wasn't too far behind.

Newlan felt better afterwards. He hadn't eaten much, so his puke was mostly dry-heaves, and for whatever reason, the regurgitating tightness in his stomach had a sobering effect on him.

And moreover, when Newlan finally arose from worshiping the porcelain god and opened up the medicine cabinet, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and he was startled by just how awful he really looked. His face was pale, and the bags under his bloodshot eyes were showing signs of a serious lack of sleep, and to top it all off he was adorned with a purple welt on the outer corner of his left eyebrow.

After observing the damage, Newlan got up-close and personal with the mirror and examined himself for further injuries. He vaguely recalled taking a glancing blow to the face during the fight, but for the most part, he had emerged unscathed, and it appeared as if the bruise, though it was rather puffy, would not develop into a full-blown shiner.

Of course, that didn't stop Newlan from moaning; "Man, you can't make this shit up...I wonder if it would be OK for me to wear sunglasses in court today?"

And then he bitterly answered his own question; "probably not."

Newlan down the Advil with a splash of tap water and he decided to try the bed again, this time spread-eagle, staring at the ceiling.

And almost immediately upon lying down, the bed began spinning like a whirling dervish. But this time, rather than sending him running back to the bathroom, heaving, the waves of dizziness had a tranquilizing effect on him instead, and he soon fell into an uneasy slumber; the type of slumber which was known to induced his most vivid dreams.

Newlan felt his body hovering weightlessly over the garage next to 435 Commonwealth Ave. in Newton, Massachusetts, and he could clearly see Fred Miller's blue 1999 Nissan Maxima with the "Question Authority" bumper sticker parked in the garage. He could clearly see a man sitting lifelessly in the car. But as his shapeless build floated nearer to the vehicle, he could also see that the man was still alive, talking on his cell phone.

Newlan, who assumed that the man was Fred Miller, urgently wanted to scream, "Get out Fred...run...run for your life...run while you still can." But it was one of those dreams where you open your mouth to speak and no words come out.

And then out of nowhere, Newlan saw a shadowy silhouette step out from the darkness. He could clearly see the ghostly figure open the door to the car and fire a single gunshot into Fred Miller's face. But it was one of those dreams where he was rendered powerless to stop the assailant.

It was also one of those dreams where his vision was magnified, which allowed him to watch the scene play out in slow motion. He could clearly see the bullet ploddingly smash into Fred Miller's cheekbone. He could clearly see the backlash of blood-spatter, as it hung suspended in mid-air before leaving its indelible mark. He could clearly see the tracer as it exited Miller's neck. And he could clearly follow the trajectory of the deadly miniature missile as it came to rest in the passenger side door of Miller's automobile.

Newlan was panicked, but he was also determined to apprehend the murderer, and as such, he made his way to where he expected the red car to be parked. And sure enough, there it was. But as he approached to the scene of the crime, he saw that the vehicle was not a Ford Taurus. As he got closer to the parking spot opposite Fred Miller's car, he observed that the automobile in question was not a small red car, but it was in fact his very own mid-sized 1995 red Mercury Mystique 4 door sedan.

It couldn't possibly be his car, but there it was. There was no mistaking it. It's every detail matched his car to a T, right down to the dinged-up front bumper; and regardless of whether he was dreaming on not, this latest development had Newlan's instincts telling him to flee. Get the hell out of there as fast as his Mercury could carry him. And then, as if by some sort of magical spell, with the blink of an eye he was telepathically transported into the driver's seat of his cozy, familiar vehicle.

Newlan saw himself sitting in his red Mercury, and he saw himself locking the door, and he saw himself starting the engine...when suddenly, a wave of fear engulfed him.

Newlan's face contorted into a horrified state of disbelief as the misty form of the shady, faceless murderer began to grow like an evil seed to his right in the passenger's seat. And when the mirage had reached its full gestation, it slowly crooked its neck in his direction and calmly hissed; "Just drive and don't look back. Never look back."

But Newlan couldn't help himself. He had to look back. He always looked back. He could never leave the past behind him. He could never just let it go as it slowly vanished into the rearview mirror of his life. He had to look back. He always looked back...and so, that's just what he did.

And much to Newlan's surprise, what he saw reflected in the rearview mirror of his past was his high school sweetheart, Marianne Plante, looking for all the world like a lost child as she sat there in the back seat of his car, staring yearningly out the side window, watching hopelessly as some long-forgotten distant memory came back to life again right before her very eyes.

However, for the life of him, what Newlan didn't see was John Breslin seated next to Plante. What he didn't see until it was almost too late was the gun that Breslin had forcefully placed against the back of his head; the same gun that had just ended Fred Miller's life.

And although Newlan may not have been able to see the gun, he could still feel it. He could feel the icy-hot barrel pressed up against his neck, still smoking from the havoc that it had just wreaked on Fred Miller's face. And furthermore, he may not have been able to see Breslin in his vision, but somehow he understood that it was him. Somehow he could hear Breslin's voice before he even spoke a word. He could hear the sinister voice declaring, "You're next Newlan," as the gun clicked in his ear...and a split second later his head was filled with the ringing of an infernal gong, echoing from the depths of Hell.

Beep, beep, beep... beep, beep, beep... beep, beep, beep...tolled the bell; but auspiciously for Newlan, Breslin never did get to pull the trigger; once again his apparition was foiled; this time by the din of his alarm clock as it saved the day when it woke him up just in the nick of time.

It was a rare occurrence for Newlan's internal clock to betray him, but given his inebriated condition, it was understandable why this would be one of those moments.

In Newlan's mind, an occasion such as this was precisely the reason why he always made it a routine to turn on his alarm clock every night before going to bed in the first place.

For in Newlan's twisted psyche, routines became habits, and habits became rituals, and rituals became acts of faith, and blind faith kept him forging ahead day after day, in hopes that tomorrow would be his day; the day when his wildest dreams would finally come true.

You see, for better or for worse, Newlan was a stubborn man who did things his way come hell or high water. He was a man who didn't suffer fools gladly, even though, in many respects he was a fool in his own right. He was a man who could find the good in just about every person he had ever come across. But conversely, the dark side that resides deep within us all tended to leave him leery of his fellow man, which, in turn, led him to never totally trust anyone. He was a man who believed equally in the indefatigable bravery of the human spirit as well as the thin white line that separates man from beast. He was a man who genuinely cared about the many women in his life, and yet at the same time, perhaps, in the truest sense of the word, he loved no one.

In short, Newlan was a confused and lonely man who was burdened with too much pride to ever let anyone get close enough to see how much he was hurting inside. He was a man who carried around too much baggage to ever allow anyone to unearth the dirt that buried his heart in a suffocating box. He was a man who had suffered too much disappointment to ever let anyone penetrate his phantasmal dreams.

It has been said by many a prophet that if you die in your dreams, then you will also die in real life as well, and you will never wake up again. And from the depths of his soul, Newlan believed this to be true. In fact, he was sure it was true based on personal experience.

Ever since he was a kid, Newlan had been haunted by dreams that could have easily spelled his demise. But every single time, he survived unscathed.

Every single time, he always survived those weightless dreams of falling endlessly off a cliff the size of the Grand Canyon.

Every single time, he always survived those horrible dreams of being attacked by a home invader while he just stood there paralyzed, frozen with fear, and like tonight, unable to even speak.

Every single time, he always survived those panic attacks that were caused by a train rushing headlong into his car as it sat, stuck helplessly, on the railroad tracks.

Every single time he thought he was doomed; he woke up just before the darkness overtook him.

Every single time, he woke up, just before he hit the ground.

Every single time, he woke up, just before his attacker's slimy grip caught hold of him.

Every single time, he woke up, just before the train smashed his car into smithereens.

But tonight, tonight had been a close call. Tonight he did not wake up. Tonight, as fate would have it, the hand of God intervened and woke him up when he couldn't do it on his own.

And yet tonight found Newlan wondering whether his time was coming due.

Tonight found Newlan questioning his faith.

Tonight found Newlan wondering whether he even wanted to wake up from his utopian world of heroes and villains.

Tonight found Newlan wondering whether he should even bother setting his alarm clock ever again.

"The problem with alarm clocks," the pseudo-intellectual Newlan once explained in a college philosophy class, "is that they shock us back into the world of reality. Whereas the internal clock allows us to gradually depart from our own personal fantasy land; a land from which, after all, we never really wanted to leave in the first place."

But unfortunately for Newlan, on this fine morning, he was shocked back into reality with a force so devastating that he woke up tangled between his sheets, fighting an imaginary foe, repeatedly shouting, "I have to look back, I always look back."

Not surprisingly, the commotion was too much for Saeed Kahn, who began pounding on his side of the wall. And thankfully for Newlan, Kahn's Morse Coded complaint brought him back to his senses. But as he sat at the edge of his bed with his aching head in his hands, rubbing his eyes, he whispered to himself, "I have to look back, I always look back," and it was only then that the reality of his past failures hit home.

When the abject accursedness of the lingering words "I have to look back, I always look back" suddenly registered in Newlan's mind, he lost all control, and with his finger removed from the dike, he began to cry the cold harsh tears...of hopeless despair.

...

Dear reader, despite Frank Newlan's penchant for the dramatic and his insistence that he possessed some sort of psychic power, there was no way he could have possibly known of the unforeseen turn his life was about to take. And despite his latest dream which shook him to his core, there was no way he could have ever known that he might soon be reunited with the only woman he ever loved.

Or maybe, just maybe, he could know...maybe, just maybe, he did know...but how?

Chapter 30 – The Red Car

Friday morning June 6, 2008 – 7:45 AM

As Frank Newlan sat stalled in traffic, helplessly trapped in a sea of gridlock, he reclined the driver's seat of his red Mercury Mystique ever so slightly and leaned back against the headrest for a brief respite. He figured that if he had to be stuck on the motionless Interstate, then he might as well use the idle time to rest his weary eyes. And as he inched his way towards the Middlesex Superior Courthouse, he repeatedly reminded himself that he was reluctantly willing (if not particularly ready-and-able) to do his civic duty as a member of the jury in the John Breslin murder trial.

It took three more Advil, two cups of coffee, and one stick of reefer, but Newlan's hangover had finally subsided to the point where he could at least blink his eyes without becoming disoriented and falling over in a heap.

The ability to sit and listen shouldn't have been too much for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts to ask of its jurors, and yet, for someone in Newlan's condition, the mastery of these basic skills required an essential set of prerequisites, such as the aforementioned narcotic cocktail.

"Ah, the wonders of weed," exclaimed Newlan as he approached the courthouse. He would often expound upon "the underrated medical properties of marijuana" to anyone who'd listen, and he even went so far as once lecturing Doctor Clay thusly on the matter; "In all my years of drinking, nothing, I repeat nothing, has ever cured a hangover better than a few hits of a joint. I'm telling you...you should do some research on the subject. Maybe write a paper in the Journal of Medicine...you never know, it might make you famous...and by the way caffeine's not bad either."

Unlike some people, Newlan could at least laugh at himself, which is what he did now as he recalled the look on Doctor Clay's face when he expressed his "medical marijuana" hypothesis, lo those many years ago.

"No wonder he thinks I'm crazy," acknowledged Newlan, half out loud to himself, as he yawned heavily while at the same time a stabbing pang of hunger came over him.

Newlan growling tummy had informed him that he was famished from the minute he crawled out of bed, but he wasn't sure whether his unsettled stomach would be able to hold anything down, so he skipped breakfast, lest he interrupt the court proceedings by tossing his cookies. Instead he took an extra long shower which also helped him on his road to recovery; and he needed that little extra bounce in his step earlier this morning when he somehow managed to strategically avoid the wrath of Saeed Kahn.

Kahn had a very hot temper, as well as a short fuse, which could be lit by, "oh I don't know, waking him up out of a sound sleep in the middle of the night," grumbled Newlan while he waited for another light to turn green. But after he cooled off, Kahn would usually go back to being his mild-mannered self again, and if not then "well, then he can go fuck himself," asserted Newlan as his mind replayed the successful attempt at tiptoeing unnoticed, past the distracted doorman earlier this morning.

Between the stabs of hunger and the lack of sleep, Newlan was so drained that he didn't even have the strength to get stressed out over the inevitable traffic jam which he found himself stuck in. And so he just sat there and hunkered down as he patiently provided backing vocal accompaniment to the title track of the Jimmy Buffett CD "Son of a Son of a Sailor" which he had brought along with him for the ride.

The song's tale of a reefer-smuggling mariner, along with last night's adventure, made Newlan nostalgic for the good old days when he and his friends would go out partying and chasing women just about every night of the week...and if push came to shove, brawling their way out of trouble.

"Man I miss those days, but thank God we don't do that every night anymore. Otherwise we'd probably all be dead by now," mused Newlan as he became pensive regarding the direction his life was headed. And with that in mind, he began to reflect on his latest dream.

"What could it mean?" wondered Newlan as he struggled to comprehend the puzzle of his inner mind. "I'm the one who thinks Breslin's innocent, so why is he pointing the gun at me? Why am I next?"

"Hmmm, maybe my subconscious is trying to tell me something. Maybe Jimmy Leach was right. Maybe Breslin _is_ as guilty as DA Lyons says he is. No, I gotta let it play out. I'm not gonna make a rush to judgment like the rest of them," resolved Newlan. But the more he thought about the situation, and the more the details of his dream came back to him, the more confused he became.

"But then why was my car there? And why was Marianne there? And why is she still invading my dreams after all these years?"

Luckily for Newlan, he was stuck in traffic while he was thinking all of these crazy thoughts, for who knows what would have happened if had gone into one of his infamous funks while he was barreling down the highway at 75 miles per hour.

"Sure I was obsessed with her, but that was years ago," admitted Newlan as he glanced into his rearview mirror at the mile-long line of cars stretched out behind him. The truth was, he had come as close as humanly possible to having a total nervous breakdown over Marianne Plante without ever actually going insane. But as tormented as he may have been, he never once stalked her or harassed her in any way. No, his only problem was that he couldn't get her out of his mind.

Newlan didn't realize it just yet, but he would soon become fixated on the Breslin trial in much the same manner that he had once become captivated by his high school sweetheart. Whether this was a character flaw on Newlan's part, or perhaps just a normal reaction given the circumstances he was facing, is up for debate. But in his defense, he would not be the only juror who would become haunted by the trial, much like the fact that he was not the only man who had ever been bewitched by the unsolvable mystery that was Marianne Plante.

"Sure I still think about her once in a while...but is that really so bad? And sure I still have an occasional dream about her...but never anything this weird?"

And then, unexpectedly, it hit him; it hit him like a branch falling from a tree, perhaps the most important lesson of the entire dream; "I have to look back, I always look back."

With the figurative rearview mirror of his life finally coming into focus, Newlan came to an unmistakable conclusion; "I'm still not over her. Even after all these years...I'm still not over her."

The sudden realization rocked Newlan from his crapulent malaise, and somewhere deep within his soul, he ached inside; an ache so painful, he didn't know if it could ever be healed; an angst so deep that it caused him to breakdown until he was on the verge of tears again; an agony so prolonged that it got him to wondering how much longer he could survive this torturous life.

Newlan pounded his fists on the steering wheel, accidentally triggering the horn, which elicited the middle finger from the driver of the car in front of him. But wisely, he ignored the road-raged filled driver. More important to him was the fact that the physical act of punching a solid object somehow provided a strange but soothing therapeutic relief.

"I need to go down to the condo exercise room and swat at the punching bags once in a while," resolved Newlan. "It's better than paying a hundred bucks an hour for a shrink."

If nothing else Frank Newlan was a resilient character, and by the time the Jimmy Buffett CD had segued into his carnivorous hit song, extolling the virtues of "Cheeseburgers In Paradise", he had written off his latest nightmare as a byproduct of having had too much to drink, and he did his best to put the frightening fantasy out of his mind.

"All of a sudden I feel like I could eat a horse," mumbled Newlan as he anticipated filling out his free lunch order, courtesy of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

And so with his mental detour regarding Marianne Plante rerouted, Newlan arrived at the courthouse without incident; it seems he was already becoming quite familiar with the routine of the police checkpoint, the satellite trucks, and the juror parking lot; just as he had become an expert at covering up the tracks of his tears.

Much like yesterday, the early bird Newlan was the first juror to arrive, so he kicked back and relaxed while guzzling down ice-cold Poland Springs Water by the bucketful in a desperate attempt to quench his alcohol-induced thirst.

Patty the amicable senior citizen, who Newlan was already quite fond of, was the next to juror to arrive, and he greeted her warmly while at the same time he tried to remember her name. Luckily it came to him before he misspoke, but just the same he was bewildered by the cautious stare she was sending his way.

"Did I do something wrong?" he asked.

"No," replied a distressed Patty, "but you look like you've been to hell and back."

"Actually, I have been," confessed Newlan with a sad smile. And when that response didn't do the trick to remove the glint of concern from Patty's face, he added, "Sorry, I had a rough night out at the club last night...and this trial isn't helping matters. And by the way, do I really look that bad?"

"To be honest Frank, you look horrible. Do you want me to see if I can get you some ice for that contusion," offered the caring Patty.

"Oh no I'm fine...but thanks anyway," replied Newlan while in the back of his mind he thought, "oh sure she knows my name, but I barely remembered hers...make me feel even worse than I already do why don't you."

"Are you telling me that the trial has something to do with the way you look?" asked a horrified Patty.

"The bruise is totally unrelated...but the baggy, bloodshot eyes...well that's another story. But to be honest with you, I can't get the case off my mind, and I know for a fact that it's gonna drive me crazy...and when I have something on my mind, I can't sleep...and when I can't sleep you get this," explained Newlan as he pointed to his noggin and made an exaggerated, demented facial expression.

"If I may give you some motherly advice...you need to go home tonight, have a nice hot cup of tea, and put yourself to bed. But I know what you mean about the trial...it's been weighing heavily on my mind as well," advised Patty, as her maternal instincts kicked in.

"I think that's the best advice I've gotten in a long, long time," replied Newlan as his melancholic simper magically turned into warm smile.

"If nothing else...I really like this one. She's genuinely nurturing, and it's comforting to know that there are still people like this left in the world," silently pondered Newlan.

As Newlan and Patty commiserated, slowly but surely, the rest of the jurors reported for duty, and they all quietly conversed about nothing in particular while they patiently waited for their escort to arrive.

This time however, it was the elderly court officer, the same fellow who had been wandering in and out of the courtroom for the last two days, who would be the one in charge of shepherding them up to their 6th floor deliberation room.

"We ready to go upstairs? I'm Donny by the way."

Donny, who was now only three months and counting away from retirement, had apparently already begun to check out a long time ago. And Newlan suspected as much, considering the fact that he would disappear for long stretches of time during the course of the day, and no one seemed to mind in the least.

"He's an old timer...they probably just let him do whatever he pleases...or maybe he has some top secret assignment. Either way, he seems like a good guy," deduced Newlan, who was in a sentimental mood; possibly due to the glowing delirium which was induced by his "hangover cure", or maybe, just maybe, some of Patty's goodwill had rubbed off on him.

In any event, once all of the jurors had gotten their acts together, Donny led them through the maze of corridors and onto the waiting elevator...and up they went to their temporary home-away-from-home.

In an effort to augment their lunch menus, Jane produced a large bag from her even larger purse, which contained a box packed with two dozen donuts. And not to be outdone, Yong extracted a huge bag of chocolate candies (the kind you'd purchase in one of those wholesale warehouse outlet stores) out of her bag, and everyone dug in as if they were all one big happy family.

Newlan was famished since he hadn't had nary a bite to eat in the last 24 hour, and on top of that, the reefer munchies were also kicking in, so he devoured his share of donuts, and furthermore, he thanked Jane profusely for her thoughtfulness.

"Oh you're welcome," pleasantly replied Jane, and much to his surprise, Newlan could have sworn that he caught the glitter of a twinkle in her eyes.

"They're all good people," decided Newlan. "Why am I so suspicious of everyone's motives? I'm such an asshole. They don't want to be here any more than I do. They're just doing their civic duty...only they're not bitching about it every 10 minutes. I could probably learn something from each and every one of my fellow jurors."

Could it have been possible that Newlan's dream was affecting his outlook on life in a positive way, and more importantly could it last? Newlan was wondering the same thing himself, but for now even he didn't know the answer.

Newlan really did see the good in people, but he just tended to keep his guard up until he became more comfortable with unfamiliar people such as his new colleagues. However, once he got past that jumping-off point, you couldn't meet a nicer person. In time, he might even become friendly with some of the jurors, but for now they were earning each other's respect, and that was a good enough start as far as he was concerned.

But regardless of Newlan's leery outlook on life, the jurors chocolate-and-donut sugar-rush party lingered on until, after the usual delays, Billy burst into the room and grunted; "line 'em up...show time's in 5 minute, and I got good news for you, we're only going until one o'clock today."

Newlan was thrilled to hear that they would be let out early, and he spontaneously broadcast as much.

"Thank God! Now maybe I can finally go home and get some rest tonight."

This absentminded declaration set Newlan off on a contemplative tangent which included the Grateful Dead song "Friend of the Devil" wandering into his mind, and he proceeded to softly hum the clever anti-sermon to himself in an effort to muster up the motivation and strength to get him through the rest of the day.

After Billy left the room, the jurors began milling about, not necessarily in numerical seating order, but close enough to their spot in the line so that they could jump back into place when it came time to march into the courtroom.

But as it turned out, they were only a couple of minutes into their loitering assemblage, huddled in their makeshift formation, when without warning, Billy barged opened the door again, similar to the manner in which Kramer from the old Seinfeld TV sitcom might make an unannounced entrance into Jerry's apartment, and he exclaimed, "We're ready to roll."

Unfortunately however, Linda, the placid juror in seat number 1, was standing a shade too close to the doorsill when Billy stormed in, and the mahogany door hit her squarely in the forehead, almost knocking her over.

Luckily, Linda wasn't hurt by the unintended sneak attack. But nevertheless, Ron the banker in seat number 11 jokingly shouted out in a mock police radio voice; "juror down."

This momentary bout of silliness elicited the jurors to burst out laughing, and with the doors to the courtroom being open, the gathered throng inside of courtroom 630 couldn't help but to hear their inexplicably jovial mood.

The reaction from the gallery was decidedly mixed, ranging from broad smiles, all the way down to stone-cold silence, and the mood appeared to fall along party lines; specifically, the Breslin camp found the happy-go-lucky jurors to be quite amusing, while the late Fred Miller's extended group of family and friends were not seeing the humor in the situation at all.

And while all of these machinations were taking place, Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason leaned over to his client and whispered, "A happy jury never convicts," and apparently even the defendant, John Breslin, forced a wisp of a smile onto his face.

However, unless one of Newlan's colleagues brought the specific details regarding an incident such as this to his attention during one of their break-time chats, he had no idea of who was doing what in the courtroom, seeing as how he was steadfast in sticking to his routine of keeping his eyes peeled to the floor until he got to his seat in the jury box.

And of course, it should come as no surprise that over at the district attorney's table, Elaina Lyons was already wearing her top-of-the-line scowl, which she usually reserved for more dramatic moments, even though the morning's session hadn't even commenced yet.

Nevertheless once the jurors' giggles had subsided and everyone was settled down, Brandon did his usher routine and made his formal speech before turning it over to Judge Gershwin for the official "court is in session" announcement.

"Good morning to our wonderful jurors," gushed Judge Gershwin, and as expected she then queried the jurors as to whether any of them had discussed the case. No one responded in the affirmative, but Newlan wondered whether he could go to jail for lying.

"They'll never fuckin' take me alive," he swore to himself, and he smiled at his own joke.

Newlan was a man who could always entertain himself with his clever imagination. He could get lost in a book; or a movie; or a CD; or his guitar; or even in his thoughts; which was one of the many reasons why the independence and solitude of living alone agreed with him; whereas he was acquainted with more than a few needy people who couldn't stand to be by themselves, alone in a room, for more than two seconds.

"She must not like the sight of her own skin...very sad," was Newlan's stock observation whenever he crossed paths with a potential dating partner who possessed this particular "clingy" personality trait.

"All right then...let's begin," proclaimed Judge Gershwin, which brought Newlan back out of the clouds of his thoughts, and with pencil and paper in hand, he was ready to go. Amazingly enough, despite having endured a minor emotional breakdown and only managing two hours of nightmare-filled sleep at the most, he was apparently none the worse for wear.

The day's session turned out to be fairly uneventful and at times maybe even bordering on the tedious side. Twelve more employees or customers who patronized the office building at 435 Commonwealth Ave in Newton, including the take-charge dentist Dr. Barnett, and the obnoxious Mona Barron, VP of Sales at the Barron Insurance Agency (and the sister of owner Steve Barron) testified as to their comings and goings on Friday January 13th, 2006. But most of them had nothing much new to add to what had already been established.

Even so, a handful of the witnesses were quite interesting and colorful, such as the aforementioned Mona Barron who seemed to think that it was beneath her to have to testify at a murder trial; and her air of superiority was evident as she recounted parking her Lexus SUV in the garage on the morning of the murder.

Unfortunately for DA Lyons, after hours of testimony, the only relevant fact that she had been able to establish thus far was that Fred Miller was apparently very well-liked by his fellow employees; the same employees who found him dead in his car, with a bullet-hole protruding from his head.

"If I have to listen to one more person tell us that they arrived at work between 7:30 and 8 AM on the morning of January 13th, 2006 and parked their car in the garage, only to admit that they didn't notice anything unusual going on, I'm gonna lose my mind. Luckily we only have to put up with a half day of this," thought the hung-over Newlan as the morning dragged on and on.

Gleason seemed to be fixated on the fact that just about every person who went down to the garage to check out the situation apparently laid their grubby hands all over Fred Miller's automobile, and it was obvious to Newlan that the stickler in Gleason was somehow going to use the unidentified fingerprints as evidence of sloppy police work in his defense of John Breslin.

However, just as they approached the end of the day's proceedings, DA Lyons finally produced a couple of prosecution witnesses who had a few morsels of new information to offer. But strangely enough, the scraps of detail that were being presented by the deponents seemed to bolster the defense more than they helped the prosecution, or at least they did as far as Frank Newlan was concerned.

One of those witnesses was a gentleman by the name of James Remy who also worked for the Barron Insurance Agency. He arrived to work at around 7:40 on the morning of January 13th, 2006, and he testified that he too observed an unoccupied red car in the garage which he described as, "a foreign car...possibly a Honda or a Toyota."

Gleason made sure to have Remy repeat the description of the vehicle under cross-examination, and he also asked; "Did you give the police a description of the car?"

"Yes sir I did," replied Remy which had Newlan wondering whether DA Lyons would even be able to prove that the enigmatic red car belonged to Sammy Fox, never mind trying to successfully pin the murder of Fred Miller on him. After all, he, himself, owned a red automobile that vaguely fit the description of the alleged getaway car.

The last witness of the day was yet another employee of the Barron Insurance Agency, Diane Mason, and she also took the stand sporting a slightly different twist to her "red car" testimony.

After getting the formalities out of the way, DA Lyons asked; "Ms. Mason when you left work on the evening of January 12th, 2006 did something catch your attention?"

"Yes, there was a red car parked next to my car in the garage...and the reason that this car stuck out in my mind was because it was parked very close to me, which made it difficult for me to open the driver's side door of my car," explicitly explained Mason without the need of prompting from DA Lyons.

"Was there anything unusual about the red car?" continued Lyons.

"Yes, the paint on front bumper was noticeably scratched, and the bumper had a dent in it as well. And actually, I had seen the same car parked in the garage a couple of times before, during the course of that week," replied Mason in an enlightening tone.

"No further questions your honor," announced Lyons.

"Well, maybe Lyons _will_ eventually pin the red car on Fox after all...or maybe this witness was describing my car again...no wonder I'm having these damned nightmares. Man, you can't make this shit up," groused a sardonic Newlan...but then he promptly refocused, and scribbled into his notepad:

Lyons gets witness Dianne mason to insinuate that the red car is possibly staking out the garage.

R. J. Gleason however, was having none of the unspoken theories that Lyons was attempting to inject into the jurors' minds, and he wasted no time in going on the attack.

"Ms. Mason, did you ever see anyone in this red car?"

"No sir I didn't," replied Mason.

"Not once?" added Gleason.

"No sir, I never saw anyone in the red car," reconfirmed Mason a bit testily.

"Ms. Mason, do you remember where exactly the red car was parked, on the multiple occasions that you observed the vehicle in the garage? And if so, could you please point out the locations on this chart which represents the garage," requested Gleason.

"Oh my, I don't remember the _exact_ spots where the red car was parked," replied Mason in a tone which seemed to insinuate that she was puzzled by Gleason's line of questioning.

"And Ms. Mason, is it fair to say that customers who have repeat appointments with the dentist or the chiropractor's office might make use of the garage on multiple occasions during the course of the week?" wondered Gleason as patiently as ever.

"I suppose that's a fair assumption," replied Mason. But she was quick to add; "however, that particular red car seemed out of place for some reason."

"Ms. Mason I didn't ask you about the red car. I only wanted to establish whether a customer might have the need to make repeat visits to your office building during the course of a week. Your honor I ask that the last portion of Ms. Mason's comment be stricken from the record," demanded a suddenly frustrated Gleason.

"It may be stricken," replied Judge Gershwin in a very unemotional tone.

"Now Ms. Mason, do you remember the words you used to describe the red car to the police?"

"I believe I describe it as a large red sedan, an older vehicle, possibly a Ford Taurus," recalled Mason.

Gleason shook his head in disbelief as he approached the witness stand and informed Mason of the last item on his agenda for the day.

"Ms. Mason, I am going to provide you with a copy of your interview with the police, that was held on the afternoon of January 13th, 2006, and I ask that you read the highlighted portion of the text out loud to the jurors."

Mason slowly pulled the report up to within an inch of her eyeballs and squinted heavily as she confided, "I'm sorry Mr. Gleason, but I can't make out a single word on this page without my reading glasses, which unfortunately I don't have with me."

As one might expect, Gleason wasn't going to let Mason off the hook that easily, and he turned towards Judge Gershwin with a request.

"Your honor I ask that the witness be instructed to return to court on Monday morning with her reading glasses, so that we may complete her testimony."

But Judge Gershwin had other ideas.

"Ms. Mason I keep a pair of reading glasses at my desk for just such an occasion. Please try these on and let me know if they make a difference."

"Yes, these will be fine," replied Mason with smirk, and from there she proceeded to read from the report; "Ms. Mason described the vehicle as an older model, mid-sized four door sedan, with a square back and a boxy shape to it."

"Now Ms. Mason I've read your entire report, and never once do the police mention a Ford Taurus so WHY DID YOU MENTION A FORD TAURUS TODAY?" railed Gleason, raising his voice for emphasis.

"Objection," scowled DA Lyons.

"Sustained" replied Judge Gershwin after a few seconds of thought.

"I have no further questions your honor," announced a visibly annoyed Gleason.

By now it was almost 1 PM, and, as promised, Judge Gershwin adjourned the proceedings until "Monday morning bright and early at 8:45 AM."

"What was wrong with that last question...and why didn't Gleason try again? Oh well, regardless...hooray for two days of freedom," applauded Newlan. But before he called it a day he jotted down a few more notes into his pad:

Dianne Mason – Defense Cross-Examination:

Gleason successfully counters Lyons' insinuation that the red car might be staking out the garage.

Ford Taurus - rounded edges not boxy

And who the hell is telling all these witnesses about the Ford Taurus??!!

DAY TWO IN THE BOOKS – BRESLIN IS STILL INOCCENT AS FAR AS I'M CONCERNED (AND IT"S NOT EVEN CLOSE)...AND I SUSPECT THE POSSIBILITY OF FOUL PLAY TO BOOT!!!!

### Chapter 31 – An Unexpected Visitor (Janis Barry's Story)

Saturday evening June 7, 2008 – 9:00 PM

Frank Newlan was having a bad weekend.

After leaving the Middlesex Superior Courthouse early Friday afternoon, Newlan drove in aimless circles around the greater Boston area and sang along to a Bob Dylan CD with a joint hanging from his lips, while futilely trying not to think about his disconcerting predicament.

"Maybe someday I should write a novel based on this experience," eventually reflected a resigned and languid Newlan as he hummed along to Dylan's ode to fame-and-fortune, "When I Paint My Masterpiece".

After cruising all the way into downtown Boston, Newlan took a detour towards the coastal city of Revere and pulled over by the beach, where he took a stroll down the boardwalk before finally taking a seat on the dividing wall which separated the sidewalk from the ocean.

The smell of the salty air brought Newlan back to the glorious nights of his youth, when he would be wired on speed, "black beauties" they called them in those days, and he'd walk the beach until sunrise, desperately trying to unravel the secrets of life.

Newlan even wrote a song about the experience. And although his band-mates, Horn and Reardon, never totally grasped the desperation that he was attempting to portray in the lyrics, he always thought it was one of his better compositions. Naturally, he titled the song "Black Beauty" and as he relaxed on the beachfront breaker wall, he instantly recalled every word, and he sang the tune, as follows, to himself, with the hypnotic beat of the relentless surf serving as his rhythm section:

BLACK BEAUTY (words and music by Frank Newlan)

Black Beauty and me, we walk by the sea

She keeps me up all of the night

I trudge through the sand, just holding her hand

And wait for the morning light

I count all the waves as they crash to the shore

Look to a sky I don't know anymore

Black Beauty has taken her toll on me

She always will be such a mystery

Black Beauty

Move slowly

And don't ever let me down

The ocean it seems can make a man dream

And the tides can drag a man down

I got nowhere to turn, no lessons to learn

But somehow I hold my ground

Because my heart's pounding rhythm

To the song in your soul

And I worry about things

That I cannot control

Black Beauty

Move slowly

And don't ever let me down

So hold me at bay

And I'll hold you someday

The water will come

And wash us away

Black Beauty

Move slowly

And don't ever let me down

It took countless renditions of "Black Beauty", along with an extended session of contemplative meditation before Newlan felt decompressed enough to go home...and when he finally got there, he immediately collapsed onto his leather sofa. And now, more than 24 hours later, he had barely moved from his favorite resting spot; not even bothering to crawl into bed.

Newlan was hung-over, exhausted, and emotionally drained, and yet, since the start of the trial, he had barely slept a wink. Over the course of the last two nights, he had more or less passed out for a couple of hours here or there, but that was about it. And once he awoke, he found himself stuck in steady holding pattern of tossing and turning, dozing off for few minutes, and then waking up in a sweat and a panic over some God awful nightmare.

Despite his penchant for looking back, Newlan's emotional filter was usually equipped with the uncanny ability to push his troubles into the far corner of his mind; and when he was able to block out his problems, he could function just fine. However, when his anxieties bubbled to the surface and ate away at him like a dog chomping on a bone, he would lapse into a mental funk until he was somehow able to suppress the offending circumstances from his memory banks. But alas, despite his best efforts, his defense mechanisms just weren't working at the moment, and thus he was utterly unable to departmentalize the Breslin trial into the cluttered file cabinet of his subconscious.

Other than getting up for a snack or going to the bathroom, Newlan's world so far this weekend consisted of watching the Red Sox, and other moronic entertainment, on his HDTV. Between the pre-game shows, the post-game shows, ESPN Sports Center, old sitcom reruns, and his Rolling Stone magazines, he was, for the most part, able to keep himself entertained without becoming too bored.

Newlan realized that he should be doing his errands (his regular Saturday routine consisted of supermarket food shopping, laundry, and cleaning his condo) but on this particular Saturday he just couldn't muster up the strength to get up off the sofa.

Of course, mindless diversions can only keep one occupied for just so long, and by the time Saturday night rolled around, Newlan was beginning to feel a bit stir-crazy. He didn't know quite what to do with himself, and he was pondering whether or not to order a Playboy movie using his on-demand cable box when the phone rang...and as it turned out, his dilemma was about to be resolved in more ways than one.

On the other end of the line was Newlan's on-again, off-again girlfriend, Janis Barry.

"Hi Frankie, whatcha doing?" teasingly asked Barry.

"Not much, just lying here passed out on the sofa," replied a dazed Newlan.

"Well can I come over?" wondered the flirtatious Barry.

"Sure you can come over...you know you can come over anytime," exclaimed the suddenly alert Newlan.

"Good, then I'll see you in about a half hour," confirmed Barry in a rosy tone.

"I'll be here waiting for you Queen Bee," assured Newlan.

"Queen Bee" was a nickname that Newlan had anointed Barry with, more than 20 years ago, and for some reason it stuck; it was also the title of an old blues song, and so the moniker was almost fated, given his penchant for all things music-related.

"Shit, the place is a mess," groused Newlan as he scurried around his apartment, tidying up as best he could before jumping in the shower. And although he was moving about at a frenetic pace, the truth of the matter was that he had no real reason to be in too much of a rush since by now, he had known Janis Barry for over 30 years, and he learned long ago that in her version of time, a half hour actually meant an hour. In fact, Newlan made it a rule to double any and all time estimates that Barry ever presented him with, and the calculated fudge factor would almost always turn out to be her accurate time of arrival.

To say that Janis Barry was Newlan's on-again, off-again girlfriend was probably a shade of an exaggeration, but it wasn't too far removed from the truth.

As a case in point, whenever anyone asked Barry what was going on between her and Newlan, she would typically turn a bashful shade of red and shyly reply; "He's a special friend." Whereas if anyone hit Newlan up with the same question, he would mischievously respond; "We're friends with benefits." And in reality they were both saying the same thing.

In their younger days, Janis Barry hung out with the same crowd as Newlan, but he never gave her so much as second thought, until one night after his breakup with Marianne Plante, she offered him a ride home after a drunken night of partying, and as they say, "the rest was history." And even though their romance started out as that of casual lovers, over time they developed quite a fondness for each other.

And yet, in spite of this unspoken relationship, out of the blue, one night in the early 90's, Barry called Newlan up on the phone to announce that she had just gotten married to a naval officer from St. Louis who she had met when his ship was docked in Boston Harbor. She had only known the guy for two weeks when they got hitched, and then he immediately had to skip out of town when his armada shipped back out to sea.

"What the hell did you do that for?" probed Newlan.

"I don't really know, I guess it just felt right," replied Barry in a cheerful but clueless tone.

Janis Barry didn't always think before she acted, but she knew well enough not to wait around for Frank Newlan to make a commitment to her, and so she went ahead and got married, regardless of what his negative reaction might be.

However, due to his chosen profession, Barry's newlywed husband was forced to leave her unattended for months at time in the two room apartment that he had set up for them, and she eventually became restless and invited Newlan over for a friendly visit...which turned into an encounter of another kind.

And so began Newlan's first of many trysts with a married woman, which was perhaps one of the reasons why the Breslin trial was hitting a tad too close to home.

Not surprisingly, Janis Barry divorced her sailor husband in short order, complaining that he didn't satisfy her, only to re-marry again a few years later. But in between marriages, she resumed her relationship with Frank Newlan, although you could make a case that they never really stopped in the first place.

After three children, Janis Barry ultimately discovered that husband number two was a philandering, drunken bastard, and she wound up divorcing him as well. And no sooner had the ink dried on the divorce papers that she was on the phone to Frank Newlan.

"See, I told you I'd haunt you forever," guaranteed Barry on that day all those years ago, and here she was almost 15 years later still making good on her pledge.

Whenever Barry was in a frisky mood, she would repeat her bedeviling declaration, and in response, Newlan would routinely return the banter with his own pronouncement; "well you always come back to your one true love."

Whether Newlan was really Barry's true love was debatable, but the truth of the matter was that they did remain close friends, even while she was married to her second husband; although they did discontinue their intimate rendezvous' during that period. In fact, at the time, Newlan would occasionally hang out with Barry and her man, and Newlan considered him to be a good Joe.

As far as Newlan could tell, Barry's marriage appeared to be on solid footing, and he was sincerely happy for her. And in all honestly, he was as shocked as anyone when he found out that their wedded bliss had disintegrated, practically overnight, and that poor Janis Barry's life was left in shambles.

Nowadays with three growing teenagers to feed, and an ex-husband who never seemed to have any money for child support, Barry took on as many jobs as she could, and so at any given moment you might find her driving a school bus, or delivering pizzas, or waiting on tables, just to name a few of the many occupations she had attempted over the years in an effort to make ends meet.

Barry was a dedicated mother; you had to give her credit for that. But alas, between her many livelihoods, and raising three rebellious adolescents, she had very little time to socialize, so it wasn't unusual for a few months to go by between visits to Newlan's condo.

"You just come over when you're desperate for a little something, something," Newlan would joke on those rare occasions when the stars were aligned just right and they ended up asleep in each other's arms. And although Barry would laugh off Newlan's claim, they both were well aware of the fact that there was a strand of truth to his statement as well.

And not so coincidently, as of this early June evening, Newlan hadn't hooked up with Janis Barry in quite some time, and he was very much looking forward to this unexpected visit. He was hoping that, among other things, she would brighten his spirits, and take his mind off the trial, if only for a few hours.

Barry arrived after an hour, like clockwork, just as Newlan expected, and he eyed her admiringly as she gingerly cross the threshold of his front door.

In spite of their rapidly advancing age, Barry still maintained a frizzled head of curly, shoulder length, bleached blond hair, and a petite little body to boot, which Newlan preferred over the tall, leggy, statuesque type of physique that you'd find in your average supermodel. And even after pumping out three babies, she still looked pretty good to him, despite the wrinkles that were beginning to form around the outer edges of her face.

The old acquaintances hugged warmly in the hallway of Newlan's condo before adjourning to his black leather sofa.

Newlan had a beer for himself and a soft drink for Barry, who was a non-drinker, waiting for them on the coffee table, and as soon as they sat down, he took a prolonged chug of the sudsy brew, practically finishing off the bottle in the process.

"I brought a movie for us to watch, Triple X," merrily announced Barry as she handed Newlan a DVD.

"Triple X...I didn't know you liked that kind of stuff," replied Newlan with a devilish grin and a questioning look on his face.

Barry slapped Newlan's wrist lightly and playfully scolded him; "it's not _that_ kind of movie...it's a Vin Diesel action movie."

Newlan didn't particularly care for the action movie genre, and he could never understand what sweet little Janis Barry saw in these types of flicks, but he enjoyed her company, so her choice of movies didn't much matter to him.

"Alright then, let's put it in," exclaimed Newlan. But then he immediately realized that his reply could have two meanings...and Barry smiled knowingly as well.

Newlan got a chuckle out her response, and he coyly added "You know what I mean, Queen Bee...get your mind out of the gutter."

And so after their minor faux pas of a misunderstanding had been clarified, Newlan and Barry stretched out on the sofa, and settled in for a relaxing movie night.

"Feel free to get comfortable Queen Bee," whispered Newlan as he put his arm around Barry. And she responded to his touch by curling her dainty little body up into a ball and resting her head in his lap. He then began to caress her shoulders, and as he worked his warm hands across the nape of her back, his massaging strokes triggered an involuntary quiver in her loins.

Regardless of the time of year, Barry just about always felt that the weather outside was too chilly, and as such, she relished in the unusual warmth of Newlan's probing fingers. And whenever he would make a jesting comment about how cold her hands were, which was often, she would reply on cue; "Cold hands, warm heart."

As such, with the nighttime air having cooled the temperature down by a few degrees, Newlan gallantly provided the body heat for his date while they watched "the silly Vin Diesel movie" (as Newlan put it). And all the while, Janis Barry was putting forth a slew of uninterrupted small talk, as well as contributing her scene-by-scene commentary regarding the movie, just as any good film critic would do. But Newlan, who was once again preoccupied with the Breslin trial, wasn't paying much attention to either the movie or Barry's non-stop conversation.

"I'm sorry what did you say?" asked Newlan in an oblivious tone, after the movie was almost three quarters of the way through. And in turn, the perceptive Barry's response came back in the form of another question.

"What's wrong Frankie? Is something bothering you?"

"Oh it's nothing," insisted Newlan as he internally debated with himself over whether or not to inform Barry about the trial. But after mulling it over for a minute or two, he broke down and spilled his guts out.

"...and so in conclusion, I hope that your ex-husband doesn't decide to send someone out looking to murder me someday...the same way that Breslin supposedly sent someone after Miller," quipped Newlan, which triggered a silent, squinted stare from Barry.

It was close to midnight by the time the movie had ended, and the bosom buddies were beginning to doze off on the sofa when Newlan decided it was time to cut to the chase before it got too late.

"Hey Queen Bee wake up. We might as well go into my bedroom and take a nap since we're falling asleep anyway," hinted Newlan as he presented Barry with a peck of a smooch to the top of her head.

"Sounds good," purred Barry who was fully aware that sleep was the farthest thing from Newlan's mind at the moment. And as he took her by the hand and led her into his dimly lit bedroom, they could barely contain the pent-up sexual tension that had been gradually building up inside of them since their last session together, which was well over three months ago.

"Women, I'll never understand them...if I had asked her if she wanted to have sex, she probably would have slapped me in the face and stormed out of my condo," mused Newlan as they came to a stop at the foot of his bed. But he had no worries of being rejected tonight. On the contrary, Barry had already signaled her submission just by the way she obediently complied as Newlan roughly position her into place with her bottom rubbed up against his crotch.

Now that the ball was rolling, Newlan wasted no time with subtleties; he went right to work ravishing his long-time lover like there was no tomorrow. As he stood behind Barry, tauntingly teasing her with his throbbing manhood, he put his arms around the front of her waist, while at the same time the back of her head rested against his chest.

Newlan then slowly ran his hands up Barry's arms, and as he reached her shoulder blades, he firmly twisted her around so that they were facing each other. This maneuver allowed him to brush her hair back with his fingers, and expose her pale neck, which he nibbled with an almost vampirish glee.

Somewhere in the heat of the moment, the friends with benefits caught each other's gaze, and upon observing the faraway look of surrender in Janis Barry's eyes, Newlan passionately embraced her and planted her with a deep, steamy kiss as they instinctively fell onto his bed.

After a lengthy period of intense, but fully dressed, foreplay, which found Barry breathing heavily and moaning uncontrollably, Newlan lifted her back up into a sitting position and frantically began removing her clothing while she fervently unzipped his pants...and once again...the special friends...had ended as lovers.

About a half hour later, as Newlan and Barry lay naked, snuggling in his bed, lost in their thoughts, he wondered whether he could ever truly love her. Maybe buy a house for the two of them and grow old together.

"Sure I get laid once in a while, but I got nothing serious going on. I should just say the hell with it and see what she thinks. What have I got to lose, and maybe then I can finally put the specter of Marianne Plante to rest for good," surmised Newlan. But in the end, his nagging doubts and fears that something better stood waiting just around the bend, as always, taunted him like a schoolyard bully.

Not knowing what else to say, Newlan subsequently muttered, "not bad for a couple of 49 year olds."

However, based on Barry's giggled reply, she apparently wasn't quite as impressed with the performance as Newlan was.

"Oh I'd rate it at about 5 out of 10...you seemed distracted. Are you sure nothing else is bothering you?"

"I know it's not like when we were younger," admitted Newlan, and then almost instantly, he came to the realization that the Breslin trial may have been popping into his head while he was making love to Janis Barry; almost immediately, he realized that maybe he wasn't giving her his undivided attention; all of a sudden, he realized that, despite their insatiable urges, maybe he was being inattentive to her many needs.

"I'm sorry Janis, like I told you, this damned trial has got me all messed up...but I'll be better next time," predicted Newlan as he rolled back on top of Barry and nuzzled his face between her breasts.

"Don't worry...I'm perfectly happy with everything you do," breathlessly whispered Barry as she massaged Newlan's shoulders while he slowly worked his way down her smooth, slender body.

"Judging by the heavy breathing I must be doing something right...or maybe she's faking it," conjectured Newlan who was now concerned that he might soon be hearing a tap on the wall, courtesy of his neighbor, Saeed Kahn.

Unfortunately for Janis Barry however, just as she was about to reach the ecstatic ending which Newlan had already achieved in the first round of their lovemaking session, her cell phone went off.

"I gotta get that...it's probably one of my kids," lamented Barry as the two lovers disentangled...and her mother's intuition proved to be accurate.

"I gotta go...my daughter Alexia needs a ride...she got stranded at a party."

"You were right as usual...then again it's always one of your kids. Oh well, I'll walk you down to your car," volunteered a disappointed Newlan.

"Who else would be calling me at this hour?" griped a frustrated Janis Barry.

"I'll call you soon," promised Barry as she climbed into her car. But as was typical of their relationship, Newlan wouldn't hear from her again until the next time she had a rare night off from work, or until her needs became irrepressible, whichever came first

As a dejected Newlan rode the elevator back up to his condo, he had a sudden bout of post intimacy depression...and he came to a foregone conclusion.

"Tonight was pleasant, but there's gotta be more to life than this. I need more....more excitement...more adventure...more sex...more drugs...more rock & roll...more of everything."

However, as the old saying goes; "be careful what you wish for," because even though at this point in his life the "sex and drugs and rock & roll" moniker was more or less a figure of speech, little did Frank Newlan know that he would soon have more than he ever bargained for, and, if the truth be told, more than he could handle.

But regardless of what the future held in store for him, for the time being Newlan was decidedly underwhelmed with his existence...and as he hopped off the elevator he had a sudden revelation. He was determined to make some changes in his life.

"Who knows maybe I'll even ask Janis to marry me," imagined Newlan as he turned the door handle and sashayed back into his condo. And as he plopped back down onto the sofa, he found himself happily humming the overindulgent chorus of the Grateful Dead song "I Need a Miracle" to the blank four walls of his living room, in an absentminded, yet ominously prescient, manner; for surely he was going to need a miracle if had any hopes of surviving the "I want it all" sentiments conjured up by the captivating tune...sentiments which foreshadowed the wallowing excess...of his ill-considered desires.

Chapter 32 – The Riderless Chariot

Saturday evening June 7, 2008 – 11:58 PM

At around the same time that Janis Barry and Frank Newlan were renewing their acquaintances, about 30 miles west of Medford in the small town of Ashland Massachusetts, Cameron "Cam" Miller crept into the bedroom where his two young sons lay sleeping, just to hear the sound of their breathing.

As Cam Miller looked in on his sons, he lovingly observed two young brothers who would someday hopefully grow up to be just as close as he and his brother Fred were; two young brothers who would have each other's backs through thick and thin; two young brothers who would share in life's joys; two young brothers who would get each other through life's sorrows.

"But there's so much evil in this world, God forbid if something bad should ever happen to them," whispered Cam. And just the sheer contemplation of such a precarious destiny shook him with such a force that he had to grab onto the doorknob for support.

Cam couldn't resist the urge to give each of his son's a kiss on the cheek as they rested peacefully in the innocence of their youth, while at the same time his mind wandered back to the days when uncle Fred would sing them to sleep with a lullaby by his favorite band, the Grateful Dead, promising that he would lead them home no matter what predicament they might find themselves in.

Cam wiped a tear from his eye as he quietly closed the door to his sons' room, and he tip-toed down the hallway past his bedroom, where he expected his wife, Susan, to already be sound asleep by now. But what Cam didn't know was that while he was keeping a watchful eye on their boys, she had been monitoring his every move. And little did Cam know that after she had observed his solemn vigil, she retreated back into bed, practically blinded by the streams of sorrow falling from her eyes.

"Are you coming to bed?" Susan Miller sniffled as her husband attempted to sneak past their bedroom.

"In a while" softly replied Cam, "...in a while."

Cam Miller wasn't quite ready for bed yet, so he slinked downstairs to the basement where he had an antique desk set up, as well as a fully stocked bar, and he poured himself a generous glass of whiskey on ice and drank it down in one gulp, before even settling into his leather office chair.

Poor Cam was a sight to behold with a bottle of booze in one hand, and an empty glass in the other. Meanwhile, a newspaper clipping from the Metro West Daily Mercury sat on his desk waiting for his perusal, courtesy of his loving wife.

The author of the column, Julia Spicer, a charming young woman who had interviewed Cam on a number of occasions, had just written a compelling story about the aftermath of murder, and how it forever changes the lives of the people who are left behind in its violent wake.

"Families of both the victim and the accused are torn apart. Friends live in constant fear of a world that no longer seems safe. Accomplishments of the deceased are now just sad reminders of dreams that will never be fulfilled. And memories are nothing but an aching pain," wrote Spicer. And as Cam Miller reread her commentary, he sucked down another shot of whiskey and wistfully marveled to himself, "man I wish I could write like that."

Inspired by the essay, Cam powered up his laptop and gloomily rationalized; "might as well get in a blog entry since I can't sleep anyway."

But first Cam uploaded the pictures he had taken earlier in the day of Fred's motorcycle, which now sat in his garage like a shrine, waiting in vain for the return of its rightful owner, and he picked out a photo to add to his blog page as he typed up his latest entry:

THE RIDERLESS CHARIOT Saturday, June 7, 2008

It's Saturday night and I can't sleep so I thought I'd write down a few words with the hope that it might somehow bring a little bit of peace back into my life.

I got Fred's bike running today. It's a beautiful machine, but the engine hasn't fired up since I brought it home from Fred's place almost two years ago.

Make no mistake about it; I'm no mechanic, so I can't even begin to tell you what I did to get her smoking again. Sure I tightened up a few bolts, and sure I kicked a few tires, and sure I drained the old oil...and sure, like a transfusion, I poured the lifeblood back into her heart. But strangely enough, I never charged up the battery.

And then...drum roll please...I cranked that baby up, and unbelievably enough she turned over and purred like a kitten. I know it sounds crazy, but I believe to my soul that Fred had something to do with this miraculous combustion. I believe in my heart that Fred spread his arms out from somewhere upstairs, and he engulfed us with a positive energy which sparked that ignition.

But I didn't take her out for a ride. No, for now this bike stays here in the garage until a brighter day comes along. For now this bike mourns, like the rest of us, for its heroic captain. For now this seat remains empty, like a chariot without a rider, in honor of a warrior who didn't return home from the battle, in honor of a pirate who didn't return home from the sea.

And yet today I am filled with hope; with hope that I have been touched by a power greater than us all.

One day dead to the world...and now...suddenly reborn.

Monday, when we return to the courthouse for another long week of testimony, it will be with the hope that, like in the days of old, the condemned will someday soon find himself being dragged, kicking and screaming, into the coliseum...where he will be...FED TO THE LIONS.

Cam squinted at the computer screen, and his drunken eyelids indulged in the imagery that he surveyed flickering back at him. But then he thought that maybe a photo of Fred riding the old Harley might make for a nice juxtaposition to the now pilotless roadster.

Cam searched exhaustively through his picture files until he found the perfect photo of Fred, with himself perched to the back of the bike holding on for dear life. As he studied the picture in an almost intimate manner, he could practically feel the wind in his hair; he could practically breathe in the scent of his brother's body; he could practically hear the roar of the engine; and then out of the blue, with his senses tingling like an amputee who still feels an itch in his missing leg, he began to sob uncontrollably.

Cam took the bottle of whiskey to his lips and drained down as much as he could, with the mindset that the fiery liquid might somehow burn the pain out of his soul...but it was to no avail.

Meanwhile, after enduring about an hour or so of her husband's missing-in-action status, Susan Miller made her way down to the basement to retrieve the slovenly Cam and bring him up to bed.

Susan stood behind Cam and gazed into the computer monitor while she rubbed his shoulders in a futile attempt to console him.

"What's bothering you honey?" asked Susan, even though she knew full well what was ailing him. And as she pried the now almost empty whiskey bottle out of her husband's hand, she pleaded for some closure to this sorrowful chapter in their lives.

"Cam, you've gotta let it go. There's no sense worrying about things that you can't control. Let it go, please... for the sake of the kids, let it go," begged Susan.

"That son of a bitch is gonna get away with it. I can feel it. Well he'd better hope he doesn't, because there is one thing I _can_ control, and that's this...if that bastard gets off, I'll kill him. I swear to God, I'll kill him with my own bare hands," wailed a suddenly agitated and wild-eyed Cam Miller.

Apparently the good vibes of Cam's blog entry had dissolved into a steady stream of despondency and rage, and all the while a little voice inside his head was egging him on; a voice that had been disturbing his dreams of late...a woman's voice at that; a voice not of this world.

"Please, don't talk like that Cam. Don't even think it. Violence isn't the answer. Look where it got Breslin. He's sitting in jail right now. Think of me...but more importantly think of the kids. They lost their uncle...and if they lost their father too, I just couldn't go on," cried Susan as she took her husband by the hand and led him up the stairs like a mother walking a child across a busy street, and all the while she kept repeating the same hopeful words, over and over again; "everything's gonna be alright."

Cam Miller however, was having none of his wife's positive thinking, and for every chant of, "everything's gonna be alright," he responded with his own mantra of; "I swear I'll kill him."

"Quiet or you'll wake the kids," hushed Susan Miller. And after much cajoling, she finally put her husband to bed, and then she tearfully watched over him...as he cried himself...to sleep.

### Chapter 33 – An Unexpected Letter (Marianne Plante's Story)

Sunday morning June 8, 2008 – 6:30 AM

After a fitful night of sleep, Newlan woke up at the crack of dawn, as he did just about every Sunday morning, with thoughts of caffeine, not to mention Janis Barry, on his mind.

One of Newlan's favorite rituals was to spend his Sabbath skimming through the Sunday newspaper while sipping a good cup of coffee and listening to some cool jazz, and afterwards tuning into the weekly blues show on the local Boston radio station, 100.6 WXLZ.

When Newlan first moved into his condo, he could scarcely wrap his head around the convenient concept that the complex came equipped with a US Mail Box and a newspaper vending machine down in the lobby of the building. He paid well over 300 thousand dollars for all of the conveniences and luxury amenities that the complex had to offer, but when he'd describe his condo to someone, invariably, one of the first things he would mention was, "...and I can mail a letter and get the Sunday paper without ever leaving the building!"

You see, for Newlan it was the little things in life that provided him with some semblance of normalcy, and so regardless of how exhausted he felt this morning, he was still determined to drag his sorry ass down to the lobby and buy a newspaper before they ran out.

Newlan was still a bit groggy as he crawled out of bed, but he vaguely remembered dreaming about being trapped in Judge Gershwin's courtroom. Except that this time he was sitting in the defendant's chair, charged with adultery, and upon being found guilty, she summarily sent him off to the House of Corrections for six months. And as the court officers, Billy and Brandon, dragged him away, bound in shackles, he begged for leniency; he prayed for an 11th hour reprieve that never came; he pleaded for a pardon that never made its way off of the Governor's desk.

To make matters worse, Newlan suddenly recalled that in his dream he was accused of sleeping with his now married high school sweetheart, Marianne Plante, which sent a chill running up and down his spine.

"It figures, I get sent up the river for something I didn't do...hmmm, of course if I had the opportunity, I might not be able to resist. On second thought, what the hell am I thinking? Thank God it was only a dream," muttered Newlan as he rode the plummeting elevator down to the lobby.

"I guess it's like Officer Jimmy Leach said...if they get you for something that you didn't do...then it's usually payback for something you got away with," pondered Newlan until his head hurt. But by the time the elevator reached the ground floor he had come to the logical conclusion that his latest nightmare was probably just a guilty reaction to all of those furtive carnal trips over to Janis Barry's apartment while she was still married to her first husband.

And with his conscious cleared, Newlan cheerfully made his way across the lobby towards the newspaper machine, while at the same time waving to the overnight doorman, Charlie, whom he rarely interacted with other than on Sunday mornings or late Saturday nights after a night out on the town.

Newlan was somewhat surprised to see Saeed Kahn up at this early hour, loitering around the security desk, chatting with his concierge counterpart. Kahn was attired in a long tunic, which was accompanied by a traditional scarf-like garment that he had wrapped around his head, and he was carrying a large, leather-bound, hardcover book in his arms.

"Must be his version of the Bible," concluded Newlan who assumed that Kahn was off to some sort of religious ceremony. But either way, he didn't give it much thought.

Newlan chuckled to himself as he imagined how his best friend Bruce Reardon would have reacted if he had come across Kahn dressed in his devotional garb.

"He definitely would have made some wiseass comment like, 'what's with the towel-head?'" confidently predicted Newlan.

Ever since the very first time that Reardon had encountered Kahn in the lobby and the dutiful doorman gave him an all-encompassing third degree interrogation before letting him into the building, Reardon was resentful of him. And being a man who relied heavily on first impressions, he remained that way no matter how hard Newlan tried to play peacemaker.

"What's the fuckin' problem with the security guard? I felt like telling him to take a hike and go get a job in a convenience store," complained Reardon after his initial meeting with Saeed Kahn, to which Newlan responded, "leave the poor guy alone Bruce...he's just doing his job."

But in spite of Reardon's jibes, Newlan himself tended to humor Kahn, and on this fine morning, he wasn't going to let anything bother him (regardless of the fact that Kahn appeared to be shooting him a dirty look, which he assumed was related to his rambunctious partner Janis Barry's noisy outbursts last night as she thrashed around his bed in the throes of arousal).

While Newlan was down in the lobby, he took the opportunity to drop a few bills into the US Mail slot, and then he dropped a few coins into the newspaper vending machine slot, and within seconds he was eagerly headed back up to his condo for a strong cup of coffee, and the commencement of his Sunday morning ritual. But alas, at the last second one more errand came to mind.

"Oh shit I forgot to get my mail," realized the brain-dead Newlan just as he was about to hop onto the elevator, and so he made a sudden sharp u-turn back towards the lobby. As usual, a few days had gone by since he last remembered to check his mail, so he wasn't too surprised to find that a heap of bills and a wide assortment of advertisement circulars had built up in his mail slot in between his irregular turns at emptying it out.

Newlan irritably grabbed at the pile of junk mail, and he kept himself occupied by sorting through the stack of letters as the elevator vaulted him back up to the sixth floor. Like most of us, he had no problem recognizing the bills, courtesy of his local utilities and his many credit card companies, but when he came across a neatly handwritten envelope with no return address declaring its sender, he eyeballed the calligraphic penmanship with an apprehensive uneasiness.

"Hmmm, I wonder what this is all about. This one definitely isn't junk mail...and the handwriting looks oddly familiar," contemplated Newlan as he ambled his way off the elevator.

Egged on by a worrisome itch of curiosity, as soon as Newlan stepped back into the privacy of his condo he immediately ripped open the neatly framed letter, which we have already had the chance to preview, and he was so stunned by what he was reading that the words left him literally shaking in his shoes and gasping for air; it was almost as if he had been punched in the gut and had the wind knocked out of him.

Newlan plopped down on his leather sofa and reread the letter at least ten times, until finally the swirling tides of emotion began to overflow within him, leaving his head spinning in confusion.

"A letter from Marianne...after all these years...just when I've started having dreams about her again...just when I realized I'm still not over her...just when I'm trying to convince myself that I should marry Janis Barry...just when I'm losing my mind over this fuckin' murder trial...a trial about a love triangle no less...man you can't make this shit up," lamented a trembling Newlan, and by now he was practically in tears.

Then, in an apparent attempt to validate the fact that he wasn't still dreaming, Newlan pounded his fist on the coffee table and wailed at the top of his lungs; "You can't make this fuckin' shit up."

Newlan was the first to admit that he may have been slightly obsessed with Marianne Plante at one time. Sure, maybe there was a period in his life when he sent her an endless stream of cards and letters, even though he never got one response in return. And sure, maybe there were times when he'd drive by her house late at night just to be near her aura. And sure, maybe there was a stretch of a few years when he'd ask anyone and everyone who had ever crossed paths with her if they had any idea of what she was up to. But that was all ancient history as far as he was concerned.

For the most part, Newlan really _was_ pretty much over Marianne Plante -- or so he thought until recently \-- but he had to go through hell and back before regaining even the smallest step of an unsteady footing in his jagged world; he had to hit rock bottom before getting up off the mat and making something of his life; he had to fend off his demons and keep on fighting them right up until this very day.

"Sure I still have dreams about her now and then, but I can't control my subconscious," rationalized Newlan, who at the moment wasn't quite sure whether he loved or hated the very thought of Marianne Plante.

"And now...what could this letter mean?" wondered Newlan. As far as he could discern, the contents of the letter appeared to be rather ambiguous. Was she just innocently saying hello? Was she saying goodbye? Was she looking for a lover? Was she looking for a friend?

"Or maybe she's as confused as ever," reasoned Newlan as he deliberated with himself, back and forth, until he was blue in the face...and then finally he snapped.

"What the hell does she want from me?" cried Newlan as he wistfully rued the day that he ever met this enigmatic woman whose memory had haunted him for more than half his life. And yet, despite these many conflicted emotions, he was intrigued. After all, Plante was the first and only woman he ever truly loved; a life-defining experience that most people never completely forget, or completely recover from, for that matter.

And so with his inquisitiveness piqued, Newlan unsteadily rose from his sofa, and as if by rote, he dug deep into his vast music collection until he found a dusty old cassette tape, the only other copy of "Marianne's Mix Tape" in existence, and he popped it into his ancient cassette player, just as Plante had done when she composed the fateful letter which he now held in his hands.

However, the only not so subtle difference between their listening experiences was that Newlan decided to play side B of the tape, "Breakup Songs" as opposed to side A "Love Songs", and he quietly sang along as his own scratchy voice came drifting out of the speakers.

After all the countless hours that Newlan had spent over the course of his life devoted to writing songs, he still considered this mournful ballad, which he authored oh so many years ago, entitled "Fade Away", to be the saddest tune he had ever penned. He had dedicated the somber anthem to Marianne Plante close to two decades ago, but even now the words still rang true. The lyrics, which were meant to convey a message to Plante that although he might be struggling to get over her, she could rest assured that he would get by somehow, someway...and somehow, someway, he _was_ getting by, albeit just barely.

But now, as he listened to this autobiographical song of desperation and hope for the first time in ages, all the erstwhile emotions came rushing back to him, and he was once again reduced to a shell of a man. Once again he collapsed in a heap onto his leather sofa, and he clutched the letter to his chest as he tearfully whispered these words:

FADE AWAY (words and music by Frank Newlan)

The sun he hasn't shined for days

The smile has seemed to left your gaze

I don't care what no one says

I put my dreams on delay

Work my ass off everyday

The boss won't even raise my pay

Might as well take a break

The more you make, the more they take

They'll tax your soul for Heaven's sake

CHORUS

Someday my friend

You know I'm gonna fade away

Someway my friend

You know I gotta fade away

I think of you all the time

A memory I can't leave behind

Out of sight but never out of mind

Ten years have come and gone

The pain keeps going, on and on

Girl we've been apart for much too long

I keep your picture in my wallet

Though it hurts too much to look at it

I'm falling apart, bit by bit

CHORUS

Someday my friend

You know I'm gonna fade away

Someway my friend

You know I gotta fade away

BRIDGE

Fade into the sunset

Fade into the sea

My bags are packed

I shant be back

Won't you light a torch for me girl

Won't you light a torch for me

Everyday's a dull routine

I wake up to the same old dream

Of you and me, it's the same old scene

I tell myself that I'll forget

But it just aint happened yet

I've loved you since the day we met

I just can't seem to shake it

I don't know if I can take it

But I think I'm gonna make it anyway

CHORUS

Someday my friend

You know I'm gonna fade away

Someway my friend

You know I gotta fade away

I'm running out of words to say

I'm running out of songs to play

You're all that I've got...today

Emotion has been betrayed

The truth is put on display

This time I hope you're here to stay

I need to be touched in a special way

God you seem so far away

I think I'm gonna sleep all day

CHORUS

Someday my friend

You know I'm gonna fade away

Someway my friend

You know I gotta fade away

BRIDGE

Fade into the sunset

Fade into the sea

My bags are packed

I shant be back

Won't you light a torch for me girl

Won't you light a torch for me

The sun he hasn't shined for days

The smile has seemed to left your gaze

I don't care what no one says

When Newlan originally wrote this poignant clump of lyrics some 20 odd years ago, he could never have imagined that they would be such a harbinger of things to come, right down to the fact that he still kept a picture of Plante in his wallet, although he rarely ever so much as even took a peek at the old photo, because doing so really would pain him to the very core of his soul.

As the hand-picked songs that comprised the tape played on, Newlan vividly recollected his trepidation as he dropped off the package containing Plante's copy of the recording at the Post Office, and he still remembered her reaction as if it was yesterday, even though it was lo so many moons ago.

Newlan still recalled every word Plante said to him when she called him on the phone and sobbed, "Frankie no one's ever written a song for me before. They're so beautiful...and at the same time, they're so sad...I'm so sad. But I need to be alone right now...I need to find myself. Please don't wait for me Frankie. You deserve to be with someone who can give her heart and soul to you...and I just don't know if I'll ever be able to live up to your expectations."

And up until this very moment, that was the last time Frank Newlan had ever heard from Marianne Plante.

...

Newlan closed his eyes and his mind drifted back to his junior year in high school, and in his lucidity he shined on the flickering image of a group of giggling freshmen girls walking down the hall, including the cutest little lass he had ever laid his eyes on, Marianne Plante...surely, it was love at first sight.

Even now, after all of the pain and disappointment he had endured, Newlan still believed in the concept of love at first sight based on his initial encounter with Marianne Plante all those years ago, and nothing anyone had ever said or done could convince him otherwise.

Meeting girls came easy to Frank Newlan in those days, and he had absolutely no fear of making a fool of himself as he approached the sweet young freshmen and asked, "hey ladies, what's so funny? How about letting me in on the joke?"

Of course, even in those days, Newlan was aided by a little bit of the "wacky tobaccy". But regardless of his methods, he had never truly experienced the sting of rejection yet in his young life, and so he was supremely confident that he would become acquainted with Ms. Marianne Plante...and as we have come to find out, over time they did in fact develop an enduring relationship.

In the peak of their adolescence, Plante and Newlan had been struck with an instant attraction towards each other. She would often tell him how handsome he was, and he in turn would slobber all over her. But of course, he made sure to lavish her with praise only when his friends weren't within earshot, lest they accuse him of "being pussy-whipped by the little freshman babe".

Plante's many physical attributes included her long, silky smooth, straight black hair, her big brown eyes, her beautiful smile, her smooth alabaster skin, and to top it all off, her petite little body was just the type that Newlan favored. In short she was everything he could ever imagine or want in a woman.

For the most part, Plante and Newlan weren't much more than bosom buddies during his last two years of high school. And although he was totally enamored of her, he was still cognizant of the fact that she was still an innocent little virgin who taught Sunday school at Saint Joseph's Catholic Church, and yet at the same time there was something about her that aroused him like no other.

Then one morning during Newlan's senior year in high school (at the annual Medford vs. Malden Thanksgiving Day football game to be exact) he observed that Plante was absentmindedly fondling a keychain she had recently purchased with the phrase "A Hug Would Make My Day" etched into it, and so, urged on by a couple of shots of whiskey, he instinctively hugged her...and she hugged him back.

And at the precise moment when their bodies embraced, Newlan felt something erupt inside of him that made him weak at the knees. It was more than just physical; it was more than just young lust; it was more than just raging hormones; it was love. Newlan was sure it was love, and he knew in his heart-of-hearts, even at the tender age of seventeen, that this was the woman he wanted to marry.

A few months later, another similarly sensual scene occurred during Newlan's last bittersweet winter as a high school student, just after he had gotten his driver's license. It was a snowy afternoon in February when he found himself in the trusted possession of his mother's automobile, and he gentlemanly offered Plante a ride home from their after school activities. And as they hurriedly hopped into the vehicle in an effort to escape the frozen chill in the air, Plante shivered uncontrollably and complained, "It's so cold outside."

Newlan responded by extending his arms towards her and playfully replying, "Don't worry, I'll keep you warm my little sweetheart."

And Plante didn't resist. On the contrary, she wrapped her arms around him, and before they knew what hit them they were engaged in an awkward yet passionate kiss, or as passionate as two teenagers could get.

It was Marianne Plante's first real kiss, and it stirred something within her that frightened her, and yet at the same time it excited her.

Plante avoided Newlan for months on end after their maiden kiss because she was confused by her feelings, and he in turn was confused because she was giving him the cold shoulder. And so his separation anxiety, his depression, his deeply rooted obsession with the girl of his dreams subliminally began to take root before he had even left the fabled halls of high school.

But time marches on and soon Newlan's senior year came to an end. And as he was about to graduate and move away to a college dorm in Boston, out of the blue, Marianne Plante, one day became friendly with him again as if nothing had ever happened between them.

Plante even came to Newlan's high school graduation ceremony, where she gave him the "Jesus on the Cross" religious medallion that he still wears to this day; and they laughed, and they hugged, and they had fun, just as kids that age are supposed to. But all the while they both realized that they were growing up fast, and they desperately wished that they could somehow stop the hands of time.

Newlan and Plante became closer than ever during that coming-of-age summer before he departed for college, and they even went on a few 'real' dates.

Newlan didn't particularly care for formal events so he decided to skip his prom. However, after taking Plante out to dinner at a fancy restaurant, dressed to the nines, he wished that he had asked her to go with him so that he could have preserved a few nostalgic photos of themselves all dolled up in fancy gowns and tuxedos. But still, all in all, they were having a wonderful summer together.

Then one magical night in late August of Newlan and Plante's summer of love, before the end of their innocence, as they sat on an old blanket out in a quiet, dark, deserted corner of the park across the street from his parents' house, meditatively gazing up at the constellation of planets we call the universe, a sprinkle of stardust seemed to hover over them.

And after an hour or so of resting his head in Plante's lap, Newlan decided to pull out his guitar and pluck a few chords. At this point he was still a beginner so he couldn't really play very well, but he was still able to piece together a simple, silly love song, and he croon his heart out for his young girlfriend's pleasure.

"I'm too proud to beg, I'm too proud to borrow, I'm too proud to tell you, I need you for every tomorrow, I'm too proud to laugh, I'm too proud to cry, I love you baby but I just don't know why."

"Oh Frankie that's so sweet," gushed Plante as she gave Newlan a peck on the cheek.

Newlan face was glowing in a hue of crimson red, and as Plante took his hands, she confessed; "Frankie you're so shy and sensitive sometimes...and that's what I love about you."

And Newlan instantly picked up on Plante's choice of words.

"That's the first time she ever said she loved me...although it could just be a figure of speech," mused Newlan as he and Plante stared into each other's eyes.

Newlan often got lost in Plante's beautiful big brown eyes, and he was just starting to zone-out when she leaned towards him and gave him a passionate kiss, a kiss that boldly stated, "I'm ready to become a woman." And much to his surprise, they both tenderly lost their virginity on that old blanket, at their favorite local hangout, with the warm summer breeze blowing through their hair, and the stars watching over them.

Newlan had already had a handful of encounters with a couple of senior sluts, where he got to first base, but he had never experienced anything like this before, and afterwards as he and Plante lay down on the blanket, he wondered how he was ever going to be able to get through college without her. And as if she were reading his mind, Plante teasingly whispered, "you didn't think I was gonna let you go off to college without something to remember me by did you?"

And truth be told, the first two years of college were rough for Newlan without his sweetheart by his side. But somehow he got through those hazy days, and he saw more and more of Plante when he was home for the holidays and over the summertime, which helped to keep him going.

Newlan even took Plante to her own senior prom. But as she got ready to go off to college in the western Massachusetts town of Amherst, she gave him something else to remember. Unfortunately this time it wasn't such a fond memory. She broke up with him on the premise that they should see other people as part of the college lifestyle.

"If it's meant to be, we'll find each other after college," explained Plante, but as Newlan packed for his junior year of college, he carried with him a broken heart.

However, despite his heavy heart, Newlan managed to graduate from college with honors, and as Plante predicted, in time they did stumble back down the same road as young adults in a somewhat more serious relationship.

Those years back in the early to mid 80's were some of the best days of Frank Newlan and Marianne Plante's lives, and yet somewhere along the way, a restlessness filled their hearts...and they slowly drifted apart, neither of them quite sure why.

Maybe they were just too young. Maybe they needed to find themselves. Maybe they simply weren't ready for a long-term commitment. Maybe he drank too much. Or maybe it was utterly a force beyond their control. But whatever the reason, they stopped seeing each other. They never even officially broke up, but one day they woke up, and just like that, they stopped seeing each other.

The young ex-couple occasionally kept in touch over the next few years, and unbeknownst to the other, they both felt that something was still stirring inside. But ultimately neither one of them had the strength to try again and run the risk of enduring the inevitable pain that comes along with the fleeting moments of pleasure.

Newlan went on his well documented tailspin during that period, but somehow he came out of it with his soul intact, while at the same time the innocent little Miss Marianne Plante, who never so much as took a sip of alcohol before, had her own demons to contend with.

Life's trials and tribulations took their toll on Plante, and she eventually resorted to the all too adult solution of booze and pills and cigarettes to try to kill the ache in her heart.

And so when Frank Newlan eventually reached the point in his recovery where he was able to muster up the courage to send Marianne Plante a package containing the aforementioned cassette tape and a letter that basically said goodbye, and when Marianne Plante responded with her tearful phone call, they both assumed that it was the last chapter in their sad story.

But little did they know that it was just a long interlude; just a prolonged pause. Like Rip Van Winkle waking up after years of sleep...little did they know that it was just a long nap before an all-night party...little did they know that their paths...would one day cross again.

As we have learned thus far in our story, during those many years in between correspondences, Plante and Newlan actually did get their lives in order to some degree. Plante met the man she thought she loved and she was blessed by the Lord above with two wonderful daughters, while Newlan hardened his heart and somehow picked up the pieces of his shattered life; a life that revolved around his stubborn habits and his mundane routines; a life that centered on the successful career that he had miraculously managed to build for himself; a life devoted to his daily rituals...and his foolish dreams.

...

In the blink of an eye Newlan's life flashed before him so fast that it was as if he were watching a VHS tape set on high-speed rewind. But just as he was about to get completely swallowed up by his past, he was jolted back to reality when side B of "Marianne's Mix Tape" ran its course and the tape player clicked to a stop.

All of a sudden Newlan was in no mood to read the newspaper anymore, so he gingerly lifted himself up and turned on the Sunday morning blues radio program, and then he lay back down on the sofa and closed his eyes to the world.

Newlan eventually drifted off into a magical, dream filled sleep, running hand in hand through a field of flowers with his lover, Marianne Plante, until the sun went down. There they were, nestled on that tattered blanket of their youth, with the moon smiling down on them, while at the same time, the voice of an old blues singer, moaning out an even older blues song, drifted from his stereo speakers and settled into a dark narrow crevice somewhere deep within his subconscious mind.

" _I've been dealing with a demon, been dealing with a Satan, I've been dealing with a demon, my baaaby child...she don't love me no more."_

Chapter 34 – Saeed Kahn's Congregation

Sunday morning June 8, 2008 – 8:30 AM

Saeed Kahn sat cross-legged and barefoot chanting in a foreign tongue along with his fellow worshipers in their mosque-like temple of doom. As the scent of incense wafted through the small hall, which was once a shoe store in this, the commercially zoned section of Medford, the disciples reached a fevered pitch; a cantankerous frenzy that would undoubtedly rival the most zealous of Sunday morning gospel services found anywhere south of the Mason-Dixon Line.

The ceremonies, which consisted of one half prayer services, one half secret-society business meetings, came to define the lifeblood of this most ancient of organizations, and for sheer passion and pageantry few could match the devotion of these zealots, who like Saeed Kahn, would fall on their swords without question for the sake of their master.

And even though no one had ever bothered or harassed this sect in any way, the faithful shared a common hatred for their adopted homeland, which they regarded as a nefarious purgatory littered, like a poisonous smokestack, with billowing, wanton streams of wicked city towers and immoral suburban wastelands; in their narrow eyes, it was a civilization akin to a demonic wilderness filled with savage beasts; an unholy empire inhabited by an unrepentant people; a frozen Hell which would surely crash and burn on the glorious day of redemption.

No, this sanctuary was not a place of worship for the good many people who have emigrated from a myriad of Middle Eastern countries which, when combined, assisted in molding America into the grand melting pot that it has become. And no, these were not law-abiding immigrants, the brand of quality citizens who have built our country into the greatest nation that the modern world has ever known. But rather this was the gathering place for a small group of sycophants with a different take on how an authoritarian society should operate.

This was a group of people who enjoyed the American way of life and the freedoms that came with it, and yet these same people denounced us as the great deceiver...as the great Satan...as the root cause of all that is wrong with mankind.

And so it was written that Saeed Kahn and the rest of the minions, who joined forces as one with their mysterious supreme leader in preparation for zero hour, would someday see their prayers answered in a blaze of flame and glory.

After the liturgy, a group of the more fanatical worshipers, including Saeed Kahn, lingered over tea and discussed their plans to defeat the great venomous serpent.

"We must dismantle their glass jungles one brick at a time if necessary. We must leave no stone unturned...and once we have succeeded in taking their cities, we must destroy their villages as well. We must break their spirits until they retreat to the fires of hell from whence they came," preached their spiritual leader.

"Praise the Almighty," replied the obedient God-fearing faithful in reverberating unison. But just as their echoes had evaporated back into dead air, a voice commenced to speak out of turn...it was the voice of Saeed Kahn. And although it took every ounce of courage that Kahn could muster, he somehow managed to timidly offer up his own personal strategy for the jihad.

"Oh dear master, I had a vision just the other day...a vision that came to me from above. Imagine if you will, that we storm their residential towers, level them without mercy, destroy them beyond recognition...randomly, one by one, city by city...the authorities would be unable to contend with such a force. In my mind's eye I see turmoil and fear spreading throughout this accursed land. I see the heretics fleeing to the streets in panic as their cities burn. I see the end of their days, and the return of our King to his rightful place at the foot of the Almighty. I see..."

"Saeed my fine friend," interrupted the cerebral governor, "are we to believe we can take down the great Satan one dwelling at a time?"

"No, no, no, not one dwelling at a time my holy one, but hundreds in one attempt...the high rise complexes. I assure you that the condemned are unguarded and ill-prepared for such a divine assault of this nature," enthusiastically explained Kahn.

"Your vision is worthy of further contemplation my son, but if we are to sacrifice civilians, the retribution would be unprecedented," replied the supersensible administrator.

"Let them suffer as they have made our loved ones suffer...collateral damage they call it. In the eyes of these filthy dogs we are less than human...inanimate objects made of stone," argued Kahn.

"And how are we to accomplish your vision my devout dreamer?" asked the pious guru.

"With trucks my master...with trucks...powerful trucks which are built with the fortitude of a thick-skinned camel, capable of carrying heavy loads through deserts and mountains. I've seen it with my own eyes...the weak underbelly of the dragon...the vision became clear to me...clear as the morning sun," bellowed Kahn.

"My son, this strategy has been unsuccessful in the past. The amount of weaponry needed to implode such a large structure is vast, and cannot be concealed as easily as you might imagine," reasoned the master.

"Dear leader do you not recall the American martyrs in Oklahoma City, how they took down the infidels?" calmly asked Kahn.

"Ah my prince...we certainly have studied the heroic act of these saintly warriors...but you may recall that they attacked a government tower, and the amount of explosives needed to topple the structure is not feasible for our current operations," theorized the master.

"Yes, yes, I recall...but we must not underestimate the technological advances we have made since then...is it not so my master?" challenged Kahn.

"It is so my son, but I must say no. I believe we must stick to our plan for zero hour...to deviate now would be to put our operation in jeopardy," insisted the master.

"With the grace of the all-powerful King I put my trust in you oh wise master," replied a visibly dejected Saeed Kahn, while the up-until-now silent faithful added a less than enthusiastic chant of, "praise the Almighty."

Sensing his disciple's disappointment, the master added, "my dear Saeed we must bow down in prayer to the Supreme Being for guidance in this matter. We must search our souls for a sign. We must look above for direction. We must scour our scripture for an answer. And only then may it be as you have seen in the mind of your heart."

Kahn kneeled and kissed his celestial master's hand but in his mind he thought, "Perhaps I must, as the Americans say, take matters into my own hands. Perhaps the time has come for the ultimate sacrifice...and may thirteen virgins await me as I make my exodus to the land of eternal happiness."

However, despite his perilous zeal, Saeed Kahn's onslaught would have to wait for another day. And so, instead of being crowned a Prince, he said his goodbyes to the congregation, and he slovenly turned to go home; not to his spiritual home, but to his physical home...a home that, for some unearthly reason, he wanted so badly...to destroy.

Chapter 35 – Monday Morning Blues

Monday morning June 9, 2008 – 8:15 AM

Frank Newlan weaved his way in and out of heavy Monday morning traffic as he pointed his red Mercury in the direction of the Middlesex Superior Courthouse. And while one half of his brain was playing imaginary Indianapolis 500 race-car driver games, at the same time, the other half of his cranium was mentally preparing itself for the start of a long week of testimony in the John Breslin murder trial by channeling the inner motivational speaker that resided somewhere deep within his unwavering heart.

To further aid in his phrenic preparation, Newlan puffed on a joint as he sang along to Joe Cocker's cover version of the famous Traffic song "Feelin' Alright" which was spinning in his car's CD player.

Newlan's head was spinning almost as fast as the CD, and like the suffocating dreams chronicled in the song, he was feeling anything but alright. His sojourn onto his leather sofa continued throughout the rest of the weekend, and the only time his bed got any use over the course of the last two days was when he made love to his friend with benefits, Janis Barry.

Newlan lay there on the sofa all day Sunday, wasted away through another Red Sox game, and then he hardly paid attention as the Celtics held off a late rally by the LA Lakers to win Game 2 of the NBA Finals. Normally, he would have been thrilled at the prospect of a Boston team being so close to another championship, but under the circumstance, he just couldn't gather up much enthusiasm for the Celtic's surge towards banner number 17.

Even though a day of watching sports on TV never seemed to fail in helping Newlan put aside his problems for a while, on this particular Sunday he was continually distracted by the latest developments in his life, from his frightening dreams to Marianne Plante's unexpected letter...and of course the John Breslin murder trial.

And now with the reality of Monday morning coming down on him, Newlan was still trying to make sense of his lazy, yet significantly eventful weekend, as he sang along with Joe Cocker in a marijuana-induced haze.

"Bullshit feelin' alright. I'm just minding my own business, trying to make my way through life, and then I get swept up in this God damned jealous-husband murder trial...as if I don't have enough problems with my own love-life. Could there possibly be some higher power at work here, or is it all just one big happy coincidence?" wondered Newlan as Joe Cocker's gravelly voice continued to expound upon the evil ways of a deceiving woman and the mess she left behind.

Newlan kept flashing back to his Saturday night spent with the salacious Janis Barry wrapped in his arms; the spicy scent of her nectar still lingered in his nostrils, while at the same time, the mysterious unforeseen letter from Marianne Plante hung around his neck like an albatross.

"Maybe I'll call you sometime she wrote in the PS...maybe I'll call you," brooded Newlan, and so for the rest of his lost weekend, every time the phone rang, he jumped up in a startled spasm and anxiously checked the caller ID in anticipation that on the other end of the line might entrancingly be the only woman he ever loved.

Newlan yawned for about the hundredth time of the morning, and as he made his ascent up the courthouse parking ramp, he realized that he had hardly slept or had anything to eat the entire weekend.

"I better do _something_ to get my head together, and soon, or I'm never gonna survive until the end of the trial. Maybe I should go pay Dr. Clay a visit. Maybe he can prescribe me some sort of medication to help me relax. Or even better, maybe he can draw up a note for me, like mom used to do to get me out of school for a mental health day...and maybe I might even be able to get myself dismissed from the case for medical reasons," schemed Newlan.

"I'll even plead insanity if it helps," offered Newlan out loud to himself as he attempted to laugh off his troubles. And with his mind churning along almost as rapidly as his V6 engine, he mechanically wound his way up to the fourth level of the courthouse garage where the security guard was waiting to let him in.

As Newlan maneuvered into the parking lot, at the last minute he decided to back into his chosen spot; he had this crazy notion in his head that maybe if his fellow jurors noticed the dent and the scratched paint on the front bumper of his red Mercury, they might come to the logical conclusion that the red car in the garage next to the office building at 435 Commonwealth Ave in Newton could have belonged to just about anyone.

Since he was the first one to arrive again, Newlan easily backed into his choice of empty spots in the parking lot, but just as he was about turn off the ignition, Joe Cocker began to warble out the lyrics to The Box Tops song, "The Letter" in his unmistakable voice.

"How appropriate...he's catching a plane because his woman sent him a letter saying that she can't go on without him...I had a feeling that there was a subconscious reason why I picked this CD," grumpily contemplated Newlan. But nevertheless, as he hopped out of his car he was happily humming the catchy song to himself just the same.

"Good morning, you ready for some more courtroom drama?" enthusiastically asked the guard as he led Newlan towards the fortified courthouse entrance.

"I guess I'm as ready as I'll ever be," replied Newlan with a shrug of the shoulders and a forced smile.

"Billy or Donny will be down in while to take you up to the courtroom," informed the guard as he dropped Newlan off at the door of the waiting room.

Since he was the only one in the room, Newlan decided to catch up on his backlog of Rolling Stone magazines, and he was contentedly stoned and heavily focused in on a story about Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama when it came to his attention that in the past few months, he had hardly been paying any mind whatsoever to the comings and goings of the various candidates in the presidential elections.

"Well if I'm loyal to Rolling Stone magazine then I might as well not even bother being informed, and just vote for Obama, since they seem to be fawning all over him," declared Newlan.

Although he made a it a point to get out and vote when one of the higher offices such as president or senator were at stake, Newlan wasn't much for politics, so he wasn't the least bit bothered when the plump, blonde, youngster, Joanne in seat number 10, walked through the door, and broke his train of thought.

Joanne, the army base employee, was by far the youngest juror on the John Breslin murder trial, and as Newlan exchanged hellos with her, he wondered why the lawyers chose her, and how she felt about being on the jury. And as they chatted amicably, he picked up on the fact that she came across as a very conservative, law-and-order type.

"This aint good for Breslin...not good at all...hmmm, I wonder if there was something in her questionnaire that attracted her to DA Lyons. I'd bet a hundred buck that there was," theorized Newlan to himself, while at the same time he hoped that he wasn't being too obvious as he picked Joanne's brain regarding her views on life.

Of course, the truth of the matter was that Newlan didn't really have much to worry about, because even though he could be rather standoffish, in a casual setting, conversing with a pretty young lady, he could also be quite charming, and as such, Joanne had no idea that his random questions were in any way related to an unscientific poll which was meant to determine how his colleagues might vote. However, in the back of his mind, he already had her pegged as a check in the "guilty" column, just as surely as the liberal editors of Rolling Stone magazine would certainly endorse a vote for Barack Obama.

Next to arrive was Patty, and the retired homemaker was as gracious and motherly as ever. In fact, she even went so far as to offer Newlan some sort of ointment for his puffed-up eye, which by now was almost back to normal.

In response to Patty's considerate nature, Newlan didn't even bother attempting to figure out which side of the balance sheet her ballot would fall under; his gut-feeling was that she would just go along with whatever the majority decided.

Slowly but surely the remainder of the jurors began to filter into the room, and Newlan attempted to listen in on as many conversations as possible, all the while compiling mental notes in his head for his unofficial census...and before long, Donny, the elderly Court Officer, arrived to escort them up to the sixth floor.

After a hastily administered headcount, Donny led the way to the express elevator while a security guard kept a group of passersby, who had business to attend to in the courthouse, away from the caravan, and once again Newlan gained a further sense of appreciation for just how important they were to the proceedings.

"You can't be too careful...some of those people trying to get on the elevator are reporters...they think they're so smart," rancorously explained Donny.

It was just after 9:15 AM when the jurors found themselves being marched into the courtroom and after the usual third degree from Judge Gershwin regarding whether they had discussed or researched the trial in any way, they strapped themselves in for another grueling day of witness testimony, which would go a long way in determining the future of one Mr. John Breslin.

However, before the first witness of the day took the stand, Judge Gershwin took a moment to praise the "remarkable jurors" and inform them that court would again adjourn for the day at 1 PM.

And although Judge Gershwin's rosy comments were meant to foster a positive attitude amongst the jurors, she had Newlan thinking otherwise.

"I don't get it. How can she be so cheerful when we are gonna have to decide whether to put a man away for life? And what's this with another half day? We'll never be finished with the trial at this pace. No wonder the wheels of justice move so slowly. Oh well, who am I to complain...I'm not opposed to leaving early."

In any event, regardless of what Newlan thought about Judge Gershwin's mood, and regardless of what he thought about the court's less than strenuous business hours, DA Lyons was already in the process of calling Officer Ron Torrez, a young cop from the Newton Police Department, to the stand as he was silently grumbling his dismay.

Torrez was the first police officer to arrive at the scene of the crime, and he described finding a group of people milling about a blue Nissan Maxima which contained an unresponsive white male slumped over in the driver's seat with what appeared to be a bullet wound scarring his left cheek, and blood spattered throughout the cabin of the car.

At the time, Torrez was concerned that there might still be an armed assailant present in the garage, and he recounted how he requested everyone to leave the premises and return to their offices so that he could secure the area. But first he pulled Steve Barron aside and asked him to keep his staff calm, and to make sure that they stuck around in case any of the detectives wanted to interview them.

Sensing the gravity of the situation, Torrez promptly called for backup, and then he initiated a preliminary search of his immediate surroundings in the general vicinity of the garage, which turned up no perpetrators.

After the cursory search, Torrez returned to the location of the blue Nissan, and within seconds he stumbled upon a single shell casing about 3 to 4 feet from the driver side door of the car, and he also observed a cigarette butt that appeared to have been freshly smoked.

Torrez went on to confirm that the evidence, including the cigarette butt, which he described as "smoldering", was later removed by investigators from the Massachusetts State Police homicide unit.

Lyons then introduced a handful of graphic photos depicting Fred Miller's sagging, dead body, slouched over in the driver's seat of his automobile, as the next set of exhibits, but first she had Torrez verify the authenticity of what was being portrayed in the pictures.

The photos included multiple close-ups of the bullet wound in Miller's cheek, as well as various panoramic angles of the bloody mess, not to mention a shot of Miller's right hand still eerily clutching onto his car keys which were covered in red gobs of what was obviously blood.

After displaying the pictures on the overhead projector, Lyons handed them over to Assistant Clerk Dan Dente who calmly announced, "Photos of the victim entered as the next exhibit."

While Dente was officially stamping the photographic evidence into the docket, some sort of commotion broke out in the gallery, mainly people gasping and crying, which was understandable given the nature of the pictures.

Newlan assumed that the startling recoil was coming from Fred Miller's family and friends, but in keeping to his policy, he was determined not to look out into the audience.

Newlan kept his gaze pointed directly at Officer Torrez, but out of the corner of his eye he noticed that his "favorite" fellow juror, Jane, had broken down into a puddle of tears at the sight of the photos, while Dan the handicapped juror attempted to console her by putting his arm around her and gently rubbing her shoulders.

For some reason, the horrified reaction of Jane and the sobs from the audience affected Newlan more than the actual photographs did. He initially flinched at the sight of the pictures. But then he bit his lower lip and toughed it out...until the sobbing began in earnest that is.

Even as Lyons strategically allowed the pictures to linger on the overhead for a few seconds longer than was necessary, they didn't seem real to Newlan; he still felt as if he was watching an old TV show, and that the morbid photos being projected on the wall were no more authentic than the actors on a television screen.

However, when the angst in the courtroom didn't immediately die down, Newlan began to squirm in his swivel chair, and he struggled mightily to fight back his own tears; the emotional byproduct of the gut-wrenching scene was clearly taking its toll on each and every one of the jurors, evidently they just weren't ready to come face-to-face with the stirring portrait that the photos revealed.

Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason had no questions for Officer Torrez, which didn't surprise Newlan since Torrez didn't say anything the least bit incriminating towards his client, the sedate John Breslin.

Given the circumstances, Newlan felt that Officer Torrez did a commendable job of keeping his composure at the scene of the crime; although conversely, he was surprised by just how nervous Torrez appeared to be during his testimonial-restating-of-the-facts.

"In a ritzy town like Newton, Torrez probably never expected to come across a dead body," surmised Newlan as he visualized the rookie cop shitting his pants at the thought of some lunatic hiding behind a car, ready to jump out and pounce on him.

At roughly the same time that Officer Torrez discovered the remains of the bullet, he was joined on the scene by Officer Steve Denney, a 15 year veteran of the Newton Police Department, who just so happened to be the next witness called to take the stand.

Denney recollected receiving a radio bulletin from the dispatcher at around 9 AM on the morning of January 13th, 2006 regarding a possible shooting at the garage next to 435 Commonwealth Ave.

When Officer Denney arrived at the specified location, he temporarily positioned his cruiser so that it was blocking the entrance to the garage. This, he explained, ensured that no cars would be able to enter or exit the premises without his knowledge.

Denney then discussed the situation with Torrez, and he cased the garage with his police issued flashlight in search of potential evidence. He was later instructed by his Sergeant to widen the search and canvass the surrounding area looking for witnesses.

Officer Denney's testimony seemed fairly benign as far as Newlan could ascertain, so when Lyons had completed her direct examination, he was fully expecting Gleason to once again repeat, "No questions your honor".

But then he considered the flashlight, and almost immediately, he realized that he was wrong. And sure enough, as Gleason approached the witness stand he asked, "Officer Denney, you stated that you cased the garage with your police-issued flashlight, is that correct?"

"Yes sir," replied Denney.

"And is that because it was difficult to see in the garage?"

"Yes sir, if I had to rate the lighting in the garage I'd say it was very poor, and on top of that there were a number of florescent bulbs that were either dim or not functioning at all," explained Denney.

"Officer Denney you also testified that you were instructed to canvass the area looking for witnesses. Were you able to gather any information during the course of your investigations?"

"Yes sir, I interviewed a number of people who lived in the neighborhood, and there were two women in particular who had what I considered to be relevant information," replied Denney.

"Do you remember their names?" wondered Gleason.

"May I refer to my notes your honor?" asked the polite Officer Denney as he looked towards Judge Gershwin for guidance.

"Of course" replied the judge with her usual warm smile.

"I interviewed Ms. Kate Preston and Ms. Geeta Kishyoukaya, although I'm not sure whether I'm pronouncing Geeta's last name correctly," informed Denney who was now peering back at Gleason.

"And Officer Denney, did you prepare a report for your supervisor regarding your interviews with the two witnesses?"

"Yes sir" once again replied Denney.

"Now around what time did these interviews take place?" asked Gleason.

"Approximately between 9:45 and 10 AM," estimated Denney.

"And for the record, these interviews took place on the morning of January 13th, 2006, is that correct?"

"Yes sir," acknowledged Denney.

"And around what time did you prepare your report?"

"I would have prepared the report before I left work for the day, so it was probably sometime around 5 PM on the 13th," explained Officer Denney.

"No further questions your honor," announced Gleason, and as he walked back to the defense table, a tiny crack of a smile began to spread across on his face.

For his part, Newlan, who was busily jotting down notes throughout the testimony of both officers, scribbled into his pad:

I think Gleason may have been handed a pair witnesses who might somehow help Breslin's case!!

I'M LOOKING FORWARD TO HEARING FROM MS. PRESTON AND MS. GEETA WHEN THE DEFENSE MAKES ITS PRESENTATION.

Within minutes after the arrival of Officer Torrez and Officer Denney, the garage next to 435 Commonwealth Ave. was swarming with Newton police officers on that fateful morning of Fred Miller's murder, and now each and every one of them was waiting outside of courtroom 630, ready to take the stand before court adjourned for the day.

When Sergeant Frank Alden showed up on the scene, he took control of the situation, directing Torrez, Denney, and a few other officers to look for witnesses, weapons, suspects, and anything else that seemed suspicious.

Lieutenant Lou Bowen was the next officer to arrive, and he evidently pulled rank on Sergeant Alden, ordering him to stand in front of the garage and direct traffic.

Eventually the State Police reported for duty, and they took over the investigation from the overmatched Newton cops who didn't have much experience with murder cases since after all, violent crimes were a very rare occurrence in the upscale town of Newton Massachusetts.

One-by-one the cops testified...and not a single one of them presented even the slightest bit of information that would in any way implicate John Breslin or Sammy Fox of having absolutely anything whatsoever to do with the crime.

And furthermore, one-by-one, as DA Lyons finished up her direct examination, Gleason consistently followed with the same four words; "no questions your honor."

At around 11 AM, Judge Gershwin ordered a half hour recess, which turned into an hour long respite for reasons that the jurors would never become privy to.

During the break, a debate arose amongst the jurors regarding the styles of the two lawyers and who was doing the better job.

Many of the jurors disliked Gleason's approach, and they opined that he focused too much on nitpicking minutia which didn't have any relevance to the task at hand. And Natalie, the attractive magazine editor who was either snobbish or taciturn (depending on who you asked) and who Newlan so recklessly dubbed "the Ice Princess", even went so far as to ordain Gleason with the title "creepy".

Newlan's "friend" Jane, who appeared to have recovered nicely from the trauma of viewing the bloody photos of Fred Miller, could hardly contain herself as she raved on and on about what a wonderful job DA Lyons was doing.

In Newlan's mind, Breslin was in a heap of trouble if the majority of the jurors were already siding with Lyons' over-the-top approach, even though there was absolutely no hard evidence against him yet.

"I can just imagine what's gonna happen when Lyons gets into the heart of her case, and maybe, if she's lucky and she produces a speck or two of potentially incriminating evidence, these blood thirsty bastards will be calling for Breslin's head on a silver platter," speculated Newlan.

From Newlan's point of view, unless the prosecution came up with some compelling evidence, and lots of it, he had no intention of voting guilty even if the count was eleven to one.

Newlan respected DA Lyons and the job that she was doing, even though she did get on his nerves at times. But clearly, he favored Gleason's methods, so maybe he was just as bad as the rest of them.

Perhaps Newlan's admiration for Gleason's work was due to the fact that he himself was, at one time, considering going to law school to become a defense attorney. But whatever the reason, he exhibited a strong affinity for Gleason, and he was consistently fascinated by the manner in which the renowned defense attorney honed in on even the slightest inconsistencies in a witness's testimony.

As far as Newlan was concerned, by his scorecard, Gleason was the hands down winner of the fight thus far. But he was also well aware of the fact that they were only a few rounds into a fifteen round slugfest.

Newlan deemed the boxing analogy to be spot-on appropriate, considering that the two lawyers were constantly throwing jabs and hooks at each other in hopes of scoring points with the ringside judges; and then there was always the possibility of a surprise witness landing a knockout punch when the opposition least expected it; and finally, he could even envision a scenario where, maybe late in the fight, the defendant might throw in the towel, like a white flag of surrender, and change his plea to guilty.

And although the number of Gleason admirers on the jury may have been few and far between, there were a couple of people, besides Newlan, who could see the merits in his work.

Jim, the telecom industry professional, proved this point when he turned to Newlan and whisperingly joked, "When there's a break in the action I should ask Gleason for his card. Hey you never know when you might need his services."

"Dude, I was thinking the same thing myself," cheerfully replied Newlan.

"Personally I don't like the guy...but you gotta admit he's good" confessed Jim. Although, his aside only served to further confuse Newlan as to whose corner his was in.

"Well at least he seems to be keeping an open mind, which is what we should all be doing. There _are_ no sides in this battle...our only job is to determine the truth," mused a conflicted Newlan for the remainder of the break...and then in the blink of an eye, the punch-drunk jurors found themselves back in the overly chilly, air conditioned courtroom, at the ready for more of the same strategic, early-round, pace-dictating, pugilistic action.

The next witness to take the stand was Detective Ed Anderson, also of the Newton Police Department, and the jurors learned that he was responsible for inventorying Fred Miller's automobile after it was towed to the Newton Police Department garage, where it sits to this very day.

The competent detective described finding a subway pass, a Sirius satellite radio receiver, sports equipment such as softball glove and bat, cigarette lighters, razor blades, a mirror, a tablespoon, a case containing 20 CD's, and the usual stuff that you might find in a car such as a flashlight, a tire pressure gauge, and a first aid kit.

After DA Lyons had completed her very brief interrogation of Detective Anderson, Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason gingerly approached the witness stand, and, by all accounts, he appeared to be quite curious about a select handful of specific items included in the inventory which the detective had just itemized.

"Detective Anderson where, specifically, were the cigarette lighters, the razor blades, the mirror and the spoon located when you found these items within the confines of Mr. Miller's vehicle?"

"They were in the glove compartment," nonchalantly replied Anderson.

"Let me ask the question in another way, where these items scattered about the glove compartment or perhaps they were stored in a more organized manner," inquired Gleason with a curtly inquisitive smile etched upon his face.

"Objection," shouted Lyons.

Judge Gershwin thought about it for a moment, as she did more often than not before replying to an objection, but she finally decided, "He may have it."

And upon receiving the go-ahead to continue, Detective Anderson reluctantly replied, "I believe those items were found together in a small leather bag...I'd describe it as kind of like a shaving kit or a travel bag."

"And what do you suppose those items were used for?" wondered Gleason.

"Objection your honor, this line of questioning is outrageous," screamed Lyons.

"Sustained," nodded Judge Gershwin, this time relatively quickly, to which Gleason calmly responded, "your honor may we approach?"

"Of course" replied Judge Gershwin in a rather out-of-the-norm unhappy tone.

The lawyers proceeded to have another heated head-butting sidebar discussion, with Judge Gershwin serving as the referee, licensed by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts Boxing Commission, while at the same time the jurors fidgeted uncomfortably in their swivel chairs.

Jane appeared to be particularly offended by Gleason's line of questioning, and her huffing and puffing was clearly audible throughout the courtroom.

Newlan wondered whether the elderly Patty even understood that the lawyers were arguing over Gleason's not-so-subtle insinuation that the ordinary everyday items bundled into Fred Miller's travel kit were disguising the fact that they were doubling up their utility as the supplemental tools of drug paraphernalia.

But regardless of whether Patty had any idea as to what the attorneys were discussing, as the sidebar raged on, Newlan used the delay as an opportunity to stare out the windows behind him, and he dreamily observe the beautiful June day that awaited him, just beyond the courthouse walls.

Although the shades were partially drawn, the ravenous press and the satellite trucks were clearly visible down below, and the antithetical scene was in sharp contrast to the pleasant oneness with nature that had cascaded over Newlan like a rainforest waterfall.

Newlan then glanced over in Detective Anderson's direction, only to find the restless cop absentmindedly staring up at the ceiling during the delay.

As the pause in the action dragged on, Newlan was tempted to peek out into the gallery just to quench his growing curiosity. But in the end he resisted temptation and he adamantly kept to his unbending vow of never making eye-contact with anyone but the courtroom participants.

However, if Newlan had mustered up the inquisitiveness to peer out into the audience for even one brief second, to his right he would have observed Cam Miller, his face a blushed red, shaking with rage while his friends and family tried to calm him down; and to his left he would have spotted the smiling family and friends of the defendant, John Breslin, as they looked on in a relaxed state of contentment, which was fueled by the coup de grace direction that the trial appeared to be headed in.

Of course, if the Breslin side of the aisle knew what was good for them, they would have been wise to adhere to Newlan's boxing analogy and never let their guard down, for all it takes is one well placed below-the-belt punch to the kidney, one rocket-launched blow to the head, to reverse the fortunes of even the best prize fighter.

Meanwhile, the discussion at the sidebar became so animated that Judge Gershwin eventually had to have the jury removed, using the excuse that, "we are going to take a short break."

By the time the jurors filed back into the deliberation room it was already close to 1 PM, leading more than a few them to utter the same frustrated comment; "so much for getting released at one o'clock."

Curiously, after all the commotion that Gleason's probing question triggered, when the jurors settled back into the courtroom, he immediately approached Detective Anderson to resume his interrogation, and then, seemingly in midstride, he changed his mind.

With a slight sigh, Gleason patiently announced, "your honor, I have no further questions."

"Sure, first he throws out hints about drug use and then he doesn't follow up. He's a sly, calculating SOB...and I love it," cheered Newlan, regarding the rather obvious change of tactics by the acclaimed prizefighter, R. J. Gleason.

The last witness of the day was Newton Police Detective, Gerald Tarani, a grizzled 35 year veteran of the force whose primary responsibility on January 13th, 2006 was to interview the employees who worked in the office building located at 435 Commonwealth Ave.

The only information of note that Newlan could glean from DA Lyons' line of questioning was that Detective Tarani had separated each of the Barron employees into private offices before he interviewed them. And from his statements it was revealed that he interviewed many of the same people who had already testified in the case, such as Ann W. White, Melissa Green, Steve Barron, Dr. Barnett, Kathy Boyd, Norman Michaels, James Remy and Dianne Mason to name but a few.

When it was Gleason's turn at bat, he set out to establish that one of Detective Tarani's main roles in the investigation was to compile as much information as possible, and get the word out on the streets ASAP.

Gleason then inquired; "Detective Tarani do you have any formal training in the field of criminal investigation, specifically as it relates to conducting interviews?"

"Yes sir, I completed classes in Criminal Investigations, Interviewing Techniques, and Criminal Report Writing, all offered by the Massachusetts State Police Training Division," replied Tarani.

"And what year did you take these classes?" Gleason politely asked Tarani.

"I believe it was around 1976," approximated Tarani.

"Detective Tarani are you telling this jury that it has been 32 years since you were last trained in these areas?" wondered Gleason with an incredulous ting to his voice. And for his part, Tarani didn't hesitate in his reply.

"That would be correct sir. But you're leaving out the fact that I have years of on-the-job training under my belt," muttered Tarani as he stared down Gleason with a boring glare that was positively deadly.

Naturally, Gleason wasn't the least bit intimidated, and he continued to deliver a methodical set of queries as if they were punishing body blows to Tarani's midsection.

"Detective Tarani, roughly how long did each interview last?"

"I'd say no more than 15 minutes each."

"Now Detective Tarani, in respect to your interviews with Kathy Boyd and Dianne Mason, they both made mention of the fact that they had observed a distinctive red car parked in the garage where Fred Miller was murder, isn't that correct?" asked Gleason.

"Yes sir, that's correct."

"And did either woman EVER mention the model or make of this particular red car?" emphatically asked Gleason.

"I reviewed my reports this morning so that they would be fresh in mind, and I can accurately state with 100% certainty that they did not mention the model or make of the red car," replied Tarani proudly.

"And did either woman EVER mention peeling paint...or the condition of the hood...or the condition of the front bumper of the red car in question?" asked Gleason, once again emphasizing the word "EVER."

"No sir they did not," whispered Detective Tarani.

"No further questions your honor," announced Gleason who, if you asked Newlan, appeared to be enjoying himself rather immensely. And with that, another round of testimony in the murder trial of Mr. John Breslin came to an end. But not before Newlan jotted down a last minute observation or two into his notepad before calling it a day:

To find Breslin guilty, the prosecution must also prove that Fox murdered Fred Miller, and based on this red car foolishness, they're insulting our intelligence and making a mockery of the justice system. Maybe that was Fox's car in the garage, but was it his car beyond a reasonable doubt?? I THINK NOT!!!!

Chapter 36 – Fear of Falling

Monday afternoon June 9, 2008 – 2:45 PM

Frank Newlan took a deep breath as he navigated down the ramp that led to his deeded parking space in the lower level underground garage of the Medford River Park Condominiums complex.

Even though the Breslin trial didn't quite adjourn at 1 PM as Judge Gershwin had promised, Newlan's laborious afternoon still ended much sooner than it would have had he been at work, which left his wandering-mind feeling as if there was at least one incidental benefit to be gained from serving on a jury; although, if given the choice, he would much rather have been at work any day of the week.

As Newlan gingerly exited his automobile, he cautiously scanned the garage, searching for signs of a possible faceless murderer lurking behind one of the supporting beams...and then after giving himself the "all clear" signal, he flicked open the trunk with his remote and pulled out a couple of bags of groceries which he had picked up on his way home from the courthouse.

For some incomprehensible reason, the garage had rendered Newlan with a case of the creeps from the very first day he moved into his apartment. And even though he had no rational reason for this very irrational fear, his anxiety had never quite dissipated. But rational or not, now that he was immersed in the details of the Breslin murder trial, including the jury's visit to the eerie garage in Newton, he was more paranoid than ever when it came to his own condo complex's parking garage. However, he was damned if he was going to let his demons get the better of him.

You see, before Newlan purchased his condo, he had never been afforded with the luxury of a garage parking spot, and so regardless of how jittery and claustrophobic the enclosed garage left him feeling at times, he still treasured the convenience of pulling into his spot on a cold, wet, winter night; and even better, he was thrilled not to have to brush a foot of snow off his car and shovel his way out of an icy mess in the morning, after a typically brutal New England blizzard.

And besides, after five years of living at the Medford River Park complex, Newlan had come a long way in conquering his fears, and so now after giving the garage a final once over, he lazily made his way up to his condo for what he hoped would be a pleasant, lazy, late-afternoon nap.

As Newlan climbed the flight of stairs which led up to the lobby, he happened to notice that no one was manning the concierge's desk. And even though this wasn't too unusual of a situation, his legendary radar kicked into high gear in spite of himself.

With his psychic beacon sending him signals, Newlan gingerly advanced towards the elevator and discretely glanced out beyond the adjacent glass postern which led to the upper level garage; and it was here that he observed Saeed Kahn gaping at the heavy, motorized garage door while sizing up the aperture with a tape-measure.

When Kahn came to the realization that Newlan might be spying him, he covertly attempted to conceal the portable yardstick, and he nervously poked his head out of the open garage entryway while at the same time waving his arms, as if he were guiding an invisible truck into a tight space.

Upon witnessing the perplexing doorman in action, Newlan could only shake his head disapprovingly and mutter; "What the hell is this lunatic doing? This is weird even for Saeed."

For the most part, Newlan considered Saeed Kahn to be nothing more than a harmless old man. But every once in a while Kahn would go through intermittent stretches of erratic behavior, which in turn would result in Newlan becoming quite leery of his Pakistani friend.

Newlan was normally the type of person who tended to mind his own business when it came to his neighbor's quirks...but not this time; no, this time his puzzlement got the better of him and he decided to confront Kahn.

"Saeed, what the heck are you doing out here?" inquired Newlan as he calmly approached the shady doorman.

"We are expecting a new tenant...large truck...antique furniture...very nice people,"

Kahn mumbled. But his unnaturally high voice and twitchy mannerisms came across as conspicuously murky, which had Newlan's internal antenna sending out frantic red alerts.

Newlan didn't say a word, for fear of arousing Kahn's suspicions, but he wondered to himself what would cause the experienced concierge to react in such a fidgety manner over a simple move-in, when people moved in and out of the building all the time.

"Why do you ask my friend?" cheerily probed Kahn. But as far as Newlan was concerned, something about his maniacal smile radiated treachery, and his beady eyes appeared to have an aberrant glint to them.

"Oh it's nothing...Just curious I guess," casually replied Newlan, even though deep inside, his synapses were transmitting a meteor shower of foreboding tension.

Although Newlan was fully aware that Kahn's skittish behavior wasn't completely out of character, his baffling antics had him on the defensive just the same. And in his present frame of mind, he preferred to make a quick retreat before the opinionated doorman went on one of his long rants about the state of the world. But unfortunately it was already too late for that because, in midstride of his attempted pullout, Kahn had heretofore transitioned seamlessly into a babbling conversation regarding the latest government crackdown back in his homeland.

Newlan was generally a good listener, but at the moment he just wasn't in the mood for one of Kahn's soapbox diatribes, and so in a fit of desperation he attempted to change the subject.

"Beautiful day isn't it? The flowers in front of the building are blooming nicely," offered Newlan. But his change of direction only seemed to magnify Kahn's spooky stare until it took on the likeness of a laser beam boring a chasm into his cranial cavity.

After a few more minutes spent painstakingly attempting to engage Kahn in small talk, the suddenly creeped-out Newlan excused himself by claiming that he had an errand to attend to.

With his apology elucidated, Newlan ploddingly began to back away from Kahn. But he got no more than a few steps towards the entrance into the building when the cantankerous concierge noticed the Rolling Stone magazine with the photo of Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama on the cover, which he was carry under his armpit...and Kahn was none too pleased.

"They are no good, either one of them," growled Kahn as he agitatedly pointed at the picture, "and the Republican candidates are even worse."

The last thing Newlan wanted to do at the moment was to talk politics with the likes of Saeed Kahn, so once again he attempted a last ditch effort at changing the subject, if only ever so slightly.

"Aren't you a citizen now Saeed...and won't this be your first presidential election?" wondered Newlan while at the same time doing his best to feign interest.

"No...never will I vote for either of these dogs. Finally we have come to the end of the criminal Bush's term, and now we must endure four more years of war and wickedness from these corrupt outlaws...never will I vote," angrily railed Kahn.

In all his time debating Saeed Kahn on every subject imaginable, Newlan had never once remembered him reacting in such an ornery manner. The derogatory remarks that were suddenly spouting from his yap, like sewage from a backed-up toilet, were seriously beginning to trouble Newlan. But that didn't stop him from boldly proclaiming; "Well if you want to see changes made, then the first thing you have to do is get out and vote."

"Ah my friend...but there will be changes. Very soon, there will be immense changes, radical changes, dire changes, and the criminals will pay for their treason," stoically replied Kahn, but all the while the expression on his face was duplicitous.

At this point, Newlan had had just about enough already, and he slowly but surely backed away from the lunatic fringe ramblings of the condo complex's faithful attendant.

As Newlan forged his escape, Kahn's preachy assault could still be heard, off in the distance, echoing through the lobby. And while the elevator made its ascent up to the 6th floor, an abrupt realization hit him; Saeed Kahn's glower emitted the guise of a terrorist arching from his evil eyes; Saeed Kahn's protests set forth the words of an angry radical spewing from his polluted mouth; Saeed Kahn's histrionic philosophies discharged a lethal chemical reaction straight from the depth of the dangerous madman hidden in his soul. And on top of that, his vile thesis sent his hatred sprawling out of his every fissure.

"To think that we welcome people like Saeed Kahn into our country with open arms, and this is the gratitude we get," groused Newlan. And as his bitterness crystallized, out of nowhere, he was jolted by the stabbing pain of a profound emptiness surging up from somewhere deep within the core of his being.

"I don't know why the hell it even surprises me, the entire planet is a fuckin' mess anyway," protested Newlan aloud to himself as he entered his condo. But it bothered him nonetheless.

Newlan, he of the one-world mentality, was never a strongly patriotic person, nor was he anti-government either, and yet Kahn's callous attitude toward their country angered him.

And furthermore, the real Saeed Kahn, the Saeed Kahn that Newlan was seeing for the first time today, dismayed him beyond reproach.

"I'm gonna keep an eye on that motherfucker," Newlan promised himself as he collapsed on the sofa and squeezed his droopy eyes shut.

Newlan was completely exhausted after enduring another day of testimony in the John Breslin murder trial, not to mention Saeed Kahn's enervating tirade, and yet his mind still wouldn't turn itself off.

Try as he might to relax, Newlan just couldn't seem to get the trial out of his head, and so he just laid there and wondered; he wondered where the prosecution was going with their case; he wondered how the defense would counter the attack; he wondered what the rest of the jurors were thinking.

"All they have so far is that damned red car, and the fact that Sammy the Fox also drove a similar red car, but that doesn't prove shit," quibbled Newlan. And he kept coming back to the fact that he also owned a red car which closely fit the description of the vehicle that a handful of the witnesses described seeing at the scene of the crime.

Newlan's sleepless thoughts continued to wander back and forth from the trial, to the suddenly crazed Saeed Kahn, to Marianne Plante's bewildering letter. And even though it was only 3 o'clock in the afternoon, his eyelids eventually grew heavy, and he gradually drifted off into a dark nightmare.

Newlan dreamed that he was peering out the kitchen window of his condo, peering down at the entrance of the upper garage, when off in the distance he observed a red car approaching. And as the car grew closer he saw that it was his red car; he saw that it was his very own 1995 Mercury Mystique.

In his dream-state, Newlan seemed to have been gifted with some sort of magical x-ray vision, and he could plainly see that his automobile was being driven by none other than John Breslin, and perched in the passenger seat was his high school sweetheart, the one and only Marianne Plante.

Newlan's visionary power went on to observe that his red Mercury was being directed into the garage by the condo complex's trusty concierge, Mr. Saeed Kahn. And as he stood by the window in his hypnotically narcoleptic condition, he found the scene to be startlingly peculiar, and he became frighteningly alarmed by the bizarre sights that his slumbering mind was presenting him.

Next up, another vehicle carrying Newlan's now deceased parents made its way towards the garage as Saeed Kahn happily waved them in. And soon, car after car began arriving, with Newlan's friends and family riding inside; Pat Horn and Bruce Reardon, Janis Barry, Officer Jimmy Leach, his sister Rose Marino and her son Joey, his co-workers from Tafts University, and on and on it went.

As Newlan droopy eyelids observed the caravan, loaded with the dearest people from every stage of his life, filing into the garage as if they were all Grand Marshals in a pomp Memorial Day parade, he knew for sure that something wasn't right. Even in his dreams he realized that something was terribly wrong. Even in his darkest hour he seemed to understand that he had to do _something_. And what's more, he knew that he had to act now; spring into action immediately, or every person he ever cared about would soon be gone. Gone like so much dust in the wind.

Newlan struggled to let out a scream, but couldn't. By now he was half-awake, but no matter how hard he tried, he still couldn't speak, he still couldn't move. Somehow he was paralyzed by an unknown fear. Somehow his childhood nightmares were returning to haunt him once again; to haunt him in death-defying fashion; to haunt him in a spectacular flame-filled sky of an encore; a finale that would surely surpass even the most dazzling Fourth of July fireworks displays ever known to man.

Newlan stood there helplessly by his kitchen window as he spied a monstrous truck approaching the garage. The truck backed up and maneuvered its trailer into the ingress, led by the deranged Saeed Kahn who was now playing the part of a traffic cop, right down to the wearing of an elaborate military uniform marked with a Nazi emblem on the sleeve. Once the truck was in place, the fiendish hissing of a gaseous substance intertwining with the ghostly screams of a holocaustic genocide congealed into a discernable racket, which was clearly emanating from the chambered garage, while at the same time Saeed Kahn took the form of the Devil and vanished into thin air...and somehow Newlan seemed to grasp the forgone conclusion of what was about to happen next.

"Noooooooo," he silently screamed as a mushroom cloud of an explosion sent him flying out of the collapsing building and into the atmospheric emptiness, where he began to fall from the sky...slowly but surely he was falling down, silently falling, down, down, down.

In the past, whenever Newlan found himself trapped in one of his infamous falling dreams, somehow he always found a way to will himself awake before he hit the ground...but not this time. As much as he struggled, as much as he fought, there he was, plunging towards the Earth; plunging towards a certain death. And he was helpless to do a damn thing to stop his descent; helpless to do anything but hold his breath and brace himself for impact.

However, just as Newlan's life was about to come to its inevitable end, the phone rang, and somehow the ringing in his head cured his paralysis. Somehow he awoke from his nightmare; somehow he survived to live another day; somehow he survived to fight another fight.

On the other end of the phone was Newlan's sister, Rose Marino.

"Hey, whatcha doing? You sound like you're half asleep," cheerfully asked Rose.

Newlan was groggy and disoriented, and he was shaking all over from the aftermath of his terrible nightmare, but somehow he managed a faint reply; "Nothing, just taking a nap."

"I sent you an email at work today and I got your auto-reply. Your message said that you're on jury duty...why didn't you tell me?"

"Sorry, I meant to call you, but I've been so busy that it slipped my mind," answered Newlan in what was more or less a white lie.

"So what kind of case are you on?" curiously wondered Rose.

"Oh it's just a boring civil lawsuit. Some old lady's suing a big corporation because she slipped on a patch of ice in front of one of their stores," explained Newlan. But this time his fib was even more of a tall tale. He may have been half-asleep, but he was still fully cognizant of the veracity behind his decision not to let his sister in on the factual details regarding his present jury duty assignment; plainly put, he didn't dare upset the apple cart.

When you consider the fact that Rose Marino's son was currently employed by the very same corporation that Breslin once worked for, not to mention the fact that Judge Gershwin must have warned the jurors a million times already not to discuss the case with anybody, it's no wonder that Newlan was forced to improvise; and so he was compelled to make up something quick; and so he was obligated to once again go drudging up the past; and so he was coerced into slyly resurrecting the civil case from which he got ejected so many years ago.

"Why don't you come over for dinner tomorrow night, and maybe if you're not too tired you can stick around and watch the basketball game afterwards," invitingly offered Rose.

"Sounds good, I'll be over around 7 o'clock," appreciatively responded Newlan. Even though he didn't mind fending for himself, the confirmed bachelor in him was always more than happy to accept the offer of a home-cooked meal, regardless of how down-and-out he was feeling at the moment.

After Newlan hung up the phone, he collapsed onto the sofa with his throbbing head in his hands, and he pondered the possibility of performing a revealing slice of self-analysis. Why, he wondered, was he having all these crazy dreams lately? He couldn't quite figure it out. But dream or no dream, his resolution to keep closer tabs on Saeed Kahn was further reinforced.

Within an hour, Newlan had calmed down to a degree where he was able to adjourn into the kitchen and broil up the steak tips that he had just brought home from the supermarket, along with a dozen fresh dinner rolls. To top off the meal, he whipped up a salad and uncorked a bottle of California merlot, and he had nice little feast for himself.

"Not a bad snack. Maybe not as complicated a dinner as my sister Rose might put together, but still pretty good, if I do say so myself," insisted Newlan as he drained down another glass of wine. He wasn't a wine connoisseur, but he knew what he liked, and what he liked was to put on a good glow without spending a lot of money. And that being the case, he wasn't one to go for an expensive label when a 10 dollar bottle suited him just fine.

Newlan was feeling a lot better after dinner (it seemed a good meal always helped to cheer him up), so he decided to hunker down at the desk in his extra bedroom and power up his laptop. He figured that he'd surf the web for a while and get caught up on the news of the day, not to mention his ever-growing work email inbox.

Like most people, Newlan was amazed by how, in this modern world, you could retrieve vast quantities of information at the push of a computer button. But on the other hand, at times he found the internet to be a tad overrated, despite the fact that he was a high-tech employee. And as if to prove his point, he recently asserted to his co-workers; "the internet is OK and all...but lately I find myself getting bored with the whole idea of cyberspace. I mean, there are a million websites out there, but it seems as if the only sites I ever surf are Boston.com and maybe a few sports websites."

In any event, regardless of Newlan decidedly underwhelming viewpoint regarding the World Wide Web, he realized that, strictly speaking, he probably shouldn't be on the internet, browsing the local news at all, due to the possibility that he might stumble upon a story documenting the Breslin trial. But at this point in the apathetic glow of the evening, he wasn't bothered by his predicament in the least, and in fact he did come across a slew of stories featuring the "Three Horrible Hubbys" spotlighted across multiple sections of the Boston.com website.

Truth be told, there was really no way that Newlan could have missed happening upon the trio of sorry husbands, seeing as how their sordid tales were plastered all over the home page of his favorite news website.

As had been the case since Day-One of this epic trifecta of courtroom dramas, most of the media's scrutiny was fixated on the Neil Townshend case, which involved the tragic yet sensational murder of the slimy Englishman's wife and infant daughter. But there was also a fair measure of attention being heaped on the "Hit Man Murder" case as the Breslin trial was referred to, and on the "Gatorade Poisoning" case as the James McMahn trial was dubbed, and as such, Newlan had plenty of reading material from which to choose from.

After much deliberation, Newlan decided to go ahead and peruse one or two of the Breslin articles. And although he assumed that the majority of these random news accounts probably didn't contain much information which he hadn't already been made aware of, he wondered whether this surreptitious leak into his brain might nevertheless trigger a subconscious proclivity within him, either for or against Breslin.

"The hell with it," exclaimed Newlan in the end. But as he contemplated the inner workings of his knotty mind, his latest dream popped back into his head, and his curiosity took a detour. Instead of going on the QT to illegitimately investigate the Breslin case, he once again decided that maybe a dose of self-imposed psychoanalysis might better serve his needs. And with this task in mind, he figured that, in all probability, there was bound to be a bountiful array of internet sites out there in cyberspace which served as repositories for materials pertaining to interpreting dreams.

With his thirst for knowledge peaked, Newlan navigated to Google and typed "dream interpretation" into the edit box...and he watched in wonderment as, in less than a second, the ingenious search engine did its thing.

Despite the fact that Newlan was considered to be a highly regarded computer programmer by his peers at Tafts University, he still wasn't quite certain what was going on under the hood of the amazing Google software which allowed it to respond so quickly to even the most inane search requests. But regardless, he was none too surprised to observe the voluminous array of hits that came streaming back to his computer screen in the blink of an eye. And now with a bevy of information staring him in the face, he randomly set his sights on a URL that offered to help uncover the true meanings of your dreams...and when he drilled into the website he actually found a hyperlink specifically related to "Falling Dreams".

Newlan clicked on the link and fervently scanned though the page-long explanation with much fascination.

Falling dreams are fairly common, but contrary to popular belief, you will not die if you do not wake up before hitting the ground.

"That's a bunch of bull, and even if it is the truth, I still don't want to chance it," argued Newlan who thankfully always woke up before he hit the ground in his own version of the falling dream. And although he didn't totally agree with what he was reading, he found the remaining text to be quite interesting just the same.

As with most anxiety-provoking dreams, falling dreams are indicative of some sort of major upheaval that has taken control of your life. Someone or something has you feeling helpless and powerless, perhaps even despondent. Maybe you are having issues with a personal or romantic relationship, or perhaps you are having issues with your job, or maybe some other unexpected situation has arisen in your life which is dominating your thoughts of late. It is during those times when you are feeling the most vulnerable, and when you are struggling to keep up with the rigors in your daily life, that falling dreams are most likely to occur. When you fall in your dreams, you are admitting that you have lost all control and there is nothing you can grab onto to help ease your troubles.

Whatever the issue might be, something has got you traumatized. You feel like a failure. You feel ashamed. You feel inadequate. You feel that everyone is against you. In short, you feel frightened and alone.

If we interrogate the situation from a Freudian standpoint, your falling dreams might indicate some sort of sexual desire or longing which remains unresolved.

Falling dreams are typically accompanied by muscle spasms which help us to awake ourselves before we hit the ground. This instinctive reaction has evolved over time like a dog chasing its tail to make a clearing in the grass before going to sleep

There are even negative biblical references about how falling dreams signify that we are acting in such a way that is not in accordance with the will of the Lord.

"Well, I'm pretty sure that I've had muscle spasms during my falling dreams...and I guess it's possible that I might have some unresolved sexual desires. Oh who the hell am I kidding, this is a load of crock. This is almost as bad as reading a silly horoscope," professed Newlan. Of course, when the mood struck him, he tended to believe in Freudian hypotheses; when the mood struck him, he tended to believe in the astrological vortex of Zodiac lore; when the mood struck him, he tended to believe in his own paranormal abilities; so in some ways you could make the case that he was contradicting himself, not that this would be the first or last time he was guilty of such an infraction.

"Fuck it, if I'm such a freakin' nut job then why the hell should I even give a crap about anything?" grumbled Newlan as he spontaneously punched up his Google home page again and typed the words "John Breslin" into the search box, which likewise returned page upon page of malicious dirt attributed to the allegedly murderous jealous husband.

Newlan hesitated, but he just couldn't resist any longer, Judge Gershwin be damned. And so he honed his focus in on a news report dating back to the momentous day that Breslin and Fox were arraigned on charges of first degree murder in April of 2006, and he painstakingly reviewed the article in minute detail.

John Breslin was so enraged that his estranged wife was seeing her high school sweetheart that he once told his kids he wished that the man would "drop dead" prosecutors revealed in court yesterday.

One of the Breslin's young children was so distraught, prosecutors stated, that she allegedly called the boyfriend/victim, Fred Miller, and left him a message that said, "I hate you and I hope that you die."

This morning, Breslin, 47, of Waltham and Samuel Fox, 57, also of Waltham were arraigned in Middlesex Superior Court on charges that they conspired to murder Miller, an insurance agent who was found dead, with a fatal gunshot wound to the head, on the morning of January 13th of this year in a parking garage located next to his office in Newton.

Breslin and Fox each pleaded not guilty to all charges.

Prosecutors allege that Breslin, who worked for _Tex-Ray Defense Systems_ in Andover, paid Fox, a career criminal, at least $10,000 to kill Miller.

The prosecution's report stated that the two defendants met through a mutual friend at _Tex-Ray Defense Systems_ , and that their conspiracy began to take root in the fall of 2005 and lasted until they were arrested yesterday evening.

" _Breslin refused to acknowledge that Fred Miller was not to blame for his marital problems," documented prosecutors in their report. "Miller eventually became the target of Breslin's resentment and getting 'rid of' Miller became a fixation with the defendant Breslin, which led him to pay Fox for the service of killing Fred Miller."_

However, the lawyer representing Breslin claimed that his client had absolutely nothing to do with the murder. "John Breslin refutes the prosecution's claims that he had anything whatsoever to do with the death of Mr. Miller," said his family's attorney, _Joseph Catino_

A lawyer representing Fox, who is well known to local authorities for his involvement with organized crime figures in the Northtown section of Boston, was unavailable for comment.

Miller's friends and relatives declined to speak with reporters yesterday other than the following statement from _the victim's brother, Cameron Miller, who watched from the front row of the crowded court gallery at this morning's arraignment, choking back tears._

" _My brother was a wonderful person who was loved by many people, and these spineless cowards stole him from us without giving it a second thought. We are confident that justice will be served in this case and that these gutless excuses for men will spend the remainder of their lives in prison."_

Prosecutors went on to describe innumerable phone calls that were placed between Breslin and Fox, and how they used pay phones, phone cards, and a friends' cell phone to hide their conspiracy. They also revealed how Breslin, who was acquainted with Fox before the ex-con went to prison in 2002 for illegally possessing a cache of handguns, became reconnected with Fox through one of his fellow Tex-Ray employees, Nancy _O'Brien_. _O'Brien_ could not be reached for comment as of press time.

According to prosecutors, Breslin decided it wasn't enough to intimidate or beat Miller, because Miller would be able to pin the attack on him, so he concluded that the only option was to have Miller killed.

Tracy Breslin, who was in the process of obtain a divorce from John Breslin at the time of the murder, told the detectives that her husband repeatedly hinted that there would be trouble if she didn't stop dating Miller, whom she had known since high school.

``It won't be good for Fred's health," Breslin allegedly told his wife, prosecutors wrote in their report.

Newlan distressfully pondered the implications of the article, and, more importantly, his serious breach of trust in the matter of his courtroom vow of sequestration. But it was only after reading and rereading the entire story multiple times did he acknowledge the pangs of guilt that had come over him for disobeying Judge Gershwin's orders. And on top of that, he was buckled by the waves of another anxiety attack which had come crashing down on him; a delayed reaction, perhaps triggered by the inescapable nagging feeling that, literally and figuratively speaking, he was being forced to play a starring role in such a monumental life-or-death decision; a decision which he wanted no part of from the get-go.

"Oh shit, maybe I shouldn't have read this. Maybe he did do it...who the hell knows. All I know is that the State of Massachusetts is expecting me and the rest of the jurors to make the ultimate judgment, and I don't know if I'm up it."

And yet despite his guilty conscience, Newlan was alluringly tempted to click on another Breslin article. However, this time, with the help of his illicitly-addled willpower, he resisted the enticement...and when he looked up at the clock on the wall he was shocked to discover that it was almost midnight, so he dragged himself off to bed where he tossed and turned for most of the night, wondering how in the world he ever got himself into such a mess; all the while knowing full well that sometimes, as Bob Dylan, the much celebrated voice of an entire emboldened generation, portended; it all boils down to...a simple twist of fate.

Chapter 37 – Brent Blain, Private Detective Extraordinaire

Monday evening June 9, 2008 – 8:00 PM

At around the same time that a lethargic Frank Newlan was about to succumb to the mesmerizing temptations of serendipitously eavesdropping in on the John Breslin murder trial via the internet, an ominous meeting was taking place some 20 miles away from his condo which indirectly involved him.

Tom Willis (AKA Mr. Marianne Plante) and Brent Blain, Private Detective and owner of the Boston Intelligence Group, were finishing up their last rounds of target practice at the Andover Rifle and Pistol Club, and afterwards, the two men were planning to go out for a few beers and a bite to eat. But also on the agenda was an update regarding the status of Blain's investigation into the whereabouts and activities of Willis's wife, the aforementioned Marianne.

Willis and Blain had first met nearly three years ago at this very same shooting range, and since then they had developed a fast friendship based on mutual interests such as sports, cars, guns, and, especially, chasing women. The fact that they were both married men didn't seem to enter into the equation, and in some ways it made their conquests all the more challenging (and ten times as much fun).

Although, between Willis's money and Blain's background as a private eye, the gullible women they hobnobbed around with didn't really stand much of a chance at resisting their raunchy advances. First off, Willis wouldn't think twice about throwing down a wad of cash to impress some floozy, and secondly Blain, being the con-man that he was, seemed to have figured out just how to fast-talk his extra-curricular playmates right into bed before they even knew what hit them.

Of course, when it came to the inner-workings of the extramarital affair game, Blain's career choice gave him a sizable advantage, seeing as how most of his cases involved snooping around on a spouse who was shacking up with an old flame, or a co-worker, or maybe even the mailman. And so he learned long ago how to spot the signs of a damsel in distressing need of some part-time loving.

Yes, Brent Blain had seen it all in his career, and he loved to tell his war stories. And in Tom Willis he had a captivated audience. But besides their shared affinity for the finer things in life, Tom Willis also had his own selfish reasons for his burgeoning friendship with Brent Blain.

You see, in the past few months Willis had begun to grow more and more concerned about his wife's purported disinterest in him, and he wisely assumed that someday he might need Brent Blain's services, and sure enough that someday had come.

Willis was absolutely convinced that his wife was up to no good. And although he wasn't sure exactly _what_ she was up to, it was clear to him that she had been acting very suspiciously lately, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it.

And to muddle the waters even further, the strangest aspect of Willis's obsessive behavior was the fact that he wasn't even sure whether he loved his wife anymore. But that was beside the point, because, like a piece of old luggage, she belonged to him, regardless of the fact that things had reached the stage where they could hardly spend five minutes in the same room together before they were at each other's throats. And yet he was still tormented by the fact that she wouldn't wait on him, hand over foot, like she once did.

From the very start of their relationship, Willis had been unfaithful. But now that Plante was finally catching on to his chicanery, he had somehow twisted the facts around so that, in his own mind, it was his bitchy wife who was at the root cause of his infidelities. And even though he wanted out of the marriage just as badly as she did, he would only consider a divorce as a last resort, on the basis that he refused to allow his kids to grow up in a broken home. And furthermore, he'd just assume kill them both before he would _ever_ allow _her_ to divorce _him_.

So on this night, as Tom Willis hit bulls-eye after bulls-eye, his rapidly improving skill as a marksman took on an extra layer of added significance.

Egged on by Brent Blain, Willis imagined that the bullet-riddled target was the bastard who was screwing his wife, and by the time the two men had finished discharging their last round of ammunition, Willis was practically shaking from a volcanic adrenaline rush that coursed through his veins like molten lava.

The explosive sound of gunfire never failed to produce a surreal aftereffect in Willis that could only be described as sensory overload; and the smell of burnt gunpowder, when combined with the violent kickback produced by the discharging weapon, left him with a pleasant, tingling numbness that soothed his entire body like a potent opiate; just a few of the many unintended byproducts that manifest themselves in Willis when he decided to take on the challenge of mastering the use of a powerful deadly weapon; a weapon so forceful that it could blast through a metal door as if it were a piece of paper; a weapon so lethal that it could end a man's life in heartbeat.

After practice, as they locked and holstered their 9 millimeter semi-automatic pistols, even Brent Blain was impressed.

"Tommy you keep this up and you're gonna be a better shot than me pretty soon."

"You taught me well Brent, you taught me well," replied Willis with a broad smile on his face as they drove down the road to their local hangout, the 88 Bar and Grill in Andover Massachusetts.

During the short ride to the restaurant, Willis immediately went to work picking at Blain's brain like a bird pecking away at an earthworm...and the interrogation continued right on through dinner.

"So tell me again what the fuckin' bitch was doing the other night?" ordered Willis as he tore into his juicy steak.

"I told you already Tommy...she crept out the front door, probably so she wouldn't wake you up. Then she stumbled down to the mailbox, crying her eyes out...and she drops a letter in the slot. Then she sneaks back into the house...that's it," explained Blain.

Willis, however, was positive that there had to be some sort of ulterior motive behind his wife's actions, and so he impatiently spit out a slew of follow-up questions.

"Yeah, but what about all these dickheads she's been fooling around with?"

Blain didn't really have much to go on, but that didn't stop him from flipping through his notepad and listing off a litany of exaggerated charges.

"Well if you must know, she's been really strutting her stuff with every guy she sees, the auto mechanic, the salesman at the eyeglass shop, your daughter's teacher, your daughter's soccer coach, and that's just to name a few."

"So what do you think...who's the asshole that's doin' her?" demanded Willis.

"Look Tommy, it don't work that way...it takes time to track down these fuckin' home-wreckers. I've had cases where it took me six months...but I guarantee you, if she's sleeping around with someone, then I'll eventually find the shit-head for you," reassured Blain.

By now, Willis's shooting range rush had completely dissipated, and he was sulking in his beer at the very thought of his wife with another man. Maybe Willis was feeling guilty about his own indiscretions, or maybe the ever-present anger that was boiling inside of him was begin to steam up like a teapot set on high, but whatever the reason, his manic-depressive personality was definitely going into depression mode.

"So Tommy, just for giggles...tell me what happens if we find out some stud's been tapping her?" wondered Blain. And in response to the private eye's blasphemous question, Willis banged his fist on the table, spilling half a glass of beer in the process. He then looked Blain squarely in the eye and calmly replied, "I'll kill the bastard."

"Come on Tommy, think about what you're saying...you'll end up in prison...then what happens?" asked Blain who went on to answer his own question. "Then the kids have no father, that's what fuckin' happens."

"I don't give a fuck," screamed Willis as he pointed a finger in Blain's face for emphasis. "Whether he knows it or not, that fuckin' prick's already a dead man."

"Tommy, we don't even know if this guy exists. For all we know your wife's been faithful to you. Like I said, so far I haven't caught her doing anything yet, other than some innocent flirting," reasoned Blain.

"Look Tommy if we do find out that she's been humping some jerk...I'll give you the name of a contact that'll take care of it for you. It'll cost you big bucks, but the cops will never trace it back to you. You understand what I'm saying Tommy...or do I gotta spell it out for you?" asked Blain as he stared deeply into Willis's eyes, probing for a reaction.

Willis stared back in kind, and after a few seconds he broke into a contorted, knowing smile as he replied, "Yeah, I think I do Brent...I think I do."

"Good, then it's settled. I don't usually get involved like this for just anyone, but you're a friend Tommy. Trust me, this is the way to go, and besides you don't want to end up like that guy we were talking about the other night. What's his name...Breslin? That's the way NOT to go about plotting your revenge. What an idiot," opined Blain.

"Yeah, I was reading about that trial in the paper yesterday. Oh and by the fuckin' way, how do you know he did it?" prodded Willis.

"Come on Tommy...don't be so fuckin' gullible. Who the hell else had a reason to kill the boyfriend? It's always the husband....and that's why, if push comes to shove, your alibi has to be bulletproof," insisted Blain as he chuckled at his own choice of words. And then he slowly proceeded to pronounce every syllable; "bul-let-prooo-ffff...no pun intended."

"I'll drink to that," cheered Willis as he raised his tankard of brew.

Blain and Willis clinked mugs, and as they chugged down their suds, Willis tacked on an addendum to his already dire prognosis.

"But I'd still rather kill the bastard myself. That way I'd get to look into his eyes and tell the motherfucker a thing or two before I pull the trigger. Hey, you know what they say, if you want something done right then you're better off doing it yourself."

"Yeah, I guess I can appreciate that. There _is_ something to be said for doing your own dirty work," nodded Blain with a sinister look that implied he might know a thing or two more about the subject of killing than he let on.

Now that the two men had come to a clear understanding, the suddenly revitalized Willis shot up off his stool and announced, "come on...let's go chase some pussy."

And with that enticing mandate, the fast friends went careening out into the night like a spray of bullets ricocheting off the side of a barn.

Whether the two womanizing companions ever stopped to think about the hypocrisy of what they were saying, we cannot know. But one fact is clear; if a bolt of lightning were to strike them down dead, not many people outside their immediate families...would shed a single tear.

Chapter 38 – Recommendations & Suggestions, Guns & DNA

Tuesday morning June 10, 2008 – 6:30 AM

Morning came early for Frank Newlan. He had just spent another long night staring at the ceiling, unable to get the John Breslin murder trial out of his mind...and although his body was beyond tired, he couldn't seem to turn his brain off. And the net result of this lethargy was an endless stream of red cars, massive explosions, old girlfriends, ruthless murderers, and cryptic love letters, all intermingled and floating through his cranium like a London fog.

And when Newlan did manage to nod off for a few minutes, he dreamt of guns; guns of every size and shape; pistols, rifles, machine guns, rocket launchers, and tanks; guns hidden in darkened corners; guns fired by unknown enemies; guns following his every move.

Finally, at the crack of dawn, with the sight of the sun rising though his bedroom window and the nagging fear that more violent dreams would overtake him if he fell asleep again, Newlan decided that he might as well get up and pay a visit down to the condo exercise room so that he might take a swing at working off some of the stress that had been building up inside of him since the start of the trial.

Since Newlan was up and about earlier than usual this morning, even by his early-bird standards, he had afforded himself plenty of time to ride the stationary bike and sit in the sauna for an extended period before heading back up to his condo for a toasted bagel and a cup of coffee. And even after dawdling over breakfast, his unhurried schedule allowed him to prepare for another day at the courthouse at his leisure and still have a half hour leftover, which he used to watch the morning news while smoking a tranquilizing joint.

However, when the anchorwoman announced, "Coming up after the break, the latest news in the 'horrible hubby' murder trials", Newlan immediately reached for his foam TV brick and launched it at the set like a quarterback winging a spiraling football downfield to a sprinting wide receiver. It figured that just when the reefer was beginning to improve his disposition, the news lady pissed him off again, and so he decided; "the hell with it...I might as well hit the road."

Of course, before Newlan made his way out the door, he kept to his customary morning routine of picking out a CD or two for the ride. He was rapidly becoming more and more annoyed by the fact that for the foreseeable future, his daily commute, which normally entailed a short drive down the road to his office, was turning out to be a diurnal headache. He wasn't sure how many more of these long, traffic-filled excursions to and from the Middlesex Superior Courthouse he could take before he lost his mind, but he knew it wasn't many, and his music was the only thing that made the grinding trip even remotely bearable.

Over the years, Newlan had amassed an impressive collection of roughly five thousand records and CD's, all meticulously stored in alphabetical order. The collection was in fact so extensive that often times he wouldn't be in the mood to browse through row after row of CD's, so he'd invariably just grab something from the letter "A"...and this was turning out to be one of those mornings.

Newlan settled on one of his all-time favorites from his younger years, the now legendary local Boston band, Aerosmith; they were the first act the teenaged Newlan ever saw live in concert; a high energy affair at the old Boston Garden which still resonated in his memory banks and comforted him as he mentally geared himself up to face another long day of unpleasant future recollections at the courthouse.

With his music selection picked out for the day, Newlan hit the highway and cranked the volume knob as high as it could go without producing a buzzing in his speaker's sub woofers.

"There's only one way to play Aerosmith...and that's LOUD," mouthed Newlan to the hot woman in the BMW idling next to him on the now gridlocked highway.

Newlan squirmed nervously in his bucket seat as the traffic crawled along, and apparently his only means of sanity were the vibrant strains of Aerosmith kicking out the jams.

Seeing as how he had nothing better to do, Newlan lit up another joint and drifted back in time to his first ever rock & roll concert; the sweet smell of reefer that engulfed the building; the intensity of the crowd; the sight of fifteen thousand cigarette lighters flashing as one during the encore of Aerosmith's hit song, "Dream On". And as if on cue, Steven Tyler's high-pitched voice came blaring out from his vehicle's stereo speakers, singing the tune's familiar refrain.

"So true...so true...the past really _does_ disappear in the blink of an eye" droned Newlan, and by the time the song had reached its dreamy, climactic chorus, he was happily singing along and pumping his fists in the air like a madman, while at the same time agreeing with Steven Tyler that the Lord truly doth work in mysterious ways.

When Newlan ultimately arrived at the courthouse, he was so charged up by the upbeat vibes of the Aerosmith CD that he had to calm himself down with one last clandestine hit off the half-smoked joint, as well as administering the obligatory drops of Visine, along with a few blasts of breath spray, before making his way towards the gate where the security guard let him in and informed him that, as usual, he was the first juror to arrive for the day.

And so once again Newlan found himself sitting alone in the waiting area, absentmindedly browsing through his Rolling Stone magazines, until shortly thereafter the other early bird in their crew, Patty, the retired homemaker, made her way into the room.

"How are you holding up?" asked the thoughtful Patty.

"Oh I'm hanging in there," casually replied Newlan, trying to sound as nonchalant as he possibly could. He didn't want to needlessly worry Patty with the truth about how much the trial was getting to him after only a few days, so he figured a harmless little white lie was an excusable transgression.

"Are you sure? I'm a bit concerned about you," added Patty who had evidently seen right through Newlan's fibbing.

"That's funny, I was thinking the same thing about you," replied Newlan with a weak smile.

"Oh, don't worry about me...I'm a tough old broad," laughed Patty. "But seriously, you look like you're extremely worn down."

"OK, I admit I haven't been sleeping well. I just can't seem to put the trial out of my mind. I'll be reading a book or watching TV, and all of a sudden I'm thinking about the red car, I'm thinking about Fred Miller and his co-workers, I'm thinking about Breslin locked up in jail, I'm thinking about..."

Newlan's voiced cracked, and he stopped himself short just as he was about to say, "I'm thinking about Marianne."

And even though Newlan never finished his sentence, Patty still sensed the distress in his facial expression, so she put her arm around him and softly crooned; "It's alright Frank, we're going to get through this."

But little did Patty know that Newlan would soon have a lot more issues in his life to wade through besides the John Breslin murder trial.

Meanwhile, Newlan was languidly thinking to himself; "why the hell was I gonna mention Marianne? She has nothing to do with this. Man, I must be losing it."

Patty could plainly see that Newlan wasn't quite with it this morning so she deftly changed the subject and inquired about his family; and upon learning that Newlan's parents were deceased, Patty opened up her heart about her own husband, who had died of colon cancer within the last year, which in turn caused Newlan to become even more choked up than he already was.

As much as Newlan held a fondness for Patty, on this day he was happy when the other jurors began to drift in, and the conversation meandered off in another direction.

Upon his arrival, Mark the lanky young juror took a seat next to Newlan, and since they were both employed in the high tech field, it was only natural that they would continue the shop-talk discussion that they had begun the other day.

Newlan was genuinely enjoying his conversation with Mark, and when Yong, the pretty Korean juror, showed an interest in their nerdy colloquy, Newlan took a liking to her as well.

"If this keeps up, it's gonna make it all that much harder for me to feud with these people once deliberations start," silently reasoned Newlan regarding his good-natured side.

Eventually the remaining jurors made their way into the waiting room, with the wheelchair-bound Dan, who was struggling to keep up with his court-appointed schedule, pulling up the rear.

Although the trial was a burden for Dan (at least in so far as the daily commuting aspect of his routine anyway), he had otherwise come to terms with his disability years ago. But nevertheless, Newlan still felt badly for him just the same. He figured that it must have been tough enough being handicapped, but then to put the poor guy out of his element and force him to sit through weeks of jury duty was just flat-out cruel and unfair.

"Well, on the plus side, Dan seems to be making some friends," speculated Newlan as he quietly observed the varied cliques which were already beginning to develop amongst many of the jurors. The factions were built mostly along gender lines, but there were also a couple of non-gender specific friendships that appeared to be flourishing, such as between Pam, the freelance web designer in seat number 9, and Stan, the software salesman in seat number 14.

The casual discourse continued more-or-less nonstop until at around 9 AM Billy arrived to chauffer the jurors up to their 6th floor deliberation room...and while they were waiting for the elevator, he explained that the elderly Court Officer, Donny, was going to be out for the day because he had to accompany his wife to the hospital for her cancer treatments.

"Oh the poor man," fretted the genuinely concerned Patty, who still hadn't fully recovered from her own husband's death. The pain was in fact so raw that she felt the need to make everyone aware of her suffering during the roundabout expedition up to their home-away-from-home.

With his escort services completed for the morning, Billy dropped the jurors off at the foot of their deliberation room door, and Newlan attentively took note of how each and every juror bolted for the same seats that they had occupied yesterday...and thus an unspoken seating arrangement was being formed.

At this stage of the trial, Newlan, who enjoyed playing the part of the unconventional oddball who sticks out like a sore thumb, had been jumping from seat to seat, once or twice a day, and for the most part he had been sitting apart from the main table. But today he decided to throw a wrench into the seating plan by pulling up a chair at the far end of the large conference room table. And much to his surprise, Yong and Mark took his lead and switched their seats so that they were situated on either side of him, and Annie the spunky HR clerk, set up shop across from him as well.

Newlan had been wondering whether his colleagues might keep their distance from him, since in his deluded mind, it seemed obvious that he was the black sheep of the group. But on the other hand, he realized that the main conference table, sizable though it may have been, wasn't spacious enough to leave very much real estate in between each juror, so he figured that _someone_ had to sit adjacent to him, whether they liked it or not.

As it turns out, Newlan's colleagues _did_ respect him, despite his paranoid beliefs to the contrary. But regardless of his nagging doubts, within a few days he had conformed to this newly configured seating arrangement; forever abandoning his position away from the primary table.

It may have taken a while, but Newlan was finally beginning to accept the fact that he was going to be there for the duration, so it made no sense being antisocial, and as much as he resisted it, he was actually beginning to develop an affinity for some of the jurors.

However, even though Newlan had deserted the outer-fringes, Mike the car salesman and Ron the banker, continued to stake their claim to the smaller table in the corner of the room, and there they remained for the rest of the trial. They were far from reclusive, but of the two, Ron was the more talkative gent, joining in on conversations with the main table whenever something interesting or controversial came up, while Mike on the other hand, like Newlan, was more the quiet type who preferred to observe the situation and keep his thoughts to himself. As a whole, neither Mike nor Newlan were completely standoffish, but for the most part they were more inclined to listen rather than to speak. Although in regards to Newlan, you could amend the last statement by saying that he preferred to listen, at the very least, until Jane blurted out something irritating which got under his skin.

In any event, now that everyone was comfortably seated, the jurors continued to familiarize themselves with one another until, after the usual lengthy delay, Billy returned to retrieve them and he led the way as they paraded into courtroom.

Newlan couldn't help but notice the lack of enthusiasm being shown by his fellow jurors, he himself included, on this fine sunny morning, and he couldn't help but laugh at the image of their sorry asses filing into the jury box as if it were they who were being measured up for punishment.

Judge Gershwin kicked off the session by once again praising the jurors, and of course inquiring as to whether anyone had discussed or researched the trial in any way, shape or form. Newlan kept his head down during this exchange, not daring to look the astute judge in the eye for fear that she might somehow possess the power to see right through him and ascertain that he had indeed been investigating the trial on the internet.

Of course, Judge Gershwin had no such powers, and as such, once she got the dissemination of protocol out of the way, it was time for the first witness of the day, Medical Examiner Dr. Richard Levinson.

Levinson was a short, pudgy, crumpled mess of a man, and he had a morbid habit of smiling like Count Dracula as he answered queries regarding the deceased who were placed under his jurisdiction.

But be that as it may, guided by Assistant District Attorney Elaina Lyons' leading questions, Dr. Levinson described in detail how the body of Fred Miller was transported to the Medical Examiner's office in Boston on the morning of January 14th, 2006, and he went into even greater detail when she had him discuss his subsequent autopsy.

Newlan, for one, didn't understand the purpose of some of DA Lyons' tactics. No one was questioning the fact that Fred Miller had been murdered, and yet the jurors had to listen to detail after detail after detail from Dr. Levinson as he expounded upon his dissection of the poor dead man's body. The dissertation also included close-up photos of the raw, reddish entrance wound that dotted Miller's left cheek and the equally disturbing exit wound that scarred the right side of his neck, all taken as he lay on what looked to be a cold steel slab of an autopsy table. And when you added it all up, the affect on the jurors was chilling to say the least.

Nevertheless, the jurors did learn that Fred Miller was relatively healthy (other than the fact that he had a bullet hole in his head). They learned that Miller was 6' 1" and that he weighed 205 lbs. They learned that Miller's stomach was empty at the time of his death. They learned that there were no soot or burn marks permeating the cheek wound, which apparently suggested that the murder weapon was not fired at point blank range; although according to Dr. Levinson, it was possible that the gun still could have been fired from a relatively close distance. And finally the jurors learned that Miller died within minutes or possibly even seconds after the bullet tore through his face and shredded apart his spinal cord.

However, there was one thorny detail that the jurors didn't learn from Dr. Levinson's testimony thus far, and Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason was intent on ensuring that they were made aware of this minor oversight.

"Dr. Levinson did you find any traces of legal or illegal substances in Mr. Miller's bloodstream?" wondered Gleason, and not surprisingly, DA Lyons shot out of her seat faster than the speeding bullet that killed Fred Miller and shouted out her concerns.

"Objection you honor, Mr. Gleason insists on putting the victim on trial."

And although Judge Gershwin tended to agree with DA Lyons' hypothesis, she was none too happy that the district attorney had made her feelings known in front of the impressionable jury.

"I'll see council at sidebar," ordered the suddenly impatient judge, and then in a stern tone she added, "Immediately."

As was the case more often than not, the sidebar conversation went on for several minutes, and although the parties spoke in whispers, specifically so that the jurors couldn't make out what they were saying, it was quite obvious from their hand motions and their body language that the discussion between the judge and the lawyers was exaggeratingly animated and equally heated.

While the sidebar raged on, Newlan focused his gaze in Dr. Levinson's direction, and he noticed that "Dr. Frankenstein", as he dubbed him, was twiddling his thumbs and mumbling to himself.

Newlan also happened to catch sight of Natalie eyeballing the eccentric doctor as well, and in a bonding gesture, he turned towards her and whispered, "Is this guy creepy or what?"

And for once, they were both in agreement. As far as Newlan was concerned, Dr. Levinson had been around one too many dead bodies, and as a result his sanity may have been suffering a bit.

Per usual, when the sidebar reached a crescendo as of yet unseen by the jurors, they were asked to leave the courtroom.

"A break on our first witness, and we made record time," exclaimed Stan back in the deliberation room.

"I'm so embarrassed...I started crying again when DA Lyons pulled out more of those awful pictures," moaned Jane. However, she was unanimously assured by each and every one of the female jurors that they were close to tears as well, which aided greatly in the easing of her discomfort.

But crying episodes aside, before long, the jurors were marched back into the courtroom where they were forced to listen to Dr. Levinson admit that traces of cocaine and marijuana, along with ibuprofen, were indeed found in Fred Miller's blood system.

Even Gleason himself wasn't totally convinced as to whether Fred Miller's drug use had any relevance to the case, but nonetheless he strongly believed that the jurors should be aware of Miller's lifestyle, as well as his mental state at the time of the murder, and he was quite satisfied with his little victory.

Meanwhile, back in the gallery, an incensed Cam Miller had had just about enough of Gleason's insinuations, and he was poised to add another name to the list of people he'd prefer to see dead, while at the same time Newlan was silently proclaiming, "jeez this Fred Miller dude is _really_ starting to remind me of myself, and it's getting kind of freaky. Man, you can't make this shit up."

Clearly, the emotions that were blowing like the wind from every corner of the courtroom were beginning to heat up. But a minor diversion such as the revelations of Miller's drug use wasn't about to prevent DA Lyons from calling her next witness, Ms. Jessica Bias, a Chemist from the Massachusetts State Police Crime Lab Unit, to the stand.

Ms. Bias was a short, slender blonde woman, roughly 30 years of age; although, she maintained an appearance that, whether intended or not, made her look quite younger.

Newlan fastidiously observed Bias's mannerisms as she approached the witness stand, and based on her youthful appearance, he never would have guessed that she was a forensic chemist who had worked over 100 crime scenes in her four year tenure with the State Police.

In Newlan's opinion, Bias could easily have passed for a college student, and he even noticed that her pearly white teeth were lined with shiny braces, which only served to further heighten the coed image she portrayed so effortlessly.

On top of that, Newlan's fondness for petite women was making it difficult for him to concentrate on what Bias was actually saying. He barely realized it, but he was paying much more attention to Bias's physical appearance than he was to her actual testimony, and at one point he found himself fantasizing about her as she spoke. But luckily he quickly caught himself and snapped back into focus, while at the same time marveling at what a dirty old man he was becoming.

Newlan was having a hard time believing that this bubbly young lady, who was prone to fits of nervous giggling, and who wore a broad smile on her face as she testified, was chronicling her role in the investigation of a gruesome murder, when she looked like she belonged in a college sorority.

And yet Ms. Bias testified very capably as to how she evaluated the crime scene for the presence of blood and swabbed Fred Miller's vehicle looking for potential traces of DNA.

"Ms. Bias could you please list the items that you and your colleagues seized from the crime scene for possible testing at a later date?" matter-of-factly requested DA Lyons.

However, as Bias attempted to respond to this particular inquiry, she became flustered, and she was forced to admit that she hadn't had a chance to review her report which was written over two years ago, and as such, she was a bit hazy on some of the details.

"Ms. Bias is your present memory currently exhausted as to the items that were seized at the Fred Miller crime scene?" countered Lyons.

When Bias responded in the affirmative, Lyons approached and handed Bias the report which she had authored back in 2006.

After briefly skimming through her notes, Bias looked up and indicated that she had completed her review of the report, which prompted DA Lyons to ask, in the best monotone she could muster; "Ms. Bias is your present memory currently refreshed as to the items that were seized at the Fred Miller crime scene?"

"Present memory exhausted...present memory refreshed...what's with all this legalese? Why can't she just say, 'did you forget'...'do you now remember'?" groused Newlan. And although his complaints were silently uttered, his sentiments weren't lost on his colleagues either. In fact, as Lyons continued to make use of these same juridical phrases, over and over again, throughout the course of the trial, the jurors took to inventing their own inside jokes which revolved around how their "memories were exhausted".

The perceptive Newlan was also beginning to notice a distinct pattern to DA Lyons' vocal intonations; she tended to go into a soft, lifeless tone whenever she wished to slip something past the jurors, and on the flip side she would roll out her patented outraged reaction whenever she introduced something that she wanted to stick in their minds.

So in keeping with strategy, as soon as Ms. Jessica Bias had completed listing off the items that were seized from the crime scene, such as the shell casing, a handful of cotton swabs dabbed in the unidentified blood droppings which were found on the ground of the garage, and a collection of stains and smudges from various areas of Miller's automobile, DA Lyons quietly announced, "no further questions your honor."

For his part, Gleason had read Bias's report, and although he had no major complaints regarding her work in general, he was a wee bit puzzled as to the lack of testing that was performed on the seized evidence, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it. As far as he was concerned, as a whole, some of the investigators work was rather sloppy, or even worse, downright negligent.

Gleason started off cautiously, asking Bias a few general questions concerning the basic concepts of DNA, and the resultant lecture had Newlan reminiscing back to his high school Biology class.

Once the preliminaries were out of the way, Gleason had Bias explain how DNA, most likely in the form of skin cells, might be transferred onto a gun cartridge during the process of loading a weapon, and how DNA could be captured off a window or a door handle of an automobile.

Bias went one to disclose that if an adequate DNA sample were procured, then it was possible to compare the sample against a known person of interest and to identify whether the genetic markers of the two specimens matched; and furthermore the accuracy of the match could be guaranteed with a 99.9% rate of certainty.

And so with the scientific portion of his interrogation completed, Gleason bore down into the crux of his cross-examination of one Ms. Jessica Bias.

"Ms. Bias, when you take evidence from a crime scene, isn't it typically with the intent of doing further testing on the items back at the State Police Crime lab?"

"Yes we typically take the evidence back to the lab, and then determine what testing, if any, is to be done on each piece of evidence."

"And what factors go into making this determination?" wondered Gleason.

"Well, we usually have a team meeting, and we discuss the probability of whether the testing will turn up any additional information, and we also take into account what the significance of the evidence might be," explained Bias.

"Aren't there other factors involved as well Ms. Bias?" pressed on Gleason.

"Yes, much of the testing is expensive, and there is always a backlog of evidence that needs to be tested for other cases, so we have to be very judicious with our recommendations for further testing, if that's what you're getting at," replied Bias.

"Yes Ms. Bias, that's exactly what I'm getting at. Didn't you state in your report that you suggested that the blood splattering on the ground outside of Mr. Miller's automobile in the garage be tested?" inquired Gleason in a somewhat agitated tone.

But Bias was unperturbed. She calmly glanced back at the renowned defense attorney with her puppy dog eyes and her little girl smile, and cheerfully answered; "Yes I did sir. But it was determined that the samplings were contaminated, and thus not suitable for further testing."

"And didn't you suggest that the cigarette butt found at the scene of the crime be tested as well," continued Gleason, who was, at the very least, scoring points with Newlan for his preparation and tenacity.

"Yes I did," admitted a jittery Bias, and all the while her smile was slowly being erased with every passing question from the wily Gleason.

DA Lyons hadn't even mentioned the cigarette butt, and Bias was hoping that it wouldn't come up. But unfortunately for her however, Gleason had other ideas.

"And was the cigarette tested?"

"No it was not. We later determined that the cigarette butt was too old to have any relevance to the case."

"Ms. Bias could you please tell the jurors what happened to the cigarette butt in question," coolly requested Gleason in a confident tone, which seemed to indicate that he already knew what the response to his solicitation was going to be before he even asked.

And once again Bias fidgeted in her seat as she was forced to admit a slipup by her team of well-trained professionals.

"That particular item was either lost or destroyed," divulged Bias in a low-key tone.

"So are you telling us that the chain of custody was broken, and that an important piece of evidence is no longer available?" demanded a livid Gleason.

"Mr. Gleason, I would respectfully disagree with your characterization of the cigarette butt as being an important piece of evidence," offered an equally combative Bias, and it was becoming obvious to the jurors that Gleason's accusations were bringing out the fight in her.

"Ms. Bias, we heard yesterday from Officer Torrez of the Newton Police Department, and he told us that the cigarette butt was 'smoldering' when it was discovered at the scene of the crime...those were his exact words," reminded Gleason.

"Well, upon further examination by the crime lab, it appears that Officer Torrez's observation turned out to be inaccurate," replied Bias as she absentmindedly twirled her shoulder-length blonde hair.

As Bias's testimony trudged on, Gleason was becoming more and more annoyed with her, and it showed in his voice.

"Ms. Bias, didn't you suggest that the driver's side door handle of Mr. Miller's vehicle be tested for DNA?" challenged Gleason.

"Yes I did," replied Bias.

"And didn't you suggest that the driver's side window of Mr. Miller's vehicle be tested for DNA?" added Gleason, and again Bias replied, "Yes I did."

"And to you knowledge was any of this testing ever done?" continued Gleason.

"No sir it was not," politely replied Bias.

"Now Ms. Bias, you later became aware of a pair of gloves that were removed from an automobile belonging to a Mr. Samuel Fox isn't that true?" asked Gleason as he veered his cross-examination off in a related tangent.

"Yes sir," replied Bias.

"And didn't you suggest that Mr. Fox's gloves be tested for DNA?" followed up Gleason.

"Yes sir I did," whispered Bias.

"And to the best of your knowledge were Mr. Fox's gloves ever tested?" demanded Gleason.

"No sir they were not," admitted Bias.

At this point, Newlan observed that Bias was close to tears, and he jotted down as much into his notepad:

Ms. Bias is beginning to take on the look of a lost little girl.

"Ms. Bias, isn't it true that if a person fires a weapon, gunpowder residue might settle on that person's clothing and hands...and by extension on that person's gloves if he or she was wearing gloves?"

"Yes that's true."

"And isn't it also true that if a bullet is fired into a victim at close range, it's possible for blood to get splattered back onto the perpetrator's clothing and gloves?"

"Well, it would depend on a lot of factors, but yes blood spatter contamination is a possibility," admitted Bias.

"And yet, for some reason Mr. Fox's gloves were never tested for DNA evidence, were they?" asked Gleason with a perplexed look lining his face. And in return Bias frowned and muttered, "I'm afraid not sir."

And then, as if in a show of protest, Gleason shook his head vigorously as he made his way back to the defense table, and he disgustedly announced; "No further questions your honor."

However, after impatiently heeding Gleason's assault on Ms. Jessica Bias, DA Lyons had worked up quite a dander of her own, and she was itching to rebut the nonsense that he was putting forth to the jurors.

Lyons paced back and forth by the jury box a few times before requesting; "Ms. Bias could you expound upon your thought process when you make suggestions for the crime lab."

"Well, I usually sort through all of the evidence first, and I jot down various notes regarding items that might warrant further testing...and then I include those suggestions in my report. However, when I feel that an item should absolutely be tested, I will make a formal _recommendation_ to that affect," explained Bias whose cheerful demeanor had suddenly returned.

"And Ms. Bias, if an individual were to be wearing gloves when he or she grasped the door handle of an automobile, would that person be likely to leave behind any DNA evidence," wondered Lyons. And Bias confidently replied, "It's possible, but highly unlikely."

"No further questions your honor," announced Lyons, and as she lobbed the ball back to Gleason's side of the court, she dearly hoped that the all too common defense ploy of claiming shoddy police work wasn't going to confuse the jury.

But Lyons' concerns aside, Gleason was more than ready to return her serve; he wasn't buying this ludicrous dribble of "suggestions vs. recommendations" and if necessary he was prepared to make quite a scene.

Like a chameleon, Gleason face had slowly transformed into a bright shade of beet red, and he was obviously angry as he asked; "Ms. Bias could you please explain to the jurors how you would characterize a recommendation, and how that differs from a suggestion?"

Bias shot Gleason a puzzled look, as if she was being quizzed by a professor, but she gave it the old college try and did the best she could at outlining what in her mind were the subtle differences between a recommendation and a suggestion.

However, Gleason was having none of it, and as he approached Judge Gershwin, he was wearing a rather mischievous smile.

"Your honor while the prosecution was rebutting the witness, I took the opportunity to look up the words Suggest and Recommend in my pocket dictionary, and this is what it states;"

"Suggest: 1. bring to mind 2. imply 3. recommend as a possibility"

"Recommend: 1. advise 2. propose 3. suggest as fit or worthy"

"Your honor, I would respectfully like to suggest, no pun intended, that these two words are interchangeable...and further I would like to introduce my pocket dictionary, with the words in question highlighted, as the next exhibit."

"Objection...relevancy," shrieked a perturbed Lyons. But alas, Judge Gershwin just shook her head slightly, and with a sour look of distaste etched upon her face, she weakly announced, "He may have it."

Assistant Clerk Dan Dente then took the booklet from Gleason, and he almost laughed out loud as he proclaimed, "Pocket dictionary entered as the next exhibit."

Dente had been at his job a long time, and he never ceased to be amazed by some of the colorful antics that the lawyers he had had the pleasure to come across often resorted to, and Gleason was right up there with the best of them in that regard.

With the proceedings moving along at a snail's pace, it was already lunch hour by the time Ms. Jessica Bias had completed her testimony, and the slow crawl didn't go unnoticed by the jurors either. As they picked at their sandwiches back in the deliberation room, Jim sarcastically commented, "Only two witnesses all morning...we're making great progress."

And then there was Jane of course, who responded in typical Jane fashion, or at least that was Newlan's impression anyway.

"Well for God's sake, if Gleason didn't spend half the morning haggling over the hair-splitting differences between a suggestion and a recommendation, then maybe we'd be further along. At this rate, we won't have a verdict until Labor Day," complained Jane, and most of the jurors chuckled and nodded in agreement. But naturally, the contrarian Newlan just couldn't resist opening his big mouth.

"I thought Gleason's questions were more than relevant. Why the hell didn't they test some of that evidence?"

The lunchtime mood became very subdued following Newlan's food-for-thought directive, and he was positive that some of the resultant whispers were being aimed his way. But regardless of whether his colleagues were secretly talking about him, or whether it was just his paranoia creeping in again, he mumbled loud enough for everyone to hear; "he's not guilty yet...not by a long-shot."

And with that public pronouncement, Newlan reinforced in his own mind that there still wasn't a single shred of evidence presented by DA Lyons which even remotely incriminated Breslin. He realized that, strictly speaking, he wasn't supposed to be commenting on the case, but he was tired of listening to the muffled, forbidden conversations which were coming from every corner of the room, so he wasn't about to fret over his own indiscretions.

Meanwhile Ron, who sensed that the feverish tension in the room was beginning to build up again, successfully altered the course of the subject matter by blurting out an observation of his own.

"Was it just me...or did Bias look like a little kid up there on the stand?" wondered Ron, and once again, all of the jurors, including Newlan this time, hooted in agreement. And just like that, before you could say boo, any hostility that may have existed between them seemed to dissipate, and they were back to being one big, happy, if slightly dysfunctional, family.

Unfortunately however, this back and forth schism, one minute collegial, the next minute discordant, would continue throughout the remainder of the trial, usually egged on by some perceived slight in the mind of Mr. Frank Newlan.

After lunch, the jurors heard from Ms. Beth Malinkowski, who just so happened to be a DNA expert from the Massachusetts State Police Crime Lab Unit.

Malinkowski explained that while Jessica Bias along with other members of the lab team were responsible for collecting the evidence from the crime scene, she was the person who was responsible for doing the actual DNA testing on any items that were deemed noteworthy.

DA Lyons made sure to have Malinkowski state her qualifications, including the fact that she had analyzed over 1,000 DNA samples, and that she had recently passed a four hour proficiency exam.

Newlan was duly impressed by Ms. Malinkowski's qualifications, but he was even more impressed by her long blonde hair and leggy figure. Although her appearance didn't feature the youthfulness of Jessica Bias's pubescent countenance, Ms. Malinkowski was also rather on the gorgeous side, and in Newlan's mind she didn't fit the mold of a criminal investigator either.

Newlan expected the crime scene specialists to be your stereotypical crotchety old guys in long trench coats, like the actors you'd see portraying this role in a TV movie. However, the unmistakable reality of the situation, namely that Bias and Malinkowski were both beautiful young women, wasn't so much the issue, as was the fact that, in Newlan's mind, this dynamic duo of feminine authority appeared to be just out of college. And as such, they couldn't possibly possess the skills or experience necessary (not to mention the stomach) to be employed in this line of work.

With this observation in mind, Newlan turned to Natalie and whispered, "I must be getting old because these cops look like kids to me."

Natalie presented Newlan with a stern smirk, but she didn't say a word, while at the same time he returned her gaze and thought to himself; "and you're not looking too bad yourself...for an Ice Princess that is."

And although Newlan's jokester side tended to veer towards hyperbole, he was usually a good judge of character. But nevertheless, his first impressions of Natalie were totally off base. Natalie was in fact quite the amiable person. But, much like Newlan, her demeanor was somewhat shy and reserved until she became comfortable around new acquaintances. And furthermore, he was also dead wrong regarding his assumption that she didn't care for him. In fact, had he been more observant, he would have noticed that Natalie was looking his way from time to time, and "checking him out" with much admiration.

Natalie lauded Newlan's chutzpah as far as his ability to disagree with a room full of strangers, regardless of the fact that he was typically outnumbered by a wide margin. And what's more, she was beginning to think that she might require his support before all was said and done. She fully realized that she herself was quite timid, and that if the rest of the jurors continued to gravitate down their current path, she wasn't sure whether she was going to be able to muster up the will to stand up to them; for, although she kept her opinions close to the vest, and despite her outward appearances, she also remained unconvinced of John Breslin's guilt, and in Newlan she saw possibly her only ally on the entire jury.

Natalie had also heard the faint whispers coming from some of her colleagues, who were already poised to lock up Breslin and throw away the key, and she was thankful that at least one other person still hadn't made up his mind yet.

"Just my luck, Frank will end up getting picked as an alternate, and I'll be on my own," privately feared Natalie. But for now, like all of the jurors, she was just trying to make it through to the end of the trial without coming down with a stress-induced nervous breakdown.

Meanwhile, the majority of Malinkowski's testimony under direct examination from DA Lyons revolved around the testing that was done on the one bullet shell casing which was found at the Miller murder scene.

Malinkowski claimed that the spent shell contained an insufficient DNA sample, and thus it could not be accurately tested.

For his part, Newlan, in turn, immediately thought back to Gleason's opening statement, where he stated that there was DNA fragment found on the bullet casing which didn't match Sammy the Fox's DNA.

"What's up with that?" silently wondered Newlan, and he would certainly find out what was up with that in short order.

When it was Gleason's turn to cross-examine the witness, he had only one question to ask; "Ms. Malinkowski was there anyone else present during your analysis of the DNA fragment that was found on the shell casing?"

"Yes, along with the crime lab personnel, there was a Dr. Carlisle present, representing the defense," replied Malinkowski.

And although Gleason cut his interrogation short, without so much as a hint of an explanation, Newlan reasoned that he must have wanted Dr. Carlisle's name broadcast in front of the jury because he planned to call him as a defense witness, and so he scribbled down the following comments into his notepad:

Gleason obviously disputes the test results of the DNA fragment that was found on the shell casing.

I'm Look forward to hearing Dr. Carlisle's testimony when the defense presents its case.

Meanwhile, the next witness to testify was another employee from the Massachusetts State Police Crime Lab, Sergeant David Hill.

Sergeant Hill's area of expertise was ballistics, and DA Lyons politely asked him to explain the difference between a semi-automatic pistol and a revolver.

"Generally, semi-automatics are magazine fed pistols, whereas revolvers are cylinder fed weapons. To the untrained eye, both guns look about the same, black or silver, usually with an external hammer. However, a semi-automatic has no wheel in the center of the weapon which would signify a revolver. The cylinder wheel of a revolver also results in a heavier, bulkier pistol, which in turn makes it more difficult to conceal. There are also differences in how the weapons are loaded and unloaded, but in a case such as this one, it is probably irrelevant given the fact that it appears only one round of ammunition was fired," expounded Hill.

"Now Sergeant Hill what can you tell us about the ballistics evidence that was found at the Fred Miller murder scene," continued Lyons.

"I would say that it was your standard 9 millimeter ammunition fired from a 38 caliber weapon," replied Hill with authority.

Next on the agenda, DA Lyons wanted to know what types of tests were performed on the bullet, and Hill went on to describe in great detail how he measured the grooves of the projectile using standard procedures, as well as cutting-edge imaging technology.

After extensive questioning from Lyons, it became clear to all in attendance that Sergeant Hill was quite qualified in the area of examining spent bullets. But in the end he had to admit that without a weapon to compare the projectile to, he really had no way of providing any further details.

Newlan himself never had the least bit of interest in the right-to-bear-arms mentality of the NRA crowd, but he found Sergeant Hill's testimony to be quite fascinating just the same. And when Gleason was given his turn at interrogating Hill, he was hoping that the expert witness might educate the jurors further on the subject of how grooves are produced on a spent bullet casing.

"Grooves in a gun's barrel will impart a spin to the projectile which produces an increase in accuracy and range. And a side benefit to the grooves is that they can be used to identify a weapon. Bullets fired from a rifled weapon acquire a distinct signature of grooves, scratches, and indentations which are unique to the weapon used," expertly answered Hill.

"Couldn't these grooves also be described as a ballistic fingerprint?" added Gleason.

"Yes, that would be an accurate description," replied an agreeable Hill.

"Now Sergeant Hill, isn't it also true that there is a computer network in place which is capable of comparing the grooves from a spent projectile against the grooves of millions of weapons that have been identified and kept on file in a national database; a database that has been set up specifically for this purpose?" continued Gleason.

"Yes sir, that is true," confirmed Hill.

"And was the projectile from the Fred Miller murder scene entered into this computer system," asked Gleason.

"Yes it was," affirmed Hill.

"And what where the results of the search?" politely demanded Gleason.

"No matches to any known weapons were found sir," weakly replied Hill.

"No further questions your honor," exclaimed Gleason in a confident tone.

Judge Gershwin then called for another break which led to some interesting discussions back in the deliberation room.

The usually restrained Natalie started off the conversation with a puzzling observation.

"I could have sworn that, in his opening statement, Gleason mentioned something about a speck of unidentified DNA that was found on the shell casing. But today we heard that there was no testable DNA on the shell."

A number of jurors also picked up on this discrepancy, which led the cynical Newlan to snidely remark; "alrighty then, I guess we've been paying attention after all."

"Well, that makes me feel better," replied Jane in a sarcastic tone, and she immediately added, "What makes you think we haven't been paying attention?"

"Oh, it's nothing. I guess I just got the feeling that some of you may have already made up your minds that Breslin is guilty based solely on DA Lyons' opening statement, before we even heard any evidence," confessed Newlan.

A handful of Newlan's colleagues appeared to be offended by his remarks. But surprisingly, he reckoned that he eyeballed just as many nods of agreement. And furthermore, the confrontation-averse Newlan was even more surprised at himself for having the brass to bring the observation up for discussion in the first place.

Newlan's wisecrack, however inadvertent, apparently precipitated the atmosphere in the jury room to become a wee bit testy again, and this time it was Mark who took the initiative to change the conversational subject matter before things got out of hand.

"What did everyone think about all of that 'pistol and bullet' testimony? It was like a lesson in Weapons 101. But I must admit it was pretty interesting...and I'm not really a gun person."

"Yeah, I guess there's a whole other world out there. But I'm glad I'm not part of it," lamented Newlan, as he reflected on the sorry state of planet Earth.

"I get petrified just thinking about it," added the usually feisty Annie, and most of the jurors agreed with her. But not to be outdone, Mike, who was typically even more reticent than Natalie, chimed in with his own two cents worth of opinionated commentary on the subject of bullet-launching weapons.

"I guess you people lead sheltered lives," decided Mike in a non-judgmental tone.

Meanwhile, Yong, who appeared to take offense at the insinuations of Mike's critique, demonstratively added her own exaltations, and in her slight oriental accent she declared; "I don't associate with people who own guns."

"Relax folks. You might be surprised to know that many of your friends and neighbors own guns. I own a gun...and I'm not ashamed to admit it," sternly replied Mike. And then, peering directly at Yong, the transplanted citizen, he added; "It's our right as Americans."

Things were beginning to get rather heated in the deliberation room again for sure, but luckily the court session resumed before any further animosity had a chance to form amongst the jurors. For the most part, they respected each other, but it was clear to Newlan that the semi-retired Judge DeMarco wasn't exaggerating when he proclaimed in his juror orientation speech that "people from all walks of life serve as jurors."

"Ah, I miss those innocent days when I was still just a prospective juror, paying half-a-mind to Judge DeMarco as he rambled on and on about the Justice System, while at the same time secretly trying to score with Gloria Moorhead," sighed Newlan to himself as he once again took his seat at the far end of the jury box.

The last witness of the day's session was State Trooper Gina Callahan, yet another crime scene specialist who was also employed by the Massachusetts State Police Crime Lab. Fortunately for the easily distracted Newlan, Troop Callahan didn't share the fetching appearance of her colleagues, the aforementioned Ms. Bias and Ms. Malinkowski, and as such, he was fully focused as the action resumed.

With DA Lyons' guidance, Trooper Callahan explained how it was her responsibility to collect and document evidence, take photos and video, and process the crime scene for fingerprints, tire tracks, bullet casings, and anything else that might possibly be relevant to the crime.

As Callahan's testimony forged on, the jurors learned that she worked in conjunction with the chemists, the ballistics experts, and the fingerprint experts, while at the same time they also received a comprehensive education on the subject of latent fingerprints, which in layman's terms are fingerprints that are invisible to the naked eye.

Regarding the Fred Miller murder case specifically, the jurors were informed by Trooper Callahan that Miller's automobile was dusted for prints, and then carefully towed to the Newton Police Station garage, where she concluded that the only fingerprint which might be identifiable was found on the front windshield of the vehicle. However, it was later determined that even that particular fingerprint was of insufficient quantity and quality, and thus no further fingerprint analysis was ever performed on Fred Miller's Nissan Maxima.

As one might expect, renowned Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason was so utterly mortified by Callahan's conclusions that it looked for all the world as if he were about to blow a gasket, and with a raised voice he asked; "Trooper Callahan are you telling these jurors that there wasn't one fingerprint on Mr. Miller's automobile that was worthy of further testing, when we've heard from numerous witnesses who testified that they placed their hands on his vehicle on the morning of the murder?"

"Yes sir...sometimes incidental contact leaves a smudge or a partial print, but none were found that were of a sufficient enough quantity or quality which would have allowed us to compare it to a known fingerprint," patiently explained Callahan.

Gleason's face was glistening even brighter that it had been when he interrogated Jessica Bias, and as he trudged back to the defense table, he shook his head and angrily announced, "No further questions your honor."

By now it was quarter to five in the evening, so Judge Gershwin dismissed the exhausted jurors for the day, and as always she reminded them not to discuss the case with anyone.

Newlan, for one, was so totally run-down that he contemplated cancelling his dinner plans with his sister Rose. However, he hated the thought of turning down a home-cooked meal, and so he called upon an untapped energy-reserve from somewhere deep within the reservoir of his circulatory system (and he also made a brief detour to pick up a case of beer) before heading out on his way. And from there, he hit the highway north towards his sister's house, looking forward to some hearty snacks, and hopefully another Celtics victory on the road to their 17th championship.

And yet despite his high hopes for the evening (or maybe because of them), as the melancholic Newlan put more and more miles between himself and the courthouse, he wished that he could somehow just keep on going and never look back. But, of course, he had to look back. He always looked back. And since he was well aware of the fact that he couldn't easily just run away from his problems, he did the next best thing; he cranked up the stereo and sparked up a joint.

The Aerosmith CD, which Newlan brought along specifically for the ride to the courthouse, had already played through, so he switched over to the FM radio just in time to catch folksinger Jonathan Edwards' raucous hit song from the 70's, "Shanty" which he took to be a good sign for the evening, and he enthusiastically sang along to the tune's partying theme as he rocked on down the highway with visions of comfort food in the kitchen and spirits in the fridge clogging up his head; for surely the depressing situation in his life at the moment called for him...to get a good old-fashioned buzz...going on.

Chapter 39 – Two Years to the Day (The Moral Compass)

Sunday morning January 13, 2008 – 8:00 AM

Dear reader, as is often the case in our own lives, as well as in the lives of others, sometimes to make sense of the present we must recall the past. And so with that in mind we must once again take you back to a particular day in the life of our conflicted charlatan, Ms. Tracy Stone.

...

The mournful voice of the late Grateful Dead bandleader, Jerry Garcia, singing the ballad "Cold, Rain and Snow" crackled out of Tracy Stone's speakers as she meticulously dressed herself up for this much anticipated, albeit less than festive, special occasion.

The windswept snow and the blustery gusts of bone-chilling air which awaited Tracy as she wedged open the front door of her home, made her inspirational song selection all the more appropriate on this most portentous of mornings.

Today was to be a turning point in Tracy's life; today was to be a day of reckoning; today was to be a day when the hellions which had debilitated her soul for so long now were to be ceremoniously exorcised and vanquished for all time; today was to be 'The Day' that a mighty storm blew into town and liberated her spirit like the Allied forces who invaded Normandy on D-Day just in time to save the free world when all seemed lost.

Today was a day that found Tracy bundled up in her winter overcoat and her favorite scarf and mittens, ready to brave the elements; ready to brave her heart; ready to brave her very life. Today was _the_ day that found Tracy tranquilly preparing to make her long overdue first visit to the grave of her high school sweetheart, Fred Miller, and nothing short of an act of God was going to stop her.

In many respects, the blizzard-like conditions which had decimated the entire southern New England region were enough of an act of God that it would have stopped a less determined woman dead in her tracks. But not Tracy, for she was at peace with her decision; her heart and soul were in total harmony with her belief that she was wholly prepared and equally protected for this pivotal moment of truth, both spiritually and physically, and in more ways than one.

First of all, Tracy had been praying to her Wiccan deity, almost daily now, for the past year...and today was to be the day that the cleansing would finally be completed. She was sure of it. Secondly, her thermally enhanced outfit was made to withstand below zero temperatures, and so, as far as she was concerned, the awe-inspiring fury of Mother Nature was not a curse, but a blessing in disguise.

The Wicca pentacle symbolically embroidered into the scarf and mittens which Tracy was wearing, in particular, held special power and significance, because these items had been given to her as a Christmas present by the aforementioned "Freddie" shortly before his death. And since it was shaping up to be a bitterly cold morning, even by New England standards, his gift also held practical, not to mention sentimental and ethereal value as well.

Today's date on the calendar marked exactly two years to the day that Fred Miller's body was discovered, shot down dead, in a cold, dark, haunted garage as he sat in his car minding his own business. And starting today, Tracy was determined to make an annual vigil to Fred's final resting place on this, the anniversary of his doleful day of emancipation from the physical chains that bind us all.

Today also marked one year to the day that Tracy's own life almost came to a sudden end, and she was dead-set on ensuring that she never reached that depth of despair ever again.

It was one year to the day that Tracy got herself so medicated she was nearly comatose by the time her sister Beth arrived at her house to drop off the kids, and upon finding her more dead than alive, she had her rushed to the emergency room.

It was one year to the day that Tracy was taken by ambulance to the local hospital in such a severe state of intoxication that the ER doctor on duty suggested calling in a priest to perform last rites. And yet even as she lay there in her hospital bed, on death's doorstep, she still recalled the look of fear etched upon her children's faces as she was rolled out of her home on a stretcher.

Even though Tracy was lost in a blind state of numb confusion on that terrifying night exactly one year ago, to this day she still insists that she was able to hear the cries of her children, calling out to her in vain; pleading for the want of their mother; praying to God, "Please don't let our mommy die."

Who knows, perhaps she imagined it, perhaps not, but either way it is irrelevant. Either way, the fact remains that the only thing that gave her the strength to carry on in this accursed life was the poignant thought of her children, all alone in the world, their father in prison, and their mother buried six feet under.

Up until that point, Tracy had abandoned the will to live. She had hit rock bottom, and she just wanted it all to be over. She just wanted to die right then and there, and be reunited with her late mother and father, as well as her beloved Freddie, fittingly on the same day that he celebrated his exodus from this downtrodden planet.

Yes, Tracy saw the beam of light, and she heard the voice beckoning for her to surrender and come home to the Lord. She saw her mother, floating like an angel. She saw her father, sitting at the feet of God's Throne. She saw Freddie's outstretched arms reaching for her, their fingers almost touching as he attempted to pull her over to the safety of the other side, like the two hands famously painted by Michelangelo on the Sistine Chapel.

However, just as she reached the Gates of Heaven in her drug-altered consciousness, she also encountered the image of Saint Peter, and he told her to go back from whence she came; he told her that her time was not up; he told her that there was still work to be done down on Mother Earth below; he told her to be thankful for this second chance; he told her to rise up from the ashes and live again; he told her to embrace this special gift...and she took his advice with a vengeance.

Undeniably, Tracy had come a long way since the first anniversary of Freddie's unexpected demise and her own near death experience; so much so that she now celebrated sobriety with such an enthusiasm and vigor that she would willingly admit to her friends; "I'm getting high on just trying to stay straight."

And in some strange way, the challenges of resisting temptation often times did leave her in a state of radiant euphoria.

But despite all of her hard work, Tracy was the first to admit that she still had urges; both physical and mental compulsions; both sexual and chemical cravings. However, whenever one of these weaknesses surfaced, she would evoke the cries of her children in her mind's eye, and her resolve would be strengthened by tenfold. Whenever one of her many vices reared its ugly head, she would visualize the tears streaming down her babies little cheeks like the sweat of Jesus as he carried his Cross on the Crucifixion Day, and just like that, the itch in her brain would be soothed as if by some sort of magical ointment for the soul.

Whenever Tracy's appetite for destruction resurfaced, the images of her kid's faces on that night one year ago would be pulled up from the recesses of her mind like a picture file being punched up on a computer screen at the press of a button, and she would find the courage to fight off her demons.

Tracy would contemplate often on how her children were taken from her by the powers that be; how she was forced to live without her most precious gifts; how she was declared to be an unfit mother by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. And she would never forget how she suffered...oh how she suffered; she would never forget how she suffered a separation anxiety so unbearable that it scared her straight; she would never forget how the unimaginable pain compared to nothing else she had ever experienced, not even the senseless murder of her high school sweetheart, Fred Miller.

But alas Tracy also suffered from the same human frailties as the rest of us; a longing in her heart, an aching in her bosom, a sorrow in her soul. In short, Tracy was lonely, oh so very lonely.

Tracy had dated many men in the past year, but none could satisfy her deepest desires. None could quench her lust. None could impel her to leave behind her rocky past. Tracy was known to joke; "I've had as many shrinks as I've had boyfriends since I got sober, and they're all full of shit if you ask me."

However, as far as Tracy's psychiatrists were concerned, it seemed to them that her pathology required that she always have a man (or two) in her life in order for her to feel worthwhile; in order for her to feel whole. But after countless therapy sessions and endless hours of self-searching, she was finally able to see herself as an individual; she was finally able to shed the crutch of relying on someone else to define her inner being.

Yes, the freedom of self-reliance had worked wonders on Tracy's psyche; she was alone and OK with it. And yet sometimes late at night she still ached for the way that Freddie touched her; the way he made her feel alive in ways that no one else could. Sometimes late at night she still missed the reliability of her ex-husband, John Breslin, his take-charge attitude, his financial support, the safety that she felt in his arms. Sometimes late at night she still yearned to have someone, anyone, laying there beside her.

Tracy proved to herself and to everyone else that she could make it on her own. But now as she dropped her kids off at her sister's house and made her way to the cemetery, she prayed that the time was right for her stunning rebirth. She prayed that someone would come along and save her from this emptiness. She prayed that someone would come along and save her from this loneliness. She prayed that someone would come along and save her from this stark disillusion and absolute hopelessness which had pervaded her from deep within her heart.

And as Tracy kneeled there in the bitter cold by Fred Miller's burial plot, perhaps her prayers were finally being answered. Perhaps her prayers were being answered in the most unlikely of forms imaginable. Perhaps her prayers were being answered in the form of one Mr. Cameron "Cam" Miller.

For as Tracy Stone hugged Fred's tombstone and begged for his forgiveness, she heard a voice calling out her name; a voice that sounded very much like Freddie's, and in her vulnerable state of mind it startled her to no end.

At this lonely, early morning hour, in this desolate cemetery, a voice that sounded like a ghost from Tracy's past shook her to her very core. However, she needn't have been frightened, for it wasn't a voice from her past, but a voice from her present. It wasn't Freddie's voice, but the voice of his brother Cam who was also making his own solemn vigil to visit the brother he loved and missed so much.

As Cam approached, Tracy twisted her body around and lunged at him in an engulfing hug while at the same time she whimpered; "Cam you scared the shit out of me. I forgot how much you sound like Freddie, how much you look like Freddie."

"It's good to see you Tracy. I'm not surprised to find you here," quietly replied Cam with the warm smile of a reverend greeting his parishioners.

"Oh Cam, I'm so sorry...I'm sorry for everything that I've brought upon your family. I swear I wish it was me who died that day. I swear to God I'm so sorry," sobbed Tracy as she tightened her hold on him.

"It alright Tracy...no one in my family blames you for what happened. You're just as much a victim as we are, if not more so," insisted Cam in a low, soothing voice. And as the happily married Cam Miller held Tracy in his arms and attempted to console her, he was completely unaware of the reaction that his affections were having on her. For suddenly Tracy felt something stir inside her; for suddenly Tracy felt an eruption of desire in her loins which seemingly came vaulting out of nowhere; for suddenly Tracy felt as if her prayers _had_ been answered.

Tracy rested her head against Cam's chest in a silent meditation that lasted several minutes, after which Cam took her by the hand and offered his assistance; "Come on, let me walk you to your car."

With Cam leading the way through the slippery snow, they arrived safely at Tracy's vehicle, and she peered deeply into his eyes as they came to a stop at the foot of her subcompact automobile. And, as if by some magical force, she was instantly transported back to another place and time when life was carefree; when just having fun trumped all other responsibilities; when making love to Freddie sent her off to another dimension where nothing, past, present, or future really mattered other than getting totally lost in the utterly ecstatic moment of surrender.

As Tracy stared into Cam's eyes, she was blown away by just how much he looked like Freddie. She had always known that the similarities existed, after all they were brothers. But she never noticed the uncanny resemblance up until that very moment; and at that very moment, Tracy Stone fell in love again.

Tracy's mind was racing in a confused tangle of fantasy and reality.

"Maybe its destiny...maybe it was suppose to end up this way...maybe it was Cam and I who were meant to be together all along."

Tracy knew full well that Cam was a married man, but rational thinking was never one of her strengths, and so she justified her feelings by reasoning that she wouldn't be the first or last dreamer who had ever acted irrationally in the name of love.

Cam caught a glimpse of the far-away look in Tracy's eyes and he sensed that something was amiss, but even he was totally surprised when Tracy sank her arms around him and began wildly kissing his face while pleading and crying, "please Cam, just hold me...I need someone to hold me so bad...so bad...so bad."

"It's OK Tracy...everything's gonna be alright," whispered Cam repeatedly as he returned her embrace, while in the back of his mind what he was really thinking was; "it's just your ex-husband that I wish a cruel, painful death upon."

...

Of course, whether everything was truly going to be alright remained to be seen...and perhaps in the end it depends on the moral compass which has been forged into the conscience of each and every one of us, and the direction that it points.

Whether everything was truly going to be alright perhaps in the end depends on the moral fabric that we knit over time from our life experiences.

Whether everything was truly going to be alright perhaps in the end depends on the moral judgments that swell from deep within us all.

Whether everything was truly going to be alright perhaps in the end depends on the moral circumstances that are sometimes...perilously hidden...from the eyes of a juror.

Chapter 40 – Three Old Friends, One Haunted House

Tuesday evening June 10, 2008 – 8:30 PM

Three old friends sat comfortably numb in the living room of a small home in Framingham Massachusetts, like most of New England, getting ready to watch the Boston Celtics take on the Los Angeles Lakers in game three of the NBA Finals.

The house itself is unremarkable, other than the fact that it is owned by the estate of one Mr. Fredrick Miller...yes, the same Fred Miller of whom this tragic novella revolves around.

After Fred's death, his brother Cam was not mentally prepared to deal with selling the house, so he allowed Fred's roommate, Robert Hurley, to continue to rent the place until he could figure out what to do with it...and now over two years later, Mr. Hurley still occupied the residence.

Hurley and his pals who were keeping him company this evening, Kevin McBride and Michael Landers, were all in their early 40's and the trio had known each other since junior high school. And beyond their lifelong acquaintanceship, the three best buddies were also all still single and they loved to party to the extreme, so it should come as no surprise that they had plenty of ice cold beers on hand, as well as a bottle of whiskey and a bag of primo marijuana which Hurley had scored from his local dealer.

"Just like old times, the Celts in the finals, and we're going along for the ride," exclaimed Landers as he passed a joint to McBride.

"Yeah, but the only thing missing is Freddie," countered Hurley, and the anguish in his voice wasn't lost on his friends who immediately called for a toast to their fallen comrade.

By now McBride and Landers knew the drill when it came to their best friend Robert Hurley; whenever he wore that tormented expression on his face and he conjured up Fred Miller's memory, they understood that the remedy called for a shot of whiskey to temporarily numb the unbearable grief that time just didn't seem to want to heal.

Fred's death had taken its toll on all of his old pals, but none more so than the three BFFs, and of the three, Hurley was by far the most afflicted. But of course after a few beers, a couple of shots of whiskey, and a joint of the killer reefer, the men were feeling no pain.

"Man, this stuff's eventually gonna do a number on our livers," surmised McBride as he simultaneously poured himself a shot of the top-shelf bourbon and took an extended hit off of a roach which glowed like a firefly in his hand. Not surprisingly, the harshness emanating from the resin-soaked remains of the potent reefer-stick, in combination with his deeply inhaled toke, caused him to cough up a lung, and to combat the parchedness in his throat, he down the glass of whiskey in one big gulp.

"Who gives a fuck...the sooner we kick the bucket the sooner we'll see Freddie again," interjected Hurley as he carefully snatched the roach from McBride's cupped hand.

Meanwhile, the lusty Grateful Dead tune "Minglewood Blues" played raucously in the background, which prompted Landers to cajole his friends into singing along to the women-stealing sentiments of the song.

"Yeah and look where _that_ got Freddie," lamented Hurley.

However, in his currently inebriated state, the drunken Landers was unmoved, and he blindly ignored his friend's remark while rambunctiously adding; "check out the rap dudes...a few more shots of whiskey and Boston women start looking mighty fine."

"Hey dickhead there aren't any women here, so shut the fuck up," joked McBride as his buddies howled with glee over his undeniable observation, while at the same time Landers put Hurley into a playful headlock.

It didn't take long for McBride to form a tag-team with Landers and join in on the roughhousing, and as they wrestled each other down to the floor, they were genuinely happy to see a smile forming on Hurley's face, if only just for a few minutes.

Of course, when the dust finally settled and Landers pondered McBride's original pronouncement regarding their lack of female companionship for the evening, he couldn't really argue with the reality of the situation. But then he thought about it for a moment and he came up with another bright idea.

"Hey maybe we can call Tracy and get her to come over with some of her girlfriends."

"Yeah right, fat chance of that happening...didn't you hear, she found God or some shit like that," replied McBride with a snort.

"Fuck Tracy," added Hurley with a touch of bitterness in his voice, "it's her fault that Freddie's dead. I knew he should have never gotten mixed up with her again in the first place."

And yet despite Hurley's hostilities, as he and his friends got more and more wasted, and as the psychedelic Grateful Dead music churned on in the background, he fondly reminisced; "man, those were good times following the Dead around the country...me and Fred must have gone to at least 90 shows."

"Yeah, but they were fucked up times too. We did so much acid, we're lucky we have any brain cells left," acknowledged McBride who was clearly the wise guy of the crew.

The three buddies continued to overindulge and rag on each other incessantly until opening tipoff, but as soon as game-time rolled around, they turned their focus towards the action coming from the TV set. Of course, during breaks in the action, which were plentiful due to the never-ending commercial time-outs that accompany most major sporting events these days, they were left with a plethora of unoccupied gaps, which they utilized to chat about another pressing issue which was coming up in the immediate future of their lives.

Besides the fact that the trio relished in partying to the hilt regardless of the situation, there may have been another subconscious reason to further explain why they appeared to be going more than a little bit overboard for a Tuesday night; and that reason being the minor inconvenience that awaited them at the crack of dawn; for as the seconds ticked away, what they were coming face-to-face with was the stark reality that all three of them were scheduled to testify at the trial of their best friend's murderer, first thing in the morning.

"So what do you think that asshole Gleason's gonna ask us tomorrow?" wondered McBride during a prolonged pause in the game at the end of the first quarter.

"I don't know, but if he tries to pull any of that 'Fred Miller was a druggie shit' on me, man, I swear to God I'll get out of that fuckin' chair and knock him on his ass," guaranteed Hurley

And although the grit in Hurley's tone was palpable, that didn't stop his pals from bursting out into laughter over the absurdity of his vow, and even he momentarily joined in on the guffawing before adding a temperamental rejoinder to his pugilistic pledge, which took the steam right out of their merriment.

"But seriously, Gleason doesn't know who he's messing with. I'm not gonna be intimidated by him one bit. If he stands too close to me while I'm on the witness stand, I'll sucker-punch him right in the mouth, and then I'll look him dead in the eye and tell him, 'that's for Freddie you motherfucker'."

"Oh and by the way, what's the story with that juror down at the end of the top row? You know the guy with the long, stringy hair. He looks a bit whacked-out if you ask me," remarked McBride as he attempted to steer the subject away from the notion of his best friend doing bodily harm to a defense attorney in the middle of an open courtroom.

"Yeah, if that liberal bastard votes not guilty, I swear to God I'll find him and ring his neck," added Landers with a sense of conviction in his voice.

"Actually, he reminds me of Freddie. Cam said the same thing," interjected Hurley.

"That's what I'm afraid of, numb nuts. Can you imagine Freddie on a jury? You think he'd take it seriously? I'm telling you, I have a bad feeling about that dude. I'll bet you a hundred bucks that he fucks it up for all of us and we end up in a hung jury," wagered McBride.

"Cam said THAT too," quietly added Hurley.

"Fuck, I've been trying to make eye-contact with the son of a bitch all week, but the motherfucker hasn't looked up once. He's disciplined, I gotta at least give him credit for that," admitted Landers as he crushed an empty beer can against his forehead and let out a loud burp.

"Why the hell are you trying to make eye-contact with him?" asked McBride in an irritable tone.

"You know maybe I can intimidate him," proudly explained Landers.

"You fuckin' idiot...we had to get special permission to be allowed to sit in on the trial...so don't fuck it up for us," ordered McBride.

"Relax...I'm very subtle about it. Besides the dude won't look up anyway so it doesn't matter," rationalized Landers.

"I don't know...he seems like a standup guy to me. Once he hears all the evidence and he gets to know more about Freddie, I think he ends up on our side," predicted Hurley.

"I guess that's why they call it trial by jury," sighed McBride.

"Well if it was up to me, I'd say the fuck with the trial. Breslin's obviously guilty, so we should skip the formalities. Hang him from the nearest fuckin' tree and be done with it...save us all some aggravation. You know like in the old days...lynch mobs...and while we're at it...they should hang Gleason too. I can't believe what he's trying to do to Freddie's good name," railed Hurley as his mood once again began to shift towards violence.

"You're softer than a bag of shit, and I mean that as a compliment," cracked McBride.

"I'll drink to that," replied Landers as he filled up three more shot glasses full of whiskey.

The pouring of the distilled spirits was followed by the three friends instinctively raising their libations for a nonsensical toast and gulping down the fiery liquid in one swallow; by now they were seeing double, maybe triple, and Hurley was apparently seeing other things as well.

From out of the nowhere, Hurley's face turned a sickly shade of pale and his body convulsed into a rigid ball of tension. His eyes were suddenly bulging wide-open and his pupils were dilated, as if he was in a trance, and he muttered; "Sometimes I see him at night wandering around the house."

"What the fuck are you talking about now?" asked an annoyed McBride.

"Freddie...he's still here...I've seen him...he turns on the stereo in the middle of the night...always a Grateful Dead CD...always the same song...and then he dances around the living room," murmured Hurley.

"Dude, you're spooking me out...come on lets watch the fuckin' game," pleaded Landers.

"I'm telling you he's here...he's here right now...I can feel his presence," wailed Hurley, his face frozen with fear.

At this point in the evening, McBride, who was very drunk himself, had had enough of his friend's nonsense, and as such, he shot up out of his seat and grabbed Hurley by the front of his shirt and began shaking him while at the same time screaming; "Wake up you motherfucker. Freddie's dead...do you understand me? Do you hear what I'm saying to you? You gotta get on with your fuckin' life or you're gonna be dead soon too."

Miraculously enough, as it turned out, the physically act of being shaken like a rag doll actually worked wonders in triggering the mesmerized Hurley to snap out of his trance. And shortly thereafter the three friends found themselves joined together in a tearful group hug.

When it became apparent that the severely intoxicated Hurley was too overcome by his metaphysical delusions to make it through the entire game, his buddies helped him up the stairs and into bed at halftime, and then they too decided to call it a night so that they might hopefully get some sleep before their big day in court tomorrow.

But just to be on the safe side, as McBride and Landers departed the home of the late Fred Miller, they cautiously took one last look around, presumably to ensure themselves that Hurley's apparition wasn't about to come creeping up from behind them in an attempt to drag their bodies off into his purgatory shadow-world.

"Fuck, I think I just saw him too," squealed Landers. He could have sworn he heard footsteps gliding across the living room, and the look of terror which was written all over his face had now been transferred to McBride, who replied, "let's get the fuck outta here...this fuckin' place is giving me the creeps."

...and to this day, that was the last time either man ever stepped foot in the seemingly haunted home of their gone-but-not-forgotten best friend, Fred Miller.

...

Meanwhile, somewhere miles away, the ghost of Fred Miller was also alive and well in the mind and soul...of one Mr. Frank Newlan.

### Chapter 41 – Love's Addiction (The Tide Can Turn So Quickly)

Tuesday evening June 10, 2008 – 9:00 PM

As Frank Newlan settled into the living room of his sister Rose Marino's home in Andover Massachusetts to watch the Boston Celtics take on the Los Angeles Lakers in game three of the NBA Finals, his mind was troubled. All night long all he could think about was the John Breslin murder trial, and if that wasn't bad enough, he was dismayed by the fact that he had to conceal his thoughts from his sister and her son Joey at all costs.

Newlan had just finished devouring his sister's home cooked Italian dinner, and the overabundance of red wine left him feeling flushed with a warm glow of contentment. And yet the damned trial continued to send shivers through his body, like fingernails on a blackboard, when he least expected it.

Newlan still couldn't get over the fact that Breslin worked for the same company as his nephew Joey, and to make matters worse, the Tex-Ray facility in question, where Breslin's murderous plot allegedly took root, was located just down the road from his sister's house. However, Newlan didn't dare discuss any of this information with either of them for fear of breaking his oath, but just as importantly, for fear that his nephew might accidentally leak out an unintended clue of relevant information about him when he showed up for work in the morning.

"I can see it now," irrationally contemplated Newlan as he squirmed in his seat, "if Breslin's cronies somehow find out my identity, they'll be all over me like a pig in shit, with intimidation on their minds."

All night long, Newlan had been trying to steer the conversation away from the trial, but his relatives didn't seem to want to cooperate, and just before the opening tip-off they once again pleaded; "Can't you at least tell us a little bit about the trial you're on?"

"I told you it's just a stupid civil case," insisted Newlan.

"I can't believe you're in the same courthouse where one of my co-workers, Johnny Breslin, is up on a murder rap...and on top of that, they got those other big murder cases going on there too. Shit, there must be news cameras everywhere," exclaimed Newlan's nephew Joey.

"Yeah, I gotta admit, it's a circus down there," confirmed Newlan; he figured there was no harm in stating the obvious.

"Man, I don't really know him from a hole in the wall, but I've heard that this Breslin dude is bad news. That's all anyone at work can talk about. I swear he's causing productivity to go down by at least 50 percent," cracked Joey, and at that point Newlan's curiosity finally got the better of him, and he blurted out, "so Joey what's the deal with this guy Breslin?"

"He hired some dude to kill his wife's boyfriend, or at least that's how the story goes anyway...and he supposedly met the dude through a woman, Nancy O'Brien, who works with us as well," knowledgably explained Joey. But, not wanting to come across as guilty by association, he made his position perfectly clear by clarifying his remarks for a second time. "Like I said I don't know either one of them. There are thousands of people who work for Tex-Ray, and I work in a different division. I mean, I might have seen them before in the cafeteria or maybe at a company outing, but other than that I have nothing to do with either one of them."

And despite his best intentions, now that the ice was broken, Newlan couldn't help himself, and so he pressed on with his subtle investigation.

"So what's the word, do your co-workers think he did it?"

"It's pretty much divided down the middle. Some people are behind him 100 percent, and others think he's a ruthless, arrogant, control freak who just might have been stupid enough to do something crazy like this," answered Joey.

"Hmmm, sounds a lot like our jury," thought Newlan before asking, "And what about the co-worker who introduced him to the murderer...what's her story?"

"The word is that she's always bragging about how she knows all these mobsters and biker dudes. I guess she almost got charged with being an accessory before the fact, but she got out of it...and believe it or not she still works at Tex-Ray."

"A defense contractor like Tex-Ray...you'd think they would have canned her ass by now," reasoned Newlan.

"She got immunity. Can you believe it? She never even got charged with any crimes, so they can't fire her...she'd probably sue if they did," surmised Joey.

"So what's your gut feeling Joey, did he do it or not?" demanded Newlan rather forcefully.

"Jeez, what's with the interrogation Uncle Frankie...if I didn't know better I'd think you were on the Breslin jury," huffed Joey.

"No, no, it's just that I find the whole story fascinating. I guess that being on jury duty has got me really interested in all this legal bullshit," justified Newlan, but he realized he had better quit while he was ahead, lest his smart-aleck nephew catch him in another lie.

Nevertheless, regardless of his uncle's intentions, Joey considered the question for a moment, and then thoughtfully replied.

"Anyway, for the record, I doubt Breslin did it...from what I know of him, he doesn't seem like a violent guy...but on the other hand that's why you hire someone to do your dirty work for you. And also, I did hear a rumor that, years ago, he was dating a co-worker from Tex-Ray who broke up with him, and afterwards he stalked her for months. Although I'm not sure how much of that's the truth and how much is exaggeration."

"Well I guess that clears thing up," muttered Newlan, and then with a grimace he added, "Man you can't make this shit up," both in response to his nephew's ambiguous conclusions, and in deference to his own little secret.

Meanwhile, Newlan's sister Rose interrupted their conversation with an animated plea for less chatting and more focus on the Celtics.

"Come on guys, you're missing the freakin' game with all of your talking over there," she scolded.

"Alright then, let's settle in for some B-Ball. Can I grab another beer Uncle Frankie?" asked the scrounging Joey.

"Yeah, I brought a case of Sam Adam's with me...help yourself, and grab me one too," commanded Newlan.

"You better watch out mixing wine and beer," warned Rose, before adding, "but you can always sleep in Joey's old room if it gets too late." Although, what she was really thinking was; "you can always sleep over if you get too drunk."

"Oh cut it out, it's only a few beers," replied Newlan to his overprotective sister...and just like that his mind drifted back in time to a near miraculous reversal of fortune, the likes of which someone such as the sad-sack John Breslin could only dream of.

...

Newlan pensively considered his sister Rose's heavy-handed manner; a demeanor that found her occasionally treating him like a child, even though he was actually a year older than her, and he could only shake his head and marvel at the wonderment of how strange life can be at times.

You see, Rose's motherly nagging was almost incomprehensible based on her past history, for it wasn't all that long ago that she was an incurable drug addict whose life seemed destined to come to an early and abrupt end.

At the peak of her addiction, Rose Marino was not above lying and stealing from her own family, and she nearly broke all of their hearts when she ended up homeless, sleeping under a bridge with the lowest forms of lowlifes imaginable. But thankfully for all involved, somehow she eventually found her way to a detoxification facility that was mercifully able to assist her in crawling out of her half-dug grave.

To this day, Newlan still had trouble fathoming how his sister, who was brought up in a stable middle-class family environment, could have ended up a heroin junkie with a habit so bad that it reached the point where she found herself verging onto death's doorstep.

However, throughout the course of all those sad years, which Newlan spent testily putting up with the utterly hopeless lifestyle of his only sister, he fully realized that he was in no position to judge, seeing as how he had his own share of demons to keep at bay...but judge he did.

Being the enigma that he was, Newlan couldn't accept the slovenly critiques of the people who would insist that he was being a hypocrite for criticizing his sister's dire problems when he was known to self-medicate with the best of them.

But to the contrary, by Newlan's way of thinking, it seemed to him that his situation was far different from that of his sister's. He never suffered from an addiction. He never stole from his family to support a drug habit. He never got arrested for any type of drug or alcohol related offenses (other than the time that he was falsely accused of drinking in public of course). Granted, he temporarily went off the deep end after his breakup with Marianne Plante, but even then, he never missed a single day of work in his entire life due to over-intoxication.

The survivalist in Newlan had long ago subscribed to the theory which states that every single person in the whole wide world has to devise their own methods of dealing with reality, either that or give up living. And in his mind, he was no different than anyone else; so he liked to smoke a few joints and have a few drinks now and then, big deal. How did that make him any worse that the people who were zonked to the max on prescription medications for anxiety and depression?

In short, Newlan's biggest puzzlement with his sister's drug habit was the fact the he didn't see himself as having an addictive personality, and he couldn't understand how her genetic makeup could be so different than his.

Even now, Newlan would still occasionally wonder what caused his sister to reach such a level of despair. Was it some sort of childhood or adolescent trauma? Was it her bitter divorce? Was it the death of their father? Was it some sort of physical abnormality? Or maybe it was an amalgam of all these factors...and when you added in the indeterminate variable of getting mixed up with the wrong crowd, suddenly you have an addict on your hands.

It would probably take years of psychoanalysis to get to the bottom of Rose Marino's issues, but whatever the reasons behind her fall from grace, it was crystal clear that, much like Tracy Stone's absolution, what saved her life was the undying love that she held for her only child, Joey.

Much like Tracy Stone, Rose Marino saw the look of fear and sadness in her son's eyes all those years ago as she lay in a hospital bed with the jaundice guise of someone who had only hours to live, and somehow she roused up the will to fight back; somehow she vowed to turn over a new leaf, if for no other reason than to make amends with the flesh of her womb.

And now in the present, as he sat there in his sister's comfortable living room, Newlan thought back to that horrible day more than ten years ago when he visited her in the hospital where she lay strapped to a bed as she endured the awful symptoms of heroin withdrawal; convulsions, hallucinations, delirious fever; profuse sweating; or "cold turkey" as it's known on the streets.

Newlan thought back to how he put his arm around the teenaged Joey and assured him that "no matter what happens, everything's gonna be alright." But all the while he grasped the cold hard fact that he had no way of knowing for sure whether a happy ending was as inevitable as he made it sound.

As much as Newlan consoled his frightened nephew Joey, and as much as Cam Miller comforted a downtrodden Tracy Stone, and as much as countless others before and after them have encouraged a distraught loved one with those exact same words, "everything's gonna be alright", Newlan was wise enough to understand that sometimes, regardless of our good intentions, things don't always go as planned.

Even in his harrowed state of mind over his sister's dilemma all those years ago, Newlan was wise enough to come to the conclusion that what really matters is what you do in your efforts to ensure that every turns out alright...and then, after that, all you can do is say a prayer and hope for the best. Otherwise, "everything's gonna be alright" are merely empty words which might as well be left unsaid.

However, in Newlan's case, his words were not empty, and he did everything that he possibly could to help his sister and her son as they unsteadily got back onto their feet again...and in the end, they survived, and so did he. In the end, life went on, and they made the most of it. But so too, in the end, the damage had already been done, and it was much too late to ever be completely undone. In the end, the traumatic experience left behind a torrent of scars which never fully healed; scars which were a constant reminder of a past that lingered like a black cloud...and it forced him to look back. He had to look back. He could help himself, he always looked back...and every time he did, another broken piece of his heart died just a little bit more.

But despite the constant uncertainties that we all face, Newlan couldn't help but to feel a warm, if rather tenuous, trickling sense of relief regarding how far his sister Rose and her son Joey had come since those dark times. She had a decent job as a nurse; a job which she had held for many years now. She had a comfortable roof over her head; a home of her own for that matter. And, last but not least, she was the proud mother of a recent college graduate; and not only that, but he too had a high-paying job, a fancy car, a nice apartment, and a knockout of a girlfriend, all by the age of 25.

...

"Ready for another beer Uncle Frankie?" called out Joey Marino. And just like that, Newlan's mind was snapped back into focus; his reflections on the travails of his sister put on the backburner for another day. Just like that he took a deep breath and counted his blessing for the simple things in life which we sometimes take for granted. Just like that he turned his attention back to the basketball game where the Celtics were clinging to a two point lead going into the fourth quarter.

"We pull this one out and we got this series wrapped up," confidently exclaimed Joey, but the superstitious, not to mention thirsty, Newlan was having none of it.

"Quiet Joey, you're gonna jinx them. Don't you know that it's bad luck to get overconfident? The tide can turn so quickly."

Newlan anxiously drained another beer and as he did, he silently reflected; "hmmm, the tide can turn so quickly." And once again his overactive imagination steered its cargo bay towards the fate of John Breslin. Once again he wondered what sort of evidence the days ahead might bring in helping to determine that fate. Once again he wondered if he had the strength to go against the grain if necessary.

And as the Celtics and Lakers traded baskets, and as the facts of the Breslin trial ping-ponged back and forth across his frontal lobes, Newlan's alcohol consumption rapidly increased by leaps and bounds.

Newlan belonged to a fanatic breed of sports spectators who tended to become extremely tense while watching their beloved Boston teams do battle in a critical game, and so by the time the game had ended with the Celtics losing a hard fought contest by the score of 87-81, he had polished off innumerable beers in an attempt to calm his nerves; and of course, the ever-present shadow of the Breslin trial, which had taken up residence in the back of his mind, didn't help matters either.

After the final buzzer sounded, it only took a brief inspection of her kitchen for Rose Marino to became acutely aware of just how many empty beer cans had been deposited into the wastebasket, and as a result, she savagely scolded her only son and her older brother to no end.

"My how the tide has turned," Newlan snickered, and as he repeated the old adage, he surmised that it could just as easily be applied to life, as much as it is applied to sports. But regardless of its application, once again the fateful axiom had him pondering the irony of his recovering drug addict sister informing _him_ that he had had too much to drink.

"No way either one of you is driving home tonight," declared Rose.

"I'm fine," replied Newlan and Joey in unison.

"That's bullshit. Joey you take your old room, and grab your uncle a pair of sweatpants out of the closet where I keep all your old clothes...and Frankie you can sleep on the sofa bed," commanded Rose as her maternal instincts took over. "And I'm not taking no for an answer. I'll take both of your keys and call the cops if I have to."

"Alright already...well, I guess I'm going to bed. And by the way mom, you're a pain in the ass," declared the red-faced Joey as he kissed his mother goodnight.

Ever since their own mother passed away, Newlan had become amazed by how much his sister reminded him more and more of dear old mom with each passing day; how she almost unbearably overprotected him; how she checked in before every major holiday to make sure that he wasn't sitting at home alone with no place to go; how she would invite him over for dinner every few months; how she took charge of all family matters, just like their strong-willed mother once did.

And so with this obsessive brand of nepotism in mind, as Rose Marino pulled open the sofa bed and covered up the mattress with a set of new linen sheets, she kept her mind occupied by picking at her brother's brain, asking among other things whether he was seeing anyone special these days. She knew full well that her very private brother had never been too comfortable discussing his personal affairs with anyone, let alone family members, but that never stopped her from prying before, and it wasn't about to stop her now.

Newlan attempted to brush off his sister's inquiries, but she insisted on dredging up the past.

"I still think you and Marianne would have made a good couple. Whatever happened to her anyway?" innocently wondered Rose, while at the same time an unsettling quiver bolted through Newlan at the mere mention of the only woman he ever loved. And yet he showed absolutely no outward signs of emotion as he coolly replied; "that's so far in the past, it isn't even a consideration anymore...and besides she's married anyway."

However, deep inside, Newlan wished that he could summons up the gumption to open up to his sister regarding the note that Plante had sent him only days ago. He still had no idea what to make of the letter, and he figured that maybe his sister's female perspective might make for a worthy sounding board. Although, in the end, his foolish pride prevented him from revealing his inner most hopes and fears, even to a blood relative.

But despite Newlan's wall of denial, Rose Marino's womanly intuitions informed her that she had struck a nerve, and so she wisely decided that she should change the subject, which unwittingly, only made matters worse.

"How are things at the condo? Does that Pakistani doorman still work there?"

"Yeah...but I'm beginning to think he might be a terrorist," deadpanned Newlan.

"Oh cut it out...that cute little old man? He's harmless," incredulously replied Rose.

"Maybe it's just me, but I get the feeling that he's been acting kind of strange lately," declared Newlan as he crawled into the unfamiliar sofa bed...but alas, his accusations fell on deaf ears.

"I leave for work early, so if you're the last one here, feel free to take a shower, and make sure to lock up on the way out. I'll leave the coffee on for you," apprised Rose as she turned out the lights.

"I'll probably be gone by the time you wake up, since I'm never gonna be able to fall asleep in this bed anyway," grumbled Newlan as he tossed and turned in an attempt to settle into a comfortable sleeping position.

"Why, isn't it firm enough?" asked a concerned Rose.

"No, no, it's fine. It's just that I never sleep well when I'm not in my own bed, so I'll probably just rest here for a few hours, and then head home for a nap," explained Newlan. And with that, his sister called it a night and it was lights-out at the Rose Marino residence.

After his sister wandered off to bed, Newlan attempted to reposition himself on the foreign mattress at least a dozen times. But eventually he resigned himself to the fact that he wasn't going to get much sleep, so instead he just stared up at the darkened ceiling and fretfully mulled over the latest developments in his life.

As the evening wore on, Newlan became aware of the hum of thousands of crickets filling up the nighttime air, and he was astounded by just how loud and musical the chirping sounds could become. He was accustomed to the ambient din of city living, and as he lay there, he meditated on the idea that living in a rural setting such as this would take some getting used to.

Then, in a not so unexpected tangent, Newlan's mind drifted towards the memory of his high school sweetheart, Marianne Plante. He was well aware of the fact that she now resided in the town of Tewksbury, which was the next town over from his sister's home in Andover; a mere two miles away from his current location on the GPS map of the world.

And as the darkness ploddingly deepened around him, Newlan wistfully reflected on what his life might have been like had he married Plante. He imagined the two of them with a couple of kids and a big shaggy dog running around in the yard, up here in one these quaint suburbs by the New Hampshire border, and in his drunken state, as he conjured up a visual picture of Plante's smiling face in his mind's eye, he suddenly became very emotional regarding the dead-end path his life had taken.

With the distant hoot of an owl providing a mantra-like backdrop, Newlan contemplated long and hard about the undeniable fact that sometimes our fates seem to veer off in directions that are beyond our control, and then for some reason, the unfortunate demise of poor Fred Miller suddenly popped into his brain...and he began to cry like a baby.

Astonishingly enough, even at this late hour, Newlan's tearfully reflective mind refused to turn itself off. However, despite his anguished musings, he was clearly physically exhausted and emotionally drained after another unbearably long day at the courthouse, and so in short order he did pass out, and not surprisingly, based on recent history, he drifted off into a deep, dream-filled slumber.

Newlan dreamed that he was wandering down an unfamiliar country road, under the pitch black covering of a cloudy sky. There was a heavy fog in the air, and as he attempted to feel his way through the emptiness, he took on the semblance of a little boy, lost in an endless forest of fear. And if that weren't bad enough, his dream then took a decided turn for the worse as the trees branches that surrounded him transformed themselves into giant arms which were stretching out to grab him in an attempt to do God knows what. And then the leaves mutated into a colony of furry bats, like a flock of caterpillars metamorphosing into butterflies; thousands of vampire bats hanging upside down in the quivering tree arms. And then the rabid bats awoke and took to flight, and once they were all assembled overhead in a flying V formation, like one, they began swarming about Newlan's head like a hive of angry bees.

Newlan desperately tried to run, but as he did, all around him, the ground melted into quicksand, and he surrendered himself to the fact that his life was over.

However, just when all seemed lost, Newlan detected the light of the moon shining brightly through the billowing clouds. He could clearly make out the sight of the pea-thick fog as it dissolved into a fine mist. He could clearly perceive the mist as it slowly plumed into the shape of a woman. He could clearly recognize the haze as it fashioned itself into the embodiment of his high school sweetheart, Marianne Plante, wearing the golden wings of an angel.

And upon catching a glimpse of his long lost love, Newlan regained the strength to free himself from the quicksand which had overtaken his body and soul. Upon taking in the saintly virgin of his youth, Newlan regained the determination to fight off every bloodsucking bat and every pulverizing tree limb in his path. Upon beholding the outstretched arms of the only woman he ever loved, Newlan regained the courage to rush into her arms and profess just how much he ached for her; he regained the tenacity to profess just how lost he was without her; he regained the recklessness to profess how his life had meant nothing ever since that fateful day that she said goodbye.

Yes, this time, much to his surprise, Newlan held nothing back; this time he laid all his cards on the table; this time he wore his heart on his sleeve; this time, at long last, he finally found the strength to bare his soul to the woman of his dreams.

For her part, as Plante heeded Newlan's plea for redemption, she cradled him gently in her arms like a mother might hold a child, and she lightly kissed his lips

Newlan fell to his knees and took his lady's hand like a pauper in the lap of royalty...and in turn, she peered deeply into his eyes, as in comforting tone, she exalted his heart.

"See, that wasn't so hard, now was it? And from this day forward, God willing, may we be together again for all times," declared Plante. And upon harkening her overwhelming proclamation, Newlan repeatedly kissed her heavenly fingers while at the same time heralding his devotion for her.

"I love you Marianne. I love you so much. I've missed you for so long. I need you so bad."

Newlan felt as if he had gone from the deepest depths of despair to the highest heights of ecstasy, all in a matter of seconds, and he prayed that he could keep the moment frozen in time forever, even if it meant never waking up again.

"Please, never leave me," beseeched Newlan as he gazed up at the celestial figure standing before him. But no sooner had the words left his mouth when he came to the inevitable conclusion that things don't always go as planned; everything doesn't always turn out alright.

"Ah, but that, I cannot do...for as you know all too well, the tide can turn so quickly," replied the ghostly apparition of Marianne Plante. And just like that, Newlan could feel his dream turning back into a nightmare; he could feel his life once again turning upside-down; he could feel the beginning of the end taking shape.

Suddenly Newlan became aware of the heavy breathing of a man running toward him; a man running from his past; a man running from his present; a man running from his future; a man running for his life. And as the streaking blur of the marathon runner approached, Newlan could see that it wasn't just a man; it wasn't just a spirit; it wasn't just a ghost; it was all of those things and more...it was Fred Miller. It was Fred Miller with the specter of death flaming in his eyes; it was Fred Miller exerting every ounce of strength he could muster; it was Fred Miller screaming, "Run, run, run for your life."

And not far behind Fred Miller, an equally gifted masked stallion of a man carrying a muzzled shotgun was gaining ground on him, and at the same time he was also gaining ground on Frank Newlan and Marianne Plante, who had now returned to human form.

Newlan tugged at Plante's hand and they began sprinting toward the voice of Fred Miller who was manically shouting; "Follow me home, follow me home, follow me...all the way home."

Aided by a gusting tailwind, Newlan and Plante gained ground on Miller, but in the confusion they had no idea where who they were running from, and they had no idea where they were running to. Nonetheless, as they came to a skidding stop at the foot of Fred Miller's Nissan Maxima, he bowed and announced; "Welcome to my home, welcome to my final resting place."

Newlan surveyed the cracking asphalt before him and he instantly confirmed that they had landed in the dank, musty garage where Fred Miller met his fate.

"Nooooo," screamed Newlan as he instinctively took Plante into his arms and buried her face in his chest, in a futile attempt to prevent her from witnessing the resident evil of this place; an evil that he knew all too well.

"Yes...tonight we meet our maker, but don't fret my friends...for it only hurts for a little while," syllogized Fred Miller. And as he spoke, the masked marauder caught up to them, and in the blink of an eye, he fired a shotgun burst that disintegrated Miller's face.

Newlan instinctively winced at the sound of the explosive salvo, but when he reopened his eyes, he was enslaved by the vision of Marianne Plante being torn from his arms by the masked man-beast.

"Please don't kill us. We didn't do anything wrong. We don't belong here," pleaded Newlan, but it was to no avail. The merciless gunman blasted a hole through Marianne Plante's heart, which also had the duel effect of tearing the life out of Frank Newlan.

Newlan sank to his knees and cried; "Oh God no. Oh God why. Oh God please...please take me instead."

"God has deserted you my tormentor," hissed the masked marauder as he stepped towards Newlan and spat in his face.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you," ordered the lunatic, and as he pulled at Newlan's long stringy hair, he added, "It is your turn to be the tormented one now."

But once again Newlan was determined to stare death in the face and show no fear. He returned the glare of the cold blooded murderer, and as their steely eyes met, the deranged stalker removed his mask, only to reveal the form of John Breslin.

Breslin pulled a pistol out of his pocket and pointed it at Newlan's forehead as he imparted his final verdict; "You're next Newlan."

However, just as Breslin was about to squeeze the trigger, a massive truck rolled into the garage with its high beams shining so brightly that it nearly blinded the both of them. The truck rumbled right up to the spot where Breslin stood hovering over Newlan, and as the masked driver vaulted out of the driver's seat, in a foreign accent he declared, "If anyone is going to kill Mr. Frank it will be me."

At this perplexing point in time, the second masked man pulled off his disguise as well, only to unveil the jowls of Mr. Saeed Kahn cackling hysterically at his fallen foe.

Kahn pointed a device which resembled a remote starter towards the trailer of the truck. But before he pressed the button, he stared Newlan dead in the eyes, and predictably he uttered the same three words that had haunted his antagonist's dreams of late; "You're next Newlan."

And with the snap of a finger, a hellfire of an explosion tore the roof off the weatherworn garage which sent a catapulting Frank Newlan hurtling out into thin air.

As had been his plight so many times before, Newlan's fate rested on his ability to wake up before he hit the ground. But compounding his fight for survival where a chorus of devilish voices in the sky chanting, "You're next Newlan," as his freefall towards the Earth began to pick up speed.

Newlan's body was dead weight as he plummeted from the sky like a boulder rolling off the side of a mountain avalanche. He was inches from the ground and a horrible death when he felt a pair of warm hands shaking his body out of its mind-numbing trance.

Newlan looked up and saw his sister and nephew staring down at him.

"What the hell's wrong with you? You scared the shit out of me," gasped Rose Marino.

"Dude, you're gonna wake up the whole neighborhood," joked Joey Marino who was finding the situation rather humorous.

"I'm alright...just a bad dream," whispered a dry-mouthed Newlan, but his sister observantly detected the same look of fear in him that her son had displayed all those years ago when he witnessed her near deadly heroin overdose.

Newlan's panic-stricken sister vigorously rubbed her eyes and frightfully declared, "You look like you've just seen a ghost."

"I think I may have...I think I may have," replied a dazed Newlan as he recalled having the same conversation with Billy the Court Officer after his bad dream on the bus ride to the garage in Newton.

"Dude, you were screaming in your sleep. You're next Newlan. Over and over again...you're next Newlan," explained the wiseass Joey in a mock woman's voice.

"Next for what?" wondered a perplexed Rose Mariano, but in return, the only response her rattled brother Frank could come up with was a baffled non-answer; "I wish I knew...I wish I knew...I damn well wish I knew."

Chapter 42 – Remembering the Dead

Wednesday morning June 11, 2008 – 8:45 AM

"Where the hell am I?" Those were the first words that popped into Frank Newlan's head when he woke up out of his dazed catnap, and as he scoped out his unfamiliar surroundings, he wasn't as of yet cognizant of the fact that he had spent the night in the living room of his sister Rose's house.

Newlan was groggy and disoriented, and as he sat up in the lumpy sofa bed and attempted to get his bearings straight, once again he repeated his existential question; "where the hell am I?"

After a few seconds of confused introspection, Newlan began to piece together the circumstances surrounding his unplanned sleepover, and slowly things started making sense again, even though the fog in his mind had yet to fully lift. Of course, another purely physical reason for Newlan's murkiness (besides his hangover) may have been the fact that the living room was engulfed in semi-darkness...and so to correct the problem, he pulled back the drapes, revealing an opaque morning-dew which immediately reminded him of his most recent nightmare and sent a shiver coursing through his bones.

But despite his anxiety attack, Newlan's nose roused him out of bed like a bloodhound in search of an escaped prisoner, and it led him to the irresistibly strong scent of Columbian coffee wafting from his sister's kitchen.

"Anyone home?" shouted Newlan. And although he got no response, a note on the kitchen table silently answered his question just the same.

By holding the note within an inch of his face, Newlan was just able to make out the chicken-scratch writing as he fumbled around for a light switch.

"We left for work. Help yourself to breakfast and a shower, and make sure you lock up on the way out."

"What fuckin' time is it?" asked Newlan to no one in particular (and after reading his sister's note he wasn't really expecting an answer anyway).

Newlan squinted around the unlit kitchen until he located an illuminated digital clock on the microwave, but without his glasses on, he could barely make out the time, which read 8:45 AM...and by anyone's account this put him well behind schedule.

Maybe it was the uncomfortable bed, or maybe it was the unaccustomed surroundings, or maybe it was his unimaginable bad dream, or maybe, just maybe, it was his proclivity to partake in overindulgence, but whatever the reason, Newlan was running quite late and he was in a panic because of it.

Newlan was perplexed by the fact that he had overslept. He usually woke up bright and early, regardless of the situation, especially when he was found himself in a foreign bed. But unfortunately for him however, his internal clock had once again failed him just when he desperately needed it to function accurately more than ever.

"Holy shit, I gotta get the fuck outta here," grunted Newlan as he rushed back into the living room and slipped into his clothes. He then located a Styrofoam cup in one of the kitchen cabinets and filled it up with coffee as hurried on out the door.

Using the rearview mirror of his car as a guide, Newlan combed his long stringy hair as best he could, and after he had completed his grooming, he fished out the half joint that was hidden in the ashtray and he revved up his 1995 red Mercury for all it was worth.

To make up for lost time, Newlan threw caution to the wind and merged onto the two lane road which led to the highway without even looking out for oncoming traffic. This regrettable maneuver resulted in him cutting off an irate truck driver, and then in an apparent attempt to escape the wrath of the lumberjack trucker, he floored the gas pedal and weaved in and out of traffic like a maniac.

"Fuck it, if I get a ticket I just tell the cop I'm on official court business," rationalized Newlan. And sure enough, as if someone were controlling his world like a puppet on a string, within minutes of leaving his sister's house, he was confronted by the blue lights of a police car in his rearview mirror, waving for him to pull over.

"Oh fuck, now I'm screwed for sure," groaned Newlan as he rolled down the driver side window in an attempt to air out the marijuana fumes.

Luckily for Newlan he was traveling on a busy avenue, which necessitated that both he and the police car cruise a half a mile down the road before they could pull into a strip mall parking lot. This gave him ample time to covertly reach for the air freshener and the breathe spray, as well as to take another gulp out of his sobering cup of coffee.

"Do you know how fast you were going?" growled the grumpy cop.

"He's obviously not a morning person," thought Newlan who conceded that he was going "pretty fast."

"License and registration," demanded the no-nonsense officer.

"Yes sir," replied Newlan as he handed over the documents, and then he incoherently added, "I apologize but, but...but I'm late for jury duty...I'm on a big trial...I had to sleep over my sister's house...it's a murder trial...she's a single mother...at the Middlesex Superior Courthouse."

The cop shot Newlan a look which intimated that he was dealing with a crazy person, but nevertheless he patiently and professionally asked; "Do you have your juror information with you sir?"

Fortunately for the disoriented Newlan, he had stuffed the envelope containing his jury duty letter into the same plastic bag that also held his Rolling Stone magazines. And once he got his bearings straight, he nervously sifted out the document, which included explicit juror instructions, as well as a phone number that the jurors could call in the event that they were ill or tardy, and as handed the form over to the cop, he pleaded; "Please, call this number...ask for Billy. Oh yeah, and tell him I might be a little late this morning."

In return, the cop grabbed the letter out of Newlan's hand and shook his head in disgust as he waddled back to his cruiser. However, after discussing the situation on his radio with the dispatcher back at the station, he re-approached Newlan's vehicle in a much better mood and announced; "OK sir, you can go...they're waiting for you at the courthouse."

Upon learning of his reprieve, a pronounced smirk slithered its way across Newlan's face. And on top of that, it was a slinky sort of smile; a smile that he couldn't seem to get rid of. But after an awkward moment of silence, he finally managed to blurt out; "thank you for your patience, officer."

"Follow me...I'll get you onto the highway," ordered the cop.

"Cool," replied Newlan, and so for the third time in less than a week, he was being provided with a police escort.

"I could get use to this," admitted Newlan to himself as he waved to the cop and accelerated onto the ramp which led to Interstate 93 South.

As soon as he was out of eyeshot of the local police officer, Newlan immediately gunned the engine again, but this time he was in no danger of getting another ticket, because before he had even traveled a mile down the highway, he found himself stuck in the usual morning gridlock.

"Holy crap, I'm _really_ gonna be late this time. I hope Judge Gershwin doesn't throw me in jail for this," fretted Newlan as he helplessly crawled along the remaining 10 plus miles of pavement which separated him from the courthouse.

By this time in his morning adventure, the back of Newlan's cranium was pounding so badly that he had no choice but to turn the stereo way down low in an effort to ease his inevitable hangover related symptoms. However, when the sound of Bob Dylan's stoner anthem, "Rainy Day Women No. 12 & 35" came humming across the airwaves, he couldn't help but crank up the volume and sing along, headache be damned.

"I'll smoke to that," exclaimed Newlan as he slowly jolted himself back to life. But when the morning DJ cut to news, weather, and traffic, and the news reporter led with an update on the "horrible hubby" murder trials, Newlan was brought back to reality in a big way, and once again he found himself brooding over the meaning of last night's bizarre nightmare.

"Marianne Plante, Fred Miller, John Breslin _and_ Saeed Kahn all in the same dream...man, my imagination must really be working overtime," ominously marveled Newlan as he attempted to self-analyze the inner workings of his mazelike mind. And for the remainder of the drive to the courthouse, he wracked his brains in an attempt to figure out where all of these wacky fantasies were coming from.

"I can understand Marianne haunting my dreams, especially since I got that friggin' letter from her, out of the blue. And I'm in the middle of this freakin' murder trial so I guess it's logical that I might dream about Miller. And Saeed, well he's a fuckin' terrorist anyway. But Breslin...why the hell does he want me dead when I'm probably the only one who thinks he might be innocent? Could it be that I subconsciously think he's guilty? Who the hell knows?"

However, after a few moments of conflicted internal debate, Newlan eventually came to another realization; "I gotta stop thinking about this stuff or it's gonna drive me crazier than I already am," and somehow with this latest conviction of the heart leading the way, he was able to suppress his irrational fears, at least for the time being anyway.

And so it was that the slightly dazed Frank Newlan was able to put his game-face on, and once again transformed himself from an aging hippie, into a serious, civic-minded citizen, just like Clark Kent emerging from a phone booth to become Superman.

When Newlan finally pulled into the courthouse parking lot, he was hustled towards the waiting room by the guard who was in charge of the security gate, and as he entered the room, he could feel all eyes upon him as Billy immediately spouted into his two-way radio; "Final juror just arrived...I'll bring them up."

Newlan apologized profusely for his tardiness, but only Dan the handicapped juror responded in any way, exclaiming; "no problem...and on the plus side, at least I'm not the last one to show up for a change."

"Well then, glad I could be of service," replied Newlan as his tipped an imaginary cap.

As the jurors single-filed their way into the sixth floor deliberation room, Brandon was standing there at the doorway, imposingly waiting for them, and he impatiently waved them into the room with a hurry-up signal.

"Let's go, let's go, Judge Gershwin's ready to start the session and she's getting antsy. I'll give you five minutes to get settled in and then it's time to roll," exhorted Brandon.

"Great, the one day I'm late, they decide to start on time for a change," grumbled Newlan as he collapsed into his chair and attempted to collect his thoughts, while at the same time his dearest colleague was also wading through her own bit of soul-searching.

"Where's Donny today?" wondered the elderly Patty as soon as she realized that he was nowhere to be found. She had been worrying about him ever since discovering that his wife had been diagnosed with cancer, and she was hoping that she might be able to brighten his day with a few words of encouragement. But alas, her sympathy would have to be put on hold for another day.

"He's gonna be out again today. His wife is very sick," explained Billy as Patty made the sign of the cross...and then in a voice that was cracking with emotion, she sighed, "God bless him."

And while the jurors who were seated in the vicinity of Patty attempted to console her, the rest of the group quietly discussed various casual topics. The guys chatted mainly about last night's Celtics game, while the women went into a grumbled dissertation regarding the lack of variety on the lunch menu.

But much to Newlan's chagrin, as the manly sports conversation progressed, out of nowhere, Ron the banker pointed his chin towards him and cheerfully remarked; "You look like you enjoyed the game last night."

"What do you mean by that?" replied the paranoid Newlan.

"He means you look like hell," added Mike the car salesman.

"Is it that noticeable?" asked Newlan, and Mike gave him a covert nod.

"You know, for a car salesman you don't talk much," commented Newlan with a feeble smile, and in return, Mike chuckled and responded with an improbable boast; "you should see me in action...you wouldn't even recognize me."

And when a transitory break in the chit-chat presented itself, Newlan leaned towards Mike and whispered; "You think anyone noticed that I'm still wearing the same clothes as yesterday?"

"We noticed," piercingly replied Newlan's nemesis Jane who was obviously eavesdropping in on the guys' conversation.

"Well, I hope the people out there don't notice," added Newlan as he winced and pointed a finger towards the courtroom.

"What did you, pull an all-nighter?" Annie the feisty little HR clerk quipped.

"It's a long story...you see I was over my sister's house for dinner and..." Newlan began to elaborate, but before he could even come close to finishing his yarn, Billy came storming into the room and ordered everyone to line up for show time.

However, even though Newlan didn't get the chance to complete his explanation, as the jurors were being led into the courtroom, Natalie twirled around and presented him with a mischievous wink, while at the same time whispering; "a likely story."

Natalie's unexpected trifling caught the speechless Newlan off-guard, and all our dumbfounded protagonist could think to do was to smile back weakly as he pondered the relevance of his jury box neighbor's intentions. He recalled reading somewhere that an inconspicuous wink from a woman, much like a gentle touch of the wrist, was a subtle signal of romantic interest, and as such, after a less than serious spate of consideration, he concluded; "I might be losing my mind, but if I didn't know better, I'd think that I'm actually starting to thaw out the stunning Ice Princess."

However, flirtatious miscommunications aside, as the jurors filed into the jury box, Newlan assumed the position and stared at his feet per usual while Brandon launched into his traditional "hear ye, hear ye" speech, and then Judge Gershwin officially proclaimed that "court is in session."

"Good morning to our remarkable jury...I understand that we spared one of you a speeding ticket this morning," broadcast Judge Gershwin with a motherly smile as a crimson-faced Newlan nodded slightly in acknowledgement of his crime, while at the same time Natalie looked on in admiration.

Although Natalie came across as all prim and proper, Newlan's gut feeling was that she kind of preferred the bad-boy, outlaw type...and this inclination was further reinforced when he caught her staring at him out of the corner of his eye.

"Glad we could be of service," saluted Judge Gershwin in a feeble attempt at humor before getting down to business.

Newlan kept his head firmly down, peering at his shoes, as the noble judge launched into the usual questions regarding whether any of the jurors had discussed the trial, but at the same time he obstinately thought to himself; "Hey, I told you that my nephew works for the same company where Breslin worked before he got locked up in the slammer. It's not my fault that you wouldn't kick me off the trial...so it serves you right that Breslin's name came up in passing during an innocent conversation."

And while Newlan was left to silently justify his actions, the oblivious Judge Gershwin politely proclaimed, "Let the record show that none of the jurors responded in the affirmative...and we are ready to begin. Ms. Lyons, please call your first witness."

"Your honor the prosecution calls Mr. Kevin McBride to the stand," announced DA Lyons.

McBride, who, as we might suspect, was recovering from his own hangover, appeared to be walking rather unsteadily on his feet as he approached the witness stand and swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

McBride's queasiness wasn't lost on Newlan, although he didn't relate it to his own issue of over-imbibing; he just assumed that the poor guy was nervous.

"Mr. McBride, were you an acquaintance of Fred Miller?" asked Lyons. And based on the tone of his response, McBride was apparently a bit offended by the word "acquaintance".

"I was more than an acquaintance. We were best friends since junior high school."

"And what about Tracy Stone, are you familiar with her?" continued Lyons, making sure not to use the word acquaintance again.

"Yes, Tracy is a couple of years younger than Fred and me, but I've known her for a long time as well," replied McBride.

"Now Mr. McBride, do you remember whether Tracy and Fred ever dated each other?"

"Yes, of course. They dated off and on in high school, and they were involved in a more serious relationship after Fred got out of college. But then they broke up, I'd say sometime in the early to mid 90's, and after that I didn't see Tracy for a long time," answered McBride.

McBride's reply illustrated the similarities between Fred Miller and Tracy Stone's history and the details surrounding Newlan's own breakup with Marianne Plante, and the likeness in their stories had his mind racing in a million different directions.

"Mr. McBride, at some point did you become aware of the fact that Tracy and Fred were seeing each other again?" pressed on Lyons, while at the same time the shell-shocked Newlan attempted to pull himself together as best he could.

"Yes, sometime in 2005 I bumped into Tracy and Fred hanging out together at a local restaurant...and later I asked him what was up, and he admitted that they were dating again," recounted McBride.

"And did you see more of Tracy and Fred during the months leading up to January 2006?" wondered Lyons.

"Yeah, well I saw Freddie all the time. As I said, we were good friends. And yes I also saw Tracy and Fred together quite a bit during that timeframe as well," replied McBride.

"Where were some of the places you saw Tracy and Fred together?" quizzed Lyons.

"Well, they went on a few dates with me and my girlfriend at the time. They came over to my house. I'd see them at the lounge where we sometimes hung out. You know, normal stuff like that," explained McBride.

"So they were basically doing things that couples do?" reasoned Lyons.

"Yes, I guess you could say that," replied McBride.

"Mr. McBride did you see Fred Miller on the night of January 12th, 2006?"

"Yes, he stopped by my house at around 6:30 and he stayed for about 90 minutes."

"And was he alone when he arrived?" continued Lyons.

"Yes," replied McBride.

"Was he alone when he left?" added Lyons, and once again McBride replied in the affirmative.

"And what did Fred and you do during those 90 minutes?"

"We mostly talked about Fred's personal life...how thing were a bit rocky between him and Tracy at times. I don't remember his exact words, but I clearly remember him being very agitated and nervous."

"And did he say what he was nervous about?" asked Lyons.

"Yes, he said he thought that someone might be trying to kill him...and that was the last time I ever saw him alive," whispered McBride as he put his head in his hands and began to sob softly.

McBride's response elicited a gasp from the gallery, and Lyons purposely let the murmur linger for a few seconds before announcing, "No further questions your honor."

Not to be outdone, renowned Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason approached the stand with a singular purpose in mind; it was a well documented fact that, over the years, his line of questioning had also been known to cause an occasional gasp or two to break out in various courtrooms throughout the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, and that was his very objective as he hovered over the witness, Kevin McBride.

And even though Gleason's cross-examination started off innocently enough, it wouldn't be long before the sparks began to fly.

"Mr. McBride based on your testimony, am I correct in assuming that roughly 10 or more years passed between the time that Tracy and Fred dated in the early 90's and when they reunited in 2005?"

"I don't know exactly how many years it was, but it would be accurate to say that a long time went by," sniffled McBride as he attempted to recompose himself.

"And wouldn't it be fair to say that a lot can happen in 10 years?" reasoned Gleason.

"Of course," answered McBride in a miffed tone.

"Mr. McBride, were you aware of the fact that Tracy Stone got married during that 10 year gap?" demanded a suddenly aggressive Gleason.

"Objection," shouted DA Lyons, and Judge Gershwin thought about it for a moment before responding, but in the end she ruled in Gleason's favor.

"Yes, I was aware that Tracy was married," admitted McBride.

"And were you aware of the fact that Tracy was still married at the time she was dating Fred Miller in 2005?" asked Gleason.

Lyons once again unsuccessfully objected, and McBride sullenly answered, "Yes sir."

Gleason then raised his voice slightly for affect as he asked, "And were you aware of the fact that Tracy had three children?"

Lyons objected for a third time, but to no avail, and for a third time McBride answered in the affirmative.

And now that Gleason had established the already well known fact that Fred Miller was dating a married mother of three children, he decided to go in a slightly different, yet related, direction.

"Mr. McBride, were you aware of the fact that Fred Miller was also dating a woman by the name of Lauren Hernandez during the latter half of 2005?" asked Gleason, and McBride, who was beginning to crack from the strain of all the probing questions, managed to spit out another, "Yes sir."

"According to my timeline this would mean that Fred Miller was dating Lauren Hernandez _and_ Tracy Stone at the same time, isn't that correct Mr. McBride?" calculated Gleason.

"Well, Fred wasn't sure where things were going with Tracy so..." McBride attempted to explain, but Gleason cut him off short.

"Mr. McBride, please just answer yes or no, was Fred Miller dating Lauren Hernandez and Tracy Stone at the same time?" reiterated Gleason, and McBride bowed his head as he muttered, "Yes sir," one more time.

Gleason had been gradually inching his way even closer to the witness stand with each and every question, and by now he was standing a mere few feet away from McBride as he asked; "Mr. McBride, are you aware of the fact that agitation and paranoia are signs of cocaine withdrawal?"

Gleason's query elicited another gasp from the gallery, rivaling the earlier outburst, and McBride was so offended by Gleason's line of questioning that he was just about ready to snap. But before he could spit out anything derogatory, Lyons objected once again, and finally Judge Gershwin sustained her challenge.

"No further questions your honor," announced Gleason, and as he sauntered triumphantly back to the defense table he whispered to Breslin, "mission accomplished."

Meanwhile, the exhausted Newlan looked on with a conflicted mix of admiration and contempt as he whispered to Natalie; "this guy's something else, now he painting Miller out to be a drug-craving, womanizing, home-wrecker."

But regardless of Gleason's intentions, once the buzz in the gallery had subsided, DA Lyons called on the second of Fred Miller's three childhood friends, Michael Landers, to take the stand.

As Landers trundled his way up the center aisle of the gallery and approached the witness stand, he slapped a brief high five with McBride who gave him a covert wink and a fist pump which silently said; "Give 'em hell Mikey."

Landers story pretty much echoed McBride's in so far as the fact that they had all known each other since before high school, and that he was aware of the history between Tracy and Fred.

However, Landers possessed firsthand knowledge of some additional information regarding Tracy and Fred's whereabouts on the night of January 12th, 2006, and DA Lyons desperately wanted the jurors to hear his story.

"Mr. Landers what do you do for work?" asked Lyons.

"I've been a bartender at the Wayward Inn in Marlborough since the early 90's," answered Landers.

"And were Tracy and Fred known to frequent this establishment?" wondered Lyons.

"Yes, they use to hang out at the bar often back in the day when they were dating, but once they broke up, Tracy rarely stopped by...until they started seeing each other again, that is," explained Landers.

"Mr. Landers did you cross paths with Fred Miller on the night of January 12th, 2006?" asked Lyons as she decided to cut right to the chase.

"Yes, I was working that night, and Fred dropped in at around 8:30," replied Landers.

"And do you remember any specific details from that evening?"

"Yes, I remember that Fred sat at the bar and we talked for a while...and I remember that Fred was sweating and shaking. He was very upset about something, but he wouldn't tell me what was going on, other than to say that he had a problem he was trying to deal with."

"And then what happened?"

"Shortly after Fred arrived, an acquaintance of ours, Ned Gilbert, came into the bar and took a seat at a table. Ned is a Marlborough Police Officer, and within a few minutes of his arrival, Fred wandered over to his table so that he could talk to him privately about his problem."

"Do you recall what happened next?"

"Yes, Fred left Ned's table after about 15 minutes and he sat back down at the bar again...and then Tracy showed up at around 9 maybe 9:30...and they hung out until closing time."

"Mr. Landers do you have any recollection of Fred and Tracy leaving the bar that evening?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact we walked outside together. I vividly remember Fred kissing Tracy goodnight, and then they left in separate cars...and that was the last time I ever saw Fred alive," explained Landers as he too choked back tears.

By now, the suffering that was pouring from the heart of Fred Miller's friends was beginning to rub off on the jurors, and Newlan could have sworn that he even detected the distinctive sound of muffled sniffling emanating from the seat that was occupied by the demonstrative Jane. However, at the moment, Newlan was having a hard time keeping his own emotions in check, so for once he empathized with Jane.

The only comparable life-experience that Newlan could correlate to the sight of Miller's grief-stricken pals was a tragic incident which involved one of his own childhood friend's, Karen McDermott, who was killed in a car accident some twenty years ago; and while she may not have been murdered, her sudden, unexpected loss triggered the same sort of anguish amongst her friends that he was witnessing today in the courtroom, so he understood precisely what McBride and Landers were going through.

As Landers paused to collect himself, Newlan thought back to his younger days; he thought back to a carefree time when the majority of his friends, both male and female, were still single, and just about every one of them went through a sexual experimentation phase which found them trading partners as if they were collectable baseball cards. The revelry ultimately reached the point where practically every member of their entire gang had experienced at least a couple of not-so-secret physical liaisons with one another before finally settling down into the mundane life of monogamous adulthood.

Newlan and Karen McDermott however, had always been just friends and nothing more; and even though he had heard through the grapevine that she was a passionate lover and she had heard the same thing about him, for the longest time, they never quite connected.

But as fate would have it, one night back in the late 80's, McDermott and Newlan found themselves alone after a party in her apartment (he was notorious for always being the last one to leave whenever there was a party going on), and out of the blue, she unleashed a frenzy of kisses on him, and she breathlessly whispered in his ear; "Why haven't we ever been together before?"

Newlan vividly recalled replying, "Well there's always a first time for everything," as they tore each other's clothes off.

And although Newlan and McDermott had always shared a special bond, built on their love of music and attending concerts together, after that special night they became even closer...and then within six months she was gone.

Newlan and his crew were honored when McDermott's parents asked them to serve as pallbearers at her funeral. And yet, the sight of the overflowing throng of mourners, wailing in their sorrow, proved to be an unbearable burden, the likes of which he would never forget. Right up to this very day, the details of the haunting procession remained lucent in his memory, and he would still occasionally replay the scene in his mind, as if it were yesterday; the overwhelming affliction of denial and utter disbelief; the numbing sense of loss; the arbitrary unfairness of losing a dear friend in the prime of her life.

Even to this day, Newlan had never quite forgotten how for weeks after the funeral, he and his pals shared an unspoken need to remain physically close to each other as often as they possibly could. He had never quite forgotten how they all embraced in a group hug, and how they refused let go for fear of losing another friend. He had never quite forgotten how he lost it and broke down into tears in front of a church full of people as they rolled the casket out to the hearse.

Remarkably enough, even now, all these years later, something out of the blue, something as innocuous as a song on the radio, would remind Newlan of Karen McDermott, and he would mourn for her all over again. And furthermore, his grieving would invariably be pierced by an injection of sadness so painful that it was like opening up an old wound and pouring salt all over it.

And as it turned out, witnessing McBride and Landers grieve over their murdered buddy was one of those moments where Newlan was reminded of Karen McDermott, and he struggled mightily to fight back his own tears for a departed friend.

Fortunately for Newlan however, there would be no time for emotional self-pity in courtroom 630 of the Middlesex Superior Courthouse, because before he ever had any chance at becoming too overwrought with sorrow, the voice of R. J. Gleason reminded him that he had some unfinished business to attend to; and that business revolved around heeding the words of the renowned defense attorney as he approached the witness stand to take a hack at Mr. Michael Landers while he was in a most vulnerable state.

"Mr. Landers, you never overheard a single word of the conversation between Fred Miller and Officer Gilbert from the Marlborough Police, did you?" challenged Gleason in an insistent tone.

"No sir," replied Landers.

Gleason knew full well that Officer Gilbert wasn't on the witness list for the prosecution. And he knew full well from his own revealing sources that Fred Miller never even remotely discussed anything about his many problems with Officer Gilbert. And thus, he wasn't about to let the impressionable jurors think otherwise.

"Using this logic Mr. Landers, if you didn't hear what Fred Miller and Officer Gilbert discussed, then how is it that during your response to one of DA Lyons' questions, you stated that Fred was talking to Officer Gilbert about, as you put it, 'his problem'?" wondered Gleason.

"I just assumed..." started Landers, but Gleason cut him off at the pass, just as he had done to McBride. He then turned to Judge Gershwin with a request at the ready.

"Your honor, I ask that Mr. Landers' statement regarding Fred Miller talking to Ned Gilbert about his problem be stricken from the record."

"It may be stricken," replied the honorable judge, and the forced recantation had DA Lyons stewing in her seat at the prosecutor's table.

"Now Mr. Landers, you stated that Fred Miller was sweating and shaking didn't you?" continued Gleason.

"Yes sir," replied Landers.

"And did Fred mention anything about being sick or ill?" retorted Gleason.

"No, he never mentioned anything of the kind," testily confirmed Landers.

"Well, wasn't it rather odd for someone to be sweating in the middle of the winter?" wondered Gleason.

"Objection, speculative," shouted an angry DA Lyons, to which Judged Gershwin smiled and calmly replied, "Sustained."

"No further questions your honor," announced Gleason, while at the same time Newlan mused to himself; "amazing, Gleason seems to be trying to insinuate cocaine withdrawals again, without ever actually saying it. I wonder if any of the other jurors picked up on this."

By the time that Landers had finished up his testimony, it was nearly noon, so Judge Gershwin decided to send the jurors off for an extended lunch break, and they made themselves at home back in the deliberation room while they waited for their meals to arrive.

Despite the fact that they hadn't even reached the halfway point of the day yet, Newlan was already utterly exhausted, and he ruefully wished that there was some way he could have crawled off somewhere and taken a nap, instead of having to sit there and listen to the inane banter that was being tossed about the room.

But as usual, the ever reliable Jane was able to revive the docile, lumbering Newlan, and in the process she succeeded in getting him all riled up again.

"I can't believe how Gleason insists on making Fred Miller into some kind of monster. I mean enough already, the poor guy's dead. And I feel so bad that his family has to hear all this crap. DA Lyons must have a lot of evidence piled up against Breslin if Gleason has to resort to a 'blame the victim' defense," loudly grumbled Jane...and that was all it took to get Newlan going.

Newlan realized that he probably should have kept his big mouth shut. But he just couldn't resist Jane's temptation, and so he threw his two cents into the ring.

"Maybe we should wait until _all_ of the evidence is in before we come to any conclusions," suggested Newlan.

Jane of course, was unfazed by Newlan's accusation. But nonetheless she feigned a look of surprise as she countered; "Moi? I haven't come to any conclusions. All I'm saying is that I don't care for Gleason's tactics, that's all."

"A likely story," muttered Newlan under his breath. But before a full-fledged argument had any chance of breaking out, Billy was back with their lunches in tow, and everyone settled down as they dug into their sandwiches.

However, before Billy could even think about sneaking out the door, the nicotine addicted Annie pleaded with him for some relief.

"Billy, _please_ take me outside. If I don't have a cigarette soon, I swear I'm gonna go crazy right in the middle of the courtroom."

"Relax...eat your lunch and I'll be back in a few minutes," replied Billy in defensive tone. And even though he'd usually send in Brandon to lead the lunchtime jaunt, this time he personally came back as promised, and more than half the jurors, including Jane, took the opportunity to step outside for a breath of fresh air.

After the convoy had filed out the room, Stan, the software salesman, smiled mischievously as he attempted to have some fun at Newlan's expense.

"I guess Jane won't be on your Christmas card list," surmised Stan. And in turn, Newlan smiled sheepishly as he replied; "I gotta admit, she knows how to push my buttons, but I really have nothing against her. I'm sure she's a nice person and all, but I sincerely get the feeling she's already made up her mind that Breslin's guilty...and I just think we need to keep an open mind."

Peter, the software engineer, who, more often than not, spent the majority of his break-time intently reviewing his notes, took Newlan by surprise when he looked up from his notepad and added; "I couldn't agree more."

And upon discerning that maybe he wasn't so alone in his point of view, Newlan exclaimed; "Peter, you're a man of few words, but when you do speak, I like what you have to say."

"Hear, hear, I second that emotion," added Stan.

Newlan was pleasantly stunned by the encouraging comments, and he silently pondered the ramifications of his colleagues' revelations; "Hmmm, if it comes down to reasonable doubt, maybe I will have a few allies on the not guilty side after all." And then, speaking out loud, he acquiesced; "Granted, we shouldn't be discussing the trial, and I'm as guilty as anyone on that count, but I guess I just can let Jane's comments go by without getting in a few words edgewise myself."

At this point in the conversation, Mike, who had been quietly sitting in the corner as usual, uncharacteristically decided to reveal his opinions regarding the topic of the hour. The truth was that he didn't necessarily approve of Newlan's indiscretions, but he let him off the hook for his misdemeanor nonetheless.

"You're right Frank, we shouldn't be discussing the case, but we all know that it's almost impossible to sit here day after day without making a comment or two now and then, so don't beat yourself up over it."

All of a sudden, Newlan was feeling a hundred times better about the state of the world, and on top of that, he had come to the abrupt realization that he wasn't even the least bit fatigued anymore, so he figured that he might as well let his colleagues in on the miracle cure.

"Well, I guess all of this verbal sparring has one plus...it snapped me out of my coma. I swear I was about ready to fall asleep, but man, I think Jane must have raised my blood pressure at least 20 millimeters."

By now, Newlan and the handful of jurors who had remained behind were having a nice little laugh for themselves, albeit at Jane's expense, and when the rest of the crew returned from their walk, they too, were happy and content, particularly Annie, who was thoroughly enjoying her nicotine induced euphoria.

But before the jurors could get too comfortable, lunch break was over, and they found themselves being marched back into the courtroom one more time to listen to another round of gloomy tales in the life and times of Mr. Fred Miller.

The next witness to take the stand was Robert Hurley, the third and last in the series of Fred Miller's best pals who were being called upon to testify in behalf of their gone-but-not-forgotten comrade.

As you may recall, the last we heard from Mr. Hurley, he had convinced his friends that the ghost of Fred Miller was alive and well, and occupying his former home...and as of this time, he still hadn't completely recovered from last night's anxiety-induced revelry.

During the lunch break, the hung-over trio compared notes regarding their harrowing experience thus far, and needless to say, they didn't have a warm and fuzzy feeling about what R. J. Gleason was putting them through.

"I don't know about you guys, but I'm sensing a bad vibe going down in that courtroom. Something tells me that Breslin's gonna walk," confided Landers as he chowed down on a fistful of French fries.

"No way...DA Lyons still has a lot of ammunition left to fire," countered McBride, and then he immediately wondered whether his choice of words were appropriate, before adding, "no pun intended."

"I hope you're right Kevin. I'm dying to see them slap the shackles on Breslin and ship him away for life...good riddance to the no good motherfucker," anxiously spit out Hurley in between bites of his cheeseburger; he knew full well that it would soon be his turn to face Gleason's tumultuous inquisition, and it showed in his autistic mannerisms.

And although McBride and Landers sympathized with Hurley's plight, they were quite relieved that their small part in the trial was over. But that didn't stop them from reliving the episode in their minds.

"I can't believe that Gleason kept pushing the cocaine withdrawal angle. I hope the gullible jurors aren't buying this load of crap," exclaimed McBride.

"Of course...there is some truth to it," confessed Landers.

"Yeah, but what the fuck does that have to do with someone taking out poor Freddie with a bullet to the head...and for what? So maybe he fucked the guy's wife...big fuckin' deal. Like he's the first guy who ever had a woman screw him over," angrily replied McBride who was still recovering from a bitter breakup with his own cheating girlfriend.

"No, you're right Kevin. Relax, I didn't mean to insinuate that Freddie deserved to be murdered just because he liked to party. If that was the case then we'd all be dead. Hey, I agree with Hurl, if it were up to me, they could take Breslin out back right now and hang the bastard from the nearest tree and I wouldn't give a shit," clarified Landers, and the more he and McBride discussed the details of case, the more absorbed they became in their conversation. But at some point during the course of their dialogue, they noticed that their good friend, Robert Hurley, had become rather withdrawn, and that his face had turned a sickly shade of pale.

"What's the matter Hurl, you nervous about testifying?" probed McBride.

"I'm scared shit," confided Hurley. "I don't trust myself. I'm worried that if Gleason pulls any of that crap on me, I'm gonna jump out of my chair and deck the son of a bitch."

"Come on Hurl, we already went over this last night. You know you can't be going all 'psycho' up there on the stand...if anything it will hurt our cause," contended Landers.

"Yeah Hurl, you gotta keep your composure up there...no matter how much Gleason tries to rattle you, just remember, you gotta stay calm," advised McBride. And so 30 minutes later when Robert Hurley took to the witness box, he silently repeated his new mantra over and over again; "Gotta stay calm, gotta stay calm, gotta stay calm."

Right from the start, it seemed clear to Newlan that DA Lyons was treating Hurley with kid gloves. Perhaps she was somehow tipped off as to his fragile state of mind, or perhaps it was all just part of her master plan, but regardless of her reasoning, it was obvious that she was tiptoeing around Hurley as if he were trapped in the middle of a minefield.

Lyons gingerly called upon Hurley to regurgitate the same basic story that McBride and Landers had already conveyed to the jurors. He first met Fred Miller back in junior high school. They were best friends. He was an acquaintance of Tracy as well. He was aware of the fact that they had dated off and on in their younger years and then broke up. He hadn't seen Tracy in over a decade when all of a sudden she reappeared out of nowhere and started hanging out with Fred again.

And once Lyons got through reestablishing the irrefutable, she moved on to inquire about Hurley's living arrangements.

"Mr. Hurley, you and Fred Miller were roommates for many years, isn't that correct?"

"Yes ma'am we were roommates for quite some time. I lost track of exactly how long it's been, but I'd say it was probably close to 10 years," estimated Hurley.

"And how did you end up becoming Fred's roommate?" wondered Lyons.

"Well, when Fred was in college at UMass, he decided that he wanted to go to school out west, so he transferred to the University of Arizona in Tucson. He got an apartment, just off campus, and I went out to visit him for a couple of weeks during his senior year. We got along really well as roomies, so we made a pact that when Fred got out of college, we should rent a place together. But as it turned out, when Fred came back home to Massachusetts, he started seeing Tracy again, and they were living together off and on, so I got my own apartment for a while, and Fred eventually bought a small house in Framingham. Then a few years later, I hit some rough times and I was down on my luck, and I had heard the Fred and Tracy were on the outs, so I gave him a call and asked if he needed a tenant...and from that point on, we'd been roommates ever since. He was a great friend...let me stay with him rent-free until I got my feet back on the ground again. The nicest guy you could ever meet," gushed Hurley while simultaneously fighting back tears.

"Mr. Hurley do you recall the date that Tracy made her first visit to the home you shared with Fred Miller?" continued Lyons.

"I don't remember the exact date, but it was sometime in 2005," replied Hurley.

"Do you remember what you told the investigators, Mr. Hurley?" repeated Lyons. And in return, Hurley slowly shook his head from side to side as he replied; "I'm sorry ma'am, I'm drawing a blank."

"Mr. Hurley is your current memory presently exhausted regarding what you told the investigators about Tracy's inaugural visit to Fred's home in 2005?" inquired Lyons in a low listless tone as she approached Hurley and handed him a transcript to read.

"Memory exhausted. Why the hell does she keep using that phrase?" silently protested an irritable Newlan. But at the same time something else struck him; he once again perceived a consistent pattern in DA Lyons' demeanor, but this time he jotted down his observation into his notepad for prosperity:

DA Lyons tends to go into a monotone when she is reviewing testimony that doesn't help her case, but she raises her voice and makes a scene when she wants something to stick out in the juror's minds...WELL I FOR ONE, AM NOT GONNA FALL FOR THAT!!

"Mr. Hurley is your current memory presently refreshed regarding what you told the investigators about Tracy's initial visit to Fred's home?" reasserted Lyons after Hurley had finished skimming through the transcripts.

"Yes ma'am, Tracy came by the house on the Fourth of July. Freddie was gonna take her to see the fireworks. I apologize, but my memory has kind of been going in and out on me the last few years," replied Hurley.

"That's quite all right Mr. Hurley. Now do you remember what happened that night?" pried Lyons, but Hurley appeared to be confused and he asked for a clarification.

"Well, did Fred and Tracy end up going to see the fireworks?" elucidated Lyons.

"Oh no...I guess Tracy got an unexpected call on her cell phone from her husband. Somehow he found out what she was up to, and he was pissed off, which got her all upset, and she started crying...and then she left," explained Hurley.

"And Mr. Hurley do you recall any specific details from the night of January 12th, 2006?" continued Lyons, as she veered sharply over the subsequent six months in an effort to arrive squarely at the crux of the matter.

"Yes, I was in bed when Freddie got home. It was probably close to two in the morning, but he woke me up when he came into the house. I think he may have been upset about something because he was slamming doors and punching the walls. I was gonna get up to see what was going on, but I decided to stay in bed...and I never saw him alive again," muttered Hurley as his voice trailed off.

Apparently, Hurley's mantra "gotta stay calm" didn't seem to be working. Ever since the day of the murder, he had regretted the fact that he didn't drag himself out of bed on that last night of Fred Miller's his life, if only just to find out what was bugging him. It was as if he somehow blamed himself for Miller's death. For some crazy reason, he seemed to believe that his best buddy's fate may have been different if he had only lifted his lazy ass up off the mattress and spoke to him, friend to friend, about his problems. And now as he recalled the details of that foreboding night in open court, he broke down and sobbed.

"If only I had talked to him. One last time, I just wanted to talk to him."

And while Hurley wailed his regrets, an uncomfortable silence filled the courtroom, which was Billy's cue to hustle over to the stand with a box of tissue paper in hand and offer it up to the bawling witness, who gladly accepted. Miraculously, the act of dabbing his eyes appeared to help him temporarily regain his composure, and upon observing his recovery, DA Lyons figured that she'd better trudge on before the pitiable witness had a tearful relapse.

"Mr. Hurley, do you recall how you found out about Fred Miller's death?"

"Yes, sometime in the late morning of January 13th, 2006 I got a call from Fred's brother, Cam. He said he had some bad news to tell me, but then, before he even said another word, he started crying. I thought that maybe Fred got in a car accident or something like that, and I remember hollering, 'what's wrong Cam, is Fred OK?' And finally he put a State Trooper on the line who told me that Fred was deceased...and I just lost it," recalled Hurley, and once again he lost it on the witness stand as well.

"Mr. Hurly did the investigators come to Fred's house and interview you later that day?" placidly asked Lyons, while at the same time she seemingly ignored Hurley's emotional breakdown.

"Yes," sobbed Hurley who was now holding his head in his hands.

"And didn't you agree to let the investigators take some of Fred's belongings?" added Lyons, again in the best monotone she could muster.

Hurly could only manage to nod his head, and let out a barely audible, "yes."

"Your honor let the record show that Mr. Hurley nodded his head in the affirmative," requested DA Lyons, and then she added, "No further questions."

Meanwhile, on the other side of the aisle, Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason had a dilemma on his hands. On the one hand, he wanted to show proper respect for the obviously pained man who had lost his best friend and roommate. But on the other hand, he also wanted to expound upon a few facts for the sake of the jurors, facts that DA Lyons had once again conveniently omitted. So at the risk of offending Hurley, he took a deep breath and proceeded.

"Mr. Hurley based on your testimony wouldn't it be fair to say that John Breslin was aware of the fact that his wife Tracy was hanging out with Fred Miller, approximately 6 months before he was murdered?" calculated Gleason.

"I suppose," answered an indifferent Hurley.

"And Mr. Hurley do you remember what happened just before Tracy left Fred's house in tears on the Fourth of July 2005?" continued Gleason.

"No sir, I'm sorry but I don't remember," replied a suddenly stone-faced Hurley.

"Mr. Hurley didn't you just read the transcript of your interview with the investigators?" probed an irritated Gleason.

"I only read a portion of it," explained an equally exasperated Hurley.

"Well, let me read it to you, and you tell me whether this rings a bell. 'Hurley stated that Fred took the phone from Tracy and yelled into it...if you ever lay a hand on her, I swear to God, I'll kill you with my own bare hands.' Isn't that what you told the investigators?" demanded Gleason.

Hurley shrugged his shoulders and confessed; "If that's what it says in the transcript, then I guess that's what I told them."

Hurley was undoubtedly being uncooperative, and Gleason was rapidly losing any sympathy that he might have had for him.

"Mr. Hurley according to your transcript, you also told the investigators that between July 2005 and January 2006, Lauren Hernandez spent many a night as a guest of Fred Miller's in the home you shared together,...isn't that correct?" pressed on Gleason.

"I told you, I don't remember my exact words, but if that's what it states in the report then I guess that's what I said," repeated an agitated Hurley, and by now Gleason had had enough. He was through playing games, and he decided that it was time to go in for the kill.

"Mr. Hurley you testified that the investigators took some of Fred's belongings on the afternoon of January 13th, 2006. Do you recall what they took?"

"Well, I was pretty shook up, so I wasn't really paying all that much attention, but I think they took Fred's computer, his cell phone, and his answering machine," matter-of-factly replied Hurley.

"Didn't they also take away a cardboard box filled with drug paraphernalia, Mr. Hurley," vociferated Gleason who was also familiar with the Law School 101 raised voice trick.

"Objection, irrelevant," screamed the up-until-then tranquil Lyons, in a voice that was even louder than Gleason's.

"Sustained," replied Judge Gershwin, and Newlan distinctly noticed that she shook her head slightly in apparent disapproval of Gleason's tactics...and it made him angry.

"She's supposed to be neutral. I hope none of the other jurors picked up that," silently contemplated Newlan. He understood full well how easily the minds of men and women can be swayed....and as the mixed emotions built up inside of him, he tried his best to reconcile the judge's jaundiced demeanor...but he couldn't.

"I guess it's just human nature to let your feelings show...but she's a judge. She's trained to be impartial. She should know better than that."

However, Newlan didn't have much of an opportunity to become too upset over Judge Gershwin's apparent partisan gesture, because in the split second that it took for DA Lyons to make her objection known, Robert Hurley had come completely unraveled.

Hurley sprang from his seat and pointed at Gleason as he roared his dismay.

"I'm tired of you trying to smear my friend's name. He was a good man, and that's more than I can say for your client."

Hurley's continued outburst promptly ignited a murmur from the gallery, which swiftly grew into a full-fledged crescendo, and in response to the chaos, Judge Gershwin actually had to resort to banging a gable on her desk and shouting; "Order in the court."

"Now I've seen everything...this is just like TV," whispered Newlan as he glanced over in the frightened Natalie's direction. Apparently, she had been shaken to her core by Hurley's eruption, and, understandably, she was not alone in her reaction; evidently many of the jurors were unnerved by Hurley's explosive flare-up, and rightfully so.

But conversely, R. J. Gleason didn't appear to take Hurley's assault to heart at all. On the contrary, as Gleason turned his back on Hurley, he smiled broadly and announced; "No further questions your honor."

For her part, Judge Gershwin was livid over the commotion that had invaded her courtroom, but she tried her best not to let it show. Instead, she took a deep breath and adeptly kept her composure, but the sternness in her voice was measurable as she instructed Hurley to step down from the stand.

And as Robert Hurley unsteadily made his way out of the courtroom, his best friend Kevin McBride turned to his other best friend, Michael Landers and whispered, "so much for staying calm."

Meanwhile, Judge Gershwin ordered another break, and the jurors spent the next half hour buzzing about the latest turn of event, with many of them repeating Newlan's assessment that the tense scene was akin to watching a TV show.

After the break, Judge Gershwin addressed the jurors and she serenely instructed them that they should disregard Mr. Hurley's vent of frustration...and just like that it was on to the next witness as if nothing out of the ordinary had ever happened.

"Like I'm gonna be able to forget about that," muttered Newlan, and Natalie nodded her head in agreement as another witness apprehensively entered the courtroom.

"Your honor the prosecution calls Ms. Kim Beliveau to the stand," announced DA Lyons while at the same time a pretty, middle-aged woman approached the witness box.

"Ms. Beliveau could you please tell us where you work and how long you've been employed there?" requested Lyons.

"I work part time in the record keeping office of the Marlborough Medical Group and I've been there for about 5 years," stated Beliveau.

"And Ms. Beliveau, did you work with a Tracy Breslin?"

"Yes Tracy worked Thursday nights...and usually on Saturday mornings as well."

"And Ms. Beliveau, sometime in August of 2005 did Tracy introduce you to someone?" continued Lyons.

"Yes, she introduced me to a friend of hers, Fred Miller," replied Beliveau.

"And did something happen later that month that involved Tracy and Fred?" wondered Lyons as she methodically led Beliveau in the direction of her choosing.

"Yes, one night Tracy and I were leaving work, and Fred was outside on his motorcycle waiting for her...and as I got to my car I noticed a man parked near me with a video camera...and he seemed to be videotaping Tracy and Fred who were kissing outside of her car...and at the same time he was talking to someone on a cell phone," explained Beliveau.

"So what did you do?"

"Well, my car was parked between the stranger's car and Tracy's car, so I put the hood up, and then I walked over to Tracy and Fred and told them that a man was watching them and that he had a video camera pointed at them. I figured that maybe it was a private detective."

"And then what happened?"

"Well, as you can imagine, Fred got very upset. He approached the man and started yelling at him. He was telling him to get out of the car, and that he was gonna kick his ass, but the guy just kept on filming. Although, I think he was getting scared, because soon thereafter, he drove away...but not before Fred kicked out his taillight as he was pulling out of the parking lot," exclaimed Beliveau.

DA Lyons cringed at Beliveau's detailed play-by-play commentary, but then she figured, "Oh well, better that the jurors hear it now, rather than to have R. J. get it out of her."

"Ms. Beliveau, where there any other incidents involving Tracy and Fred before or after this altercation?" coolly continued Lyons.

"No...shortly after that incident, Tracy quit, and I really didn't keep in touch with her other than when we were at work together, so I don't know of anything else," firmly replied Beliveau.

"Thank you Ms. Beliveau. That's all I have your honor," smiled Lyons.

And of course now it was Gleason's turn again, and as he slowly approached the podium, he warmly introduced himself, as he did to all the witnesses.

"Good afternoon Ms. Beliveau, my name is R. J. Gleason and I represent Mr. Breslin."

"Ms. Beliveau isn't it true that you were aware of the fact that Tracy Breslin was a married woman, and that Fred Miller wasn't her husband?" wondered Gleason. And just like that, the pleasant demeanor of Ms. Kim Beliveau suddenly turned on a dime as she sarcastically replied; "it really wasn't any of my business."

"Ms. Beliveau, if it was none of your business then why did you put the hood of your car up?" demanded Gleason. But Beliveau just shrugged her shoulders and said nothing, which elicited Gleason to patiently follow up with another more direct attempt at the same question.

"Weren't you trying to block the man's view so that he couldn't film Tracy and Fred?"

"No, I was looking under the hood of my car because I had to check the fluid levels. I had a leaking gasket in my engine, and I wanted to make sure that I wasn't low on oil," explained Beliveau in a brusque tone.

And weary though he may have been, Newlan was furiously scribbling Beliveau's story into his notepad, making sure to get every last detail of her testimony down on paper, and next to her last statement he wrote:

NOT VERY BELIEVABLE!!

Of course, although Beliveau may not have been believable in Newlan's eyes, that didn't stop Gleason from going ahead with his incredulous tone anyway.

"Didn't you tell the investigators, and I quote, 'I put my hood up to block the man's view'?"

"Absolutely not...I told them I put the hood up, but I never told them why," insisted Beliveau.

It was obvious to Gleason that Beliveau was being untruthful, but he forged ahead anyway; his thinking was that if she continued to lie, it would also become obvious to everyone in the courtroom, especially the jurors.

"Ms. Beliveau, in your estimation, about how old was the unidentified man in the car?"

"I'd say around 40 years old," guessed Beliveau. But the discrepancy in her current answers, compared to what was written in her police report, was testing Gleason's patience, and so with a raised voice, he retaliated, "Ms. Beliveau did you or did you not tell the investigators that the man with the video camera was an older gentleman with gray hair...in his late 50's or early 60's? I'm reading this right from the police report of your interview."

"I may have said that, but now that I think of it, he was probably a lot younger than that," Beliveau coldly replied.

"Ms. Beliveau didn't you just testify that Fred Miller threatened to beat up an old man?" countered Gleason who had now reverted back to a calm tone while embellishing his question with a bit of faulty memory of his own regarding the insertion of the word "old".

"I never said that," angrily replied Beliveau before Lyons even had the chance to shout out, "objection, leading."

"Of course, sustained" replied Judge Gershwin while flashing the hint of a smile, and once again the smile, and its potential for misinterpretation, annoyed Newlan.

Gleason however, continued on undaunted.

"Ms. Beliveau, you also testified today that Fred Miller damaged the man's car, isn't that correct?"

No, I never used those words," Beliveau nitpicked. And by now Gleason had had just about enough of Ms. Kim Beliveau so he angrily asked Judge Gershwin for her help in the matter.

"Your honor I request that you enjoin the witness...she has been combative from the very beginning of my cross-examination," pleaded Gleason. And for once Judge Gershwin seemed to side with him, or so thought Newlan; it appeared that she was just as fed up with Beliveau as Gleason was, and she scolded her to the point of embarrassment.

"Ms. Beliveau, may I remind you that this is not a game...this is a court of law, and I expect all parties who appear in my courtroom to show proper respect to the court. Henceforth you will answer all questions from Mr. Gleason with a 'yes' or a 'no', and if you feel you cannot answer his questions with a 'yes' or a 'no' then you will tell me, and you will not say another word until I give you directions as to how to proceed...is that understood Ms. Beliveau?"

"Yes your honor, I apologize...it's just that I've never testified in a trial before," justified Beliveau.

"Now...Mr. Gleason, you may proceed," directed Judge Gershwin. And after personally requesting that Ms. Kim Beliveau be administered a verbal tongue-lashing, Gleason's response was rather curious; specifically, his response to the prudent judge's directive was to immediately reply, "No further questions your honor."

"Wow, this guy's a true piece of work. First, the sly bastard has the judge tell off the witness, and then he has no more questions for her," lauded Newlan. And if Judge Gershwin were under oath and forced to reveal her thoughts, she probably would have agreed with his evaluation. But for now, she had had enough of Gleason's antics, and she decided that she'd deal with him privately in the morning, so she dismissed the jurors for the day, after, of course, first rendering the usual reminder not to discuss the case with anybody.

As the jurors left the courtroom, Jim, the telecom industry professional, once again whispered to Newlan, "I'm telling you I gotta get this guy's card, just in case I ever get in a jam with the law."

"Yeah, get me one too...not that we could afford him," replied Newlan with an impish smile, and then he muttered to himself, "Man, you can't make this shit up."

...

Newlan drove home on autopilot that evening, while at the same time the day's events reverberated around his brain like a pinball machine racking up bonus points. He was astounded by the eeriness of the fact that Fred Miller's friends reminded him so much of his own buddies, Pat Horn and Bruce Reardon, and he wondered how he would react if one of his old pals suddenly turned up mangled, with a bullet wound in the head. More importantly, he wondered how they would react if he were the one who was discovered, slumped over in his car, shot down and left for dead.

It was by no means an easy task, but while Newlan sat there on the highway, stuck in traffic, with nothing better to do than to fixate on the trial, he tried his best to put it all into perspective; the prosecution had certainly been able to illustrate that Breslin possessed more than enough motivation for wanting Miller dead, but so far, in his mind anyway, they still hadn't even come close to proving that he was guilty beyond a reasonable doubt of the charges being alleged.

And as he inched his way through the gridlock, Newlan also obsessed on the emerging details regarding how Fred Miller was reunited with his high school girlfriend after all those years...and he wondered what he would have done if he found had himself in Miller's shoes...and then, almost simultaneously, he wondered whether he would ever come to terms with the loss of his own high school sweetheart.

"On the other hand, look where it got Miller," Newlan mumbled to himself.

"Maybe it doesn't pay to be sentimental. Maybe it doesn't pay to always be looking back," rationalized Newlan. But of course deep in his heart-of-hearts he knew that he had to look back...he always looked back.

By the time Newlan made his way home, his only desire was to collapse on the sofa for the rest of the month, uninterrupted. But no matter how spent he was, he still couldn't sleep, he still couldn't relax, and so after a few hours of staring at the ceiling, unable to put the trial out of his mind, he relinquished himself to the fact that it was a futile effort.

Newlan raggedly rose up from the couch, and as he ran his fingers through his long stringy hair, he poke his head out onto the deck of his condo and bemusedly asked the Lord up above, "dear God, what kind of a mess have I gotten myself into this time?"; all the while knowing full well that sometimes we have no control over the destinies that befall us.

And as Newlan pondered his circumstances, his question to the Heavens would soon take on an added significance, because as luck would have it, just as he was peering up into the Great Unknown in search of an answer, his phone rang, and unbeknownst to him, his propensity for getting into mischief...was about to increase...exponentially.

Chapter 43 – Ringing Phones and Roller Coaster Rides

Wednesday evening June 11, 2008 – 8:05 PM

Marianne Plante was beginning to feel as if she were trapped in a living Hell. As had been the case more often than not lately, once again she found herself in an emotionally distraught state and she was practically climbing the walls of her master bedroom while her husband Tom Willis showered in preparation for another night in absentia.

Plante had been unhappy for the longest time now, but tonight she had reached a pinnacle of regret and she was absolutely disgusted with her sad little world and everyone in it. Tonight she had reached a watershed moment where everything in her life was coming to a head. Tonight she had reached an uninhabitable point of no return where nothing much mattered anymore...and no sooner had her husband hopped out of the shower when their argument resumed anew.

"I don't want you going out again," pleaded Plante. "I'm exhausted and I need to get some rest. Please, I'm begging you, please, stay home and spend some time with your daughters for a change."

"I told you babe, I gotta go meet a client. You know I need to bring in wads of cash if I'm gonna keep a roof over our heads. Not to mention the shitload of money it takes to support your nasty habits," needled Willis, but Plante was not amused.

"You're the one that's full of shit. I know what you're up to. You think I don't know that you're gonna go meet some bimbo and screw around all night. Well two can play at that game," forewarned Plante, and her boldness shocked her husband in more ways than one.

You see, Willis was growing more and more agitated with his wife for suddenly having the nerve to stand up to him after all these years. But what was even more upsetting to him was the fact that she was actually beginning to catch onto his antics; somehow she seemed to know exactly what his plans for the evening were, and he didn't like it, he didn't like it one bit.

And so by the time Tom Willis had slipped into his fancy duds, he was livid at his wife for putting him in such a sour mood, just as he was getting himself geared up for a night of wild fun. The fact that she was threatening to retaliate by taking the same course of action that she was accusing him of, apparently was the last straw, because seemingly out of nowhere, he turned into a wild animal and pounced on his wife like a tiger attacking an antelope; he clawed at her face with such a force that he left an imprint of his fingers marked on her cheek, and he threw her down hard onto their bed as he laid down the law.

"What the fuck are you trying to insinuate? I'm the man of this house. Do I make myself clear? I'll do whatever the hell I damn well please, and I don't want to hear another peep out of you. Just shut the fuck up and take care of your kids. You understand me?"

"They're your kids too," sobbed Plante.

"Didn't I just tell you to SHUT...THE...FUCK...UP? You better start doing as you're told or I'm telling you right now, I'll beat the living shit out of you...and if I _ever_ catch you with another man, I promise you right now, I'll kill the both of you," roared Willis.

"Good, I'd rather be dead than to take your crap anymore," wailed Plante.

"So what are you saying...you want a divorce? Is that what this is all about? Well then go for it, you fuckin' bitch. I swear I'll take the kids and you'll never see them again," threatened Willis.

"Nooooo," wailed Plante as she buried her head under a pillow and moaned, "I hate my fuckin' life."

"You're a pitiful fuckin' head case," jeered Willis as he stormed out of the room, slamming doors in his wake. But just before he hit the road, Willis poked his head back inside the bedroom door, and he antagonized his wife one last time by announcing his intentions for the evening.

"I'm leaving now...and by the way, don't wait up. This could be a long meeting tonight," gibed Willis in a derisively belligerent tone. And sure enough, his taunts provoked the combative Plante into action. She instinctively pulled their wedding picture down off of the nightstand and flung it towards the door. But luckily for all involved, her husband had already made his way down the staircase as the frame crashed harmlessly against the spot that he had just relinquished.

Meanwhile, the Willis's two prepubescent daughters sat huddled on the floor of their bedroom with their arms wrapped around each other, trying in vain to block out the screams that were coming from their parents' room. But once their father had vacated the premises, once he had made his grand exit, once the coast was clear, they crept into their mother's bed and fruitlessly attempted to console her.

"Mommy, why are you so sad?" sniffled the girls as they snuggled up against their mother's shoulders. And for the sake of her daughters, Plante raised herself up out of bed and composed herself as best she could. She didn't want them to see her in such a sorry state, and as such she soothingly explained away the argument in terms that they might understand.

"It's OK my little angels. Mommy and daddy are having a rough time right now, but I promise you that things will get better. I promise you that everything's gonna be alright. Now give mommy a big hug," assured Plante. And being the good little girls that they were, they did as they were told; they rushed into their mother's arms, and the three of them held on to each other for a long, long time.

In the end, Plante's girls went to bed happy; they were satisfied with their mother's promising explanation, while at the same time she mumbled to herself, "if only it were that easy...just say that everything's gonna be alright and live happily ever after."

And difficult though her circumstances might have been, somehow the trust that Plante gleaned shining through her daughters' eyes magically brought her back to her own youth, and as she reflected astern on those innocent times, the nostalgic memories involuntarily compelled her to smile ruefully through her tears. And then after an extended period of contemplation, poetically, her thoughts turned to her high school boyfriend, Frank Newlan, and her smile turned into something more poignant; something more sentimental; something more heartbreaking.

Plante fixated on some of the choices she had made in her younger days, and for the life of her, she still couldn't figure out how she had come to those decisions. It was as if there was a whole other person in her head calling the shots back in those days.

Plante sometimes wished she could have a "do over", but alas she was smart enough to understand that life doesn't tend to work that way. However, if it did, she would have never let Frank Newlan get away. She had come to learn that it wasn't every day a man like Newlan crossed her path; a man who treated her with such warmth and tenderness, such love and affection, such devotion and respect. And in turn, she, like a fool, assumed that there had to be something better out there in that great big world. If only she had known then what she knew today, things may have been different in her life. But regrettably it was much too late to undo what had already been done, and unfortunately she was finding that out the hard way.

Plante's life had become one painful, mind-numbing day after sorrowful day of neglect, and she finally understood exactly where Newlan was coming from when in his lyrics he lamented, "everyday's a dull routine, I wake up to the same old dream, of you and me, it's the same old scene".

And so on this darkest of nights, the more Marianne Plante meditated on Frank Newlan's persona and all the good times they had, the more despondent and lonely she became.

Plante had been raised to be a good Catholic, but for some reason, over the years, she had lost her way, and at some hopeless point in her life's journey she had stopped believing in something bigger than us all.

But recently however, Plante had once again resorted to the healing powers of prayer; perhaps out of a renewed sense of faith, or perhaps more likely out of a sense of woebegone desperation. But whatever her thought process, every night for the past few months she had been praying for a miracle. She had been praying for a change in her life. She had been praying for a new beginning. She had been praying like she had never prayed before.

And with her newfound piousness leading the way, it was fitting that on this night Plante decided the moment called for prayer. It was fitting that on this night she closed her eyes and whispered a "Hail Mary" and then an "Our Father", over and over again until she lost count; hoping against hope that her self-imposed penance might somehow miraculously solve all of her problems. And as she prayed, her eyes suddenly focused in on the telephone sitting on her nightstand, and a whisper of a thought came wandering into her mind.

"Perhaps the answer to my prayers is staring me right in the face. Perhaps redemption is only a phone call away. Perhaps my saving grace is just waiting for me to reach out and touch him."

Plante spastically reached for the phone, but then, just as swiftly, she fell back onto the bed and cowered under the sheets.

"I can't do it, I can't do it, I just can't do it," she whimpered, but she could do it, and after a few more feeble attempts she did do it; she did what she had been wanting to do for so long now that it seemed like forever and a day; she did what she thought just couldn't be done...Marianne Plante called Frank Newlan.

After almost twenty years apart, Marianne Plante decided that it was time to hear Frank Newlan's voice again, and she prayed that he would be there to answer her cry for help. She prayed that he would be happy to hear from her. She prayed that maybe, just maybe, he missed her as much as she missed him.

And as we have already been made aware, at right around that very moment, Frank Newlan was working his way through some heavy issues of his own, and so when he picked up the phone and stared in confusion at the name on the caller ID, he wasn't quite sure whether it was Heaven or Hell that awaited him on the other end of the line.

"Willis T & M, where do I know that name from?" wondered Newlan. He was cognizant of the fact that Marianne Plante's married name was Willis based on the letter he had received just days ago, but it took a second or two for the clue to register in his brain, and when it did, he hesitantly answered the phone with just a cautiously whispered "hello."

"Hello, Frankie, is that you?" casually inquired Plante as she attempted to come across as calm, cool and collected, even though she had been crying her eyes out for the past two hours.

"Yes it's me...and who's this?" queried Newlan even though he was 99.9% sure of who it was he was talking to.

"Frankie, it's me...Marianne Plante," joyfully replied Plante, and just the sound of a familiar, friendly voice was doing wonders to lift her sinking spirits.

"Wow, Marianne is it really you? You're not gonna believe this, but I'm as nervous as a kid on his first day of school," confessed Newlan.

"Nervous...what for...it's just me Frankie," reasoned a chuckling Plante.

"Well, it's been like...forever. I don't know...I guess you just caught me off guard. I'm shaking like a leaf on a tree, for Christ's sake," admitted Newlan.

"Oh Frankie, don't be silly. I just wanted to make sure that you got my letter," nonchalantly replied Plante in a tone that desperately attempted to conceal the fact that her life was in shambles. She knew it was wrong to mislead Newlan, but she just wasn't ready to reveal the depths of her despair, at least not yet anyway.

"Yes, I got the letter, and it really blew my mind because, coincidentally enough, I just had a few dreams about you recently," acknowledged Newlan who then proclaimed, "well, more than a few really."

"Dreams...of me? Come on, you're just trying to flatter me," chided Plante, and then she sighed longingly before adding, "Ah Frankie, we had some good times."

And as they chatted, all the while, Newlan was flooded with the overflowing memories of the countless dreams that his subconscious mind had conjured up, starring Marianne Plante, over the years; tender dreams so peaceful that he didn't care whether he ever woke up again; sultry dreams so passionate that they would reduce him to putty; erotic dreams so real that he would wake up soaked in sweat. And now, just the sound of her voice on the other end of the phone line was sending his heart racing in a confused frenzy of wistful yearnings, but his words couldn't have been more self-effacing.

"By the way Marianne, do you smoke cigarettes these days?" offhandedly wondered Newlan as he too attempted to keep his deepest desires hidden, at least for the time being anyway.

"I do. How'd you know that?" marveled Plante.

"Well, believe it or not I had this weird dream about you one time, and in my mind, you were smoking a cigarette...and the scene just seemed so real that I was sure there had to be more to it than meets the eye," professed Newlan; making good and sure, of course, to omit some of the more adult-minded themes which were also a part of his fantasy world.

And in response to Newlan's unspoken intimacies, Plante teasingly replied, as if she were reading his mind; "really...what else have you dreamed about me?"

Newlan was tongued-tied for a more than a few seconds, but he finally managed to spit out a couple of non-sequiturs followed by another one of his many non-answers.

"If only you knew Marianne...if only you knew."

"Come on, you can tell me. You never know...maybe more of your dreams might come true," tantalized Plante.

However, instead of being aroused, Newlan shivered as he suddenly flashed back to some of his more sinister dreams of late, and he groaned ruefully as he replied, "that's what I'm afraid of Marianne. That's what I'm afraid of."

"What do you mean by that?" wondered Plante, sounding slightly offended.

"Oh no, it's got nothing to do with you. It's just that, along with the good dreams, I've also had my share of strange dreams lately...bad dreams...evil dreams...unspeakable dreams...dreams that I hope never come true. But sometimes I wonder if my dreams are trying to tell me something," explained Newlan.

"Well, you always were a bit psychic...or at least that's what you claimed anyway," Plante joked.

"Tell me about it. You wouldn't believe what's been going on with me. I swear I think I'm losing it, Marianne," divulged Newlan, and from there he loathingly went on to confess to his role in the Breslin murder case, and how he had been practically incapacitated by a series of bizarre dreams lately, all somehow related to the trial.

And as Newlan spilled his guts out with the details of Fred Miller's murder, as well as the specifics of his horrific nightmares, the ominous love triangle connotations of the Breslin trial rattled Plante, and yet her advice displayed not a hint of concern.

"Frankie, you just need to learn how to relax," advised Plante

"Relax? I won't be able to relax until this damned trial is over, and even then it might take a while to shake this dark cloud that seems to be following me around lately," grumbled Newlan. And despite all of the years that had passed between them, Plante could still sift out the fact that something significant was bothering him, so she maneuvered the subject of their conversation towards something less deep in hopes of easing his worried mind.

"So I heard you bumped into my mother a while back," gossiped Plante.

"Yes I did, but truthfully I didn't even recognize her at first. But of course, once I realized who it was, I went over to say hello. She's a sweet lady, that mother of yours. She told me that you were married and had two daughters, and honestly I was very happy for you. But for some reason, I admit that I still think about you from time to time...I still think about us from time to time," conceded a suddenly choked-up Newlan while at the same time he wiped away a tear that appeared out of nowhere and rolled slowly down his cheek.

"Oh Frankie that's so sweet," gaped Plante.

"So how are things on your end? How's married life treating you?" casually wondered Newlan as he quickly recomposed himself; although, unbeknownst to Plante, his curiosity went way beyond the point of indifference.

"Don't ask..." replied Plante in a bitterly acidic tone. And as much as she tried, she was unable to mask the resentment in her voice.

"We've kind of been drifting apart lately. Of course, we're trying to work things out, but its hard Frankie, it's really hard. But as bad as its been, I honestly don't want to get a divorce, mainly for the girls sake...I don't want them to grow up in broken home," explained Plante. And as the thought of what might lie ahead for her daughters crystallized in her mind, she began to cry softly into the receiver, and at the same time she also felt guilty about being untruthful to Newlan. After all, she knew full well that she and her husband were not even remotely trying to work things out, and in fact they were well past the "working it out" phase at this point.

"It's OK Marianne, everything's gonna be alright. Every marriage goes through some rough spots. I'm sure you'll resolve your differences," counseled Newlan, even though he wasn't quite sure whether he believed what he was saying, or for that matter, whether he selfishly even wanted to believe it.

"Thanks for the words of encouragement...oh Frankie I miss you," sniffled Plante, as the longing in her heart broke through its harness like a boat being ripped from its dock by a raging storm.

"By the way, you asked me in your letter why I'm still single, well what's happening with you and your husband is one reason. It seems as if every couple I know is going through some sort of problem or another...whether its money, alcohol, drugs, cheating, you name it. And I just can't handle that pain," confessed Newlan. But Plante was unwilling to accept the emotional wall that her old boyfriend had built up around himself.

"Don't stop believing Frankie...because even through all the heartache, love can be a beautiful thing," encouraged Plante, even though at the moment she was having a hard time believing her own words.

"I know Marianne, but for some reason I have never been able to commit to anyone...and well, maybe I'm just a lost cause," professed Newlan as he once again fought back tears.

"Please Frankie, whatever you do, don't give up. You'll find someone, I know you will. I honestly believe that there's a perfect match out there for everyone," pleaded Plante. But at the same time she secretly wondered whether she had anything at all to do with Newlan's fear of commitment.

"Thanks for the pep talk," replied an appreciative Newlan. But at the same time _he_ too sullenly contemplated; "then again, maybe I already found my perfect match. But for some inexplicable reason she walked away and left me looking back...always looking back."

However, when it came right down to it, ultimately, and more importantly, both Plante and Newlan, at the very same time, were hopefully thinking; "Is it possible that we still might end up together?"

But of course neither one of them dared to come right out and say what was on their minds; neither one of them dared to be the first to admit what the other one was thinking.

Dear reader, who's to say for sure, but perhaps our world would be a far better place if at moments like this two people could reach out and telepathically read each other's minds. Who knows how many times in the history of man, in the history of love, two people have had amorous feelings for each other which were left unspoken and never revealed until the end of time. How sad we are as a race that we can't even communicate our deepest feelings to one another when love waits in vain on the other side of the door. How sad for Marianne Plante and Frank Newlan...how very sad indeed.

The downcast former lovers desperately desired to share their inner most hopes and fears with each other, and yet as they chatted into the night, they discussed just about every other subject imaginable, except for the most important one, which was seemingly beyond their grasp to broach. He asked about her kids. She asked about his condo. He asked about the missing years in between their breakup and her marriage. She asked about his long since broken-up rock band. He asked about her parents' health. She asked about the loss of his parents. And before they knew what hit them, the clock on the wall had struck midnight.

Newlan was wallowing in the conversation to such an extent that he wished he could have mustered up the energy to stay up until dawn and reminisce the night away. But when his yawning wouldn't let up, he reluctantly called it a night.

"Well Marianne, I really enjoyed talking to you, but I better get going to bed...I gotta rest up for another long day at the courthouse tomorrow," lamented Newlan.

"OK...I'm sorry I kept you up, but I'm glad we finally got a chance to talk. Oh and by the way, whether you believe it or not, I want you to know that I've always felt guilty about the way things ended between us," apologetically replied Plante. And then, just as she was about to hang up the phone, she tacked on a hastily considered addendum to the conversation; "Hey, maybe I can call you again sometime if you don't mind."

"Sure, feel free to call me any time. Oh and Marianne, before I forget, I just want to say that I hope things work out between you and your husband," insisted Newlan. Although, in much the same vein as Judge Gershwin's attitude towards renowned Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason, if Newlan were forced to take a lie detector test, it remained to be seen whether he would have passed the exam if the question posed before him was; "do you truly hope that things work out between Marianne Plante and her husband?"

And so as the melancholic phone call ended, it triggered the start of an emotional avalanche in Newlan's heart; a landslide that would find him moping around his condo, buried in a state of despondent despair

Upon hanging up the phone, Newlan sat there in his dimly lit living room for over an hour, dumfounded and practically unable to move as he thought long and hard about the conversation that he had just had with his old flame. He wondered whether there was something more to Plante's unexpected phone call than met the eye, or whether it really was just an old friend saying hello. But after agonizing over the matter until his head hurt, he finally conceded that it was the latter, and he sighed to himself; "Well, I guess that puts some closure on our relationship once and for all."

Based on recent events in the John Breslin murder trial, Newlan wasn't sure whether he even wanted to have anything to do with his ex-lover in the first place, and so he dragged himself off to bed thinking that his tête-à-tête with Marianne Plante would lead to the same old ending, not a new beginning. But the old fool couldn't have been more wrong.

Newlan eventually drifted off to sleep, and if the facts of the murder trial that he was helping to referee were any indication, his dreams took him to a very dangerous place.

Newlan dreamt he got a call from Marianne Plante, who was requesting that he meet her at secret location; a location that turned out to be a desolate cemetery. And like a good little boy, Newlan followed Plante's orders and did as he was asked...and sure enough their clandestine meeting ended up in a passionate embrace followed by a long romantic kiss.

The kiss seemed so real that Newlan could practically feel Plante's sweet breath on his lips, and yet as was often the case in his waking life, the reality of a disappointing climactic scene left his spirit broken.

Newlan's ecstatic moment was interrupted by a tap on the shoulder, and when he grudgingly disentangled himself from Plante's embrace and turned around, he observed a shadowy figure standing there before him; he observed that it was none other than Fred Miller staring back at him with vacant eyes and a bloody bullet hole scarring his face.

Miller's gaze bore into Newlan's pupils as if he was trying to warn him of something by way of a mind meld. And although it took all the strength he could muster, in the end, he dredged up the will to deliver his dire advice; "better watch out Newlan or you'll end up like me."

And as Miller transferred these ominous words into Newlan's memory banks, blood began to gurgle from of his mouth, and his body slowly melted away until all that was left was a skeletal form, which instantly zapped Newlan back into conscious reality with a resounding thud.

Newlan lifted himself up from his bed and screamed in terror. His heart was racing in his chest like a churning locomotive and a rush of adrenaline had him flailing his arms like a dog being attacked by a swarm of mosquitoes. This time however, the significance of his dream was not lost on him, not in the least. As a matter of fact it seemed rather obvious; if he were to find himself in Fred Miller's shoes what would he do? If Marianne Plante wanted him back after all these years what would he do? Would he resist temptation? Would he go for it regardless of the consequences?

As Newlan sat there in his bed, in the middle of another sleepless night, and pondered these hypothetical questions, he had to admit that he wasn't altogether sure just how he would react. On the one hand, he was unsure as to whether he was ready for another ride on the emotional roller coaster that Marianne Plante had put him through all those years ago. However, on the other hand, if push came to shove, he wasn't quite sure whether he'd be strong enough to resist her magnetic allure either.

But ready or not, the ride was about to start up again, and all Newlan could do was to hang on for dear life...as he breathlessly descended...into hell...in a hand-basket.

Chapter 44 – The Temptress

Wednesday evening June 11, 2008 – 8:15 PM

At around the same time that Marianne Plante was pacing across the floor of her master bedroom, Tracy Stone was also nervously traipsing around from room to room in her comfortable suburban home, albeit for entirely different reasons.

Tracy was scheduled to testify in the morning at the trial of her ex-husband John Breslin, and the jitters that she'd been experiencing all week were about to reach a crescendo which would culminate with her spilling out her guts in front of a mobbed courtroom.

To make matters worse, Tracy was still struggling to maintain her sobriety. Even though she was making what could arguably be considered progress, the reality of the situation was that she had tumbled off the wagon a number of times in the last six month. But each time she fell, she brushed herself off and got back up on that horse again so to speak.

However, with human nature being what it is, as Tracy counted down the days until she was forced to become a participant in this spectator sport we call justice, the urge to indulge in a potently intoxicating drink or two was almost unquenchable; and yet somehow she had managed to remain sober for the past few weeks. But now, on the eve of this tumultuous independence day, her nerves were shot; her nerves were on end; her nerves were frazzled beyond repair; and predictably enough, as she contemplated the courtroom drama which was about to unfold in the next 24 hours or so, and the repercussions that her testimony might have on her children, she could resist temptation no longer.

After sending the kids off to bed, Tracy anxiously dug into the dining room liquor cabinet which her ex-husband always kept stocked with high-end booze, and she pulled out a bottle of Russian vodka, a bottle of Mexican tequila, a bottle of Jamaican rum, a bottle of English gin, and a bottle of Curacao triple sec, as well as packet of sweet-and-sour mix. She then expertly mixed all of the ingredients into a large ice-filled glass along with a splash of cola and a lemon wedge, and just like that she had whipped up a tasty (not to mention powerful) Long Island Iced Tea...and after consuming a few glasses of the stiff concoction, Tracy Stone was feeling no pain.

It seemed that ingesting an icy bucketful of distilled spirits never failed to put Tracy in a mood where she wanted nothing better than to just kick back and listen to music, and tonight was no exception; tonight she cued up a CD by one of her favorite artists, Dido, and she gently rocked herself back and forth in her ex-husband's reclining sofa which, when combined with the alcohol, seemed to have a meditative and medicating effect on her.

Tracy closed her eyes shut as tightly as she could, and in her mind she attempted to envision something extraordinary happening in the morning. But try as she might, none of the scenarios that came dribbling out of her brain were very comforting to her, until, out of the blue, she recalled an exercise that her therapist had recommended.

"Turn a negative into a positive" was the one lasting lesson of faith that Tracy's shrink had imparted on her, and now that's just what she intended to do.

"My moment in the spotlight," breathlessly murmured Tracy as the glory of it all began to dawn on her. "Tomorrow I tell my story about how two men wanted me so badly that they were willing to die for me. They were willing to kill for me."

Tracy's head was pleasantly spinning in soothing circles as she whispered her tale to what seemed to be an empty room. And although to the naked eye that may have appeared to be the case, to the contrary, her surroundings were actually brimming with signs of life.

"There's something romantic...maybe even poetic, about this whole tragic affair. Just like back in the medieval days when knights in armor would duel to the death over a fair maiden," reflected Tracy, and as she pondered the storybook myth, a demented smile crinkled her rosy, gin-soaked cheeks. However, when her imaginary tale proceeded to what was supposed to be the happy ending, the cold reality of her situation abruptly hit home.

"But now, I have no shining knight. I have no prince charming. I have no lion king. All I have is one man in the cemetery and another man in jail, all because of me," lamented Tracy, and as the utter hopelessness of the cruel fate that had befallen her began to sink in, she burst into tears. If she had had the nerve, she would have ended her life right then and there to complete the Shakespearean tragedy.

"What have I done...Oh dear God what have I done," wailed Tracy, and the tormented urgency in her voice triggered an unmistakable racket which could only be described as the mournful howling of a lonesome hound dog.

You see, Tracy was an animal lover, and as such, at any given moment you'd invariably find her playing hostess to a handful of stray orphaned creatures who would entertain themselves by running around the house as if they were rulers of the roost. At any given moment there were cats, and dogs, and birds, and other exotic pets on hand to aid her in her quest for comforting relief...and comfort her they did. For at that very moment, when the suicidal Tracy was feeling as if she didn't have a friend in the entire world, her darling cat, Taffy, jumped up into her lap and began purring for affection, while at the same time the rest of her feline and canine companions, frightened by their owner's tortured moans, went scurrying in every direction.

It is said that pets bring a calming peace to the sick and the dying, and in fact they are now used as a therapeutic relaxant in many a hospital throughout the land; and so it was for the torn-and-tattered Tracy that the unsolicited love she received from Taffy the cat may very well have saved her life.

Tracy was so inspired by the unmistakable empathy her feline friend had bestowed upon her that she flicked the TV on to the Nature channel, and she watched with much interest as a big strong adult male lion was about to take on the grizzled leader of the herd for the right to mate the lioness of his choice; winner take all, loser retreats into banishment with his tail tucked between his legs if he's lucky, and if he is unlucky he winds up dead.

Tracy was so totally mesmerized by the grizzled lion's prideful battle for supremacy against the frisky young challenger, that once again she came to a slanted correlation between the two men in her life and how they fought to the death for her affection...and as she petted Taffy's silky soft coat of fur, she quietly mused; "It's just the laws of nature...it's just survival of the fittest."

And just like that, all of a sudden, Tracy dreamily drifted off into a delirious state of exuberance, brought on by her latest revelations. Her swoon was in fact so all-encompassing that the mere thought of it filled her with a sense of contentment, and as she peered into Taffy's eyes, her mood swung even further, and she found herself joyously singing along to Dido's ethereal voice while thoughts of the Titanic sinking to the ocean floor with its star-crossed lover forever on board filled her mind.

And so as the temptress serenaded her kitty...as the seductress captivated her pet...as the black widow weaved her web...as the passionate lady whom no man can resist captured her prey...as the descendent of Eve mastered her hold over the male species...her plan was put into motion...and a brilliant plan it was.

In approximately 24 hours Tracy Stone would flaunt her womanly ways on the overmatched Cam Miller. In approximately 24 hours she would unleash her medusa-like powers on the unsuspecting gaze of Mr. Frank Newlan...and she would relish in her glory as, one by one, she watched...another man...turned to stone.

Chapter 45 – A Split Second

Thursday morning June 12, 2008 – 6:48 AM

Frank Newlan was still in a state of disbelief the morning after coming into auditory contact with the voice of his high school sweetheart for the first time in nearly 20 years.

Newlan was in fact so stunned he almost convinced himself that he had dreamed up the entire episode. But a quick check of the caller ID on his telephone's handset provided him with evidence to the contrary, and a shiver flared through him as he suddenly recalled the ominous warning that he actually did receive from Fred Miller's spirit in the presaging dream he had succumb to last evening.

"No freakin' way I'm gonna end up like Fred Miller, that's for damn sure," resolutely muttered Newlan while he mindlessly shaved the stubble off his face in preparation for another grueling day of courtroom drama, and as the electric razor buzzed across his chin, he looked to the man in the mirror for some semblance of direction.

"All these years, I don't hear a peep from Marianne, and now she decides to drop me a line while I'm caught up in the middle of the hit-man murder trial. I swear someone upstairs has it in for me. What the fuck did I ever do to deserve this? If I said it once, I've said it a million times...man, you can't make this shit up," moaned Newlan, and he persistently carried on with his frantic attempts to talk some sense into his reflection as he got himself dressed.

"She's a married woman. What the hell does she want from me? For all I know, her husband's a crazy son of a bitch too. I hope to God she doesn't call me again. I'm stressed out as it is over this fuckin' trial. I need Marianne in my life right now like I need a hole in the head," griped Newlan, and wouldn't you know it, just like that, the words "hole in the head" lingered on his lips and triggered an unwelcomed flashback to the gruesome photos of poor Fred Miller, laid out on the sterile metal autopsy table.

Newlan had a sinking feeling that he might never get over these images; Fred Miller bloodied and bruised, slumped over in his car, dead to the world; Fred Miller's limp body, lying naked on the aforementioned autopsy table; Fred Miller face, garnished with a reddish burn hole scarring his left cheek, no bigger than an oversized pimple. And the more he thought about Fred Miller's fate, the more he became overwhelmed by a sneaking suspicion that he might never stop wondering how that little pockmark could wreak so much havoc.

"All of this because of a woman," Newlan mused, but then he promptly corrected himself. "Wait a minute...what the hell am I thinking? We still don't know exactly what the fuck happened. Sure, Breslin probably hated Fred Miller's guts. But the DA's office still hasn't presented a God damned bit of proof yet that he was involved in any this."

Nonetheless, regardless of who committed the evil act, Newlan couldn't deny the fact that he had reached a point in the proceedings where he could officially certify that he was now sheepishly unsettled by the blistering memory of the indisputable crime scene photographs, and to make matters even worse, he had a nagging feeling that the graphic images had somehow been permanently stamped into his brain when he wasn't looking. The same photos that didn't seem real just a few days ago were now haunting his every move, and the uncertain reality which suggested that a jealous husband may have been the driving force behind the shocking violence being depicted in the morbid snapshots had him shaking in his shoes.

And yet, despite his mounting fears, Newlan still wondered. He wondered what Marianne Plante looked like after all these years. He wondered why, of all people, she would call _him_ and confess to marital problems. He wondered why she had confided in him; why she conceded that she missed him. He wondered what it would feel like to hold her in his arms again, to kiss her, just as he had dreamed about so many times before. He wondered why his heart still ached for something he wasn't sure even existed anymore.

All of these rattling contemplations had Newlan dragging around his condo in slow motion, but after an extended session of self-loathing, he ultimately sucked it up, put his shoes on, and headed on out the door.

"But first, a trip to the CD collection," thought the scatterbrained Newlan as he made a sharp u-turn towards his CD closet.

Newlan was in a Grateful Dead mood this morning, and after a moment of deliberation he decided on their underappreciated album from 1989, "Built to Last". Luckily for him however, he would have no way of ever knowing for certain, beyond his psychic delusions, that he had picked out the very same CD that Fred Miller was listening to in his car the morning he was murdered; because if he had somehow been made privy to the full story behind Miller's last moments, he probably would have collapsed into a fetal position and never set foot out of his condo again.

The frequency with which Newlan seemed to find himself on the receiving end of these strange, statistically improbable oddities went well beyond his comfort level, and yet his reaction was always the same; unequivocal disbelief. You see, every now and then, out of the blue, he would find himself thinking about an obscure song, and within seconds that song would come on the radio. Every now and then, he would find himself thinking about an old acquaintance, and within minutes that person would call him on the phone. Every now and then, he would find himself thinking about a childhood friend, and the next day they would bump into each other walking down the street. And every single time one of these mystifying events occurred, the utter randomness of the happenstance in his life would leave him dumbfounded and speechless.

Thankfully for Newlan's sake, the full extent of the eerie "Built to Last" coincidence was never revealed in open court, and so he was none the wiser. However, the Grateful Dead connection between the two men was like a simmering cauldron of irony which would yet boil over and scare the bejesus out of him.

But regardless of the ill-tidings which seemed to be racing in his direction like a sailing vessel poised to win the America's Cup, today as Newlan made his way out the door, he decided to look on the sunny side of life for a change, and the positive outlook did wonders as far as blowing a gusty tailwind into his sagging masthead.

"Well at least I'm not hung-over this morning, so that alone puts me off to a better start than yesterday," reasoned Newlan as the elevator vaulted him down to ground zero.

Newlan offered a spastic wave to Saeed Kahn as he passed through the lobby, but Kahn was lost in one of his radiant meditations, and as such, he never even acknowledged Newlan's gesture.

"Jeez, and I thought the doorman was supposed to be a friendly guy. I'm telling you, that fucker's up to something. He sure has been acting strange lately. I swear my psychic antenna is picking up a vibe," silently insisted Newlan, and he was still homed in on Kahn as he started up his red Mercury. But with the scent of the fresh morning air blowing in his face, before too long he had dismissed his misgivings, and in keeping to his mood for the day, he laughed off his suspicions.

"If I believed all of my dreams, I'd be dead a thousand times over by now. If I believed all of my dreams, then that crazy old bastard is gonna blow up the fuckin' building, and even I don't think he's that insane," mumbled Newlan, and within minutes of his departure, he was placidly merging onto the highway, grooving to the mesmerizing sounds of the Dead. And of course, as always, his disposition was enhanced even further by partaking in his daily morning ritual of puffing on a joint to help ease the strain of the rush-hour commute. However, right off the bat, an appropriately labeled song on the CD entitled "Foolish Heart" turned his vibe from bright to blue in no time flat.

With the guidance of Jerry Garcia's airy voice, Newlan launched into a brooding contemplation regarding Marianne Plante's spousal predicament, and before the first verse had even played itself out, he found himself wondering whether they might both be suffering from foolish hearts.

Newlan's automobile, not to mention his mind, was still stuck in the usual morning gridlock when the title song "Built to Last" kicked in, and the heavy lyrics of the droning tune hit him hard as he sat there stalled in traffic and pondered the words; words which were in fact so chilling, that they triggered a tingle of goose bumps in his limbs as he hummed along; lyrics which were in fact so befitting, it seemed for all the world as if they contained an unforeseen, yet highly empirical message; a foreboding message which sent him drifting off into one of his existential moods, wondering whether he was or wasn't going to be built to last.

And so by the time Newlan arrived at the courthouse he was floating gently downstream on a delicately emotional life raft, and on top of that, he was sufficiently stoned to boot.

After reporting for duty at an unquestionably late hour yesterday morning, Newlan was back to being the first juror to check in for the day, and like clockwork, the elderly Patty soon followed his lead. And with their routine back in place, the neurotic Newlan felt a strange sense of relief come over him, as if some sort of order was being restored to the universe.

Patty and Newlan chatted amicably, and he was touched by how she had taken to him in such a motherly way. Only a few minutes worth of casual conversation had elapsed before Donny, the equally elderly Court Officer, came waddling into the waiting room, and he joined them for an exchange of what started out as mindless chatter...but ended in painful despair.

"We missed you the past couple of days," exclaimed Patty as she warmly greeted her fellow senior citizen, and Newlan nodded his head in agreement while Donny did his best to form a forced smile on his face. He appeared to possess the sad, shattered look of someone who was sick and tired of dealing with life's travails, and with good reason as it turned out.

"Unfortunately, I had to drive my wife over to the Leahy Clinic for cancer treatments yesterday. She's got a rare form of leukemia," morosely explained Donny who was unaware of the fact that Billy had already filled the jurors in on his family crisis situation.

"Oh dear, how's she doing?" inquired a concerned Patty while trying to act surprised.

"It's hard to say, some days she seems to be doing pretty good, and other days not so good. I get the feeling that even the doctors don't know what's going on," quietly replied Donny as he dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief.

Patty's grim facial expression almost matched Donny's, and it appeared as if she was about to start crying herself. And based on her response, it was almost surprising that she didn't shed a tear.

"I'll be praying for the both of you. I lost my husband last year...colon cancer. The way he went from a vibrant human being to a shell of a man in a matter of months...it broke my heart," confessed Patty, and as the two old-timers continued to trade notes regarding hospitals and doctors and illnesses and treatments, Newlan squeamish stomach became twisted in knots.

Newlan had been forced to deal with his own share of heartaches in recent years, what with the deaths of his mother and father, and listening to Patty and Donny discuss their loved ones was enough of an impetus that it triggered the sad memories to come rushing back into the forefront of his mind like a falcon darting across the sky.

The only defense mechanism Newlan had ever been able to devise for dealing with death and mourning was simply not to think about such painful reminders of the past. But whenever friends and acquaintances, or even strangers for that matter, opened up to him about their own heartfelt losses, it would temporarily unleash the floodgates of grief in his heart and he would find himself descending into a momentary funk. As such, it wasn't the least bit surprising to Newlan that Patty and Donny's morbid topic of conversation for the morning had his emotions yo-yoing every which way, and so he was quite relieved when the rest of the jurors began to make their entrances, and the discussion gradually drifted away from death and dying.

By 9 AM all of the jurors had reported for duty except for the wheelchair-bound Dan. But of course Dan's MIA status didn't stop Billy's agitated voice from blaring out over Donny's two-way radio with a request for an update. "Are we ready to go yet, ten four?"

"Waiting for one more juror, ten four," replied Donny in an uninterested tone, while in the background, the present-and-accounted-for jurors began to fret about their missing colleague.

However, just when the anxiety level over Dan's absence was about to rise over the levee-breaking level, he finally rolled through the door at about ten past nine, and Donny wasted no time in leading the way up to the sixth floor courtroom where Billy was waiting to greet them, and he rushed them along as they piled into the juror deliberation room.

"Let's go, let's go...fill out your lunch menus and be ready to roll in ten minutes. Judge Gershwin is getting very impatient," ordered Billy while Dan bowed his head and confessed; "Sorry it's my fault again. I got stuck in traffic."

Billy grimaced and shook his head angrily, but he was too good-natured of a guy to stay mad for very long. Within a matter of minutes Billy had reconciled with Dan and he offered him a solution to boot; "Remind me on break to jot down a few shortcuts for you to try out. Granted, this courthouse is on a busy stretch of road, but trust me I know every route you can think of to get here, some that you won't even find on your GPS systems, so I'm sure that one way or another I can shave a few minutes off of your drive...and it'll make both of our lives easier."

And while Dan intently discussed roadway strategies with Billy, his colleagues queued up in a mad dash to make use of the rest room before the start of the morning session, which was a necessity after their long commutes and morning coffees.

Yong, the pretty Korean juror, even went so far as to bitterly complain, "They can't start in ten minutes. We'll never be ready...and I refuse to participate under such distress"

Naturally, the stressed-out jurors were all in agreement with Yong, at least in this regard; the court officers would have had a major revolt on their hands had the jurors been forced to march into the courtroom without first being given the chance to take care of nature's calling. And to make matters worse, Brandon, who was in a chatty mood, came shuffling into the room and also laid claim to a spot at the end of the discomforting bathroom line as well.

"Good morning folks. I think things are gonna start getting really interesting today. I can't give you any details of course...but trust me, things are gonna get interesting in a hurry this morning, that's for sure," announced Brandon.

And upon contemplating the burly court officer's guarantee of a hunch, Newlan replied accordingly; " _Start_ getting interesting? I don't know about anyone else, but as far as I'm concerned, things started getting interesting a long time ago."

For the second time in a matter of minutes, the jurors nodded their heads in unanimous agreement while Brandon nonchalantly added an exclamation point to his prediction, "well then things are gonna get even more interesting...you can bank on it!"

As it turned out, the jurors were afforded plenty of time to use the facilities because, despite Billy's annoying prodding, they wouldn't be ushered into the courtroom for another half hour. But no sooner had they taken their seats in the jury box when they were made aware of what Brandon was referring to with his cryptic prognostication.

The courtroom was electric with anticipation as DA Lyons informed Judge Gershwin of her intentions regarding how she was planning to kick-start the day into action.

"Your honor the prosecution calls Ms. Tracy Stone to the stand," announced Lyons, and no sooner had the words left the churlish DA's mouth, when all of a sudden a rip-roaring buzz swept through the gallery, while at the same time the audience, almost in unison, rose and craned their necks in an effort to put themselves in a better position to sneak an unobstructed peak of Ms. Stone as she calmly made her way to the witness box.

Stone was dressed in a dark blue business-like suit, and although she had gained a few pounds over the years, she still possessed a shapely figure, which added a rather sexy touch to her professional attire (at least in the mind of one very intrigued juror).

Stone's shoulder length strawberry blonde hair was pulled back neatly, accentuating her fair-skinned face, and even though her pastel complexion left her a bit freckled, it only augmented her charm as far as her many suitors were concerned.

As a matter of fact, despite the hell that she had been through over the course of her life, Tracy Stone was still considered by many to be quite the attractive woman...and now, in a matter of seconds, she had another secret admirer sewn up tight, namely one Mr. Frank Newlan.

Even though Stone had been traumatized in more ways than most people would think humanly possible over the past two plus years -- two years in which she had spent countless hours fretting over this very day, the day that she would once again be compelled to come face-to-face with her ex-husband -- she didn't appear to be the least bit nervous as she bolted herself down for what would turn out to be one of the longest days of her life; even rivaling the day that her sweetheart Fred Miller was murdered, and the forever-connected day, precisely one year later, when she overdosed and almost died from a bout of self-inflicted abuse.

Yes, Stone would be the first to admit that the trial of her children's father was, at its roots, the main reason behind her failure to keep her tenuous sobriety under wraps. She would be the first to admit that she had to resort to partaking in more than a few drinks last night in an effort to calm her nerves. She would be the first to admit that, despite her cool exterior, deep inside, she was terrified and filled with guilt over her role in this sorry state of affairs. But now, as she took to the stand, she would also be the first to admit that she was as ready as ready could be to face her fears in the form of her ex-husband, and she was ready to face him head-on.

For his part, Newlan decided that the moment called for him to observe Stone closely. He was curious as to whether she would attempt to steal a glance in the direction of her ex-husband. She didn't. Conversely, he then glimpsed over in Breslin's direction in a desperate bid to decipher his reaction regarding viewing his ex-wife's elegant form for the first time in two years. And true to form, Breslin's expression never changed; he continued to stare straight ahead, zombie-like, as he had done throughout the course of the trial.

"I don't know how the hell Breslin can sit there, day after day, without a hint of a reaction. I guess Gleason's got him trained well," thought Newlan as he took a deep breath and strapped himself in for what was shaping up to be one hell of a ride; one hell of a show; one hell of a trippy production.

Lyons appeared to be unusually wound-up this morning, and it showed in her stage presence; she started out with a grand entrance and she barely took her foot off the gas for the rest of the day. As such, she began the morning's spectacle by promptly clarifying the matter of Tracy Stone's marital status.

"Ms. Stone, for the record, did you previously go by another name?"

"Yes, Stone is my maiden name, but prior to my divorce being finalized I was using my married name which was Breslin," matter-of-factly answered Stone while wearing a frown on her face that would rival DA Lyons' legendary scowl any day of the week.

"And for the record Ms. Stone, is your ex-husband in this courtroom?" inquired Lyons, and in return, Stone whispered a barely audible affirmative response.

"Ms. Stone, could you please point him out for the jurors," requested Lyons, and Stone raised her right arm out and emphatically pointed a fully extended index finger at her ex-husband as she angrily made a verbal identification.

"That's him seated over there."

Incredibly, her thumb was pointed upwards and her remaining fingers were clenched to her palm like a fist, which transformed her balled-up hand into the unmistakable shape of a pistol.

Newlan couldn't believe what he was seeing, and once again he took note of Breslin as he continued to stare straight ahead, seemingly lost in some distant, far-away time-zone. He didn't even so much as flinch at the sight of his ex-wife, who had seemingly formed the shape of a child-like finger gun to point him out to DA Lyons in front of the packed courtroom.

But regardless of Stone's intentions, the stoic DA ignored the symbolic gesture and carried on.

"Now, Ms. Stone, could you please tell us approximately when you got married to Mr. Breslin and when you got divorced from him?"

"We got married in August of 1998 and we were officially divorced in June of 2006."

"Ms. Stone, you say that you were officially divorced in June of 2006, but approximately when did you file for divorce?"

"Actually I filed for divorce twice, once in 2003 and then again in 2005."

"Why didn't the divorce go through in 2003?" wondered Lyons in an inquisitive tone.

"Well, I hired a divorce lawyer and we legally evicted Johnny from our home. But then almost immediately after he moved out, he started with the harassing phone calls and the emails and the letters...and after a while, I guess I just couldn't take it. I was physically and emotionally spent...and so I broke down and took him back," explained Stone, and she sounded weary just talking about the ordeal.

"But as we know you eventually did end the marriage...so could you please tell the jury what led you to finally go through with your divorce?"

"Let me see...I re-filed for divorce in June of 2005, but then Johnny started pulling the same old stunts again, and I started having second thoughts, so..."

"Why did you have second thoughts?" interrupted Lyons.

"Umm, I don't really know. I was just confused I guess. I was also exhausted from having to take care of the kids without his help. And I was having financial problems as well...just a lot of things were going through my mind as you might imagine," whined Stone.

"And what eventually made you decide to go through with the divorce?" asked Lyons again, this time with a demanding lilt in her voice.

"After Freddie was killed, I just knew that I had to go through with it. I just felt as if I didn't even know my own husband anymore. He wasn't the same man that I married. He was like a stranger to me, and then when he got arrested, that was it...I couldn't take it anymore," replied Stone as she began to cry softly into a handkerchief.

Even though Tracy Stone's testimony had only just commenced a short while ago, Frank Newlan was already beginning to feel sorry for her as he witnessed her tearing up in front of a courtroom full of mostly unsympathetic observers. And what's more, he was practically overcome by a powerful urge to vault out of his swivel chair and hug her until the hurt went away. But of course, even if Newlan had somehow summonsed up the nerve to spring into action, the fear of incurring Judge Gershwin's wrath would have surely kept his impetuous impulses squarely in check.

"Ms. Stone, I'd like to change the subject if I may. Could you tell us a little about how you became acquainted with Fred Miller?" delicately continued Lyons as Stone whimpered in the wings.

"Umm, we met back in high school. Fred was a senior and I was a sophomore...and we dated for pretty much the entire year...and we kept in touch even after Fred went off to college at UMass. But then we kind of drifted apart when he decided to transfer to the University of Arizona. Well, I must admit that I did call him a few times while he was out west, but I got the feeling that he wasn't interested in having a long distance relationship," explained Stone in between sniffles.

"Wow, her story is beginning to sound more-and-more like a rough carbon copy of what happened between Marianne and me," shuddered Newlan, and he wistfully shook his head as exclaimed to himself, "man, you can't make this shit up."

"And what, if anything, happened after Fred Miller got out of college?" added Lyons.

"After Fred graduated, he came back home and we started dating again...and then within six months we decided to move in together," pensively recounted Stone.

"And Ms. Stone, could you tell us how long you and Mr. Miller lived together?"

"We lived together off and on for a few years from about 1993 to 1995."

"And when you say 'off and on' what do you mean by that?" wondered Lyons.

"Fred moved out a few times. I guess you could say we had a rocky relationship back in those days," confessed Stone with a rueful smile planted on her face.

"Were you both working during the period that you lived together?"

"Yes, Fred was already in the insurance business by then, and I worked several different jobs as well. At the time, it would have been tough to make ends meet on one salary so we really needed to depend on each other if we wanted to keep the apartment."

"And what happened after 1995 in regards to you and Fred Miller?" continued Lyons. And although Stone was already worn down by the awkwardness of having to expose her personal life in such a public forum, after a deep breath, she soldiered on nonetheless.

"It's hard to explain, but to make a long story short, I guess you could say that we mutually decided to stop dating...but despite our differences, we still remained friends and we talked on the phone from time to time."

"Now Ms. Stone, didn't you tell the investigators that you started dating someone else during this time period, and that Fred was involved in an incident with you new boyfriend?"

"Yes, after Fred and I broke up, I dated a man by the name of Peter Perry and he eventually moved in with me. But I must admit, it didn't work out very well...and I had no one else to turn to, so I ended up giving Freddie a call and I asked him for his help in getting Peter out of my life."

"Interesting...not much different than Breslin calling in Sammy Fox to sweep Fred Miller out of _his_ life...of course this dude, Peter Perry, didn't wind up dead...at least I assumed he didn't," mused Newlan while Lyons trudged forward.

"Ms. Stone could you expand upon what happened between Mr. Perry and Mr. Miller," requested Lyons.

"Peter only lived with me for a couple of months, and almost from day one I realized that it was a big mistake. But he refused to move out, so I asked Freddie if he wouldn't mind coming over and having a little talk with Peter. Freddie was hesitant to get involved at first, but he eventually agreed to help out, and as it turned out, on the day he decided to pay us a visit, Peter and I happened to be arguing out in the driveway...and then Peter and Freddie got in each other's faces...and after that, it was just a big mess. On the plus side though, Peter did end up moving out of my apartment...but unfortunately, because of this incident, Fred also got very upset with me, and I guess you could say we had a major falling out...and after that day I lost touch with him for about 10 years," sadly replied Stone, and she began to weep again as she recalled that momentous turning point in her life.

DA Lyons paused ever so briefly out of respect for the crying witness, but then, without hesitation, she jumped right back into the rhythm of her interview.

"And Ms. Stone did you date anyone else during this time period?" prodded Lyons, and with the million dollar question released into the air with all the subtlety of a game-show host, Stone reflected back in time for a moment before regaining her composure long enough to recount the fortuitous meeting that messed up her life for good.

"Yes, right before I broke up with Peter Perry which I believe was in August of 1995, I met Johnny."

"And for the record when you say Johnny, you are referring to the defendant Mr. John Breslin," corrected Lyons, and Stone winced as she softly answered, "Yes."

"Can you tell us how you met Mr. Breslin?" requested Lyons as she picked the pace back up again.

"I was waitressing in a restaurant/bar, and Johnny would occasionally come in for a beer after a few rounds of golfing with his friends on the public course which was right down the road from where I worked. I could kind of tell that he took an interest in me right away, and we talked a lot during that period...and after a few weeks he asked me out on a date," recalled Stone.

"So what was the outcome of Mr. Breslin's request?" wondered the tenacious DA.

And in response to Lyons' query, Tracy Stone was tempted to reply; "The outcome was that he ruined my fuckin' life." But of course, since even she wasn't that crude, she instead took a deep breath and explained; "At first I said 'no'. I had already told him all about Fred, and what had happened with Peter, and how, because of my bad experiences, I wasn't ready for another relationship so soon...but he was persistent, and eventually I agreed to go out with him."

"What happened next?" pressed on Lyons, and Stone broke down again as she listlessly replied; "We dated for a few months...and then in October of 1995 I got pregnant."

While Tracy Stone paused to regain her composure one more time, Newlan made use of the momentary break in the action to once again take a quick peep over at the defense table where Breslin continued to stare straight ahead, emotionless, as he watched his ex-wife bawl her eyes out at the mere mention of her becoming pregnant with their child. And while Newlan's gaze was focused in that direction, he also took notice of the fact that renowned Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason was furiously jotting down notes without even bothering to look up at the witness stand.

Gleason's dedication to his client was admirable as far as Newlan was concerned. But at the same time, as much as he disliked Lyons' style, he begrudgingly had to admit that he found her doggedness to be quite impressive as well.

"And how did Mr. Breslin react to the news of your pregnancy?" continued Lyons.

"He wanted us to get married and start a family," replied Stone as the conflicted expression on her face betrayed her emotions.

Newlan couldn't determine for sure whether Stone was frowning or smiling, but the longer he sat there, literally yards away from the witness stand, the more he was taken in by her intoxicating aura. But on the other hand, his charge was to serve as an impartial observer, and so with that in mind, he scribbled into his notepad:

Breslin asked Stone to marry him...Seems like an honorable thing to do.

And as the day marched on, Newlan found himself becoming irrevocably torn between the unbendable affection he was beginning to feel towards Tracy Stone, as well as the unbreakable connection he already felt towards Fred Miller, and his unrelenting gut feeling that Breslin seemed like a stand-up guy, incapable of being involved in an elaborate murder plot.

Newlan sighed at his own confusion as DA Lyons continued on with her methodical undertaking at prodding Stone into telling the story she wanted the jury to hear.

"Ms. Stone, how did you reply to Mr. Breslin's marriage proposal?" curiously inquired Lyons, and even after all these years, Stone was still unable to clearly communicate what was going on in her cranium when it came to her ex-husband, but she gave it a valiant effort nonetheless.

"I was...very confused...I didn't know what I wanted. I told Johnny that I needed some time to think it through..." whispered Stone as she shook her head in surrender and sobbed at her inability to verbalize what she was feeling inside her heart.

Lyons sensed that things were beginning to veer out of control, so she decided to try a broader line of questioning in hopes that Stone would get on a roll.

"Ms. Stone what, if anything, happened to your relationship with Mr. Breslin in the months leading up to the birth of your first child?" inquired Lyons, and Stone thought back in time as she tried to recall the exact sequence of events before attempting an answer.

"While I was sorting out my feelings, Johnny and I only saw each other on weekends for a few months. He was still living in Waltham with his parents when I got pregnant, and he was also working at Tex-Ray's Waltham office at that time as well, so he kept pestering me to move in with him because I lived too far away for him to drive out to see me every night. He had a basement apartment set up in his parents' house which he insisted would be perfect for us, but I wasn't so sure...and on top of that, I was concerned about my pets. Back then I owned two dogs, two cats, and iguana, but Johnny assured me that I could take them all with me. And so after much hesitation, I reluctantly moved out of my apartment and moved in with Johnny...and a few months later I gave birth to our son John Jr. who we nicknamed JJ."

"And what happened after your son's birth?" continued Lyons.

"Well, I went back to work within six months because we needed the cash. Granted, I didn't clear much money since we had to pay for child care...although, I must admit that Johnny's mother eventually agreed to take care of JJ while I was at work. But regardless, after about ten months of working and being separated from my family and friends, I couldn't take the boredom and isolation anymore, so one day I gathered up as much of my stuff as I could, and JJ and I moved back home with my own mother. I had talked it over with my sister Beth, and she said that she would support me with whatever I decided to do...and she also said that she would help out with JJ as well," wearily replied Stone as she broke down into tears again, just as she would do every time one of her answers opened up an unhealed wound from her past.

"Ms. Stone, could you please expand upon why you moved out?" gingerly requested Lyons as Stone rubbed her moist eyes.

"I don't know how to explain it. I felt so trapped, so alone. I hardly ever saw my family and friends anymore. I felt so secluded from everyone, and Johnny was always complaining that he was too tired to go out and do anything fun with me and JJ...I don't know, I just felt lost," sobbed Stone as she buried her head in her hands, which sent Billy scurrying over to the witness stand with an offering of tissue paper.

Stone's cries also found Newlan clearing his own throat and fidgeting in his swivel chair in an effort to prevent him from tearing up as well. But even in his emotional state, he was nonetheless glued to the riveting testimony that was being delivered by Breslin's ex-wife.

"And what happened after you moved out?" gently inquired Lyons.

"Well, within hours of me moving back in with my mother, Johnny showed up at the house, threatening me, threatening to take the baby," replied a suddenly steely-eyed Stone.

"But of course this wasn't the end of your relationship with Mr. Breslin, was it Ms. Stone?"

"No, after a few months I ended up moving back in with him. As confused as I was, I swear with all my heart, I just wanted to try and make it work out...for JJ's sake more than anything else."

"And did things improve after you moved back in with Mr. Breslin?"

"Yeah I guess, at least for a little while they did. The truth of the matter was that every time I'd threaten to move out, Johnny would be extra nice to me...but of course it never lasted."

"And yet you end up marrying Mr. Breslin, didn't you Ms. Stone?"

"Yes, we got engaged on Christmas Eve 1997, and then we got married in the summer of 1998," indifferently admitted Stone.

DA Lyons' expression turned from a scowl to a frown; it was as if she were wondering in her own mind; "why the hell did you marry this guy?" But then her contortions became solemn as she asked; "And did something else happen in 1998?"

"Yes...shortly after the wedding my mother passed away unexpectedly," replied Stone, and the look of anguish on her face was beyond pained; the sobs louder than they had been all day up to this point; the tears glistening in the bright lights of the courtroom as they streamed down her pasty face.

As the news of the elder Mrs. Stone's death hit home, the sentimental Newlan was once again forced to fight back his own tears, and he reflexively glanced over at the defense table where he finally observed what he had been hoping to see since the trial began; John Breslin showing a glimpse of emotion. Even though it was an ever so slightly concealed reaction, Newlan could clearly make out an air of sadness forming on Breslin's face. Even though it was an ever so understated movement, Newlan could clearly detect Breslin wiping away a tear from his eye. Even though it was an ever so subtle gesture, Newlan could clearly distinguish Breslin bowing his head and making the sign of the cross.

"The guy's not a soulless robot after all," thought a contented Newlan. However, his contentment didn't last very long, for as Stone's sobs intensified, he found that he could barely control his own runaway emotions, but luckily for him, Judge Gershwin unwittingly came to the rescue.

The morning seemed to be flying by, what with the drama that was taking place all around the courtroom, and after Stone's latest breakdown on the stand, Judge Gershwin, who had been patiently taking in the proceedings just like everyone else, decided that it was about time for a break, which, for some reason, seemed to please Gleason as much as it pleased Newlan.

Much like Judge Gershwin, Gleason had also been uncharacteristically quiet for much of the morning, not even making a single objection thus far. But he had a plan; and his plan was to let Tracy Stone babble; let her dig a hole for herself, a hole from which he would make sure that she would never be able to crawl out of once his cross-examination got underway.

Meanwhile, as the jurors were led out of the courtroom to begin their break, for some reason, Newlan was overpowered by an uncontrollable urge to make eye-contact with the defendant Breslin. And despite his vow that he would never make that same mistake again, for a split second their eyes met. For a split second they engaged in a Vulcan mind meld. For a split second the two men could read each other's thoughts. For a split second Newlan wordlessly communicated his dispatch of encouragement to Breslin.

Without breathing a sound, Newlan let Breslin know as loudly and clearly as he could that "everything was gonna be alright", and a split second later Mr. John Breslin responded with an interesting reply.

A split second later, Breslin's feedback snapped into Newlan's brain like a bolt of electricity. A split second later, Breslin's message was sent crackling across an imaginary telegraph line like a voice over a loud speaker. A split second later, the smirk on Breslin's face revealed the wordless retort that staggered our all too trusting protagonist like a punch in the jaw; "you're next Newlan."

And then, just like that, the channels of communication were broken. Just like that, Newlan felt a mighty jolt of galvanizing current surge through his entire body. It was as if he had touched a high-voltage live wire, and he stumbled along blindly as he made his way into the juror deliberation room where he collapsed into his chair in a frightened heap.

For a split second Newlan believed that everything was going to be alright, and then a split second later his whole world was gone...gone in a collage of nightmarish memories. Gone in a jumbled flashback of indecipherable bad dreams...Fred Miller at a Grateful Dead concert...maggots crawling through a dead man's skull...Marianne Plante back in his life, for better or worse.

For a split second Newlan looked back, he had to look back, he always looked back, and when he did, he saw his life flash before his very eyes...he saw a gun in his face...he saw Saeed Kahn with his hand on the lever, ready to drop the big one...he saw himself, dead weight tied to an anchor, falling downward like a bird being shot out of the sky.

In a split second, Frank Newlan saw all of this, as clear as the light of day, he saw all of this and more. In split second he saw that he was next, and that there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. In a split second, Newlan saw that he was spiraling out of control, downward through the turbulent rapids of his life, unable to mask the fear on his face...from a jury of his peers.

...

Dear reader who among us can predict what the future holds? Who among us can ever feel totally secure negotiating life's dangerous twists and turns? Who among us can, without a doubt, distinguish fact from fiction?

But one fact is certain. One fact is undisputable. One fact is beyond debate. From that day forward, Mr. Frank Newlan's faith was to be severely tested for the remainder of his arduous life. From that day forward, Mr. Frank Newlan was to carry with him a heavy burden of repressed hopelessness; a lifetime's worth of stubborn schooling all boiled into one lesson finally learned (as if he hadn't learned it already); one indelible lesson cemented in his mind a hundred times over. From that day forward, Mr. Frank Newlan would never again dare to blindly believe...that everything...was going to be...alright.

Chapter 46 – Saeed Kahn's Vision

Thursday morning June 12, 2008 – 11:35 AM

Ironically enough, at the very moment that Frank Newlan's spirit was being emotionally and systematically disemboweled by the all-consuming task of supplying the allegedly revenge-seeking John Breslin with an impartial jury of his peers, his neighbor, Saeed Kahn, was restlessly plotting his own revenge; revenge, not on a woman, revenge, not an unscrupulous wife-stealer, revenge, not even on a callous heretic, but revenge, rather, on a murderous, soulless country; a country that had cheated an entire world for far too long now. Revenge on a country that would provide a fair trial to such scum as the three horrible hubbies while at the same time holding his people in a state of indefinite detention without a second thought to due process. Revenge on a country that treated him like a second-class citizen. Revenge on a country that had turned its back on him in his time of need. Revenge on a country that had forsaken him in oh so many ways.

Sure, Lady Liberty had smirked down on Saeed Kahn and seduced him with the lure of bright lights and big cities. Sure, Lady Liberty had turned him into a sinner with her saintly charm. Sure, Lady Liberty had tempestuously swallowed him up whole like a snake ingesting a rat. But then at the drop of a hat, Lady Liberty spit him out in little chunks and deserted him. She deserted him when his habits came due and they turned into addictions. She deserted him when his past came calling and it turned into his present. She deserted him like a barrel of trash that is placed in the gutter for the garbage-man to come and take away.

But now, Saeed Kahn would make Lady Liberty pay; pay like a desperate junkie in debt to his dealer; pay like a condemned man at the mercy of an unforgiving firing squad; pay like an unrepentant whore on the verge of being stoned to death.

At the very same moment that Frank Newlan and his colleagues were participating in the time-honored American tradition known as trial by jury, his trusty concierge, Saeed Kahn, was hatching a plan to inflict his own contrived brand of frontier justice on the lazy Yankees; a brand of justice where he would take the law into his own hands; a brand of justice where he, like many an enterprising law enforcement officer before him, would ultimately play the part of judge, jury and executioner.

Saeed Kahn wanted his pound of flesh, and he was determined to get it; and if need be, he was determined to get it by any means possible. Regardless of whether the powers-that-be within his organization were willing or not, he was determined to get it in dramatic fashion.

As Saeed Kahn sat at the security desk in the lobby of the Medford River Park Condominiums, staring into the security monitors, he proudly considered himself to be a man of power. But unlike Frank Newlan, he considered himself to be a man in complete control of his fate. Unlike Frank Newlan, he considered himself to be a man who could guarantee beyond a shadow of a doubt that everything would indeed turn out alright; for unlike Frank Newlan, he and his cohorts worshipped a God who smiled down upon them.

Saeed Kahn was a faithful servant to his God, and as such, he blindly believed that his faith would be rewarded, no question about it; just as he blindly believed that the pagan god who protected the likes of Frank Newlan was merely a Devil in disguise, no debate necessary.

And as the hopelessly mortal Saeed Kahn sat at the security desk in the lobby of the Medford River Park Condominiums, he may as well have been a King on his throne. He may as well have been a Dictator in his mansion. He may as well have been a Demon who laid claim to an honored seat at Lucifer's table.

And like a King, like a Dictator, like a Demon, Saeed Kahn understood that he must show no pity to the vanquished. Saeed Kahn understood that he must show no compassion to the conquered. Saeed Kahn understood that he must show no remorse for the eviscerated.

In fact, if his magical plan was to succeed, Saeed Kahn understood that he must show no clemency whatsoever. Good and bad, young and old, innocent and guilty, women and children, they all must go down in flames.

In Saeed Kahn's world, mercy was considered to be a weakness, and he fully understood that he must show no leniency to the empty faces that flashed across his mind's eye.

And as Kahn dreamed his treacherous dreams, suddenly without warning, Frank Newlan's blinding form appeared in his subconscious line of vision. Without any indication as to his intentions, Frank Newlan's blazing aura assaulted Kahn's icy senses. But regardless of Newlan's motives, the interpretation of the wordlessly foreboding message was clear to Kahn nonetheless. Regardless of pretense, Kahn clearly discerned that his vulgar neighbor, whether intentionally or unintentionally, somehow possessed the power to jeopardize his master plan.

Perhaps there is something to this mental telepathy the Frank Newlan so dearly believes in, perhaps not. But regardless of the reasoning behind Kahn's apparition, the fact remains that at the very same moment Newlan's mind was being hijacked by a strangely savage illusion which included Saeed Kahn in a featured role, Saeed Kahn's thoughts, in turn, were focused in on him.

Saeed Kahn's thoughts were focused in on the drunken womanizer whose living quarters bordered his...and the mere preponderance of it made him want to take a vigorous shower in an effort to wash off the stench of Newlan's disgusting habits.

Kahn could clearly detect the auditory moans of sexual pleasure as the sins of the flesh took place on the other side of the wall. Kahn could clearly whiff the distinctly sweet aroma of marijuana wafting through the porous crevices that separated the two apartments. Kahn could clearly descry the intense immoral passion of the lovers almost mocking his presence. Kahn could practically touch the evil that he was being forced to behold, and it almost made him give in to temptation. In a split second, it almost made him want to revert back to the sinner that this country had turned him into. Ah, but a split second later he came to another conclusion. In a split second, Saeed Kahn decided that, like this God-forsaken country itself, his mission required him to shoot Frank Newlan down...shoot him back down into the burning hell from whence he came.

Yes indeed, Saeed Kahn was momentarily startled by the ugly American face invading his personal space, and he wondered what his prescience was trying to tell him. It was very unclear to him, but one thing was certain in his mind; one way or another, when the time came, it was essential that Frank Newlan's spirit be present amongst the damned. One way or another, when the time came, it was imperative that Frank Newlan's soul be sacrificed. One way or another, when the time came, it was crucial that Frank Newlan's body be chained to the altar of temple...when it was smashed into dust.

Chapter 47 – White Flags

Thursday morning June 12, 2008 – 11:45 AM

"Are you OK Frank? Are you OK?" came the muffled calling, like a tender lullaby being sung in a foreign language...and as the words drifted through Newlan's ears, he shook off his malaise while at the same time he desperately attempted to clear out the cobwebs from his scrambled mind.

Newlan had nearly fainted right then and there in the juror deliberation room; right then in plain sight of his fellow jurors; right there in his deliberation room chair; slumped over in a position which wasn't all that much different than the one the deceased Fred Miller maintained in his car seat when he was found shot to death staring up at the crumbling ceiling of the Newton garage.

And although Newlan never quite lost consciousness, he was sure that in the wink of an eye he had embarked on a nonstop flight to Hell and back again. And he was sure that what he saw down there in Hades was a sign of the coming apocalypse. He was sure that what he saw down there in the bottomless pit was as real as the nose on his face...and now it was all was all coming back to him; the split second of eye-contact with the defendant John Breslin; the hopelessly frightening declarations that they somehow communicated back and forth to each other; the memories of bad dreams, past and present, jogged loose as if someone had taken a brick to his head.

It was also becoming crystal clear to every one of the jurors who were huddled around Newlan that the trial was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, taking its toll on him. It seemed that as much as he tried to fight off his angst and convince himself that he could handle it, the more his fragile emotional makeup got the better of him. But alas, Newlan was a stubborn son of a gun, and so regardless of how badly he was hurting inside, he was determined not to be perceived as a wimp in front of his associates. And so once again he summonsed up every ounce of energy he could muster in an attempt to snap himself out of his funk. And so once again he gamely fought off his dread. And so once again he unwaveringly reminded himself, "If an old lady can deal with this, then so can I."

"Are you OK Frank? Are you OK?" asked the voice for a second time as Newlan's vision drifted in and out of focus.

"Where are those words coming from?" wondered a puzzled Newlan as he swiveled his head from side to side until finally his eyes locked in on Yong, the pretty Korean juror who was seated to the left of him in the deliberation room.

"Oh don't mind me...I'm fine. Just a little tired is all," replied Newlan, albeit rather unconvincingly.

"Are you sure? You looked like you were about to pass out," added Mark, the tall gangly high tech employee who was seated to Newlan's right.

"No, no, I'm fine. Just resting my head for a few minutes," reassured Newlan. And now that he had been somewhat awakened by Yong's lilting chant, he rounded up the invisible troops who watched over his soul in a conscious effort to assist him in the task of expelling the demons that had temporarily overtaken his heart. Now that he was no longer witnessing horrible visions dancing around in the back of his head, he opened up his eyes as wide as he could and let in the illuminating light of day. Now that he had at least partially recovered from his latest panic attack, he mustered up a concerted effort to focus his energies back on the trial.

"Did anyone else notice that Breslin was finally beginning to show a bit of emotion when Tracy spoke of her mother's death?" wondered a suddenly articulate Newlan with a tint of solace in his tone; his hope was that maybe a few of the other jurors saw the same glimpse of humanity in the stone-faced defendant that he did.

Amazingly enough, even after the apparent telepathic communiqué between Breslin and Newlan, even after Breslin's ominous prediction that he was next, even after the spine-tingling presage which kicked off visions of Armageddon in Newlan's brain, he still wasn't ready to desert the impassive defendant in his time of need. But unfortunately for him, his colleagues didn't share in his blind faith.

"I wouldn't believe anything that schmuck says or does," scoffed the wheelchair-bound Dan.

"Even if he did tear up, he was probably faking it," added a skeptical Jane, and just like that Newlan's blood had instantly been heated back up to a full boil; just like that he was utterly riled up again; just like that he shot back an exasperated response to all comers; "oh please, gimme a break, you can't fake something like that. Why can't we give this guy a chance? The DA still hasn't produced a single shred of evidence against him yet."

"Yeah but the operative word is 'yet'," sarcastically replied Dan, and with the gauntlet thrown down, Newlan felt as if his entire body was about erupt in an angry explosion like a gasoline-soaked keg of gunpowder that had been left out in the sun too long. But then he imagined 15 sets of burning eyes staring a hole into his brain...and he backed down.

"You know what...I apologize. Really, no matter what everyone's opinions are, we shouldn't even be discussing the trial, so that's my bad," acknowledged a contrite Newlan as his paranoia reared its ugly head. The reality of the situation was such that whether his colleagues were actually eyeballing him or not was totally irrelevant; he was absolutely convince that they were fixated on him as one, and his perception was all that truly mattered to him at the moment.

Newlan lowered his head and pretended to be skimming though one of his Rolling Stone magazines, but in his mind his thoughts were racing around the track of his skull at speeds approaching two hundred miles per hour.

"Breslin might as well pack it in. He's never gonna see the light of day if this lynch mob has any say in the matter," surmised Newlan. However, before any further tension had a chance of developing between himself and his fellow jurors, Billy popped his head back into the room and announced; "line up and be ready to go in 5 minutes."

In response to Billy command, the jurors promptly rose up, on cue, and as if by rote they found their place in line, based on their jury box seat number. But regardless of their efficiency, the routine was already wearing quite thin on Newlan, and he whispered as much to Natalie and Pam who were positioned on either side of him in the middle of the convoy.

Pam, the free-lance web designer, had been beset by her own thorny bushel of issues with regards to the seating arrangements, and the stress which was beginning to take shape on her face told her story far better than words could ever do. She had been bestowed with the unlucky destiny of being placed in seat number 9, and so even though she stood directly behind Newlan, dead center in the dreary deliberation room line-up, her swivel chair was actually located in the first seat of the first row of the jury box, no more than an arms-length away from the divisively divided, partisan audience.

As Newlan moved into position, Pam's intolerable situation wasn't lost on him either, not by a long-shot. And intrinsically, whenever the jurors were instructed to form their conga line from hell, he would silently mutter his praise to the keeper of the fates; "Thank God I didn't get assigned that seat."

It was bad enough to have been unceremoniously thrust onto the jury, but Newlan couldn't even begin to imagine the stress of being placed a stones-throw away from the friends and family of the victim and the defendant, where they could watch your every move.

"Yes, the routine, amongst other things, is getting to me too," agreed Pam, who seemed to be reading Newlan's mind.

"Well I'm glad I'm not the only one. As a matter of fact, I think I might be coming down with a bad case of cabin fever from being cooped up in this damned courthouse all day, especially since the weather outside's been so gorgeous lately," cheerfully groused Newlan in an attempt to lighten the mood with his gallows humor observation.

"I've taken to drawing outlines of the witnesses. It helps keep me sane," confided Pam as she displayed a sampling of the caricatures which littered her notepad, exclusively for Newlan's viewing pleasure.

Newlan always admired people who possessed creative abilities; whether it was of an artistic nature, or music, or creative writing, somewhere over the years, he had developed a penchant for anything that compelled him to get in touch with his inner-self, and so Pam's etchings momentarily inspired him.

"Wow, did you guys see this? We have an artist in our midst!" blurted out Newlan, much to Pam's dismay.

Of course, as is the case with most creatively-insecure souls, Pam truly did desire that her work be seen, even though she would have had you believe otherwise based on the fact that she didn't consider her sketches to be particularly praiseworthy.

But despite Pam's inferiority complex, each and every one of the jurors was duly impressed with her nifty artwork, although she playfully scolded Newlan nonetheless.

"You shouldn't have said anything. I didn't want to make a big deal out of it," protested Pam.

"You're a talented artist. We should make a big deal out of it," replied Newlan, and despite her objections, he sensed that Pam was enjoying the laudable attention, even though she would never admit to it in a million years.

The doodled portraits led Newlan to disclose a private revelation which had crossed his mind on more than a few occasions over the past week.

"You know, lately I've been thinking that maybe I should write a book about the trial...except that I'd rework the story into a novel...that way I can embellish and alter the facts as I see fit."

"You never know, it just might be therapeutic, and hey you could end up with a best seller on your hands for your troubles! You should discuss the idea with Natalie, she's an editor...and of course if you ever need a graphic artist, by all means give me a call," encouraged Pam as she jotted down her phone number onto Newlan's notepad.

"I'm seriously gonna consider doing it," continued the pipe-dreaming Newlan, but deep inside he knew full well that he'd never follow up on such a laborious endeavor.

But regardless of Newlan's commitment level, the alluring Natalie, who had been secretly listening in on his conversation with Pam, couldn't help but gain just a teensy bit more admiration for him since she was as much of a sucker for the artistic, creative type as he was.

Natalie even offered Newlan a few editing tips...but before they could become too engrossed in their conversation, Billy rounded them up like the captive cattle that they were, and once again court was in session.

Tracy Stone appeared to have composed herself nicely during the break, but that didn't stop Newlan from whispering to Natalie; "how long before she starts crying again?"

Natalie responded with a sour face, and she pointed her chin in Newlan's direction, as if to say; "be quiet or you're gonna get us in trouble with the judge." But then she smiled and passed him her notepad which contained the words "ten minutes" neatly written on a blank piece of paper.

Newlan smiled back at Natalie, while at the same time he kicked himself for his premature rush to judgment.

"What a jerk I am. She's not an Ice Princess in the least...and hey, who knows, before everything's said and done, maybe we just might end up becoming friendly with each other after all."

However, any flirtatious notions that Newlan may have had towards Natalie would have to wait, because DA Lyons launched right back into the task at hand, like a boxer dancing into the center of the ring at the sound of the 5th round bell.

Meanwhile, as soon as Newlan turned his eyes away from the comely juror who occupied seat number 7 and aimed them towards the witness stand, he found that he was once again taken in by the enigma which was Ms. Tracy Stone.

"Man, she's got something going on," Newlan blissfully mused, and although he couldn't quite place his finger on what that something was, he clearly seemed to understand how she could potentially set off a killing spree amongst her paramours. However, just as he was about to become irrevocably drawn into Tracy Stone's hypnotic, smoky eyes, he scolded himself until he came to his senses.

"What the hell am I thinking these days? I'm ogling a married juror who I hardly even know. I'm going gaga over a married woman who I haven't seen in twenty years. I'm drooling over the ex-wife of a murder suspect...man I need to get myself a steady girlfriend."

And despite the seriousness of his surroundings, Newlan had to work overtime to forcibly wipe the grin off his face as DA Lyons auspiciously took to the stage in an orchestrated production which served to further cement her leading role in this grand pageant we call justice.

"Ms. Stone, before the break you told us of your mother's passing. Could you tell us what happened after her death?" requested Lyons as she bowed her head in respect.

"After mom died, Johnny and I bought her house in Marlborough, and actually, I still live there to this day," replied Stone in a sentimental tone.

"And not long after you and Mr. Breslin moved into your mother's home, you had another child, didn't you Ms. Stone?"

"Yes, my daughter Rebecca was born in January of 1999."

"And you had a third child as well didn't you?" added Lyons.

"Yes, my youngest, Kevin was born in August of 2000," wistfully replied Stone as a longing for those happier times came over her.

"Ms. Stone, could you take us through the events that led you to file for divorce in 2003?" solicited Lyons as she shifted gears again, while at the same time trying to follow some sort of organized, if not chronological, timeline.

Stone took a deep, extended breath before hurtling herself into a well-rehearsed answer, chockfull of chatty details. She assumed that Lyons would be presenting her with a bevy of in-depth, personal questions, and it didn't take a genius to figure out that her divorce would be at the top of the list, so she had been preparing in her mind (and in front of a mirror) for weeks, maybe even months, now.

"Well, I stopped working for a while after Rebecca was born, but even then, it seemed like I hardly ever saw Johnny. And then he got transferred to the Tex-Ray office in Andover, which was even further from our home than the Waltham office, so he had to leave for work earlier in the morning and he got home later at night. And then he got a part-time job as a bartender at the Irish-American Club in Watertown where he worked on Friday nights and sometimes Sundays...and in the nice weather he golfed on Mondays and Saturdays, and he played in a softball league on Tuesdays and Thursdays. But for some reason he was always too tired to do things with me and the kids...and I just felt so alone all the time. He was hardly ever affectionate towards me anymore, and at times he wouldn't even kiss me. No matter what I did, I couldn't seem to please him. It's difficult to explain....but I constantly had a knot in my stomach and I was always worrying that I was gonna do something to upset him. I guess the best way to describe it is that I felt so dead inside, and I thought to myself, 'my God what have I done? I don't even think I love this man'."

And so with her heart exposed, Tracy Stone began to tear up again. Regardless of how tough she had aimed to be, approximately ten minutes into the resumption of her testimony, there she was, once again a blubbering, balling mess of a human being.

With the resumption of Stone's whimpering, Natalie nudged Newlan and pointed to the clock on the wall, while at the same time he made eye-contact with her and offered up a crack of a smile. She, in turn, flashed her notepad which she had flipped back to the page that had the words "ten minutes" written on it; and it was safe to say that if they had placed a Las Vegas styled bet on the Tracy Stone over/under crying time, Natalie would have been the sure-fire winner.

In no way was it either Natalie or Newlan's intentions to behave disrespectfully towards Tracy Stone. But rather it seemed that they were resorting to any diversion they could think of to assist them in maintaining their sanity in what was proving to be a very stressful environment. In fact, to the contrary, as Stone's teardrops continued to flow, her sadness was once again tugging at Newlan's heartstrings.

Meanwhile, DA Lyons paused for a moment so that Stone might compose herself...but before long she proceeded on with business as usual.

"And at some point didn't you attempt to reconnect with Fred Miller?"

"Yes, in 2005 I sent him a postcard which had a scenic photo of the Wayward Inn on the front of it. It was our favorite hangout when we were younger, and I figured that maybe it might bring back some good memories in Freddie's mind. The note on the back of the postcard was my first contact with Fred in almost 10 years so I wanted it to be meaningful...and as it turned out, months later when he invited me over to his house, I remember seeing the card taped to a mirror in his bedroom, and for some reason, just the sight of it made me weak in the knees," pensively explained Stone in between sniffles.

"And what was the purpose of sending Fred a postcard after all those years?" wondered Lyons.

"I just wanted him to know that I was thinking of him...and that I still loved him," replied Stone as she fought back tears.

Lyons approached the overhead projector and placed a small rectangular photo of a rustic slice of Americana onto the lens as she asked; "Is this the postcard in question Ms. Stone?"

Stone nodded her head and whispered a barely audible, "Yes."

Lyons then turned the postcard over, revealing Stone's neatly hand-written note of five words, which simply read as follows:

THANK YOU

WHITE FLAG

DIDO

"Ms. Stone could you explain the significance of these words?" requested Lyons, and Stone smiled slightly through her bitter tears as she replied to the tenacious DA's question.

"Well, 'Thank You' and 'White Flag' are song titles...and the songs were written and performed by the singer Dido. You see, Freddie and I always loved music, and we'd sometimes communicate with each other by way of song lyrics, so, in not so many words, I was sending him a message, instructing him to listen to those tunes by Dido because somehow I thought that they related to us, and particularly what I was going through in my life."

And as Tracy Stone described her silly word game, Frank Newlan was almost stunned right out of his swivel chair, all the while wondering whether the gods were conspiring to play a cruel joke on him.

"Holy shit, Marianne and I use to send song lyrics to each other all the time. What are the odds of that? Man you can't make this shit up," groaned Newlan. However, once he got past his overly dramatized wonderment, he thought to himself; "Hmmm, I'm gonna have to make a point to check out Dido's music one of these days."

And although the ratio of the long-shot odds that Newlan was contemplating in his head are anyone's guess, little did our reluctant handicapper realize it, but he hadn't seen anything yet when it came to the laws of probability; little did the number-crunching bookmaker in Newlan's soul comprehend the crapshoot which was about to be tossed his way; little did our riverboat gambler fathom it, but the fortune-wheel of chance was about to send him reeling with a musical coincidence so astronomical, it almost defied reason.

"Your honor I would like to enter this postcard as the next exhibit," requested Lyons as she handed the postcard to Assistant Clerk Dan Dente who crisply proclaimed, "postcard from Tracy Stone to Fred Miller entered as the next exhibit."

Once the postcard had been officially entered into evidence, Lyons went right back to work interviewing Tracy Stone.

"Ms. Stone, did Fred Miller contact you after you sent him this postcard?" asked Lyons and Stone frowned as she dourly replied, "No, I didn't hear back from him."

"And even though you didn't immediately hear back from Fred Miller, you still went ahead with your second request for a divorce anyway, didn't you Ms. Stone?" stated Lyons in a tone that requested a confirmation.

"Yes, I must have told Johnny a million times that my wanting a divorce had absolutely nothing to do with Freddie," replied a now more resolute Stone.

And while Stone continued to spill her guts in response to DA Lyons' guided prodding, Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason had been quietly seated on the sidelines, patiently waiting for his turn at the former Mrs. Tracy Breslin. Conversely however, he was, at all times, still on high-alert, monitoring the proceedings every inch of the way for anything overtly egregious...and finally he felt as if he had no choice but to object to her latest statement.

"Sustained," replied Judge Gershwin after she thought about it for a moment, which, as the jurors had come to observe, was her modus operandi.

"Your honor, I request that you instruct the jurors of the details regarding husband and wife privileges," appealed Gleason in attempt to further plaster his objection into the jurors' minds.

"Of course," agreeably smiled Judge Gershwin as she turned towards the jurors and gingerly added a dash more legalese into the pungent stew which was already cooking in their cluttered brains.

"Ladies and gentlemen, any private communications between a husband and a wife are considered inadmissible in a court of law. The only times, I repeat, the only times that a conversation between a husband and wife would be deemed admissible is if that conversation was made in the presence of others...or if the discussion took place in a location where the average person would reasonably expect that their conversation might be overheard. For example, if a husband and wife were having a discussion in a public place such as the supermarket, then you might reasonably expect others to overhear their conversation," explained the knowledgeable judge...and with the marital clarification out of the way, DA Lyons pressed on.

"Ms. Stone you stated this morning that you re-filed for divorce in June of 2005. Now, at that point did you make another attempt to contact Fred Miller?"

"Yes, I looked up Freddie's phone number and left him a couple of voice messages," replied Stone, but then in midstream her response came to a thudding halt.

"Well, did he call you back?" pried Lyons, and Stone winced as she replied, "No, he still didn't contact me."

"And what happened next?" wondered Lyons.

"I decided to make one last attempt to contact Freddie, so I wrote him a long, emotional letter. I guess you could say that I laid my soul bare...I just wanted him to know that I was sorry for how thing had ended between us, and that I hoped he could forgive me. I recall writing in big letters that I still cared about him, and that I hoped we could at least be friends. I wanted him to see it written down on paper that I still loved him, and that I hoped we could see each again someday," replied Stone, and for the umpteenth time over the course of the morning, the floodgate of tears opened anew.

"And did you hear from Fred Miller after sending _this_ letter?" probed Lyons.

"Yes, within days of sending my letter, I got an equally long letter back from him...I guess you could also say that he needed to get a few things off of his chest as well. But on the first page of the letter he had printed out the lyrics to a Grateful Dead song called "Built to Last", and that's when I knew he still cared about me. Regardless of whatever else he wrote in the letter, I knew he still loved me because, well, song lyrics were our thing. That, of course, and the fact that he had underlined a not-so-subtle hidden message in the lyrics," explained Stone as her eyes suddenly came aglow.

Lyons had Stone identify the letter in question and she had Assistant Clerk Dente mark it as the next exhibit. But as you might imagine, the ill-fated Frank Newlan never heard another word after the Grateful Dead song title "Built to Last" was uttered by Ms. Tracy Stone.

Newlan's body was shaking uncontrollably and his face began to turn a pasty shade of gray as he tortured himself with silent contemplation.

"How can this be? I'm listening to the Grateful Dead CD, "Built to Last" in my car this very morning, and now I find out that Miller delivered these same lyrics to Stone in a letter after ten years of silence. What the hell's happening to me? Am I becoming some sort of psychic medium? And I even dreamed about seeing Miller at a Dead concert on the very first fuckin' day of the trial when we were riding on that god-damned bus to that spooked-out garage in Newton. There was no way I could have known that Miller was a Dead Head. And then Lyons goes on to describe a red car that could just as well be mine, not to mention all of these other spooky coincidences. And to top it all off, my own high school sweetheart, now married I might add, contacts me while I'm in the middle of this big fuckin' nightmare...man you can't make this fuckin' shit up."

Not surprisingly, this latest set of eerie circumstances had Newlan waving his own white flag while at the same time retreating back into the hellhole shell of his mind at warp speed; back into his funk in record time; back into his depression in no time flat. And while he anguished over otherworldly things, things both great and small, things that he couldn't even begin to comprehend, Billy approached Judge Gershwin and briefly whispered in her ear.

After the mundanely informative conversation between judge and court officer, Billy opened up the exit door which led to the deliberation room while Judge Gershwin announced that the jurors' meals had arrived. Apparently, some of them had ordered hot sandwiches, and so the ever-considerate judge (at least when it came to the jurors) decided that she was going to break a little early for lunch; a decision which was immediately followed by Billy's customary directive of "all rise".

As the jurors lazily made their way back into the deliberation room, Natalie couldn't help but notice the distress in Newlan's face, and in response to his discomfort she gently grasped him by the hand and whispered; "Are you alright? You look a little pale."'

But the best that Newlan could do was to glower back at Natalie, and with terror in his eyes, he blindly replied; "I think I'm OK...but I just don't know...whether I'm...built to last."

Chapter 48 – Turned to Stone

Thursday afternoon June 12, 2008 – 12:50 PM

While Frank Newlan may have adjourned from the courtroom weighed down by the burden of having to carrying around a knapsack full of impenetrable riddles on his sagging shoulders, Tracy Stone spent much of her lunch break in arguably worse shape than he was; namely, with her head resting on a table in the Middlesex Superior Courthouse cafeteria, balling her pretty little eyes out.

Tracy had mentally prepared herself for this difficult day to the best of her witchy abilities, but never in her wildest dreams could she have reckoned that her tribulations would be this excruciatingly difficult. She had thoroughly convinced herself that she could handle whatever this long awaited day held in store for her. She had thoroughly convinced herself that she would thrive under the bright glow of the overwhelming spotlight. She had thoroughly convinced herself that she would not only survive the ordeal, but she would emerge a stronger person because of it. But now, here she was, on the verge of another collapsing nervous breakdown, and her shattered convictions of the heart made the debilitating hardship all the more shocking to her devastated ego.

An impartial observer might have commended Tracy Stone for her courage in the face of turmoil, for her bravery in coping with such a heavy millstone of personal baggage. But at the present time, the prevailing wind of thought that was running through her own mind was that she couldn't win for losing; it seemed as if every fork in the road she had ever taken was the wrong one; everything path she had ever travelled down was doomed to lead in the direction of failure; everything mistake she had ever made in her life was destined to come back to haunt her tenfold.

Knowing the fragile state of Tracy's emotions as only a sibling could, her sister Beth stood waiting just outside the courtroom doors at the commencement of the lunch break, on the ready to provide a dose of much needed moral support. Beth tried to get Tracy to eat something before returning into the courtroom to resume her testimony, but her nerves were so shot, she couldn't hold down a bite of food. Beth tried to cheer Tracy up with jokes and jeers and jabs, directed at anyone and anything she could think of, but it was all to no avail. Tracy was inconsolable. Here she was hammering the final nail into the coffin of her ex-husband, and she didn't know whether to feel happy or sad about it. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Or as she might put it; "I don't know my ass from my elbow anymore."

In short, Tracy Stone was an emotional train wreck. She was one step closer to sending the father of her children away to the slammer for the rest of his life, but now that the moment of truth had arrived, she wasn't sure whether she could go through with it anymore. She was tempted to walk out of the courthouse, hop into her car, and drive off into the sunset, never looking back. But alas, much like Frank Newlan, she had to look back, because well, unfortunately in her case, she didn't have much choice in the matter.

Meanwhile, over in the opposite corner of the cafeteria from where Tracy and Beth were seated, Cam Miller and his elderly parents, Stella and Ed, were picking at a light lunch and debating the merits of the case thus far.

"So you still think we're gonna nail this son of a bitch? Because I gotta tell you, I have this sinking feeling that the bastard is gonna get away with it," lamented Ed Miller. And even though, more often than not lately, Cam had been picking up on the same negative vibe of which his father was perceptively detecting, he tried his damndest not to let his doubts show in front of his frail parents.

"Come on dad, we gotta let the trial play out. I admit that things don't seem all that strong right about now, but we haven't even gotten to most of our key witnesses yet," maintained Cam while at the same time his mother Stella whimpered out her own hopes and fears.

"I just want to get this over with as soon as possible and maybe then we can put some closure on this horrible nightmare...but God forbid that this Breslin character gets off, I swear, the agony of it all might just kill me on the spot."

"Don't forget Stella, we still have to come back in the fall, the good Lord willing, for the trial of the other SOB, Sammy the Fox," reminded Ed, and once again his wife moaned back her response.

"Oh dear God, I don't know how much more of this I can take. Sometimes I just don't care what happens to this scum and his cohort anymore. In the end, they'll have to answer to their maker one way or another. Sometime I think I might be better off if I just stayed home for the rest of the trial. Regardless of what happens, it's not going to bring Freddie back."

Indeed, the trial may have been taking its toll on Frank Newlan and his colleagues, but their trauma paled in comparison to what Stella and Ed Miller were going through. They were already frangible to begin with, but with each passing day they seemed to wither away just a little bit more. And despite Mrs. Miller's comments to the contrary, the Miller's were hampered by a solemn, yet exacting, desire to observe as much of the proceedings as they possibly could with their own two eyes, even if it meant that their health might consequently suffer as a direct result of their unflagging perseverance.

On the other hand however, in sharp contrast to his mother and father, by all outward appearances, Cam Miller was as solid as a rock in the courtroom. His parents had been barely able to make it through some of the more graphic testimony thus far (not to mention the awful photographs) without falling apart, but not old Cam; no, old Cam just sat there stone-faced in the gallery, day after day, even though his insides were churning like a choppy sea in the crest of a winter storm.

And although Cam Miller may have been a constant presence in the courtroom, it was clear that his parents on the other hand (their dedication and diligence notwithstanding) painstakingly needed to pick their spots when deciding upon which particular days to attend the trial. Thankfully DA Lyons had been nice enough to religiously inform them of when certain events might be taking place, and they concluded that they should unequivocally be present and accounted for on the morning of Tracy Stone's testimony.

And speaking of the aforementioned Ms. Stone, as the Miller's nibbled at their lunches Cam made the awkward mistake of acknowledging the fact that deep down inside he felt bad for Tracy, which in turn prompted a verbal upbraiding from his mother Stella.

"How can you feel sorry for her, Cam? If you haven't noticed, she's the reason your brother's lying in the cemetery right now. He should have never gotten mixed up with her again. I knew she was bad news from day one," lectured Stella as Ed nodded his head in agreement.

"Oh come on mom, she's a victim in this as well. How could she have known that her husband would do something so stupid, so reckless...so cowardly? I swear to God I'd like to jump over that divider and wring his neck," argued Cam who, in spite of his exterior coolness, was getting angrier by the minute; for it seemed that the more he brooded over the deplorable actions of the emotionless John Breslin, sitting there at the defense table as if he were watching some sort of poorly acted grammar school play, the more he was overcome by an irrepressible desire to choke him until his eyes popped out of his head.

"Don't you dare even think such a thing...I didn't raise my sons to resolve violence with more violence. It's senseless...and my heart can't take it anymore," scolded Stella. But her only remaining son had other ideas dancing around in his brain.

"God, if she only knew the half of it, she'd totally freak out. Even I don't know where some of these crazy thoughts that have been dancing around my head these days are coming from. I know it would kill her, but I swear to God, if I ever got the chance, I'd take the motherfucker out myself," contemplated Cam as he absentmindedly peered over in the direction of where Tracy and Beth were seated.

Cam watched on helplessly as Tracy sobbed uncontrollably into her sister's arms...and as the little voice inside his head -- the voice of which he silently spoke of -- steered him off towards parts unknown, for some reason, his mind flashed back to that bitterly cold winter morning on the second anniversary of his brother's death when he bumped into Tracy as she mourned by Fred's tombstone; he flashed back to the way she hungrily hugged him, the way she repeatedly kissed him. And with the flashbacks came the urge to look into Tracy's hypnotic eyes once again.

"If you'll excuse me, I'm going to see if there's anything I can do to ease Tracy's pain," announced a priestly Cam, out of the blue, while his speechless parents could only shake their heads in disbelief.

Yes, even in the face of his parents' vehement disapproval, Cam apprehensively straggled over to Tracy's table just the same and he politely asked, "Do you mind if I sit down?"

"Oh please do. I'll let you talk in private for a while," replied Beth. And as she got up to leave, it was with a knowing understanding of the intimately awkward situation where two people sometimes desperately need to be alone.

"Oh no, you can stay," protested Cam.

"No, really, I have to use the rest room anyway" insisted Beth...and as she departed from the table, the cafeteria wondrously fell into a magical shadow which engulfed Cam's foolish heart. It was as if he and Tracy were suddenly alone in a candlelit restaurant, mesmerized by the fear in each other's eyes.

Cam gazed deeply into Tracy's pupils and serenely offered up his council.

"It's OK Tracy...everything's gonna be alright. You just have to get through a few more hours...and my family and I just have to get through a few more days...and soon we can all begin to put this nightmare behind us."

"I know, but I'm scared Cam. I'm scared that I'm gonna say the wrong thing. I'm scared about what this all means for my future...and I'm petrified just thinking about being grilled by Gleason all afternoon. Oh God, I'm scared shitless. And what if he gets off?" sobbed Tracy. And yet all the while, despite the tears, an exotic womanly potion was spontaneously brewing up inside of her, ambrosially drifting about, on the ready to ensnare any and all weak masculine life-forces that crossed her path.

"You just have to be brave and tell the truth. You do that...and we'll deal with whatever consequences come afterwards. Just tell the truth, that's all I'm asking," calmly asserted an unwitting Cam.

"But it feels like every person in the courtroom is looking into my soul, and I just don't know if I can take it much longer. Even the jurors are a staring at me. Especially that guy at the end of the jury box...the one with the long stringy hair...he won't take his eyes off me. It almost seems as if their judging me more than they're judging Johnny. And then, every time I peek in his direction, he's staring out into space. I swear I just want get out of my chair and shake him and scream, 'look what you've done'," Tracy angrily acquiesced. But along with her indignation, a radiant splendor shone through the dreamy elixir that was fermenting in her bosoms.

And upon taking in Tracy's pungent confession, a feeling of oddly comforting arousal boosted Cam spirits, and he reiterated his uplifting confirmation.

"There's nothing to be afraid of Tracy. Just be strong and continue to tell your story. Just be strong and everything is gonna be alright."

"Oh Cam I'm so sorry. I can't help but feel that Freddie's death is entirely my fault....and I feel so bad for you poor parents. They must hate me for this," tearfully confessed Tracy while at the same time her supple body sent a strangely luminous glowing wave of infrared rays crashing down on Cam's brow.

"They don't hate you. They just miss Freddie," heedlessly contended Cam, although, of course, he knew otherwise.

"I miss him too. I miss him so much" wailed a flickering Tracy, and just as he had done in the cemetery, Cam repeatedly whispered his mantra in an almost narcotic tone; "everything's gonna be alright." And just as she had done in the cemetery, Tracy returned his assurances with a tender hug.

Tracy's head lingered restfully against Cam's shoulder ever so gently before she finally loosened her embrace. But as she disentangled from Cam's body she took his hands in hers, hidden under the cafeteria table, and she softly caressed his ruggedly warm appendages while simultaneously whispering sweet nothings in his ear, seemingly in a foreign tongue.

And as the furtive tidings took their affect, once again Tracy and Cam made spellbinding eye-contact, just as they had done in that bitterly cold graveyard some five months previous. Once again Cam become numbly aware of the far-away look in Tracy's eyes, except this time he didn't sense that anything was amiss. This time it all felt perfectly natural. This time it all seemed perfectly clear. This time he accepted his karmic fortune without a struggle.

This time, when the sudden shiver of lust rushed through Cam's body, he didn't fight his fate. This time, when Cam felt the blood go surging through his veins, he didn't resist his destiny.

Cam Miller couldn't even begin to comprehend what was happening to him, and furthermore, he didn't seem to care. However, those of us who have ever been shot down by Cupid's bloody arrow know what's going on here. Those of us who have ever suffered on the cross of love know that this scene could only mean one thing; it could only mean that Tracy Stone was about to turn one more man into a petrified mass of molten quarry, cast and hardened into the unmistakable shape...of a broken heart.

Chapter 49 – Dead Heads and Love Letters

Thursday afternoon June 12, 2008 – 1:00 PM

The aroma that came wafting out of the open doorway of the John Breslin murder trial deliberation room was a savory potpourri of lunchtime comfort food staples, and as such, after a grueling morning of testimony from the affecting Tracy Stone, the mere scent of the sandwiches had fifteen of our benevolent jurors salivating like a bunch of Pavlov's dogs. However, while the rest of his colleagues were enjoying their free meals, Frank Newlan didn't even bother unwrapping his turkey-melt sandwich; instead he just sat there like a bump on a log staring blankly at the walls.

"Aren't you hungry Frank?" wondered Yong, the good-natured Korean woman.

"No, I'm afraid I've lost my appetite," Newlan sighed, and then under his breath he proceeded to mutter an addendum to his explanation regarding the not so sudden malaise which had overtaken him; "I swear to God I feel like I'm in the freakin' Twilight Zone."

Newlan's comments had Mark, the young high tech worker, slightly puzzled; although, based on the impish smile plastered across his face, you could glean that he was rather amused by his sulky cohort's latest mood swing.

"What's the problem Frank?" tentatively asked Mark, even though he wasn't altogether sure whether he really wanted to know what was troubling Newlan this time around.

"You're not gonna believe this, but you know how Tracy mentioned that Fred copied down the lyrics from the Grateful Dead song "Built to Last" on the first page of the letter he sent to her? Well I was listening to that CD this very morning. Now tell me, is that eerie or what?" demanded a perplexed Newlan in a vocal tone that hinted at hysteria. But interestingly enough, his manic revelation triggered more curiosity amongst his colleagues than it did concern.

"Are you a Grateful Dead fan?" wondered an intrigued Natalie, while at the same time she conveniently ignored Newlan's dramatic aside regarding his ever-increasingly improbable encounters with fortuity.

"Yeah...well, I like all kinds of music, but I'd have to say that the Dead are right up there at the top of my list of favorite bands," replied Newlan rather unenthusiastically (but then again, his dour attitude is a bit more understandable when the circumstances surrounding his latest funk are taken into consideration).

Of course, if there was one surefire way to get Newlan's troubles off of his mind, it was to steer the conversation towards the topic of music; whether it was a discussion geared towards collecting records and CD's, attending concerts, musical trivia, songwriting, or just playing the guitar, you name the topic, and his disposition was bound to improve.

"Are you a Dead Head?" earnestly chimed in Jim, the telecom employee who had lived through his own share of haphazard adventures in his younger days, including a couple of memorable, drug-enhanced, psychedelic Grateful Dead concerts.

"Well I never followed them around the country in VW bus or anything like that, but I've seen them in concert at least 30 times," proudly exclaimed the vagabond that resided within Newlan's heart.

"Wow...30 times! Were their concerts really as wild as everyone says?" inquisitively added Ron the banker, seeing as how he himself had never gotten caught up in the rock & roll scene.

"Oh they were wild all right..." Newlan gushed, and suddenly he found that he was rather enjoying being the center of attention. But then, just as suddenly, he recalled how the topic of the Grateful Dead had come up in the first place, and he fell back to Earth in the blink of an eye.

"...but wait a minute, weren't we just discussing the eerie little coincidence of me listening to an obscure song in my car this morning, a song that none of you have probably ever even heard of, and then Tracy mentions that same song in court today. Doesn't anyone else think that's bizarre? Because I gotta tell you the truth...I'm really freaked out about it."

"So you're saying it was the exact same song that you were listening to...today?" questioned a skeptical Jane...and Newlan immediately picked up on the suspicion in her voice as he lashed out at his nemesis.

"Let's go to my car right now. I'll show you the CD in my glove box. I swear I'm not making this you know what up."

"Oh no, I believe you," assured Jane and truth be told, when she accompanied a large group the jurors for a walk around the outdoor garage during Annie's daily cigarette break sabbatical, she was somewhat sympathetic to Newlan's plight, although she still wasn't totally convinced that he wasn't off his rocker.

"I admit...it is kind of a weird oddity that Frank was listening to the same song that was mentioned in court this morning, but my God, what does he want us to believe? That he's a psychic or something crazy like that," gestured Jane as her colleagues intently listened in.

Meanwhile, Newlan was spending his quiet 'alone' time back in the deliberation room fervently meditating...and within minutes of launching his ruminative endeavor, he got himself all wrapped up in a desperate contemplation regarding the untapped reservoir of the human mind; all in an attempt to come to grips with his uncanny knack for being able to conjure up these unpredictable serendipitous scenarios when he least expected it. However, just when he thought his search for a meaning was about to approach an alpha-state, he was distracted by the sound of boisterous laughter coming from the hallway, where a majority of the jurors were returning from their outdoor excursion; their giddiness stemming around the pleasure they seemed to be receiving from discussing the shortcomings of one Ms. Tracy Stone.

"I gotta tell you, I was a little bit disappointed when I first saw Tracy strolling into the courtroom this morning. For some reason, I assumed that she was gonna look like some sort of supermodel," admitted Jane.

"Yes, I was expecting a knockout as well," concurred the usually reserved Lisa.

"I can't believe that _that's_ what all this fuss is about," emphatically added Newlan's friend Patty.

And as it turned out, every single juror on the panel who was of the female persuasion nodded their heads in agreement, while at the same time adding their own choice commentary regarding Tracy Stone's physical attributes, or lack thereof. But in Newlan's eyes, the women were piling it on a bit too much, and so he offered up his own review to nobody in particular.

"I bet that she was really pretty back in her day."

"Yeah, in her day...maybe," replied Jane, once again to nods of agreement amongst the ladies. And in response to the vitriol, Newlan decided to ratchet up the rhetoric a notch or two, broadcasting his own revised assessment of Tracy Stone, loud enough for all to hear.

"Actually, never mind in her day. She's still a looker, even now, if you ask me."

Newlan's appraisal was greeted with a sudden silence and a few frowns from the girls, but, boys being boys, not surprisingly, many of the male jurors seconded his emotions.

However, leave it to the feisty Annie to blurt out what most of the jurors –- both male and female -- were thinking, even though they didn't dare verbalize their thoughts at the moment.

"Never mind what she looks like. They should throw her in jail too. When you come right down to it, she's the one whose actions provoked this entire mess."

The anger in Annie's face was palpable, and she wasn't quite done with her rant just yet.

"If she loved this guy so much then why the hell did she keep breaking up with him? Then she goes off and gets married and has three kids...nice people we're dealing with here."

Annie's pointed comments had the deliberation room buzzing with charged-up emotions and opinions, but for a change, Newlan stay out of the line of fire and he kept his big mouth shut. Although in his mind he found the debate to be rather comical.

"So much for the jurors not discussing the case...and besides how was Tracy to know her husband was gonna go postal," internally argued Newlan. But then he caught on to what he was absentmindedly thinking and once again he corrected himself.

"Hey, wait a minute...we still don't know whether Breslin had anything to do with the murder. Damn it, I gotta block these cynical thoughts out of my head or it could wind up subconsciously influencing my decision."

As lunch break dragged on, Newlan continued to brood over the alleged culpability of John Breslin, while at the same time he fought off the rush-to-judgment mentality that he loathed in the others. And as the seconds slowly ticked away, he continued to weigh the merits of Tracy Stone's testimony, while at the same time he fended off her beautiful, lingering countenance, which was endangering his fragile impartiality.

And while his colleagues digested their meals and patiently waited to be called back into the courtroom, Newlan's contemplations of Tracy Stone and John Breslin suddenly morphed into thoughts of Marianne Plante and her unknowingly familiar husband; irresistibly foreboding thoughts of ecstasy and horror; fascinatingly alarming thoughts of sex and murder; seductively gloomy thoughts of pleasure and pain.

In many ways, Newlan's visions were wonderfully erotic, while in other ways they were hatefully violent. But nonetheless, in his paranormally obsessed psyche, the sum of these divergent parts added up to a disturbing collage of tangled bodies mired in a life-or-death struggle for survival, all of which frightened him to no end. And so, in hopes of garnering a bit of advice, he reluctantly decided to come clean to the forthright Annie.

"By the way, another thing that's been on my mind lately, and I know you're not gonna believe this, but my high school girlfriend called me on the phone the other night for the first time in about 20 years. She's been going through her own share of marital problems, just like Tracy was..." quietly confessed Newlan, but before he could get much further along in his exposé, Annie shot him a look as if to say that he was crazy...and then she told him as much.

"Are you nuts? After what we've been listening too...be afraid Frank, be very afraid. Do you wanna end up like Fred Miller?"

"No, no, you're right Annie. I think I realized all along what I have to do, but I guess I just needed to hear someone else say it," sheepishly admitted Newlan. However, the indecision which had been tormenting his soul promptly resurfaced, and he stubbornly added, "Of course, you gotta remember, we still don't know for sure who killed Miller."

On the flipside of the equation, the eavesdropping Jane couldn't believe the dribble that was spewing forth from Newlan's mouth, and she whispered to her confidante, Lisa, "oh sure...now he's got women tracking him down after 20 years. What a drama queen...and to think I was starting to feel sorry for him about his song lyric dilemma."

The insinuating murmurs continued for the remainder of the lunch break, but at the moment Newlan didn't have the energy to defend himself from an ant, never mind a swarm of angry bees posing as jurors. The pull-and-tug of Stone's intense testimony had him strung out and subdued in every way, and while outwardly it appeared that he had composed himself, inwardly he was as confused and devastated as ever by the dynamic drag of this mystical undertow of forces which seemed to surround him wherever he roamed. Forces that perhaps didn't even exist, and yet forces which were in fact so powerful they had him questioning his own existence.

But alas, regardless of Frank Newlan's internal struggles, the wheels of justice never slow down, and the jurors soon found themselves back in the courtroom, pondering more stunning testimony from the indomitable Tracy Stone.

"Ms. Stone before lunch you mentioned that in June of 2005 you received a letter from Fred Miller isn't that correct?" reiterated DA Lyons. And although Stone may have been unyielding in her demeanor, she was still sniffling and dabbing her eyes with tissue paper, but nevertheless she managed to reply softly in the affirmative.

Lyons then placed the neatly typed first page of the letter which contained the Grateful Dead lyrics of the song "Built to Last" onto the overhead projector and politely asked, "Ms. Stone, is this the letter in question?"

Stone carefully reviewed the text being projected on the screen, and once again she whispered, "Yes," while at the same time Newlan could only shake his head in disbelief one more time.

"And what was the significance of the underlined letters?" wondered Lyons, while Stone smiled yearningly and proudly replied, "Well, it's obvious isn't it? They spell out the words 'I love you'."

"And did your ex-husband Mr. Breslin somehow become aware of this letter soon after you received it?" continued Lyons.

"Yes...you see, I have this desk drawer where I keep all of my mementos dating back some twenty five years, and in that drawer was a large envelope packed with all of Freddie's stuff. You know...cards, letters, pictures, and things like that. Anyways, getting back to your question, well, I thought that maybe I was entitled to a little bit of privacy, but no, Johnny was snooping around as usual. I guess, maybe he saw the letter in the mailbox, I don't know. But regardless of how he found out, no sooner had I received the letter, when there he was, confronting me about it," bitterly explained Stone.

And as Stone continued on with the telling of her sorry tale, Newlan couldn't seem to take his eyes off of her; he felt for all the world as if some sort of a magical bond had linked him to her heart, and once again his mind began connecting dots which perhaps didn't really even exist.

"Shit, I have a desk drawer full of mementos too. Small potatoes compared to some of the other coincidences, but I swear to God the planets must be aligned in some sort of Frank Newlan eclipse," muttered our wayward correspondent. Although, luckily for him, he didn't have much of an opportunity to become too distracted, due to the fact that the pace of Lyons' questions were picking up a nice rhythm.

"And what was your response to your husband's complaints?" inquired Lyons.

"At that point, I'd had it. I knew I was gonna go through with the divorce, and I just didn't have the strength to argue with him anymore, so I just let him go on until he tired himself out. And after he went to bed I called Freddie and left him another message," replied Stone.

"And did Fred return this message?" wondered Lyons, while Stone thought back to that memorable turning point in her life for a moment, before wistfully replying.

"Yes, he called me the next day, and just hearing his voice again after all those years...I felt so happy, so alive, so in love...and the tone of his voice told me all that I needed to know...it told me that he still loved me too."

"And when did you start to see Fred Miller again?"

"Well, while we were talking on the phone, we arranged to meet the next night after I got out of work, and after that, we kind of gradually started seeing more of each other."

"Where would you meet...where would you go?" queried Lyons in a singsong tone.

"It was difficult to see each other as often as we would have liked, due to my many other commitments with the kids and all, which I know frustrated Freddie, but sometimes we'd meet at my workplace, or sometimes at night when Johnny was home for visitations, I'd tell him I was going out to do a few errands but I'd secretly meet up with Freddie instead," nonchalantly replied Stone, much to the dismay of many of the jurors who, as we have come know, didn't particularly approve of her extramarital relationship.

"And wasn't there an incident shortly thereafter, on the Fourth of July to be exact?" continued Lyons in an inquisitive manner.

"Yes. Freddie and I were going to go watch the fireworks with some of his friends when Johnny called me on my cell phone. He suspected that I was with Fred and he made me feel guilty about abandoning the kids on the holiday. He pretty much reduced me to tears so I told Freddie that I had to go home," replied Stone who was getting teary-eyed just recounting the incident.

"Now, a few weeks after the Fourth of July wasn't there a confrontation between Fred Miller and your ex-husband John Breslin?" inquired Lyons, and Stone thought long and hard about this sequence of events before attempting an answer.

"Yes, about a week or two after the Fourth, Johnny was served with the divorce papers, and he was livid for days. And it was around this time that we were having a big argument in the driveway of our home one evening when Fred happened to drive by on his motorcycle. And when he saw what was going on, he stopped the bike and asked me if there was a problem. Now I'm pretty sure Johnny knew who Freddie was by then, but just the same, he asked him, 'who the hell are you?' and Freddie replied, 'I'm Joe Schmo from Idaho' which infuriated Johnny. And then they were in each other's faces, angrily yelling back and forth. But after a few minutes, I step in between them and I politely asked Fred to please leave...and he did. And after Freddie left, Johnny says to me, 'your friend thinks he's such a tough guy...well he better hope our paths don't cross again'."

And as Stone recounted her story, a portion of her response once again startled Newlan.

"Joe Schmo from Idaho...you've got to be shittin' me...I've use that expression before," thought Newlan, and into his head popped the memory of the cold winter night when he got busted almost 30 years ago. Specifically, he vividly recalled the arresting cop, Gary Graves Sr., asking him what his name was, and he remembered like it was yesterday that he responded with the wise-assed remark, "I'm Joe Schmo from Idaho." The comeback was just another one of the many crude rejoinders in his arsenal of vocabulary, but more importantly it drove home the point that he and Fred Miller shared many of the same character traits, include the release of a sarcastically acerbic tongue at the slightest provocation.

Newlan was truly beginning to crack up over what, in his mind, was rapidly becoming a long line of dubious similarities between himself and Miller, and once again, but not for the last time, he muttered his favorite commentary on the oft-proven anecdote that the truth is sometimes stranger than fiction; "man, you can't make this shit up."

Meanwhile Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason shot up and complained, "objection, your honor could you please remind Ms. Stone of the rules regarding husband and wife privileges again."

DA Lyons was fully expecting the objection, and if anything she was curious as to why Gleason wasn't objecting to more of Stone's responses, but she trudged on undeterred.

"And Ms. Stone do you recall an incident that occurred as you were getting out of work on the night of August 18th, 2005?"

"Yes, Freddie showed up at my office on his motorcycle, and my coworker Kim Beliveau made us aware of a man who was watching us while snapping photos and talking on a cell phone. We assumed he was a private investigator hired by Johnny, and, as you can imagine, I was very upset...Kim was upset...Freddie was upset. And when Freddie approached the car, the guy eventually drove away."

"And what happened when you went home that night?" wondered Lyons.

"Of course, by then Johnny was well aware of the fact that I was seeing Fred, but I hadn't told my sister Beth anything about it yet, so when I got home I was surprised to find her at my house...and she confronted me about what was going on. Obviously, Johnny had clued her in on what was happening, so I admitted that I was dating Fred again, and then Johnny jumps in and starts shouting, 'what the hell does he want with a woman who's married and has three young kids?' And then he tore into Freddie, calling him a 'loser' amongst over things, because he wasn't married yet," replied Stone in a rather wry tone.

"Now wait freakin' a minute. Breslin's hitting a bit too close to home with the 'loser' insults," thought the pushing 50 and still single Newlan. And just like that, he found his thoughts wandering back to a conversation he had recently had with one of his co-workers at Tafts University, Celine Sullivan, from the Central Accounting department.

The buxom Sullivan was also a married woman who had borne four young children, all of which kept her very busy as well. But regardless of her hectic schedule, for some inexplicable reason she seemed to take a vested interest in Newlan's love-life from the first day she met him and she never let up. She would constantly be on the lookout for him, keeping him apprised of her single girlfriends and making intricate plans to fix him up on blind dates. But then, when the rubber hit the road, she would never follow up on any of her many proposals.

In fact, just about a week before the start of Newlan's jury duty stint, Sullivan had teasingly questioned him about his marital status thusly; "when are you gonna get married? People are gonna start to think that you don't like women or something."

Now, to be clear, Newlan had always been the type of person who could care less about his co-workers personal lives, and he preferred to keep his own love-life off-limits as well, but nevertheless he found Sullivan's comments rather amusing.

"What do you mean? You keep telling me about all of your good-looking single girlfriends, but then you never even come through with a phone number. I'm beginning to think that maybe you want me for yourself," countered Newlan, and his wry observation found Sullivan turning a bright shade of crimson as she lightly slapped his wrist in protest.

"Don't say that. My husband treats me so good...he's like a saint for God's sake."

But despite Sullivan's denial, Newlan couldn't help but pick up on the fact that she became totally flustered by his revealing proclamation. In the end, the conversation concluded in a stalemate. Although, it did leave Newlan with some tempting food for thought; "Hmmm, I think I may have struck a nerve. Maybe Celine's had a thing for me all along. I'll definitely have to make a mental note of this development for future reference. You never know...Miss Matchmaker could very well find herself single someday and in search of a little bit of loving."

For the umpteenth time since the start of the trial, Newlan was beginning to zone-out again when he should have been focusing in on a witness testimony, this time drifting off into a dangerous fantasy featuring an illicit liaison with the voluptuous Celine Sullivan. But fortunately for him, the turbulent proceedings in the courtroom disrupted his speculative daydream and snapped him back to attention in the blink of an eye.

"Now Ms. Stone, regarding your divorce papers, what, if any, agreements were made by your attorneys?" inquired Lyons in a voice that was loud enough to send the temporarily distracted Newlan hurtling back to reality with a thud.

"Well, it was the typical financial stuff. You know, credit card payments...mortgage payments...child support payments...and stuff like that. But I guess what you're probably referring to was the agreement which stated that Johnny was required to move out of our marital home as of September 2005," answered Stone as a circumspect look formed on her face.

"And after Mr. Breslin moved out your home where did he go, and what were the arrangements regarding the children?" continued Lyons along the same vein.

"When Johnny first moved out he took an apartment, but after a while he moved back home with his mother. And as far as the kids were concerned, he had visitations every Tuesday and Thursday night, as well as every other weekend," explained a visibly weary Tracy Stone.

"And what would you do during these visitations? Would you stay home? Would you go out?"

"I would just about always go out, and I'd usually meet up with Freddie, or if he wasn't around I'd go visit one of my girlfriends."

"Was your husband OK with this?" wondered Lyons in an instigating tone, and Stone thought about the question for a second or two before she boldly answered.

"He really had no choice in the matter...but he'd constantly be making excuses to call me on my cell phone just the same. He'd always start out by asking me questions about the kids, such as where were their schoolbooks and their homework, and things of that nature. But by the end of the conversation, he'd be harassing me about Freddie every time, which I'm sure was the real reason he kept calling me in the first place. And on top of that, he was just being a real jerk."

"Ms. Stone wasn't there another incident on Saturday September 24th of 2005?" continued Lyons in a solemn tone.

"Yes, Freddie and I took the kids to a local carnival, and Johnny kept calling me on my cell phone over and over again, for no apparent reason other than to badger me. And finally Freddie got fed up with the constant harassment, and so he grabbed the phone out of my hand and started arguing with Johnny."

"And Ms. Stone, in the early morning hours of Monday October 10th, 2005 wasn't there yet another incident?"

"Yes, it was Sunday night just after midnight of the Columbus Day long weekend, and Freddie was hanging out over at my place. The kids were asleep and we were just kind of relaxing on the sofa when Johnny called. He knew Fred was there, and he wanted him out of his house. He called about ten times in less than fifteen minutes, and after that, the phone kept ringing, but every time I picked up, no one would answer on the other end...and the caller ID showed an unlisted number. Well, as you can imagine, after a while I got really scared so I called the police."

"So what happened when the police came over?"

"They took my statement, and I gave them Johnny's number...and just like that, the phone stopped ringing," explained a hardened Stone, while DA Lyons pressed on in an attempt to show a consistent pattern of intimidation by Breslin.

"Ms. Stone wasn't there also an incident on October 21th of 2005?" asked Lyons, and Stone composed herself before replying with another long, sad chapter in the story of a disintegrating marriage.

"Yes, my daughter Rebecca was in the hospital with a urinary tract infection, and I was planning to spend the night with her. Anyway, at around 7 PM my sister Beth and her husband stopped by for a visit, and shortly thereafter Freddie joined us. Well, no sooner had Freddie entered the room when my phone rings and its Johnny on the other end of the line...he said he was down in the parking lot, and he was pissed-off because he saw Fred coming into the hospital. Johnny was with our sons and he made it clear in no uncertain terms that he wanted Fred out of Rebecca's room, so I explained the situation to Freddie and I asked him to leave, and he did. But I guess he crossed paths with Johnny and the boys as they were walking in and he was walking out. Apparently, Johnny gave Fred a dirty look, but neither one of them said anything to each other. And then the boys said hello to Freddie, which, according to my sons, made Johnny even more upset than he already was. Then Johnny came sulking into the room carrying a couple of pizzas and everyone dug in, but before I could even grab a slice he said he needed to talk to me alone. So we went into one of the waiting rooms and we got into a loud argument about Freddie being around the kids. Eventually a nurse came barging into the waiting room and told us to quiet down or she was going to call security and have us both thrown out of the hospital. The nurse was very upset and her scolding tone kind of got us to realize that we needed to cool off, so we apologized and went back into Rebecca's room...but once we got there, we continued to fight, albeit more quietly, for the rest of the night."

"And Ms. Stone, how did you spend Thanksgiving of 2005?" inquired Lyons, even though she already knew the answer.

"My sister Beth and her husband invited me and the kids over to their house, and because they didn't want to upset the kids, they invited Johnny as well. But right from the start, things didn't go very smoothly. My sister decided that before we ate dinner, we should all go around the room and say a few words about what we were thankful for...but just the idea of it made Johnny bitter. He stormed out of the room and he was muttering under his breath about how he had nothing to be thankful for. We ended up fighting all afternoon, and he basically ruined Thanksgiving dinner for everyone."

"And what happened during the Christmas holidays of 2005 Ms. Stone?" continued Lyons in a rhythmically insistent tone

"Well, I asked Johnny if he wanted to take the kids for the afternoon on Christmas Eve, but he declined, so I spent the day with Freddie and the kids wrapping presents. Then that night, Johnny came over with gifts for the kids, and he ended up staying the night. And then on Christmas Day I decided to go with Johnny and the kids to visit his mother. But while we were there, I felt guilty that I kind of deserted Freddie so I went into the bathroom and called him on my cell phone. Of course, as usual, Johnny was spying on me, and he overheard me talking on the phone. And as you might expect, he got all upset. But after I explained the situation he calmed down a bit. Then, later that night Johnny drove us home, and by the time we got back to the house it was really late and we were all exhausted, so Johnny ended up staying the night again," replied Stone, her voice trailing off at the mere mention of her estranged husband spending Christmas night at her house.

"So Ms. Stone, as the New Year arrived, were you still planning on proceeding with your divorce, in light of the fact that you had spent the Christmas holidays with your husband?" asked Lyons by way of clarification.

"Yes definitely...I made it clear to Johnny that even though the holidays were pleasant...I still intended to go through with the divorce," emphatically confirmed Stone.

"Now Ms. Stone, why did you spend the Christmas holidays with your husband?" wondered a puzzled Lyons, knowing full well that every person in the courtroom, particularly the jurors, was probably wondering the same thing.

"I don't know. I guess I was just feeling kind of sentimental...and I wanted the kids to be with both their parents for the holiday," reasoned Stone and then, with a shrug of her shoulders and a crack in her voice, she added, "Maybe it was the wrong thing to do."

Lyons continued to wear a puzzled expression on her face as she logically asked; "OK then, but how was your relationship with Fred Miller during this period?"

And Stone frowned back in kind at Lyons as she admitted to the confusion that her schizophrenic behavior was causing in the lives of both her leading men.

"Fred and I were arguing quite a bit during the first week of January 2006. He was upset that I was spending so much time with Johnny, and I didn't blame him for being mad. But by the end of the week we made an attempt to patch things up, and we had plans to go out to for a late afternoon dinner on Sunday, January 8th of 2006."

"And did you end up going out to dinner with Fred Miller on the 8th of January?" continued Lyons, and once again Stone lips curled into a bewildering frown as she was forced to reveal her maddening indecision.

"No, my plans changed when Johnny dropped off the kids a bit earlier than expected, and they were hungry...so I ended up going out to dinner with Johnny and the kids."

"So how did you explain this to Fred Miller?"

"Well, I called Freddie and canceled, and I kind of blamed it on the kids. And then the next day I called him again and I tried to explain what had happened, but he didn't want to hear it. He said he was really frustrated with the way that things were going between us, and I just didn't know what to do. I was only trying to be a good mother and do what was best for my kids," clarified Stone, and when she realized how confusing her answers must have been for the jurors to comprehend, she started crying once again.

Stone's sobs lingered for a while, and out of respect for the sniffling witness, DA Lyons went with her somber voice as she asked, "And did something happen on January 11th of 2006?

And Stone smiled slightly through her tears as she responded; "Yes, by a strange coincidence, I got flower delivered to the house from both Freddie and Johnny on the same day."

"Now Ms. Stone could you please run us through the events that took place on the night of January 12th, 2006?" politely inquired Lyons as she strategically forged ahead.

"Let me see...Johnny had visitations that night, but he called at the last minute and said he was going to be a little late. I guess a squirrel had gotten into his mother's basement and he had to help her get it out. But when he finally arrived, I left and met Freddie at the Wayward Inn where we hung out for a few hours. Nothing too exciting, we had a few drinks and talked to his friend Mike Landers who works at the bar, and at the end of the night Freddie walked me to my car and kissed me goodnight...and that was the last time I ever saw him," recalled Stone, who of course began to sob uncontrollably just as Miller's trio of friends before her had done when they recounted their last moments with a living, breathing, Fred Miller.

As Stone blubbered into her handkerchief, Lyons gave her plenty of time to calm herself down before proceeding on to the climax of her testimony.

"Ms. Stone, could you please take us through the morning and afternoon of Friday January 13th of 2006?" calmly requested Lyons, and Stone did the best she could to hold back the tears as she attempted to articulate the bitter zenith of her traumatic life.

"When I woke up that morning and went downstairs, I saw that there was a letter from Johnny on the kitchen table. I guess I didn't notice it the previous evening because it was kind of late when I got home and I was exhausted. Anyway, while I was reading the letter, Freddie called me from the parking garage next to where he worked which wasn't unusual, and then Johnny called at around 8 AM to say hello to the kids before they left for school which also wasn't unusual. And then at around 11:30 AM a state trooper and a detective from the Newton Police rang my door and they started asking me all kinds of questions about Freddie, but I think I was probably too confused and scared to be of much help to them. I just wanted to know what was wrong with Freddie, and finally they told me that he was deceased."

"What happened next?" continued Lyons, in patient and yet pushy tone.

"They wanted me to go down to the police station and answer a few questions, but I could barely think straight, never mind talk to them. I remember that as I walked down my front stairs, I felt nauseous, and then I vomited in the driveway, and they could see that I was distraught so they asked me if there was anyone I could call. Luckily I was able to get through to my sister Beth at work and she drove over immediately. The detectives then took the both of us to the local police station where I answered a bunch of questions about Freddie, and then they started asking me about Johnny. I answered their questions as best as I could, and I also gave them the letter that Johnny had left me on the kitchen table," unsteadily replied the whimpering Stone.

Lyons held up the letter in question and passed it over to Stone for her review.

"Ms. Stone, is this the letter that your husband John Breslin left for you on the night of January 12th, 2006?"

Stone briefly inspected the letter and meekly replied, "Yes."

Lyons requested that the letter be marked as the next exhibit, and then she made a request to Stone as well.

"Ms. Stone could you please read the letter up to the PS section," asked Lyons, while at the same time Stone held the piece of paper up close to her face and squinted as she began to recite her ex-husband's desperate plea for reconciliation:

Dearest Tracy,

I know things haven't always gone well between us the past few years, but after the Christmas holidays I truly believe that we can still make this work if we give it another try. For our sake and for the kids sake, we should be together, we belong together, back to being one big happy family the way it use to be.

The week we spent together between Christmas and New Years was so special, and you seemed so happy, I just don't understand what I've done that is so wrong.

_I know that I've made mistakes, and I know that I'm far from perfect, but I promise to try harder to be there for you, to be the doting husband you've always wanted me to be, to be a better father to_ _OUR_ _kids, and God willing we can grow old together._

I know that Fred is a part of your past, but regardless of what happens between us, you need to forget about him. Deep in my heart I know that you are my soul mate, not his, and I know that he's not right for you. Don't ask me how I know, but I just do. All you've ever done is to try to do right by him, and all he ever does is hurt you. I also know that one way or another, things will end badly between the two of you, just like it did all those years ago, and I don't want to see you get hurt again, I don't want the kids to see you get hurt.

Whether you take me back or not, my one vow is that I'll be here waiting for you, no matter how long it takes. When Fred is out the picture again (and it's just a matter of time), you can rest assured that if ever you call my name, I'll be there for you.

Love always,

Johnny

The letter had the entire courtroom hanging on Tracy's every word. But as he had done throughout the trial, John Breslin remained stone-faced and emotionally detached while a piece of his heart was exposed out in open court for all to see.

For what it was worth, Newlan found the letter to be both eloquent and touching. However, most of his colleagues chose to highlight the ominous passage which stated that it was only a matter of time before Fred Miller would be out of Tracy's life, and DA Lyons wisely let the affects of the missive sink in with all of them before continuing on to clean up a few loose ends.

"Ms. Stone I'd like to ask you a few more questions if I may. Do you know a woman by the name of Nancy O'Brien?"

"I've heard of her name from Johnny, but I don't know her and I've never even met her," robotically answered the emotionally drained Stone.

"Did you know a man by the name of Sammy Fox?" added Lyons.

"No, I'd never even heard of him until after Freddie was killed," muttered Stone.

Next on the list, Lyons asked; "Did you know a man by the name of James Laughlin?" and once again Stone simply replied, "No."

"And did you know a man by the name of Charles Mercurio?" added Lyons.

"Yes, he's a friend of Johnny's. I met him a few times, but I didn't know him very well," matter-of-factly explained Stone.

"Ms. Stone in all the years that you were married, do you ever recall your husband John Breslin using a pay phone?" continued Lyons.

"No, never," emphatically replied Stone.

"What about a pre-paid phone card?" wondered Lyons, and once again Stone categorically replied, "no, never."

Lyons then changed the subject and asked several questions related to the Breslin's finances.

"Ms. Stone did you and your husband file a joint tax return for the year 2005?"

"Yes," quietly replied Stone.

"And did you get a refund?"

"Yes, between State and Federal, we got about six thousand dollars back."

"And did you spend any of this money?"

"No, I signed the check over to Johnny to pay for some joint bills, and the agreement between our attorneys was that if anything was left over, it would be put into an account for the kids."

"Now, after Mr. Breslin moved out of your marital home, did you continue to use any of his credit cards?"

"No. Based on the agreement made by our divorce attorneys, I was not allowed to use Johnny's credit cards, and I fully complied with that agreement."

Lyons went on to change the subject one last time, this time confirming a change in Stone's jewelry-wearing habits.

"Ms. Stone didn't you tell the investigators that you stopped wearing your wedding ring before you ever reconnected with Fred Miller?"

"Yes, it was after I filed for divorce in 2005, but before Fred and I started seeing each other again," meekly recalled Stone.

Lyons then raised her voice for affect (and of course to make sure she had the jurors attention) as she asked the pivotal question.

"And Ms. Stone didn't you also tell the investigators about a threat your husband John Breslin made in the summer of 2005?"

Stone stared at her ex-husband, and with venom in her voice she caustically replied, "Yes, he said to me that if Fred didn't stop seeing me, it wouldn't be good for his health."

This response compelled Gleason into action, but before he had a chance to object, Lyons launched into a follow-up question as if she were a quarterback running a hurry-up offense.

"Was there anyone else present when your husband made these statements?"

"Yes, I'll never forget it, I was getting the kids ready for bed, and Johnny made these threats right in front of his own children," defiantly proclaimed Stone.

"And did he say anything else?"

"Yes. I said to him, 'Johnny how can you say something like that...please think of the kids before you start spitting out such crazy talk', but that made him even angrier, and he gloated that they'd never be able to tie it back to him," resolutely recounted Stone.

"No further questions," exclaimed DA Lyons, and as she sauntered back to the prosecutor's table, she had a look of contentment written across her face which wasn't lost on Newlan.

"I can't believe they're getting the kids involved in this. But I must say that Lyons ended her direct examination with a memorable exchange. I bet that tactic nudged a few more jurors over into the guilty column. Oh well, as they say, 'all is fair in love and war'," Newlan mused, while at the same time Judge Gershwin decided that it was an opportune moment to break for another recess.

The monotony of being marched in and out of the courtroom countless times a day had long since started wearing thin on all the jurors, but none more so that Frank Newlan, and by this point in the day, he was completely disgusted with what he thought was becoming more of a contest concerning gamesmanship rather than a quest for justice; a game of invention over principle; a competition of cunning over candor; a not so trivial matter of style over substance; potatoes over meat; mind over matter; smoke over heat.

And in keeping with his theme of the moment, as the jurors were being escorted back into the deliberation room by Billy and Brandon, Newlan was hit with the same urge that had overtaken Tracy Stone during lunch hour; that is to say, the urge to take a sharp right and walk away from it all. Walk away and keep on going. Walk away and let the rest of the world figure it out. Walk away regardless of the consequences. Walk away and never look back.

But of course, as we know, Frank Newlan couldn't possibly just walk away and never look back. He had to look back...he always looked back. And furthermore, little did the unwitting Newlan realized it just yet, but just like Fred Miller before him, just like a worm on a hook, just like a mouse in a trap, he was about to become an oblivious participant in a dangerously human chess match; he was about to become an unsuspecting party in a deadly game of chicken; he was about to become a complicit prisoner to an ordeal from which he couldn't possibly wriggle himself free of.

As much as Frank Newlan may have wanted to escape his fate, little did he know that he was already too far gone to ever turn the page; little did he know that he was about to become so entangled in the harsh realities of lust and power and jealousy that he might never be the same again.

Regardless of how often his clairvoyant mind fed him with hazy glimpses of the future, the truth of the situation was that self-proclaimed psychic Frank Newlan was about to become entwined in this tragic story in ways he could never have possibly predicted; he was about to become wrapped up in this tumultuous tale in ways he could never have even begun to imagine; he was about to become embroiled in this tempestuous saga in ways he could never have foreseen, even if they had been scripted...in a forlorn book...of love.

### Chapter 50 – To a Man, To a Woman (We All Make Choices in Life)

Thursday afternoon June 12, 2008 – 2:45 PM

For what must have seemed like the millionth time on this surrealist of days, the John Breslin murder trial jurors found themselves staring at each other in stunned silence, brought on after heeding hours of sensational testimony, delivered, in various states of emotional distress, by Breslin's former wife, Ms. Tracy Stone.

And despite the fact that they had been warned on a daily basis not to discuss the trial amongst themselves, it was almost inevitable that within minutes, these sixteen unique people from sixteen different backgrounds, with not much else in common other than the trial, would breakdown and commence to dissecting Ms. Stone's deposition in extreme detail.

Here they were, sixteen strangers haphazardly thrown together into a small room, under adverse conditions, with the expectations that they would bond as one to decide a man's fate. Here they were, with a man's very life teetering on a balance that only they could set straight. Here they were, with a man's very existence swaying back and forth on a pendulum that only they could control. With all of this responsibility weighing on their minds and hearts, it might have almost been seen as aberrant if they didn't discuss the case...and so, naturally, that's just what they did.

To a man, to a woman, all sixteen jurors were itching to get their opinions out on the table, out in the open for all to hear. But who would be the intrepid one that would fire off the starter's gun? Who would be the impulsive one that would take the bait? Who would be the reckless one that would open up the floodgates?

Not surprisingly it was left up to Newlan's rival, the never shy "Jane the Pain", as he so cloyingly dubbed her, to get the audacious proceedings off to a rousing start. Out of the blue she exclaimed; "Can you believe the gall on that Breslin...to think that he would threaten a man's life in front of his very own children?"

Newlan, who was lost in his own otherworldly thoughts at the time of Jane's bold pronouncement, could hardly believe what _he_ was hearing, never mind what he was thinking, or what Jane was saying, and her denunciation didn't immediately register in his scattered brain. It was as if the translation of Jane's words were a garbled collection of undecipherable sounds which distracted his mind from its appointed rounds as it ventured to unlock the mysteries behind the elusive fragments of planetary dust that had suddenly sprinkled his life with such a startling aura of uncertainty. It was as if the interpretation of Jane's accusation was a humming modulation of distorted tones which disturbed his reality as it attempted the impossible task of comprehending why an immortal cosmic force would want to play such a cruel joke on him; vaulting him into some sort of parallel universe from which there was no escape. And yet, in spite of his inwardly focused meanderings, Jane's latest allegations slowly washed over him and finally sank in like high tide on a sandy beach, and when it did, he could hardly be expected to let her remarks go by without countering with an assertion or two of his own.

"And you really believe that Breslin's gonna casually make threats on a man's health while his wife is putting on the kids' pajamas?" incredulously wondered Newlan.

But not to be outdone, Jane glared back at Newlan with a doubting expression which was just as cynical as his, and she responded in kind.

"You bet your sweet you know what I believe it! Why would she lie? She's under oath...I find it hard to imagine that she would be making up stories on the stand."

"Well, maybe she might lie because she thinks that her ex-husband was involved in Miller's murder, but she has no proof. And we know the DA's office thinks that her ex-husband was involved in Miller's murder, but so far I haven't seen or heard any real proof from them either. So naturally, they'd want to make sure that they jam as many innuendos into our heads as possible, and by doing that, maybe they get _us_ to buy into the idea that Breslin was involved in Miller's murder," theorized an animated Newlan as an exceedingly sarcastic lilt involuntarily took command of his voice.

"Oh so you're telling me that it's all just one big cover-up to frame poor, misunderstood, John Breslin? Is that what's going on here?" angrily exclaimed Jane, notching up the sarcasm even further. But Newlan wasn't ready to go that far, and he calmly clarified his assessment accordingly.

"No, at this point I'm not saying that Breslin didn't do it, and I'm not saying that he did do it...and I'm sure that the DA's office has good reason to believe that Breslin was somehow involved in Miller's murder. But all I _am_ saying is that maybe the DA's office is trying to embellish their case in any way that they can by throwing out all kinds of insinuations at us, insinuations that can't be proven I might add, all in an attempt to chip away at any reasonable doubt that we might still be holding onto. Just like Gleason's gonna do when it's his turn. That's all I'm saying," insisted Newlan

But Jane stubbornly held her ground and emphatically replied, "Well fine, that's your opinion and you're entitled to it, but I'm not buying it."

At that point, Newlan was ready to call a truce, but he couldn't resist getting in one last shot across the bow.

"That's fine with me too...but if he did say it, you can be damned sure he didn't say it in front of their kids, so it should be inadmissible as far as I'm concerned. And besides the phrase 'it won't be good for his health', what does that _really_ mean anyway? It's just a figure of speech. How does that translate into Breslin saying that he was gonna have someone kill the poor guy?"

"Well if you haven't noticed, the 'poor guy' as you called him, is dead, which is why we're here in the first place," fired back Jane, and Newlan realized full well that he couldn't argue _that_ fact so he just nodded his head and agreeably concurred with a two word response; "Point taken."

The argument seemed to be running its course after that blunt exchange, but Ron the banker made positively sure that it was definitively over by doling out a gentle reminder; "come on now, cool it you two. You know we aren't supposed to be talking about the trial."

Realizing the error in their ways, Jane and Newlan both apologized, and civility was once again returned to the deliberation room, but not before Annie, the feisty HR clerk, crossly chucked her own two cents into the pot.

"I still say that Tracy needs to grow up. If they lock up anyone, it should be her. That's right...I went there. They should throw her in jail for a few years until she stops acting like an immature child. If she had spent more time at home taking care of her kids instead of running around with another man, then maybe we wouldn't be here. If she wanted a divorce, fine. But for Christ's sake, at least wait until the ink runs dry before you go whoring around. Believe me, I know her type...she's bad news."

Annie's forthright comments triggered more than a few jurors' jaws to drop, Newlan's amongst them, but somehow he managed to keep his mouth shut. Although, he couldn't help but muster up a twinge of satisfaction after digesting Annie's take on things, and he cautiously thought to himself, "Hmmm, maybe, just maybe, there might still be a couple of jurors in the not guilty column after all."

But regardless of the jurors' stances, before long Billy returned and instructed them to line up for their march back into the courtroom, which prompted the usually placid software engineer, Peter, to joke, "My how time flies when you're having fun."

In spite of his all-consuming glumness, Newlan couldn't help but smile at Peter's commentary, and in response, Peter returned Newlan's smile with a meager grin and wink of his own, which Newlan took as a sign that perhaps his soft-spoken colleague's not guilty vote remained intact as well. Of course, whether that was Peter's intentions or not was totally irrelevant, for at the moment; all that mattered to Newlan was the simple fact that his fellow juror's covert action had him feeling a whole lot better about the current state of affairs, and so he convinced his corruptible mind to believe what he wanted it to believe.

Whether Newlan's rigid beliefs would hold any weight in a court of law remained to be seen, but either way, as the jurors marched back into the courtroom, renowned Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason, who had been patiently waiting to get a crack at one of the prosecution's star witnesses, his client's former wife, Ms. Tracy Stone, was rearing to go.

"Good afternoon Ms. Breslin my name is R. J. Gleason and as you know I represent Mr. Breslin," courteously began Gleason. But right off the bat, his formal introduction got a rise out of Stone who brusquely cut him off at the pass.

"Um, excuse me Mr. Gleason but my legal name is Ms. Stone not Ms. Breslin," sourly chastised the rocky bastion of a witness. And for his part, Gleason took the correction in stride and issued an immediate mea culpa.

"Yes of course, my mistake, Ms. Stone. I apologize for the misrepresentation."

Newlan wasn't certain whether it was a trick of the light, but he could have sworn that he caught the slightest hint of a smile curling up on Gleason's face as he offered up his forgiveness.

"That bastard...I bet he addressed her by her married name on purpose, just to fluster her. And I must admit, it was a brilliant strategy that clearly worked." conjectured Newlan.

Of course, whether Gleason's faux pas was an honest mistake, or whether it was something more sinister, we cannot say for sure. But in any event, the noted barrister decided not to waste any more time on formalities, and he promptly dove into the task of achieving his stated goal which was to sully Stone's credibility in the eyes of the jurors.

"Ms. Stone isn't it true that on the afternoon of January 13th, 2006 you told the investigators that Fred Miller was your one true love, and that you were convinced your estranged husband was somehow involved in Fred's death?" smoothly inquired Gleason.

"I believe I told them that Fred was the love of my life," corrected Stone.

"Yes of course, and you also told the investigators that when you met Fred in high school you knew right away it was love at first sight, didn't you?" added Gleason.

"Absolutely," declared Stone in an insolent tone.

"OK, I believe we have clearly established your feelings Ms. Stone," sedately gibed Gleason before launching a derogatory bombshell. "But didn't you also tell the investigators that you and Fred Miller were 'partiers'? Isn't that the phrase you used, Ms. Stone?"

Although Gleason's question was intended to be damaging, Stone didn't see it that way, and so rather than trying to backtrack from her remarks, she shrugged nonchalantly and she was defiantly unapologetic in her reply.

"Hey, we grew up in an era where everybody partied, and we went to a high school where everybody partied, I'm the first to admit it."

Based on the obstinate tone of her voice, it became obvious that Stone's boastful response regarding her rebellious upbringing was a point of pride, which prompted the free-spirited Newlan to behold her with even further admiration, and he lustfully concluded, "She really is my kind of woman!"

However, R. J. Gleason wasn't quite as impressed with Stone's partying credentials as Frank Newlan was.

"And didn't you tell the investigators that you and Fred had a volatile relationship and that you fought all the time? Isn't that what you told them, Ms. Stone?" insisted Gleason, and once again Stone wasn't denying the facts. If anything, she seemed to relish in the tension that was at the core of her relationship with Fred Miller.

"Yes we fought a lot, but we always got back together. It's called life, Mr. Gleason. You live and you learn," rhapsodized Stone. But her philosophical discourse didn't evince Gleason to miss a beat. On the contrary, he even thanked her for the pep-talk

"I appreciate the advice Ms. Stone, but let's stick to the task at hand shall we. Didn't you tell the investigators that your relationship with Fred Miller repeated the same destructive pattern over and over and over again? You'd date, you'd fight, you'd break up, and then you'd reprise the same old song and dance from the beginning. In fact you described it as silly, didn't you Ms. Stone?" berated Gleason.

But Stone wasn't intimidated in the least. She looked up at the physically imposing defense attorney with steely eyes and coolly replied, "I never used the word destructive. That's your opinion, so please in the future don't try to put words in my mouth that I never said."

"Fair enough," acknowledged a slightly distracted Gleason as he excused himself and walked over to the defense table to collect his thoughts and refer to his notes. And while he was at it, he whispered to Breslin; "she's making herself look much worse than I ever could have hoped to do...unprovoked, I might add."

Somewhere during the course of his inquisition, Gleason decided that his list of questions was too voluminous to memorize, so to remedy the situation he lugged his packet of notes over to the podium with him as he resumed his interrogation of Ms. Tracy Stone.

"Ms. Stone, didn't you also tell the investigators that when you were in high school, Fred Miller would ride by your house on his motorcycle and rev the engine...more or less as a way of letting you know that he was thinking of you?"

"Yes, I was a couple of years younger than Freddie, and I wasn't allowed to stay out as late as he was at the time, so we had this secret signal...and I suppose you could say it was his way of letting me know that I was on his mind," proudly recalled Stone.

"And didn't Fred Miller use this exact same tactic in the summer of 2005? Which I might add, on numerous occasion woke your husband up out of a sound sleep when you knew he had to get up for work early in the morning so that he could keep a roof over your head. Isn't that true Ms. Stone?" retorted Gleason in an aggressive tone.

"We lived on a busy street and we'd sometimes get woken up by the sound of traffic, but to say it was always Freddie who was the cause of the noise is totally unfair," rebutted Stone. And although Gleason didn't agree with Stone assessment of the situation, he had made his point, and he didn't think it was worth refuting her denial, so he moved on.

"Ms. Stone isn't it true that you dated other men while Fred Miller was out in Arizona attending college?"

"Yes that's true, but as I mentioned this morning, we had kind of drifted apart during the years that Fred was in college so we weren't technically dating," corrected Stone.

"Very well, but didn't you also tell us this morning that when Fred got out of college, and returned to Massachusetts, you and he reconnected and eventually moved in to an apartment together?" continued Gleason, and even though Stone wasn't quite sure what the sly defense attorney was getting at, she admitted to the gist of his question.

"I don't remember if those were my exact words, but yes I'd say that's an accurate statement."

"And didn't you tell the investigators that you kicked Fred Miller out of the apartment you shared with him at least three times...and when you kicked him out for the last time in the summer of 1995, within a couple of weeks, Peter Perry had moved in with you?" demanded Gleason.

Stone cringed at the mention of Peter Perry's name, but she begrudgingly acknowledged that Gleason's statement was correct.

"And isn't it also true that you described Peter Perry to the investigators as manipulative and scary?" added Gleason.

"Yes I did," quietly confessed Stone.

"And wasn't it while you were living with Peter Perry that you first met John Breslin? You confided in him about your problems with Mr. Perry, didn't you Ms. Stone?"

"Yes, I met Johnny while I was still in a relationship with Peter Perry. Johnny had asked me out a few times, but I politely declined. I told him that I was already seeing someone, but eventually it came up in conversation that I was having some issues with Peter, and Johnny offered his advice."

"And what advice did Mr. Breslin offer?" wondered Gleason.

"He basically told me that Peter sounded like bad news and that I should dump him," recalled Stone.

"And shortly thereafter, you attempted to evict Mr. Perry from your apartment, but he wouldn't leave, would he Ms. Stone?" asserted Gleason as a look of fear came over Stone. Clearly the act of being forced to relive this frightening episode was disturbing her in many ways, but somehow she managed to murmur out an answer.

"He refused to leave and he was becoming abusive as well."

"And how did you resolve the situation Ms. Stone?" rhetorically asked Gleason before continuing. "You called upon your reliable old boyfriend, Fred Miller, to assist you in evicting Peter Perry from your apartment and from your life, didn't you?"

Despite the fact that the incident had come up during Lyons' direct examination, Stone was nonetheless caught off guard by Gleason's detailed recounting of her relationship with Peter Perry. She was unsure how he had gotten his hands on this rather personal information, but she had a bad feeling about where he was headed with his current line of questioning.

On the other hand, the perceptive Frank Newlan had the riddle already figured out in his head. "Suffice it to say that Gleason got a hold of Peter Perry, and he jumped at the chance to sully his ex-girlfriend's reputation."

However, after surviving the initial shock of the unearthing of what she assumed to be a parcel of long-since-buried confidential material regarding the Peter Perry affair, Stone boldly admitted; "Yes, I asked Freddie to come over and discuss the situation with Peter...and he did just that."

"Ah, but Fred Miller did more than just talk to Peter Perry..." boomed Gleason, "...in fact didn't Fred Miller forcibly eject Peter Perry from your apartment? Didn't he in fact rough up Peter Perry and in the process BROKE HIS COLLARBONE?"

Stone had been hoping for the best but expecting the worst, so she wasn't totally stunned by Gleason's revelation. She instinctively suspected that if Gleason was going into such extensive detail regarding Peter Perry, then he must have uncovered the whole story, and as such she grasped the fact that she really had no choice but to come clean. But she calculated that she could, at a minimum, qualify her answer without being caught red-handed in an outright lie.

"Yes, Peter's collarbone did get broken, but it was totally an accident. Peter refused to leave, so Freddie got him in a headlock and dragged him out the door. And then when they got outside, they got into a scuffle and Freddie fell on top of Peter...and that's when I heard a loud pop, followed by Peter screaming in pain."

"And what did you do?" wondered Gleason.

"I asked Freddie to leave...and then I drove Peter to the hospital," replied a now stoic Stone.

"And wasn't Fred Miller upset with you over what transpired between himself and Peter Perry?" added Gleason.

"Yes he was, but I never told him to physically remove Peter from my apartment. I was as upset with Freddie as he was with me. He had resorted to brute force, which as far as I'm concerned is never the answer to any problem," replied an unapologetic Stone.

Gleason then went on to rattle off a barrage of questions in a rhythmic cadence.

"And later that same day didn't Peter Perry go to the police?"

"And didn't he press charges against Fred Miller?

"And wasn't Fred Miller issued an arrest warrant because of this incident?"

"And furthermore, he had to hire a lawyer and go to court to resolve the charges, didn't he?"

And in return, Stone managed to disregard the increasingly unpleasant tone in Gleason's voice and she calmly emitted a "yes" response to each and every question he sent her way.

"And when Fred Miller's attorney contacted you regarding the assault charges, you didn't support him in his criminal case did you Ms. Stone?" demanded Gleason, but in return, Stone just shook her head in disgust, and her voice was choked with emotion as she explained, "I just told the truth...no more, no less."

For his part, Newlan, who was hanging on every word from both Gleason and Stone, wondered to himself; "yeah but are you telling the truth today?"

Meanwhile, Gleason briefly referred to his checklist before proceeding to recite the next set of questions which he had precisely laid out in his notebook.

"Ms. Stone isn't it true that following the incident between Peter Perry and Fred Miller, you obtained a restraining order against Perry which forced him to vacate the premises of your apartment and to avoid all contact with you?"

At this point, Stone had nothing to hide, so she didn't deny the obvious.

"Yes, even though, in my opinion, the way that Freddie handled the situation was all wrong, I still wanted Peter out of my life."

With Stone's unburdening admission echoing across the courtroom like a hoot owl in the Grand Canyon, Gleason concluded that the Peter Perry incident had been beaten into the ground like a dead horse, and so he decided to move on in another direction.

"And didn't you finally consent to go on a date with John Breslin within days of evicting Peter Perry from your apartment?" inquired Gleason.

Stone knew full well that the answer was yes, and yet she decided to go with a less specific response.

"Sorry Mr. Gleason, it was a long time ago, and I can't really remember exactly how many days went by between when I broke up with Peter and when I went out on my first date with Johnny."

"Interesting that her memory is vague all of a sudden, but she recalled precise details whenever the DA asked her similar questions," deduced both Gleason and Newlan at roughly the same time...but they both pressed on, undeterred.

"And isn't it also true that at the conclusion of your first date, you spent the night with Mr. Breslin?" broadcast Gleason in a taunting tone. And in return Stone responded with a simple one word answer to the tenacious defense attorney's latest inquiry; "unfortunately."

It took a volley of insinuating questions and stubborn answers, but Stone's sexual misgivings slowly came to light like a hazy sunrise, and Newlan had to laugh to himself as he considered the horrified reaction of some of his more prudish fellow jurors; "I'm sure the ladies are gonna be up in arms over this juicy stuff. And I bet poor Annie's blood pressure must be going through the roof right about now over the way that the foxy Ms. Stone rolls."

"Ms. Stone, were you aware of a conversation that Peter Perry had with Fred Miller when they encountered each other at his criminal court case? A conversation where Mr. Perry mockingly informed Mr. Miller that you were pregnant," soldered on Gleason. But before an offended Stone could even begin to think about formulating a resentful answer, DA Lyons shouted out her own concerns; "objection, hearsay."

And although it may have been out of the norm, on this occasion, it didn't take Judge Gershwin long to sustain Lyons' objection, but Gleason plodded along with grim determination nonetheless.

"Ms. Stone, would it be fair to say that the primary reason you and Fred Miller had an irreconcilable falling-out was because of the way you handled the Peter Perry incident. He was bitterly upset that you didn't support his story while he was sorting through his legal problems, wasn't he?" demanded Gleason. And without thinking, Stone replied; "I don't know...you'd have to ask him." But when she realized the lunacy of her response, she quickly amended her answer accordingly; "Umm, I mean, no, that's not true."

Stone subsequently burst into tears, and in a state of bewildered confusion she repeatedly wailed, "I don't know, I just don't know."

When Stone's animated outburst didn't immediately subside, DA Lyons jumped up out of her seat and objected again. She really had no apparent reason for the grievance whatsoever, other than to attempt to do something, anything, to stop Stone's incoherent wailing.

With the courtroom once again edging toward disarray, Judge Gershwin decided to call the attorneys up to her desk for a sidebar, where the obligatory heated discussion promptly ensued, while at the same time poor Tracy Stone continued to sob away in the witness box; clearly an emotional wreck over her regrettable choice of words. She, along with every person in the courtroom, instantly recognized her colossal gaffe. What possessed her to suggest that Gleason should ask a dead man what he was thinking, she would never know. And even though it was of little comfort to her at the moment, she would be neither the first nor last person in the world to suffer a brain cramp when faced with the nerve-wracking strain of being cross-examined by a ruthless attorney.

However, regardless of Stone's denial, regardless of DA Lyons' objection, regardless of Judge Gershwin's scolding, Gleason was insistent that Stone own up to her role in Fred Miller's misfortunes, and at the conclusion of the sidebar, he went right back after her with a vengeance.

"Ms. Stone, wasn't Fred Miller's bruised ego even further broken when he found out that you were pregnant...from the mouth of Peter Perry no less? And when you add it all up, wasn't _that_ why you had a falling out that lasted 10 years?"

By now Stone was numb to Gleason's aggressive attack, and she tearfully but vehemently denied his assumption.

"Absolutely not...there was a lot more to it than that...issues that had built up over the years...but we still love each other."

Not surprisingly, the astute Newlan picked up on Stone's use of the present tense as she claimed "we still love each other" and he thought to himself; "This is one confused woman. Maybe at times she gets a little delusional and thinks that Miller's still alive."

On the other end of the spectrum however, Newlan, who was resorting to oddball humor for the sake of his own sanity, also reminded himself; "But I still think she's kinda cute...and I don't care what our female jurors say."

And while Tracy Stone's freckled face may have been cute in Frank Newlan's mind, her uncontrollable sobbing on the witness stand was eliciting a reaction that was edging closer to pity in the eyes of most everyone else in the courtroom. For his part, Gleason seemed to sense as much, and his inner perceptiveness warned him that he was coming close to crossing some imaginary line, so he decided that he'd better let up momentarily for fear of coming across as a bully in the minds of the jurors.

Gleason had been through more than his fair share of courtroom battles over the years, some of which included surprisingly shocking verdicts, and so he had long since come to the realization that no one can ever accurately predict what a jury is truly thinking. But he also understood full well that, as a defense attorney, you can never risk even the slightest ill-considered actions which might potentially cause an easily swayable jury to become unsympathetic towards your client.

Gleason had witnessed as much with his own two eyes; he had encountered plenty of lawyers who had charmed a jury into a favorable verdict; and he had come across many an attractive defendant who had sweet-talked his or her way out of trouble. But Gleason was neither attractive nor charming, so he was at all time conscious of the fact that he had to rely on his skill, his experience, and his instincts; and luckily for Breslin, he was very well equipped in all of those areas.

And so with the hopes of rehabilitating Breslin's image, Gleason determined that the time was just about right for him to begin shaping some of his questions into a form that might shed a favorable light on Stone's ex-husband.

"Ms. Stone didn't your husband work at Tex-Ray Defense Systems for 23 years?" inquired Gleason, and since the details of Breslin's employment were pretty much irrefutable, Stone didn't attempt to dispute the badgering defense attorney's claims.

"I'm not sure exactly how many years he worked for Tex-Ray, but yes I'd say 23 years sounds about right."

"And didn't he also work a second job so that he could bring home an additional paycheck for the family?" added Gleason.

"He spent most of the money from his part-time job on himself, for his golf league, and buying beers at the bar afterwards," corrected Stone in a cynical tone.

"But he worked a second job, yes or no?" reiterated Gleason.

"Yes, but to support his hobbies, not for any extra family money," insisted Stone, and her snide commentary was beginning to rankle Gleason, so her turned towards Judge Gershwin and pleaded for assistance.

"Your honor I beseech that you admonish the witness, and if you could please instruct her on the etiquette regarding cross-examination I would be extremely grateful."

As she had done yesterday with the belligerent Kim Beliveau, Judge Gershwin once again went into her spiel regarding the differences between direct examination and cross-examination, including the witness protocol of answering "yes" or "no" under cross-examination whenever possible.

And no sooner had Judge Gershwin completed the dissemination of her repetitious instructions when Gleason serenely launched back into his withering cross-examination of Ms. Tracy Stone without the least bit of hesitation.

"Ms. Stone, isn't it fair to say that any money your husband made on his second job, regardless of how he spent it, would mean that there was more money available for the family from his primary job at Tex-Ray Defense Systems?" queried Gleason with a quizzical look on his face. But Stone still wasn't buying into his logic and she stubbornly answered, "I'm sorry but I can't fairly answer that question."

"Very well," acknowledged Gleason in a patient tone, while at the same time he turned his back on Stone.

And as Gleason slowly trudged back to the podium for a brief review of his notes, Newlan witnessed Stone do something that even he, with his chemically-engineered infatuation for her still bubbling over, considered to be incredibly childish; it was an ever so subtle gesture, but it was clearly a symbol of derision nonetheless.

For a moment or two Newlan thought that maybe he was imagining things, but as the seconds ticked away he became, beyond a shadow of a doubt, convinced that he had observed Tracy Stone sticking her slithery tongue out at Gleason. He had hardly taken his eyes off of her all afternoon, which left him all the more unwaveringly certain of what had just taken place, and he wondered what kind of person they were dealing with here.

Newlan made no further mention of the incident to any of his fellow jurors, but he was absolutely positive that Stone's lap-stroking salute was none other than a silent Bronx cheer.

Dear reader, as is the case in many criminal hearings these days, the proceedings inside of courtroom 630 of the Middlesex Superior Courthouse were being filmed, day-in and day-out for the duration of the John Breslin murder trial. And if any person or persons had the patience to wade through the tape of Tracy Stone's testimony, sure enough they would have observed what Frank Newlan witnessed with his own two eyes; sure enough they would have observed Tracy Stone pouting ever so slightly and then quickly darting her tongue in a derogatory fashion towards Gleason; sure enough they would have observed the tip of Tracy Stone's tongue extend in and out for a fraction of a second, like a lizard casting out for an insect; sure enough they would have observed a woman acting like an infant; sure enough they would have observed a woman who refused to grow up; sure enough they would have observed a woman who still wasn't fully comprehending the consequences of her actions, in spite of the fact that her high school sweetheart had been shot in the head execution-style, and her ex-husband, the father of her children, faced the possibility of going to prison for the rest of his life.

Gleason, on the other hand, was totally unaware of Stone's scoffing slight, and even if he had noticed her mocking expression out of the corner of his eye he wouldn't have been offended in the least...and so, staying true to his credo, regardless of outside distractions, he continued on undaunted.

"Ms. Stone wouldn't you say that your husband was a reliable provider for your family?" reasoned Gleason, but Stone just stared at him impassively and said nothing.

Stone's silence brought about a sudden urge in Gleason to grab her by the shoulders and shake her back to reality, but he wisely resisted the temptation, and instead he tranquilly added; "You went on family vacations every summer, didn't you?"

And in this instance, even Tracy Stone, for all her venomous hissing, couldn't deny the fact that she and her husband and their kids did indeed spend a week down on Cape Cod each and every summer. But at the same time she wondered what any of this had to do with the murder of Fred Miller.

Gleason seemed to sense that some sort of irrational tide was churning in Stone's mind, and he decided that it was high time he clear up the first of many fabrications she had uttered earlier in the day.

"Ms. Stone, didn't your husband routinely bring a pre-paid calling card along with him whenever you went on vacation to locations where cell phone reception was dicey...so that you wouldn't have to pay those outrageous hotel phone charges?" inquired Gleason while Stone gazed unfocusedly out into space, dumbfounded; she had been caught in a lie...but she wasn't about to admit it.

"Come to think of it, I guess we did make use of calling cards when we were away on vacation," coolly confessed Stone, and Gleason had a sly smile plastered across his face as he tossed out a pointed follow-up.

"But Ms. Stone, when DA Lyons asked if you recalled whether your husband had ever used a pre-paid phone card, your answer was 'no, never', isn't that true?"

Of course, as was her modus operandi, regardless of the facts, Stone was defiant in her response.

"I apologize, but based on everything else that's been going on, you'll have to excuse me if something as irrelevant as our so-called family vacations totally slipped my mind. If I may amend my answer, I never saw my ex-husband use a pre-paid phone card other than when we were on vacation."

Naturally Gleason was none too pleased with Tracy Stone's disingenuous games, but nevertheless he was ready to move on. No matter how Stone attempted to qualify her answer, in the end, she had to retract a sworn statement that she had made on the witness stand and that in itself was good enough for him.

As Gleason made a shorthand note in his pad regarding Stone's halfhearted admission, he thought to himself "I've got to save this for future ammunition, and at the very least I should be able to work her untruths into my closing arguments," while at the same time he surmised that the moment was ripe for him to build upon the defense's version of the events which led up to Fred Miller's murder.

"Ms. Stone you stated that sometime in mid 2005 you sent Fred Miller a postcard, but you never got a response back from him isn't that correct?"

"Yes, that's correct."

"And shortly thereafter you called Fred Miller on the phone and left him a voice message, but he still didn't get back to you, isn't that also correct?" added Gleason, and Stone frowned and answered, "Yes."

Gleason paused again momentarily to refer to his notes, and then he proceeded to drive the jagged edge of his point across Tracy Stone's brow.

"You were fully aware of the fact that Fred Miller was so upset and bitter towards you that he hadn't spoken to you in ten years, and yet you still decided to follow up and send him a letter, isn't that true?" pestered Gleason, and Stone stubbornly admitted as much.

"Why did you keep trying to contact him? Why didn't you just leave him alone?" wondered Gleason in pleading tone, as if to say, "If you had just let him be, maybe we wouldn't all be here today and your husband would be a free man."

"Because, as I said this morning, I always felt guilty about the way things ended between us...and if nothing else, I wanted to at least apologize to him, and I was hoping that maybe we could finally be on good terms with each other again," steadfastly explained Stone.

"So are you saying your attempts to contact Mr. Miller were never intended to rekindle your relationship?" asked a skeptical Gleason.

"No, that's not what I'm saying. I never said that. Why do you keep trying to put words into my mouth? The truth is that I tried to contact Freddie because I missed him...and I still loved him. It had reached the point where I was having dreams about him. But even if things could never be the same, I wanted him to at least be my friend again, so that's why I was persistent," insisted Stone.

"And after repeated attempts, Mr. Miller finally responded to one of your letters with a letter of his own, didn't he?" expounded Gleason; and as he delivered the question he strode up to the location of the assistant clerk's table where the exhibits were being stored, and he held up the infamous letter that Fred Miller had sent to Tracy Stone.

"Yes he did," fondly recalled Stone, while at the same time she felt a sudden jolt of incensed fury rush through her body as the thought of Gleason's hands touching a precious memory of her deceased lover materialized in her mind. But despite her angry glare, Gleason flipped past the page which contained the Grateful Dead lyrics printed on it, and he handed the letter off to her in a huff.

"Ms. Stone could you please read this letter to the jurors if you would," requested Gleason, but just the mere act of peering at Fred Miller's handwriting induced Stone to cry out hysterically, which was all part of the cagey defense attorney's master plan. He snatched the letter out of her hands just as quickly as he had given it to her, and he made an executive decision that it would be best for all concerned if he read the missive for her.

"Dear Tracy, I'm sorry I've been ignoring you, but I really don't know quite what to say. It's been a long, long time, and I'm not sure whether I can put what I'm feeling into words. But regardless of how things ended between us, I suppose you at least deserve a response."

"If only you knew how I've suffered because of the way you treated me. If only you knew how I went into a tailspin that I still haven't completely come out of. If only you knew how my world fell apart, little-by-little, until it turned into a living hell. Sure I hold down a job and go on with my life as best I can, but I never let anyone else see the tormented soul that I've become. I never let anyone else see the lost man who lives inside of me. I never let anyone else see how you FUCKED ME UP so badly," recited Gleason in a lyrical tone.

In the unlikely event that any of the jurors' minds were beginning to wander during Gleason's theatrical reading of Fred Miller's sorrowful letter, the act of him throwing out the offensive expletive in a booming voice was bound to snap them back to attention. It certainly worked on Frank Newlan anyway, because despite the fact that he had been hanging on every word, he still nearly jumped out of his seat when Gleason let loose with the f-bomb.

Newlan snuck a peek towards Judge Gershwin to gauge her reaction, but she just stared impassively ahead. He was expecting the no-nonsense judge to give Gleason a verbal tongue-lashing, but then it dawned on him; "he's only repeating what's in the letter so her hands are probably tied."

But in spite of his plausible theory, Newlan was still at a loss to explain how the use of such foul language could be considered acceptable courtroom etiquette, and he felt an old-fashioned sense of moralistic embarrassment swell through him at the very thought of his grandmotherly colleagues, namely Annie and Patty, being exposed to such crass terminology in a court of law.

In the meantime, Gleason paused for affect as just about everyone in the courtroom except for Tracy Stone shifted uncomfortably in their seats over the revealing of the vulgar language.

Stone herself had already read the letter a million times over, so there was no shock value in it for her, but even she was surprised that Gleason didn't leave out the profanity.

However, regardless of Gleason's lack of decorum, Stone's sobbing continued unabated as he forged ahead with the reading of the chilling letter from beyond the grave.

"And now that I've finally come to terms with the fact that I nearly ended up in jail because of you, now that you're married and have a family of your own, now that I've almost learned how to forget about you, now that I've given up on ever being in another serious relationship, now you come back and tell me that you miss me, now you come back and tell me that you still love me. And like a FUCKIN' FOOL, I believe you...and believe it or not, I still love you too. What I wouldn't give to hold you in my arms again. I'd give up my life and then some to wake up next to you one more time. I'm so confused right now that it's killing me inside. But all I can truly say with any real sense of conviction is this; who knows what tomorrow brings. And no matter what happens in the future, may God give us the courage and the strength to face each day, wherever it may lead us."

"We all make choices in life. Choices that we have to live with until the day we die. You've made your choices and I've made mine. Don't get me wrong, I realize full well that I've made my share of mistakes too, and in the end, who knows whether we can ever undo what's already been done, but all I can tell you is that I'm willing to try...love Fred," soliloquized Gleason, his voice rising and falling in rhythmic cadence to Miller's eloquent wordsmith.

Gleason then trudged back to the assistant clerk's desk and dropped the letter from high up above his towering frame, so that it floated like a feather back down onto the table and landed atop of the other exhibits in an almost hypnotic fashion.

And all the while, as he concentrated intently on Gleason's interpretation of Miller's text, Newlan couldn't help but think about Marianne Plante and the cryptically worded note that she had just sent him. He couldn't help but think about how Fred Miller's letter echoed his feelings for Plante, almost down to the word. He couldn't help but think about his own choices, his own mistakes, and the aimless direction that his life was heading in.

"What a torture soul this dude Fred Miller was...," brooded Newlan as he came to a sudden realization, "...just like me."

And even though he was sitting in an ice-cold, air conditioned courtroom, Newlan felt a hot sweat come over him as he fought back a river of bitter tears. The emotions of the trial, the emotions of Miller's gut-wrenching letter, the emotions of his own travails, were all converging to take a heavy toll on him; a toll that left him practically gasping for air.

Meanwhile, Gleason continued on with his cross-examination of Tracy Stone without so much as another mention of the heartfelt letter; even though it was a dispatch that he wanted so badly for the jurors to hear for themselves.

"Ms. Stone, shortly after your numerous attempts at correspondence with Fred Miller, you finally talked to him on the phone and then you met him in person didn't you?" continued Gleason, and again Stone couldn't deny the already-documented history of the matter.

"And you attempted to hide the fact that you were secretly seeing Fred Miller from your husband, isn't that also true Ms. Stone?" insisted Gleason, but Stone appeared to be insulted by his accusation and she countered in kind.

"I didn't tell him anything...but I didn't deliberately try to hide anything from him either."

"You were surprised that your husband was aware of the fact that you were with Fred Miller on the Fourth of July 2005, weren't you?" antagonized Gleason, but Stone wouldn't take the bait.

"At that point, he had already started putting two and two together, so I'd have to say, no I wasn't surprised at all."

"Ms. Stone sticking to the summer of 2005, wasn't there an incident at the Wayward Inn? A quarrel involving Fred Miller and another man erupted into fisticuffs, and it got so bad that the police were called in...and his friend Michael Landers, the bartender, instructed him to leave before the cops showed up?" recounted Gleason in blow-by-blow fashion, while at the same time Newlan wondered why Landers himself was never questioned about the skirmish when he was on the stand.

"There was an incident," admitted Stone, "but it was a minor disagreement between Fred and a former associate of his."

"Ms. Stone, I'm holding in my hand the police report regarding this incident, and in it, the officer who responded to the scene writes that he interviewed you, and you stated that you didn't know the suspect. But Mr. Miller was later apprehended and arrested. Isn't this all true?" demanded Gleason, and again Stone shrugged her shoulders as she rationalized her decision.

"I cared about him, so I protected him. That's what people do when they're in love."

"Ms. Stone when you and your husband and your children went on your annual family vacation in the summer of 2005, he asked you whether you had kissed Fred Miller recently, and you replied, 'I might have'. Is that true, yes or no?" challenged Gleason, and in return Stone shot him a chilling look as if to say that he was deranged while at the same time she hostilely replied, "Yeah...so what."

And while the tumultuous battle raged on, Newlan kept himself occupied by busily scribbling away into his notepad, but at the same time he was thinking; "Geez, I know Gleason's trying to make Fred Miller look bad, but I'm not sure how much it's helping Breslin's cause...especially with some of our more inflexible jurors."

But of course, even though Newlan was silently questioning Gleason's strategy, the seasoned trial lawyer continued to attack Stone the only way he knew how.

"And you told the investigators that your husband was calm when you discussed the kiss? You told them, if anything he was more shocked than upset, didn't you?"

"He wasn't upset at the time, but he made up for it later," scoffed Stone as Gleason turned his attention towards her relationship with Fred Miller.

"And Ms. Stone even though you and Fred Miller were dating again after all those years, at times he was still hurt and resentful over the Peter Perry incident, wasn't he?"

"I knew from the beginning when we started seeing each other again that there would be some issues to work out, and I think we were moving towards a more mature adult relationship," skillfully explained the sometimes child-like Tracy Stone.

"Ms. Stone in the fall of 2005 you were still adamant about going through with your divorce, and you made it clear to your husband that it had nothing to do Fred Miller, isn't that true?" continued Gleason.

"Yes that's true," hesitantly acknowledged Stone. And Gleason then pointed towards Breslin as if to reiterate the crux of the matter, while he fired away anew.

"Your husband John Breslin knew perfectly well that your divorce request had nothing to do with Fred Miller. He knew that it had nothing to do with Fred Miller because you made that point loud and clear. He knew that you were going to divorce him regardless of whether you were dating Fred Miller or you weren't dating Fred Miller. Isn't that also true Ms. Stone?" insisted Gleason.

After giving Gleason's declarations a few seconds to sink in, Stone surmised to herself, "Oh I see where he's going with this. If I say that Johnny knew it had nothing to do with Freddie, he's gonna say, 'then why would Johnny want him dead?'"

And as this enlightening conclusion echoed through Stone's head she carefully amended her reply.

"I told Johnny a million times that our problems had nothing to do with Freddie, but I don't think he ever really believed me."

By now, it seemed that the more Stone babbled on, the more Gleason abhorred her; and the more he loathed her, the more he contemplated going with a brand new strategy, which was to basically ignore most, if not all, of her answers, while at the same time trying to get his side of the story across to the jurors by way of his detail-laden questions.

"Ms. Stone, when your husband was forced to move out of the house that he lived in with you and the kids, it was written in the visitation agreement that he was permitted to enter what was now his former home so that he could see the children...a home which would eventually become yours...a home that he paid for, I might add," reminded Gleason before continuing on with his rambling expose. "The divorce court judge agreed that this arrangement would save him a significant amount of time, since he would otherwise have had to drive the kids back and forth from what is now your home in Marlborough to his mother's house in Waltham...isn't that true?"

"Yes that's true" admitted Stone; she was well aware of the fact that Gleason could pull out the divorce papers at any moment if need be, so there was no use in denying the words of an undisputable legal document.

"And isn't it also true that the moment your husband arrived at the house for visitations, you would immediately go out for the night while he would bathe the children, help them with their homework, and put them to bed?" sneered Gleason. And even though Stone hated like poison how Gleason was making her ex-husband out to be some sort of angel, once again she was forced to admit to the facts as he had presented them.

"And the truth of the matter is that when your husband would call you on your cell phone while you were out on the town, it wasn't to harass you...but it was because your children wanted to say goodnight, isn't it?" demanded Gleason.

"He would use the kids as an excuse, but he would always end up harassing me every chance he got," countered Stone in a contemptibly bitter tone.

"And Ms. Stone, on the night that Fred Miller confronted your husband in the driveway of your home, your husband's home as well at the time I might add, your husband wasn't upset was he? As a matter of fact, didn't you tell the investigators that 'Johnny was surprisingly unflappable'?" scoffed Gleason...and the best that Stone could do was to silently nod her head in the affirmative.

"And Ms. Stone, isn't it also true that in early morning hours of Monday October 10th, 2005, the main reason that your husband called you repeatedly was because Fred Miller was in your home while your children were present, in direct violation of a court order?" roared Gleason while at the same time Stone glared back in anger. But this time she said nothing. Her face was crimson and shaking with rage, but when she opened her mouth to speak, not a word came echoing out.

However, it didn't really matter what Tracy Stone did or didn't say, because Gleason was on a roll by now, and he wasn't waiting for, or even expecting, any answers as he continued with his nonstop barrage of enlightening questions.

"And when your daughter was in the hospital, Fred Miller was with you in her room, once again in violation of a court order, isn't that true Ms. Stone?"

"Over the next few months you and Mr. Miller showed a total disregard for a court order that, through your attorney, you had agreed to abide by, isn't that also true Ms. Stone?"

Stone's outrage was rapidly turning into a state of shock over what she was being coerced into attesting to. But she couldn't deny any of it, not a single word of it, and so instead she put her head in her hands and lapsed into her 19th nervous breakdown of the day.

Of course, R. J. Gleason wasn't about to take his foot off the pedal, not on his life he wasn't. To the contrary, now that he had her right where he wanted, Gleason lashed out at Stone and he asked her flat out; "Ms. Stone wasn't there an agreement in your divorce papers which stated that Fred Miller was to stay away from the children until after the divorce was finalized?"

And in response, Stone let out a muffled, "yes" through her salty tears.

Now that Gleason had revealed this crucial fact, a fact that DA Lyons had so conveniently left out of the equation when she had petitioned Stone, he decided that the moment of truth had arrived and it was time to finally let the black cat out of the bag. No matter how much it hurt Fred Miller's family, the entire tale needed to be told, and he intended on making damned sure that the jurors heard the whole story.

"Ms. Stone, isn't the reason your husband went through the effort of legally prohibiting you from being in Fred Miller's company in the presence of your children was that he was concerned about Mr. Miller's drug use?" forcefully contended Gleason. And in return Tracy Stone just shook her head from side to side and repeatedly sobbed, "No, no, no."

For good measure Gleason added a closely related postscript to his query; "And your husband was also concerned about your own drinking and drug problems as well, wasn't he?"

And although the truth hurt like hell, through her tears Stone managed to softly reply; "We argued about a lot of topics."

"Ms. Stone as a far as you know, other than the encounter in your driveway, your husband and Fred Miller never had another confrontation of any kind, never even saw each other again, isn't that true?" postulated Gleason in an attempt at corroboration..

"As far as I know they didn't," whispered Stone.

"And Ms. Stone after your husband moved out of your marital home, it wasn't unusual for him to call you in the morning. In fact he called just about every morning to say hello to the kids, didn't he?" contended Gleason as Tracy Stone hung on for dear life.

All this talk revolving around her children had struck a painful chord in Stone and it caused her to become more emotional than she already was, if that was even humanly possible, and by this point in the proceedings she was barely able to breathe.

Gleason, along with everyone else who was present in the courtroom, could clearly detect Stone's discomfort, and since he was nearing the end of his cross-examination anyway, he backed off ever so slightly, but not by much. He was hoping to finish things up with a bang, and he had a hunch that Stone's weakened condition presented the perfect opportunity to outline the events leading up to the morning of Fred Miller's murder.

"Ms. Stone on the afternoon of Friday December 23rd, 2005 didn't you call your husband and inform him that you were 'overwhelmed' by the responsibility of taking care of your children?"

"Yes," conceded Stone in a somber tone.

"And in response to your phone call, didn't your husband immediately drive over to your home, and there he stayed for eleven straight days and nights? And during that time period, didn't you and your husband and your children go out to dinner on at least five occasions as a family? You pretty much spent the entire holiday season together and you not only slept together, but YOU WERE SEXUALLY INITIMATE ON ALMOST A NIGHTLY BASIS, ISN'T THAT ALSO TRUE MS. STONE" exploded Gleason in a practically uncontrollable fit of passion. But Stone calmly stared back at him with daggers in her eyes as she responded with yet another one word answer; "regrettably."

"And you weren't sexually intimate with Fred Miller during this period were you?" added Gleason.

"No, we had made a joint decision to take things slowly," mumbled Stone.

"And then on the evening of Saturday January 7th, 2006 you and your husband and the children went out to dinner as a family once again didn't you?" continued Gleason.

"Yes," drawled Stone with a frown on her face.

"And you had plans to go out on a date with Fred Miller the very next night, but he called you and canceled didn't he? And you told the investigators that Fred was frustrated and upset with you. He knew that you had spent the holidays with your husband. He knew that you had gone out to dinner the previous night with your husband. And didn't you even inform the investigators that Fred had gruffly asked you to work out your feeling, and not to call him anymore unless you were 100% sure that it was over between you and your husband? Can you deny any of this?" demanded Gleason.

Stone struggled to respond, and her silence only added to the drama.

Meanwhile, Newlan was diligently taking in the grand theatre of Gleason and Stone's performances with the same attentive furor that he would a Grateful Dead concert...and as their song-and-dance reached its crescendo, a novel reality began to sink into his suddenly infuriated psyche.

"This dude Miller doesn't sound like he was much of a threat to Breslin. As a matter of fact, I feel bad for Miller _and_ Breslin. This bitch...this luscious fuckin' bitch had them both wrapped around her finger, and I know just where they're coming from. It's no fuckin' fun being so hung up on a woman who takes you for granted as if you were a pair of old fuckin' shoes."

Newlan's mind was about to wander even further astray, but luckily for him, Gleason's high-pitched antics restored his attention before he had even the slightest chance of lapsing too deeply into the abyss.

"But you called Fred Miller anyway. Even though you hadn't worked out your feelings, even though it wasn't truly over between you and your husband, you called Fred Miller and you were hell-bent on screwing up his life again, weren't you Ms. Stone?" clamored Gleason. But Stone, who sobbing had intensified to its highest level of the entire day, screamed back just as loudly, wailing out at the top of her lungs; "that's not true...it's not true...it's just not true."

However, regardless of how strongly Stone voiced her denial, Gleason simply ignored her and resolutely continued on.

"Ms. Stone didn't you receive a present from your husband, delivered right to your doorstep on the afternoon of Wednesday January 11th, 2006?"

"Yes, he sent me a dozen roses...but I told him that it was too late for flowers," sniffled Stone.

"And Ms. Stone on the night of January 12th, 2006 your husband was due at your home for his visitation with the children, but he was delayed because of a problem with a rodent in his mother's basement. And this delay caused you to be late for a date with Fred Miller which annoyed you, didn't it?" inquired Gleason in a tormenting manner.

"No, we were just meeting for a drink so it didn't matter if I was running a little late," tearfully reasoned Stone.

"Ms. Stone didn't you call your husband...and you told him to hurry up and get his ass over there because you had plans for the evening?" insisted Gleason.

"No, I don't remember using those words," replied and equally insistent Stone.

"And didn't you tell the investigators that as you were getting ready to leave the house for the evening on the night of January 12th, your husband said to you, 'you look good, you smell good, so I guess I know where you're going tonight'?" continued Gleason.

"I don't remember his exact words, but it was something to that affect," coldly replied Stone.

"And when you got home that evening, your husband wanted to talk to you, but you were too drunk, and you just wanted to go to bed, isn't that true Ms. Stone?" scolded Gleason.

"No, not at all...it was late and I wasn't in the mood to talk, but I told Johnny to call me when he got home, and I waited up until he did, because I didn't want to go to bed without knowing that he had made it home safely," recounted Stone.

"And on the morning of Friday January 13th, 2006 you found a letter from your husband on the kitchen table, which you read to us earlier today?" chronicled Gleason.

"Yes," shrugged Stone.

"And didn't the PS of that letter, which the prosecution so conveniently omitted from its presentation, read, 'I love you Tracy and I will always love you. All I want in life is to see you happy'?" inquired Gleason, and again Stone responded with an uninterested, "yes."

Gleason was just about ready to wrap things up, but he was determined to end the day with something that the jury would vividly remember, and in his mind he had the perfect scenario.

"Ms. Stone, two months after the murder of Fred Miller, didn't you go out to dinner with your husband and didn't you even hint at rekindling your relationship?"

"Yes...I mean no...I mean yes, we did go out to dinner, but no, I absolutely did not mention anything about resuming our relationship," stammered Stone.

"So you went out to dinner with your husband even though you thought he had something to do with the death of the so-called love of your life, is that what you're telling this jury, Ms. Stone?" boomed Gleason.

"He's still the father of my children," countered a weary Stone.

"Weren't you afraid that he might murder you too?" mocked Gleason.

"I won't even dignify that with an answer," shot back a disgusted Stone.

And as the combatants dueled, Newlan busily scribbled Stone's testimony into his notepad almost word for word, but he also took the time to add his own bits of commentary as well, such as the following aside:

As heartless as it sounds, Gleason makes a good point: why the hell would Stone be going out to dinner with Breslin if she thinks he's a murderer??!!

"Ms. Stone is it fair to say that you blame your husband for Fred Miller's death?" continued Gleason.

"Absolutely," nodded Stone.

"And you hate him because of it?" assumed Gleason.

"No I don't hate him," sourly insisted Stone. "Hating him would consume my life, and I'm not going to let that happen. Hatred is what killed Fred...senseless hatred."

By this late hour in the day, the rhythmic back and forth sparring between Gleason and Stone had long since engulfed the entire courtroom in intrigue and hurtled it into a spellbound state. However, as much as Newlan and his fellow jurors were mesmerized by the day's events, they were utterly exhausted as well.

Newlan for one was aghast to discover that when he looked up at the clock, it was already five minutes to five, and Judge Gershwin must have had the same reaction because she stopped Gleason in mid-sentence and offered him one of two options.

"Mr. Gleason, it's getting late so unless you are just about ready to wrap up your cross-examination of the witness, I'd like to break for the day," declared Judge Gershwin, and Gleason thought about it for no more than two second before deciding on the latter alternative.

"Your honor I'd like to conclude my interview of Ms. Stone in the morning," unflinchingly announced Gleason.

"Very well," replied Judge Gershwin, and with that, another day in the murder trial of John Breslin was done. However, for Tracy Stone the nightmare was just beginning, and she winced ruefully at the very thought of having to travel back to the courthouse in the morning for another round of torture at the hands of R. J. Gleason. DA Lyons had estimated that her testimony would last no more than one day, so this came as an unexpected bit of bad news to Stone. But she didn't have much choice in the matter except to show up again tomorrow as requested, or break the terms of her subpoena.

After the usual parting instructions directed towards the jurors, cautioning them not to discuss the case with anyone, Judge Gershwin decreed that court was adjourned for the day. It had been a brutally long eight hours, but Newlan and his colleagues were finally free to go home at last. However, in their hearts and minds they were not free at all, not by a long shot.

To a man, to a woman, each of the sixteen jurors was being held prisoner to an overwhelming responsibility which fate had bestowed upon them.

To a man, to a woman, their civic duty had long since metastasized into a debilitating, cancerous growth; their compelling nobility had long since spread into an oppressive burden; their moral obligation had long since grown into a thousand pound gorilla.

To a man, to a woman, the crushing millstone of conjecture which had long since been dropped on them like a dead weight that grew heavier with each passing day, bound them to each other.

To a man, to a woman, sleep would not come easy for our dogged seekers of veracity.

To a man, to a woman, our sixteen brave soldiers were acquiring an unwanted understanding of the dangers that lurk behind every door.

To a man, to a woman, our sixteen shrewd arbitrators were developing a surreal perception of depth, a lingering concept of time and space, an unreal vision of such fine filament that it was almost blinding.

To a man, to a woman, our sixteen noble magistrates were at long last beginning to comprehend that the truth, as it were, can only ever be seen...from the eyes of a juror.

### Chapter 51 – Mahoney's Pub (Dead on Arrival)

Thursday evening June 12, 2008 – 8:00 PM

Frank Newlan was literally and figuratively dead-to-the-world as he kicked back on his leather sofa and groggily awaited the start of game 4 of the NBA Finals. The series, which pitted the local favorites, the Boston Celtics against the hated LA Lakers, was still up for grabs, and with the Celtics leading two games to one, tonight's contest could prove to be a pivotal turning point for the victors.

Newlan hated every team in every sport that had the audacity to match up against one of his beloved Boston teams in an important playoff game, and yet he just couldn't seem to get worked up for this series the way he normally would.

"Maybe I'm just getting old," brooded Newlan, although deep inside he knew full well that his lethargy had a lot more to do with the stress of the John Breslin murder trial -- which was weighing heavily on his mind and squeezing the life out of him like a 350 pound defensive lineman blindsiding a helpless quarterback -- than it did with the natural process of aging.

It was becoming obvious to him that the trial was draining the gas out of his tank at such a rapid rate that he didn't possess enough energy leftover with which to focus his full force on the drama that was taking place on the basketball court when the drama that was going on in the courtroom had such life-altering implications.

As a matter of fact, Newlan was so inwardly focused on processing the day's events that someone could have lit his hair on fire and he may not have noticed.

Newlan spent the entire drive home from the courthouse replaying the Grateful Dead song "Built to Last" over and over again at increasingly deafening volumes; all in a desperate attempt to pick up on some secret hidden message that Fred Miller was hoping to convey to Tracy Stone.

Newlan got so lost in the music that he wasn't sure how he even made it home in one piece, but make it home he did; he was completely exhausted and barely functional, but he was home, safe and sound, and on this spectral evening that's all that really mattered.

By the time Newlan had eaten dinner and settled in on the sofa for the night, he had come to the uneasy conclusion that Breslin may have somehow been involved in Fred Miller's death. But at this point there was nowhere near enough evidence for him to vote guilty beyond a reasonable doubt, no matter what the rest of the jurors thought.

And so it was against this backdrop that Newlan began his evening. He was trying his damndest to get excited about the game, but he just couldn't seem to erase Tracy Stone's scandalous testimony from his mind; and what might have been the strangest aspect of this utterly strange day was the fact that he found her to be equal parts captivating and repulsive all at the same time.

"Man, she must have some sort of magical power, because I feel like I'm falling under her spell," reflected Newlan as Stone's face flickered across his brain, sending him into a dreamlike torpor.

It seemed that the more Newlan pondered Tracy Stone's tale, the more he identified with Fred Miller's anguish...and it pained him to no end. He never even met the man, but whenever his wandering mind lingered on Miller's specter, he clearly envisioned the carefree, fun loving, Grateful Dead fanatic who numbly partied his way through life only to have his whole world shattered by the unrequited love of his one-and-only. And now when he looked at himself in the mirror, he could see nothing other than the embodiment of Fred Miller glaring back at him, cautioning him to watch his step and to keep one eye always looking over his shoulder, reminding him to keep one eye always looking back.

"Poor Fred, he was just following his heart. As much as Tracy screwed him, he still wanted to be with her...and I can relate to that," deliberated Newlan's good conscience, while his bad conscience also weighed in with a verdict of its own. "But on the other hand, she was already taken. He was just asking for trouble, screwing around with a married woman."

To make matter worse, as much as Newlan saw himself in Fred Miller, he saw even more of Marianne Plante in Tracy Stone; more than he was willing to admit. And yet regardless of the similarities between the two women, he still didn't fully appreciate the predicament that he was about to wriggle himself into. And yet regardless of the cords that bonded him to Fred Miller, he still couldn't bring himself to fully believe that Breslin was capable of planning Miller's murder. And yet regardless of how many psychic sentinels came crashing down across his slumping shoulders, he still couldn't seem to accept the warning signs of things to come which were staring him right in the face like a dead man's skull in an ominous bad dream.

Newlan's feelings for the parties involved in the case, much like his feelings for Marianne Plante, seemed to change like the weather, but one thing was clear; he was sick and tired of the gut-wrenching grind that the trial had become, and he wished that he could come up with some conniving scheme to maneuver his way off of the jury.

But luckily for Newlan's sanity, every time he reached the point where he thought that he was going to explode if he mulled over the trial for even one more second, he would somehow manage to snap his head out of the clouds and get his mind focused back on the upcoming basketball game, at least for a little while...and back and forth the pendulum went. Back and forth until Newlan's game-face was firmly in place; back and forth until the bizarre Grateful Dead connection between himself and Fred Miller popped into his head again and again and again.

"How could this be possible? I dreamed that I encountered Fred Miller's ghost at a Grateful Dead concert before I even knew a single thing about him. And then I'm listening to an obscure Grateful Dead song on the drive to the courthouse this morning, only to find out that he decided to use the lyrics of that same freakin' song to help him win back his one true love...what are the fuckin' odds?" wondered Newlan who was suddenly shaking in his shoes over the uncanny stroke of unpredictability that had been permeating his life of late.

Newlan truly believed that he was born with a gift which fueled his psychic tendencies. But whenever some unusually portending occurrence took place, such as the foretelling Fred Miller dream, it frightened him to no end. These strange occurrences had become more and more common to Newlan over the years, so one would think that he should have been use to it by now, but his reaction was actually quite the opposite, and at times he felt as if he was losing his marbles.

The problem, as Newlan saw it, was that he had no control over his purported power, and this lack of command was very disconcerting to him. Unbelievable visions would come rushing into Newlan's brain, like radio waves of static, only to later materialize when he least expected it. Unexplainable dreams would somehow become reality, like some unearthly apparition, whether he liked it or not. But at the same time, he was also plagued by unreliable notions which were too blurry for him to decipher, and this only added to his confusion.

Newlan often mused; "if only I could harness this gift. If only I could fine-tune the hazy reception. Then maybe I could use my ability to help others, rather than scaring myself silly every time this sixth sense of mine rears its ugly head. Then maybe my transcendental acumen might end up being more useful to mankind, kinda like those psychics who delve into their inner-energy forces to help locate long-lost missing children."

But despite his misaligned signals, on this night, as Newlan tried in vain to relax, the voice in his head was a familiar one; on this night, the voice in his head was well pronounced; on this night, the voice in his head was crystal-clear. On this night the voice of the late Jerry Garcia singing "Built to Last" was calling out to him like a murmur from beyond the grave. On this night the voice of a dead man was being systematically etched into his brain like a knife carving into a knot of wood until it produces a haunted voodoo doll.

On this night, Newlan's heart was being torn in many disparately different directions. On this night he surmised, "Maybe I should search out a spiritual advisor who can teach me how to tap into my psychic abilities. Maybe I should seek out a woman who can help me to forget the past....who can teach me to never look back. Maybe I should embrace Fred Miller's eidolon...channel his soul...and maybe then I might discover what really happened to him. Ah, but first things first, let's play some basketball...and maybe, just maybe, _that_ will get my mind off my troubles for a few hours."

And with that desperate proclamation, Newlan once again attempted to turn off his mind and float down the lazy river. But as had been the case since day one of the trial, even his best efforts were doomed to failure.

However, even though Newlan's many issues may have been interfering with his enjoyment of another Celtics championship run, his pals were having no such problems. This was an event that was 22 years in the making. This was an event that might not happen again for God knows how long. This was an event that should be savored like a fine wine. This was an event that should be shared amongst friends.

And so when Newlan's phone rang, he had a feeling that it was his lifelong sports-watching buddy, Pat Horn, on the end of the line; but this time, it was by no means a psychic revelation. On the contrary, it was merely an expected ritual that was practiced by sports fans throughout the world, and nowhere more so than in the metropolitan Boston Massachusetts area.

"Frankie let's go! Get up off that sofa you lazy bastard. Bruce and I are going down to O'Toole's to watch the game. I'll pick you up in half an hour," exclaimed Horn. But Newlan, who was suddenly torn between choosing a night on the town or spending the evening at home catching up on some much needed rest, replied in an uncommitted fashion.

"I don't know Pat, I think I'm gonna pass. I'm really beat. Oh and by the way, how the hell did you know that I was on my sofa?"

Unlike Newlan, Patrick Horn suffered no illusions of being a psychic, but after more than thirty years, he knew his old friend all too well, and he told him just that before adding, "Come on Frankie. It's the Celtics. It's the Finals. And you're too tired. You can't be serious. When did you become such a wimp?"

Newlan hemmed and hawed for a while, but ultimately he gave in as usual. He had wanted to go with the flow all along. He just needed to endure little bit of coaxing before he was willing to succumb to his friend's peer pressure.

"OK Pat, I guess a few cold brews won't kill me," reasoned Newlan, but as soon as he hung up the phone he realized that there remained a fatal flaw in their master plan.

"Oh my God, I can't go back to O'Toole's so soon, not after last week's brawl," mumbled Newlan as he anxiously rang Horn back and explained his dilemma.

After an animated one-sided discussion in which Newlan did most of the talking, the friends decided to watch the game at Mahoney's Pub in nearby Somerville, Massachusetts. In the end, the change of venue turned out to be no big deal. As long as the game was on the big screen TV and the tap was flowing with beer, it didn't much matter where the old pals watched the game.

On the ride over to the pub, Newlan's buddies were quite interested in his colorful recounting of every last detail pertaining to the previous week's fisticuffs at O'Toole's, particularly the authority-averse Bruce Reardon.

Reardon passed around a joint, exhaled, and coughed up a lung while at the same time rasping out his own commentary regarding the scrapping police officers.

"It figures that Jimmy Leach was involved. He always did enjoy a good barroom brawl. Man, I still can't believe he's a cop, even after all these years."

"Why the hell didn't you tell us about this?" scolded Horn.

"I'm sorry Pat, I meant to call you the next day, but I've been so preoccupied with the trial that it slipped my mind," explained Newlan.

"Trial...what trial...you still on that trial?" wondered Reardon.

"Jeez, it must be something serious," added Horn.

"Yeah well, it's a murder trial, so what did you expect? And it still has a long way to go. I thought I told you guys that I was gonna be out of commission for a while because of this damned jury duty," replied Newlan...and naturally, his pals spirited reaction to the news was to egg him on until he couldn't take it anymore.

"Can't you give us _any_ info at all? Come on dude, just a hint. It's not the Townshend trial is it? Is it the Breslin trial? Or maybe it's the McMahn trial?" pestered Reardon and Horn simultaneously...and as the barrage of nonstop questions were being rained down upon him, at some point Newlan caved-in to the harassment and he reluctantly decided, "The hell with Judge Gershwin."

Much like his rendition of the O'Toole's fight-night escapades, Newlan went on to provide his friends with a complete lowdown of the trial, right on down to and including every last detail he could think of.

"Wow, the Hit Man Murder trial! You could become a celebrity because of this," predicted an excited Horn.

"Yeah, but if I had it my way, I would have never gotten chosen to serve on this frigging jury in the first place. It's eating me up inside," lamented Newlan.

"What's the big deal?" retorted Horn. "I was on a jury once...assault and battery with a dangerous weapon. The defendant was this lonely old guy...he was hitting on his sexy next door neighbor. But unfortunately for him, her ex-boyfriend just so happened to be an ex-con. So ex-con confronts lonely boy...slaps him around a bit and a fight breaks out. You should have heard the ex-con when he was up on the stand testifying. He was like, 'I asked the dude, you wanna dance? 'Cause if you wanna dance, I'll dance witcha mofo, and I'll cut you up too'."

"No fuckin' way, he said that in court," Reardon chuckled.

"Yeah," continued Horn. "But the only problem was that the ex-con didn't realize who the hell he was messing with, because lonely boy also happened to be an ex-marine. So lonely boy pulls out a gun and pistol-whips the ex-con. Can you believe this shit? But the sad part about it was that based on the law, we had to find lonely boy guilty."

"That's cold dude! He was an ex-marine, couldn't you cut him a break?" protested Reardon.

"That's what I was thinking...but I was outnumbered," rationalized Horn, while at the same time he turned towards Newlan who was in the back seat and offered up a corollary. "Hey Frankie, the trial that I was on sounds a little bit like your case, doesn't it?"

"Yeah...it just about always ends up being over some fuckin' bitch," added the distrusting Reardon.

However, Newlan had the last word, and as usual he ended the conversation with a bang; a typical sarcastic slant of a bang we might add.

"I agree...there are some similarities between the two cases...but the big difference is the little fact that in my trial, we have a freakin' dead body on our hands," offered Newlan, and his observation had his buddies roaring with laughter.

As the three old friends sat and joked inside Horn's automobile which was idling in the parking lot of Mahoney's Pub while they finishing up their second joint of the evening, they happened to be listening to the classic rock radio station WXLZ, but when a commercial interrupted their merriment, Horn pushed the button on his CD player and drifting out from the car speakers came the Grateful Dead song, "Estimated Prophet".

"Crank it up Pat," urged Reardon, while at the same time Newlan blood turned so cold that he was frozen on the spot.

It seems that the one detail of the trial which Newlan had neglected to mention to his friends was Fred Miller's reference to the Grateful Dead song "Built to Last" in his foreboding letter to Tracy Breslin

But now, as the growl of Grateful Dead rhythm guitarist Bob Weir's deep baritone voice grew stronger with words of a visionary's forecast, Newlan had a critical decision to make. Should he inform his friends of the 411 regarding how the Grateful Dead had muscled their way into the trial...and into his deepest fears? Would they think he was possessed? Would they think he was crazy? Would they think he was out of control?

Newlan was stoned and scared straight all at the same time, and the flare-up was due in its entirety to the fact that his old buddy just so happened to have a Grateful Dead CD playing in his car stereo. They were all big Grateful Dead fans, so it shouldn't have come as any great shock to Newlan that Horn had decided to bring along one of their CD's for the ride. But he wasn't thinking rationally, and the mighty harmonic convergence of events which had entered his life lately were so incomprehensible that he felt he just had to tell somebody what was going on. He weighed the pros and cons wearily in his mind, but in the end he figured that if he couldn't tell his life-long friends, then who the hell could he tell?

As they strolled into Mahoney's Pub and plopped down onto three stools at the corner of the bar, Newlan waveringly explained the "Built to Last" anomaly to his friends so as to gauge their opinions; strange coincidence, or one-in-a-million psychic revelation?

The verdict was split. Horn thought that their meeting-of-the-minds so to speak was bizarre, but just a coincidence and nothing more. Reardon, on the other hand, thought that the intersection of their falling dominos was rather spooky, bone-chillingly so, but he still wasn't quite buying into Newlan's psychic "bullshit".

Newlan, on the other hand, as you might expect, insisted that there had to be some higher power at work pulling the strings that tied him to Fred Miller. He insisted that someone upstairs was trying to tell him something. He insisted that it was all part of some great big master plan. But Reardon was having none of it, and by way of paraphrasing the late master of the avant-garde, Frank Zappa, he counterpunched Newlan with the following quizzical inquiry; "come on now Frankie...who you bullshittin' with your fuckin' cosmic debris?"

But of course, being the music aficionado that he was, Newlan immediately recognized the Zappa reference and he grumpily replied, "Very funny Bruce."

And as is if to further prove his point, Newlan went on to recall one of his most infamous pseudo-psychic episodes of all time.

"OK Bruce, then what about the night back in 1980 when we were watching the Patriots on Monday Night Football over your house, and I was in the mood to listen to some John Lennon at halftime. Remember how I jokingly said that if any of the Beatles ever died, from natural causes or whatever, the world was gonna come to an end? And then just seconds before the end of the game, Howard Cosell made his famous announcement that Lennon had been shot and killed. Remember how we were all spooked out, and you said right then and there that I must have some sort of eerie psychic power because I practically predicted his death?"

And for his part, Reardon, who remembered the incident all too well, melancholically stared into his beer as he replied, "Yeah, I remember we sucked down at least ten whiskey toasts in his memory after the game. We drank ourselves into a coma, but we never did quite kill the pain and depression."

"I remember sitting there stunned," sadly added Horn as they reminisced back on the loss of one of their childhood heroes.

"I'll never forget Howard Cosell's voice, his words are still stamped into my brain; 'yes we have to say it, remember, this is just a football game, no matter who wins or loses...an unspeakable tragedy confirmed to us by ABC News in New York City...John Lennon, outside of his apartment building on the West Side of New York City, the most famous perhaps of all The Beatles, shot twice in the back, rushed to Roosevelt Hospital, dead ... on ... arrival'" recited Newlan in a voice that was meant to be a poorly rendered Howard Cosell impersonation.

As Newlan's remarkably photographic mind began punching up intimate details from the long-ago episode, he came down with a phobic reaction, and in a panic he muttered, "It was fucked up then and it's fucked up now. I'm telling you something bad is gonna happen."

However, Reardon knew the drill when it came to Newlan and his paranoid, stoned mood swings. He shot up out of his seat and grabbed Newlan by the collar while at the same time he looked him dead in the eyes and calmly commanded, "Calm down Frankie. Don't go freaking out on me now."

But the mounting fear in Newlan's eyes served to inform Reardon that this wasn't one of his average run-of-the-mill adverse reactions, brought on by the ingestion of one-too-many hits of semi-potent marijuana; no, this was something far worse.

"What's bugging you Frankie?" probed Reardon in a confessional tone, and all of a sudden, for some inexplicable reason, visions of Marianne Plante invaded Newlan's mind and he thought to himself, "Should I tell them? Should I tell them how I heard from Marianne after all these years? Should I tell them how much I miss her? Should I tell them how messed up I feel inside? I told them about the Dead song, why shouldn't I tell them about this?"

But alas, in the end, Newlan didn't have the nerve to brief his lifelong friends on the unforeseen return of the only woman he ever loved into his life. Instead he merely grumbled, "It's nothing really. I've just that been under a lot of stress lately over the trial, that's all. It's not easy holding a man's life in your hands."

And truth be told, Newlan did calm down to some degree after he revealed his anxieties as they related to the trial...but Reardon wasn't totally buying his explanation. He had no doubt that there was something else bothering his best friend, something more personal, and as such he decided not to pry. He figured that Newlan would come clean when he was good and ready, and in the meantime, it was probably for the best that he just let it go and order another round of beers instead.

With his mind made up, Reardon let go of Newlan's collar, as well as his pride, and he slouched back down onto his bar stool, but not before first adding, "you said the world was gonna end after John Lennon died...but it didn't end did it? And it's not gonna end now either. So whatever's bothering you, it will eventually fade away because...well, as they use to say in the 60's, all things must come to pass."

Of course, not to be outdone, Newlan's reply to his pop-philosopher friend was equally abstract. "Yeah but, until then...for the love of God, somebody please...give us a world that's built to last."

In the final analysis, Reardon could only shake his head and laugh at Newlan's rejoinder, and on top of that, he couldn't think of anything better to do other than to put him in a bear hug and whisper in his ear; "You're one of a kind Frankie."

Newlan smiled in spite of himself, and his individualistic reply seconded Reardon's emotion; "And it's a good thing too, since I'm not sure whether the world is ready for more than one of me."

Meanwhile, when the bartender became aware of the commotion going on at the other end of the bar, he hustled over to the boys and shouted, "Tone it down fellas. No horseplay inside the lounge. Take it outside if you wanna fight."

But Reardon immediately eased the bartender's fears by replying, "Us fight? We've known each other way too long for that. Set us up with another round."

And so with beers in hand it was onto the start of the 3rd quarter. And with the resumption of the action, the nerve-wracked Pat Horn had his own set of marching orders for his rowdy friends; calm down or hit the highway.

"Come on guy's, enough already with the distractions. This game's getting way too intense, so shut the fuck up or take a hike."

"Relax Pat," groaned Reardon and Newlan as one, but nevertheless they took Horn's directive to heart and settled in to watch the game.

Unfortunately for the barroom packed full of Boston-aligned patrons however, before they knew what hit them, the Celtics were down by 24 points...but then, just when all seemed lost for their beloved green team, they began to stage a furious comeback.

"It took too much energy to catch up. There never gonna make it all the way back," offered the-glass-is-half-empty Newlan. But the never-say-die Horn's reply was as optimistic as Newlan's was pessimistic.

"It's possible Frankie. Once again I'll remind you that you never thought that the Sox could come all the way back from three games down against the Yankees in 2004. Jeez, and I thought you were finally starting to become a believer."

"Yeah, I was a believer...until last week when I got on this murder trial, that is. Now I'm not sure of anything anymore. Anyway, how about 1986 when we were one strike away?" countered Newlan.

"Come on Frankie, what does that have to do with it? The Sox finally won their World Series in our lifetime, so don't be so negative. We're gonna win this game. I can feel it," urged Horn, while at the same time, Reardon, who always got a big kick out of his two best friends constant back and forth sports banter, added in his own jibe.

"At least we're talking about the basketball game and not all that weird stuff."

Newlan let the dig go. By now it was the fourth quarter and he was totally engrossed in the game. For a few minutes his mind had removed itself from the crushing grip of the Breslin trial. For a few minutes he was completely focused in on the Celtics and their colossal struggle. For a few minutes he was reliving the Celtics mid 1980's heyday, partying like there was no tomorrow.

Amazingly enough, the Celtics managed to march all the way back and complete one of the biggest comebacks in NBA Finals history, holding on for a 97 – 91 victory, which prompted Newlan to put his arm around Horn and happily blurt out, "you were right Patrick, you son of a gun! Maybe you're the one who's the real psychic"

The crowded partisan bar was absolutely giddy over the Celtics win, and the celebration commenced as soon as the final buzzer sounded. For their part, the trio decided to hang out for a few more beers and a couple of victory shots of whiskey...for old time's sake.

The Celtics now held the lead in the series three games to one, and another championship season was so close to becoming a reality that the three friends could almost taste the champagne. And as they exited the bar Horn predicted as much.

"The series is the bag now. Even if they lose the next game, they'll still be coming back to Boston leading the series with the last two games to be played at the Garden."

Newlan on the other hand wasn't so sure.

"Come on Pat, after what happened to the Patriots in the Super Bowl, I'm not counting my chickens until their hatched...or else we might end up in the middle of another Yogi Berra quote, you know, something about it being déjà-vu, all over again."

And then, just like that, it happened again; just like that, the Breslin trial came storming back into the forefront of Newlan's mind as soon as he began to contemplate the vagaries of life...and from that point on, he couldn't seem to stop thinking about the trial for the rest of the night.

The three friends were pretty well smashed by the time they left the bar, and since they all had to be up at the crack of dawn, it wasn't much of a surprise that they were somewhat subdued during the short ride back to Newlan's condo.

However, there was a lot more to Newlan's somber mood than the fact that he was drunk; he was also lost in dreaded contemplation over the realization that he had another long day at the courthouse staring him squarely in the face, bright and early in the AM.

Meanwhile, the extended live version of the Grateful Dead tune "Estimated Prophet" came to an end just as they pulled up to the hotel-like entrance of Newlan's condo complex, and the sudden stop of the car, as well as the song, jarred Newlan out of his funk.

"Man you got some nice digs here Frankie. You must be making some decent money to be living in a place like this," conjectured Reardon. For whatever reason, even though he had been over to Newlan's condo countless times before, his awed reaction was always the same, as was Newlan's understated reply.

"I guess I'm doing all right," wistfully smiled Newlan, and then without a moment's hesitation, he added, "You guys wanna come up for a nightcap?"

Newlan's pals decided to pass on his offer, tempting though it may have been. Because, as it turned out, even though they were extremely intoxicated, they were still coherent enough to realize that if they ingested even one more drop of booze, they would have been in grave danger of calling in sick to work in the morning, which in turn would have incurred the wrath of their wives...and that in itself was a fate worse than death.

And so the childhood buddies said their reluctant goodbyes, while at the same time the reggae beat of the just concluded Grateful Dead song became stuck in Newlan's alcohol-soaked mind as he extricated his body from of the back seat of Horn's vehicle.

In response to the haunting melody and the "my time is drawing near" sentiments of the lyrics, Newlan absentmindedly hummed the portentous song to himself, repeatedly, as he rode the elevator on up to his sixth floor apartment; all the while, never fully comprehending...just how much...the words rang true; all the while, never fully conceiving...the danger...that lied in wait.

Chapter 52 – Dream a Little Dream...of Me

Thursday evening June 12, 2008 – 11:55 PM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is it true mommy? Did daddy kill Freddie?" Tracy's children would ask.

"Does this make us murderers too?" they would ask.

"When's daddy coming home?" they would ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Please don't be dead. Please don't be dead. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 53 – Friday the 13th (Everything's Gonna be Alright?)

Friday morning June 13, 2008 – 6:30 AM

The early morning hours of Friday, June the 13th, 2008 found Frank Newlan compulsively traipsing about the length of his two bedroom condo like a man possessed.

Newlan had been awake since before the crack of dawn, nursing a massive hangover, and the fact that today's date on the Gregorian calendar just so happened to be a Friday the 13th wasn't lost on him either; nor was the fact that Fred Miller just so happened to have been assassinated on an inauspiciously black Friday morning on the 13th day of the first month of 2006 as well. Even though Miller's murder occurred in the icy cold depths of wintery January, rather than the hot and humid month of June, this trifling disparity was of little comfort to the irrational Newlan. As far as he was concerned it was still a Friday the 13th and that rated an extra notch on his "man, you can't make this shit up" scale.

Newlan didn't think that he had had _that_ much to drink last night at Mahoney's Pub, at least compared to some of the legendary blowouts of his youth. But irrespective of how much he did or didn't drink last evening, the fact remained that he had a pounding headache on his hands which only time could cure, regardless of whether or not the blaring red letters on his digital clock painted an unlucky portrait for the start of the day.

Unfortunately for Newlan however, he didn't possess the luxury of time on his side; his presence was required at the Middlesex Superior Courthouse in a couple of hours, and so as a result, he had been chewing on Advil and sucking down coffee all morning. But still the throbbing in his head continued unabated, which was beginning to worry him.

Newlan tried to tell himself that he would survive, after all he always did. But no matter how introspectively-laced he made his reassurances, they didn't seem to be easing his mind one iota on this traditionally ill-fated morning.

"What if today is different? After all, it _is_ Friday the 13th. Maybe I'm having a stroke. Maybe that's what the spooky wraith in my dream was trying to tell me when he warned me that I'd be next," warily surmised Newlan...and his distress continued to grow and grow until it practically hurtled him beyond the point of no return.

Newlan's anxiety became so severe that it compelled him to lean back on his living room sofa where the cool, soft leather engulfed him and gradually improved the throbbing migraine that was rattling around in his skull.

And if his hypochondria-inducing headache wasn't bad enough, Newlan's motor reflexes were still operating under the influence of a potent mixture of alcohol and fear; and as such, his body remained partially impaired by the stubborn aftereffects of one-too-many beers, and his soul remained equally confounded by last night's frightening nightmare. And even though, for the life of him, he couldn't begin to explain significant portions of his latest bizarre dream, he could almost understand why Tracy Stone and Marianne Plante had infiltrated his sleep; after all, he had just spent an entire day mesmerized by Stone's testimony regarding the emotional letters and phone calls she had sent and received from the "love of her life"; after all, he had just spent the better part of the past week stumbling around in a state of utter confusion, precipitated by the unexpected letter and subsequent phone call that _he_ had just received from the love of _his_ life.

In Newlan's humble opinion, Stone was unquestionably a beautiful woman. But it was also quite obvious to him that she still had some complex issues to sort through. And yet, despite her troubles, Newlan could clearly comprehend why Fred Miller might have become obsessed her, just as _he_ had once obsessed over Marianne Plante.

It was equally clear to Newlan that this unprecedented chapter in his life, which included the unanticipated resurfacing of Marianne Plante, as well as his indoctrination into Tracy Stone's tumultuous saga, with both events occurring within days of each other, was a karmic mystery for the ages.

If nothing else, the confluence of these remarkably unforeseen circumstances, tucked firmly into his Earthly journey, served the righteous purpose of putting Newlan in touch with his inner feelings regarding his long lost lover; because, like Fred Miller before him, he had been unknowingly saddled with a debilitating storm of lingering, repressed turmoil, for years on end, over a fetching woman from his faraway past. And now the reality of the situation was finally marching to the forefront of his brain like a boisterous "Mardi Gras" parade from Hell.

"It all seems so clear to me now. Why didn't I ever put two and two together before?" dolefully wondered Newlan. "For all these years, I've been subconsciously consumed by unresolved issues because of the way things ended between Marianne and me. For all these years I've been stuck in a deep-seeded denial...which explains my fear of commitment once and for all."

Over the years, Newlan had vulnerably watched on and waited in the wings, as his pals, one by one, said goodbye to bachelorhood and sank into the mundane world of married life; and he often wondered why he could never seem to make that ultimate leap of faith; he often wonder why he could never feel it in his heart-of-hearts to tie the knot with any of the multitude of women who had crossed his path in the last two decades.

"Sure, most of my friends didn't end up with the women of their dreams. And sure most of them don't seem to be very happy with their lot in life. But for better or worse, most of them are still together; for better or worse, most of them are still sticking it out. And the older I get, the more it seems that people keep asking me when _I'm_ gonna get married and settled down. But every time someone asks, I've never known what to tell them, because, well, I didn't know the answer myself up until this very minute. Of course, deep in the back of my foolish heart I guess I've always understood that after Marianne there could never be anyone else," reflected Newlan. And as the hopeless conundrum of his plight crystallized in his mind, he began to cry the bitter tears of disappointment; the bitter tears of truth; the bitter tears of failure; the bitter tears of a broken heart.

Newlan sat there in his living room, sulking for over an hour, but finally he came to the realization that he had a decision to make; it was either fight back and stand tall, or give up and give in; and he wasn't about to give up; he wasn't about to give in.

And so with his resolve intact, Newlan sucked it up and got on with his day. He made a hearty breakfast for himself. He took a shower. He got himself dressed...and last but not least, he stopped by his CD closet and picked out a disc for the day. After much consideration he decided on disc 2 of the Steely Dan boxed set "Citizen Steely Dan", and just like that, he was on the road again, apparently none the worse for wear.

Newlan barely waved as he briskly passed the supercilious Saeed Kahn down in the lobby of his condo complex. Kahn was about to engage Newlan in a serious discussion regarding the news of the day, but he was in no mood for one of the concierge's ridiculous diatribes. And as if to prove his point, as soon as he hit the road, he lit up an extra-large fatty of a joint and subserviently complied as the unique jazz rock of Steely Dan took possession of his soul.

Newlan's knee-jerk reaction to the sensory overload of the rock-and-reefer cocktail was to mindlessly, yet enthusiastically, sing along as the all too appropriate "Dan" (as he affectionately nicknamed them for short) song "Night by Night" strained his car speakers to the max.

All of a sudden, as if by magic, Newlan felt all warm and fuzzy inside. He always found it fascinating how a heartfelt song could ignite a case of the goose-bumps from somewhere deep within him and send them spreading through his extremities like wildfire. And in response to this euphoric reaction, he pumped his fist in the air and defiantly shouted out into the empty space which occupied the cabin of his automobile, "Damned right I'm gonna go on living my life night by night...and I don't give a fuck what anyone thinks."

And so with his attitude adjusted for the morning, Newlan inched his way along through the traffic in a purple haze...and after enduring the inevitable delays along Interstate 93, he made his ensuing arrival into the courthouse garage, triumphantly maneuvering his red Mercury Mystique into one of the many unoccupied parking spots as if he were an astronaut landing the Space Shuttle on a NASA runway. And from there, he sat decompressing in his cockpit, patiently waiting for someone to show up and retrieve him.

Per usual, the elderly Patty was the next juror to touch down in the parking lot, and as the guard escorted them both beyond the barbed wire fence, she promptly picked up on just how haggard Newlan was looking on this particular morning. He blamed it on lack of sleep due to the trial, which of course was only partly true, and Patty in turn confided that she too had been having trouble sleeping as well.

"I don't know Patty, maybe it's just me, but most of the jurors don't seem to be bothered in the least about serving on this trial, while me on the other hand, I'm a basket case...and now it looks like you're a nervous wreck too," lamented Newlan.

"Trust me Frank, the rest of the jurors are feeling the strain just as much as we are, but we all have different ways of dealing with our demons," reasoned the motherly Patty, and Newlan nodded his head slightly in muted agreement. And while they were chatting, the next juror to wander into the waiting room was Joanne, the plump, but pretty, blonde youngster.

Joanne managed a meek hello as she despondently plopped herself into a chair. And just as Patty had diagnosed _his_ malaise, Newlan instantly picked up on a silent signal emanating from Joanne's body language. She appeared to be agitated about something. And although Newlan was mildly curious as to what the problem might be, he wasn't about to pry into her business.

"After all, I hardly know these people," rationalized Newlan. But in the end, there was no need to pry, because Joanne was all too willing to dish out the lowdown regarding the thorny dilemma that was bothering her.

"I hardly slept a wink last night. I think the trial is finally getting to me," admitted Joanne, while at the same time Patty slyly winked at Newlan and in a serious tone she added a verbal addendum to her covert gesture; "What did I tell you Frank."

Patty's puzzling commentary triggered Joanne to shoot her a quizzical look, and almost immediately, Patty realized that her remarks were rather inappropriate.

"I'm so sorry Joanne. Don't mind me. It's just that Frank and I were discussing how we haven't been sleeping well either, and I assured Frank that each and every one of the jurors has probably been beset with the same problem to some degree or another...it's a very difficult situation we've been thrown into, to say the least," articulately admitted Patty.

"Tell me about it," sighed Joanne as she covered her eyes with her hands.

Newlan wasn't positive, but he could have sworn that he heard the sound of muffled sobbing coming from Joanne's direction, and his observation was confirmed when Patty put her arm around Joanne and gently comforted her.

It's OK dear...everything's gonna be alright," guaranteed Patty, but Newlan was buying it, not for one minute; and in retaliation he just sat there, poker-faced, as the two generationally-separated women tenderly consoled each other.

"Everything's gonna be alright, my ass. Ha, what a joke," silently mused Newlan; he had heard those exact same hollow words one time too many for his own liking over the course of his weary lifetime, and so subsequently, he was having none of it.

As it turned out, the temperament in the waiting room didn't appear to be terribly rosy for any of the jurors on this long-established, superstitious day of ill-tidings. But before too long however, Billy arrived and escorted them up to their sixth floor home-away-from-home with the promise that they would only be required to put in a half-day of service today.

Billy incorrectly assumed that his half-day news flash would be greeted favorably amongst the jurors, but it only seemed to make matters worse as far as many of them were concerned.

"I'd just assume we go all day, so that we can get this thing over with," opined Jane, and for once Newlan wholeheartedly agreed with her, while conversely, Billy shrugged his shoulders in defeat. However, he wasn't about to leave on a down note, and as he struggled to think of something witty to say, he suddenly recalled the human GPS advice he had provided for the disable juror, Dan.

"Did you try the shortcut?" excitedly inquired Billy.

"Yes...and I got here right on time," replied Dan with a smile.

"Atta boy," exhorted Billy while at the same time providing Dan with a friendly tap on the shoulder; and with that, he made his usual quick exit from the room so that he could go about the business of preparing the courtroom for another day's session.

"By the way, did anyone else notice that today's Friday the 13th?" blurted out Jane to a few nodding heads as soon as Billy was out of earshot.

"Yeah I did...at about forty thirty this morning," wryly divulged Newlan as he helped himself to one of the many snacks which now adorned the cluttered deliberation room table.

It seemed that regardless of how many more grueling weeks lie ahead of them, or how far their spirits had fallen, the jurors assigned to the John Breslin murder case were in it for the long haul. And as such, they continued to cart in homemade and store-bought cookies and muffins and chocolaty snacks, along with daily doses of Dunkin Donuts coffee boxes; arguably, it was enough food to feed a small army.

The caffeine blasts in particular proved to be quite beneficial, because once their coffee-and-sugar rushes were firmly in place, their cranky dispositions tended to improve dramatically. As a matter of fact, on this sunny morning, it was like night and day, and all of a sudden the jurors were collectively engaged in a cluster of casual conversations, like one big happy family full of strangers who didn't have a care in the world, with the women still abuzz over Tracy Stone's blockbuster testimony, and the men gleefully discussing the Celtics comeback win.

However, it didn't take long before Ron the banker broke the cheery mood and sent it splintering into a hundred different directions, simply by making mention of a disturbing incident which had occurred late yesterday afternoon.

"Did any of you happen to catch wind of that guy sitting behind Breslin who was trying to intimidate us?" wondered Ron.

"The guy why was giving us the evil eye...oh I saw him," replied Stan, "but it didn't work on me."

"You mean the guy who saluted us with the throat slash?" added Dan.

"Bingo, that's the one...it's gotta be a friend or relative of Breslin's," figured Ron.

"I've been through too much in my life to be bullied by a punk like that," offered the wheelchair-bound Dan as a look of determination spread across his face.

"Yeah, but I'm pretty sure that Judge Gershwin saw him too, because I saw her call Donny over and whisper something in his ear, and next thing you know, old-man Donny booted the guy out of the courtroom...so I'm guessing it's a safe bet to say that we've seen the last of that SOB, and that everything's gonna be alright going forward," uncharacteristically offered Mike, the usually silent car salesman.

Meanwhile, the typically timid Newlan turned white as a ghost at the mere mention of some thug threatening the jurors; his strategy from day one had been to avoid peering out into the audience, and his self-deceiving motto was such that if he didn't see it, then it didn't happen. But suddenly that plan-of-action didn't seem to be working anymore. Visions of faceless assassins pointing oversized pistols in his face and whispering "your next Newlan" flashed across his mind and curdled his blood like a glass of milk that had been left out in the hot sun all day.

Newlan could almost feel himself losing his grip on the well-maintained structure which had come to define his life; he could almost feel himself falling apart at the seams as his universe crumbled all around him, more and more by the minute. And the shear madness which seemed to have engulfed this cold cruel world lately almost made his wish that he had never left his mother's womb.

"Everything's gonna be all right, my ass. Ha, what a joke," muttered Newlan to himself for the second time in the last half hour; as far as he was concerned, he wasn't sure whether anything on this God forsaken planet, for the remainder of his life, however long or brief it might be, would ever be alright...again.

### Chapter 54 – Saeed Kahn's Errand (A License to Kill)

Friday morning June 13, 2008 – 8:45 AM

At around the same time that Frank Newlan was frightfully pondering the capricious nature of his circumstances within the well-protected confines of the sixth floor juror deliberation room of the Middlesex Superior Courthouse, his neighbor and concierge, Saeed Kahn, was putting into motion a plan that would make a throat-slash gesture seem harmless by comparison.

Kahn claimed illness and arranged for the night/weekend concierge, whom he referred to as "Mr. Charlie", to take his shift, while he slipped out for an appointment with his longtime personal doctor. And although Kahn was as deceitful as a man can be, right down to his rotten core, in a demented way you could also make a case that there was a sliver of truth buried somewhere deep within his lies.

Kahn _was_ in fact ill, but his was a sickness of the mind. His was a delusional malady which had pervaded his inner-being and left him a mere shell of a man...a sullen, soulless, broken, shell of a man.

However, in his defense, who can know for sure what precipitated Kahn to abandon reason and decency for a world of hate? Who can know for sure of the tortures he had endured in his native land; the violence he had been forced to participate in; the death he had been forced to witness? But in the end, sadly, regardless of just cause, his affliction, like a contagious deadly disease, was destined to be diagnosed as a terminal condition, not only to himself, but to all who crossed his path.

Yes dear reader, in some ways we cannot blame Saeed Kahn for his growing disregard for human life; for one does not come to a decision as monumental as Saeed Kahn was about to make, overnight. No, it takes years of brainwashing; years of manipulation; years of being treated like dirt; and finally one snaps; finally one succumbs; finally one takes the law into his own hands, regardless of the consequences.

In some ways, the crime that Saeed Kahn was hatching up in his spurious mind was not so much different than the crime that Mr. John Breslin was being accused of. But in Mr. Breslin's case, his was an alleged crime against one man, whereas in Saeed Kahn's case, it was an all out war-crime against the metropolis known as the United States of America that he was dead set on perpetrating.

And to clarify the matter further, we feel obliged to report that, in an effort to cleanse his soiled mind, Saeed Kahn _was_ in fact going to see a doctor. But in his case, he would not be visiting the same class of MD which one would consult with here in the western world. No, Mr. Kahn was seeking the curative assistance of his spiritual healer. Mr. Kahn was seeking the guidance of his impenetrable master. Mr. Kahn was seeking the council of his cerebral governor.

After enduring a tempestuously lustful, dream-filled night, dominated by the presence of snakes and serpents, a nightmarish vision which would have rivaled Frank Newlan's fantasy world any day of the week, Saeed Kahn gingerly entered the secret chamber of his grand leader's underground sanctuary, and he remorsefully bared his soul as he tearfully acknowledged his filthy impiety before the pious guru, much like a Catholic would declaim his sins in the confessional booth. And for his troubles, Kahn received his penance from the celestial leader, much like a Catholic would be assigned to recite countless "Our Father's" and "Hail Mary's" in atonement of his imperfections.

Much like a disciple of any organized religion, Saeed Kahn sank down to his knees and mournfully chanted his plea for forgiveness until his aseptic tongue was cleansed. But alas, Kahn received a lot more than just guidance from his mysterious master; in fact, he received much more...much, much, more.

A profound sense of joy filled Saeed Kahn's heart as he departed the dwelling of his enigmatic paramount and ventured directly over to the Acme Truck Rental office which was located in the commercial district of Medford Massachusetts.

Kahn had already done his fair share of research on the internet and he had been window-shopping for days, so he knew exactly what it was he was looking for, and thus he found a truck that was to his liking in no time flat. The dimensions of the trailer measured up perfectly for the task that he had in mind, and the transaction was completed in a matter of minutes.

And so with another requisite task on his rapidly growing checklist completed, Kahn whipped out his cell phone and dispatched a call to his lone trustworthy ally east of Karachi; a loyal blood-brother of impeccably high standards.

Kahn's was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, convinced that his valiant associate would prove to be an unwavering man; a man who would be categorically willing to nobly assist him in his "long in the making" endeavor by, amongst other things, transporting the mammoth truck back to a secret, hidden location for safe keeping. All Kahn needed to do was to inform his staunch confederate that their reticent leader had unequivocally approved of his righteous doings and his comrade would follow him, unconditionally, to the ends of the Earth and back, no questions asked, no explanations necessary.

Yes, on that ignoble date of Friday the 13th day of June in the year of our Lord 2008, Saeed Kahn received a holy blessing from his erudite master; a holy blessing which included the merciful absolution of all his sins; a holy blessing which included the exoneration of all crimes, past, present and yet to come; a holy blessing which included amnesty from all punishment; a holy blessing which included the vindication of which he had been fervently praying for...and just like that, the supersensible administrator had washed his hands of his disciple.

Just like that, the recondite master had granted Saeed Kahn...a license...to kill.

### Chapter 55 – Three Little Letters, S O S

Friday morning June 13, 2008 – 10:00 AM

Saeed Kahn and his accomplice spent the remainder of the morning busily plotting his death-march of a campaign against their adopted motherland, while back at the Middlesex Superior Courthouse the big wheels of justice kept on turning...if ever so slowly. The languid pace of the proceedings was due primarily to an acrimonious hearing which was taking place in Judge Gershwin's chambers regarding the potential testimony of one John "JJ" Breslin Jr. And although the jurors would never become privy to the details of this controversial meeting, apparently the impromptu showdown was contentious from the start, and it quickly developed into a dispute of scriptural proportions.

Assistant District Attorney Elaina Lyons was adamant that JJ should be allowed to corroborate his mother's testimony regarding the senior John Breslin's alleged threats against Fred Miller, uttered in his eldest son's presence. But Breslin's attorney Mr. R. J. Gleason, on the other hand, was equally adamant that JJ should absolutely not be allowed to testify, due to his youthful age, as well as the fact that the child's testimony would be unfairly and overwhelmingly prejudicial to his client.

As the debate raged on and on, Tracy Stone's opinion was eventually sought out by Judge Gershwin. Naturally, she remained vehemently opposed to subjecting her son to what was guaranteed to be a withering cross-examination by the council for the defense...and she made it be known in no uncertain terms.

Stone was bitterly angry and disappointed that DA Lyons would place her son in the unenviable position of having to take sides between his mother and his father, but Lyons didn't see it that way at all. She just wanted the boy to get up there on the stand and tell the truth. No more, no less.

As far as Lyons was concerned, JJ's testimony was crucial, and she fought tooth and nail for a favorable ruling, while at the same time Gleason fought against it as if it were a matter of life and death, which in many respects it was.

In the end, the passion of the combatants didn't sway Judge Gershwin's decision in the least and after carefully considering the arguments from both sides, the astute judge, in her infinite wisdom, decided not to allow JJ to testify...but not before DA Lyons got in one last shot before the final buzzer sounded.

"Your honor, I respectfully disagree with your opinion, and I'll have you know that this is grounds for an immediate appeal," threatened Lyons. But Judge Gershwin was having none of it, and she called the DA's bluff to boot.

"Ms. Lyons I will not have you making a spectacle out of my courtroom, but if you insist on taking the matter to the appellate court then by all means go right ahead," urged Judge Gershwin.

Thankfully for the sake all involved, it was only a matter of time before cooler heads prevailed and Lyons backed down from her threat. Painstaking though it may have been, it was only a matter of time before the jurors were marched headlong into the courtroom. Arduous though it most surely would be for this wide circle of participants who made up the case, it was only a matter of time before the seventh day of testimony in the murder trial of John Breslin was officially underway.

Tracy Stone had already taken her position, manning the witness box, before the jurors had even entered the courtroom, and now that the show was about to begin, she monitored them all extremely closely as the filed into view. She was standing erectly in place, as stiff as a statue, and instinctively, Newlan's wandering eyes sought her out with just as much, if not more, intensity as she was sending toward the jury box. And with his latest dream still etched upon his mind, Newlan intently fixed a gaze on Stone as Brandon recited the traditional opening speech.

Stone was attired completely in black, and her strawberry blonde hair, which had been neatly tied back into a bow yesterday, was now flowing freely beyond her shoulders, while at the same time her overall luscious package lavishly infringed into Newlan's fantasy world.

Stone's shiny hairstyle possessed a frizzy, mop-top texture about it, but from Newlan's distorted vantage point, the unruliness of her locks did nothing to diminish her natural beauty. Conversely however, it was clear from just about any vantage point in the entire courtroom that the fidgety Stone had been staggered by a funnel cloud of sadness; especially when compared against the confident soul that she had presented to the jurors at the start of yesterday's session. It was as if the life had been sucked out of her. It was as if she was attending her own funeral. It was as if she was already dead.

"There's something dark and mysterious about her. No wonder she's invading my fantasies," dreamily concluded Newlan. And at the same instant that his eyes glued in on Tracy Stone, he somehow became aware of the possibility that she might be peeking over at him as well; and furthermore, he reckoned that perhaps she wasn't viewing him in the same positive light with which he was shining her way.

Just the possibility of the lovely Tracy Stone glaring at him disapprovingly sent Newlan vaulting into a fearful frenzy. The mere thought of being apprehended in the act of ogling a witness was a terrifying prospect to Newlan, and in response to his qualms he immediately lowered his gaze and stared down at the carpeted floor. But nevertheless, despite his uneasiness, he just couldn't help himself, and he continued to involuntarily monitor the situation from afar with the help of a pair of discretely squinted retinas.

"Maybe she's just looking away from her husband, not to mention the mob scene out in the gallery," theorized Newlan, and after a brief pause he returned his fully undivided attention back in Stone's direction. This time however, he was convinced that she was peering back at him. But more importantly, this time he deemed that her focus of attention was not reproachful in nature, not at all; if anything, he sensed that her expression might be one of curious admiration.

Of course it didn't take long before Newlan was once again overcome with paranoid inhibitions, and in a matter of seconds, he had lost round two of his stare-down contest with Tracy Stone.

In an effort to counterpunch his defeat, Newlan franticly turned his burning corneas away from the flaming sunspot that was Ms. Tracy Stone. Except that this time, instead of looking downward, he crooked his neck towards the defense table where he surveyed John Breslin staring out into nothingness as usual, and Gleason frantically taking notes in preparation for the day's activities.

Newlan was determined not to get caught gawking at the one person who was arguably the most important witness of the entire trial, and so as a diversion, instead of focusing his attention back on Tracy Stone, he continued on with his semi-circle tour around the courtroom

As Newlan's eyes plodded their way across the open space, he scrutinized Judge Gershwin's demeanor, and then in rapid succession he performed the same visual examination on Assistant Clerk Dan Dente, and Court Reporter Jerry Montgomery. And as it turned out, all three of their expressions were one-and-the-same in that they appeared to be patiently waiting on Gleason to resume his cross-examination of Ms. Tracy Stone.

However, try as he might to avoid temptation, Newlan's telescopic gaze eventually landed squarely back on the witness stand, where it had begun, and from there, he and Tracy Stone made eye-contact for a third time. But this time there could be absolutely no doubt that the two strangers were leering at one another...not with an intimidating stare, but a probing glance...not with an accusatory glare, but an inquisitive sense of wonder.

As Stone spied the warm, chiseled face of the man with the long stringy hair, gradually her dream resurfaced from deep within the crevices of her brain, and she longingly whispered to herself in wonderment, "I was going to kiss that man...that mysterious stranger...that wise jurist."

But alas when the climactic final scene of Stone's dream flashed across the imaginary screen of her mind and she recalled the sight of juror number 8 lying on the floor, shot dead through the heart, she felt a sudden surge of terror rush through her.

"Oh my God...this man's in danger. I've gotta let him know somehow," silently agonized Stone. And while she was in the midst of forging a desperate attempt at making extrasensory contact with the provocative man in the jury box, Newlan hypnotically took in her countenance; and in a case of mixed signals if ever there was one, he wanted her too. He wanted her badly. As unrealistic and impetuous as it seemed, he had to have her.

Newlan found himself falling into a state of panic, sparked by his uncontrollable desires, and he struggled with every fiber of his being to look away again. But for some reason he couldn't move. He was locked, stock-and-barrel, into Tracy Stone's frenetic frequency. He was sure that she was trying to tell him something...but what? He strained to retrieve the message from the invisible beam which had mystically joined them together like a wireless beacon bouncing off a satellite dish somewhere deep in outer-space.

However, try as he might, Newlan's unwieldy powers couldn't seem to penetrate the static that was emanating from Stone's mind...when suddenly three letters made their way through the maze of wires which were clogging his thought process. Three little letters. A simple code recognized throughout the world; a universal sign of distress; three little letters; S O S.

Tracy Stone was wearing a pained expression of concern on her face, and she nodded slightly towards Newlan, who nodded back in return, as they both confirmed the receipt of her dispatch. And then just like that, a jolt of fear swept through him like a windswept rain pouring its way across an empty highway in the middle of the night.

Suddenly Newlan came to the realization that maybe he was in more danger than he could ever have possibly imagined. But whom or what could it be that was, at its roots, the cause of his perils? Who could want to harm him? What had he ever done to put himself in such a compromising position? He had never hurt anyone, so why was this little voice inside his head repeatedly warning him that he was "next"?

To make matters worse, as unnerved as he was, Newlan had more pressing concerns to deal with at the moment. Here he was glued to Tracy Stone, transfixed, unable to move a muscle, unable to function, unable to even think straight, when out of the corner of his eye, the shape of renowned Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason approaching the podium came sweeping into his line of vision.

Newlan couldn't break his connection with Tracy Stone's brainwaves any more that she could break her hard-wired hookup with him. He could see the panic in her face. She could feel the panic in his heart. The courtroom was about to come to order, and there they were, locked forever, arm-in-arm, in an unprecedented transcendental time warp.

Stone's hold on Newlan was in fact so strong that he gave up the fight right then and there, and he resigned himself to his fate; and in a peculiarly strange way, he relished in his submission. He imagined himself being seductively swallowed up whole into the recesses of Stone's cavernous vulva. He could feel his resistance sagging as her hypnotic gaze sapped him of his strength. He was about to give in to temptation and submit himself to Tracy Stone's dominion, and he was powerless to stop the sensual carnage...and furthermore, nor did he want to.

But just when it seemed that Newlan was about to crossover some sort of invisible threshold into an imaginary land of no return, he became aware of a single teardrop slowly rolling down Tracy Stone's cheek. And as luck would have it, the liquid crystal launched an ethereal rainbow of color hurtling in his direction, like a phantasmal orgy of vivid fireworks, which sent him twirling upwards through the abyss. As luck would have it, a howling kaleidoscope of incandescent light singed the peach fuzz of his brain, which in turn broke the fire-resistant spell and unceremoniously escorted him back to the abrupt coldness of reality in the harshest way imaginable.

Newlan eyes flickered as Stone, who was now staring straight ahead, prepared herself to face her adversary. He vigorously twisted his neck back and forth in attempt to snap out of the malaise which had engulfed him from head to toe, and all of a sudden he wasn't even sure whether his meeting of the minds with the formidable aura of Ms. Tracy Stone had ever really happened in the first place.

"Maybe I dozed off and dreamt the whole thing up. But it felt so real, it couldn't have been a dream," silently argued Newlan. Unfortunately for him however, he didn't have much time to ponder the situation any further because, ready or not, Gleason was about to speak.

As difficult as it may have been, Newlan somehow managed to regain his composure just as Gleason leaned into the microphone and calmly stated; "your honor, after further review, I have no more questions for Ms. Stone."

Predictably enough, Gleason's tactic elicited a muted uproar from the gallery. But what _was_ surprising about the crowd's reaction was the silence which immediately followed the outburst; a silence so deafening that Newlan felt compelled to take a peek out in the direction of the assemblage. His curiosity had reached a dizzying summit where he felt as if he just had to make a break with protocol, regardless of the consequences; he just had to do it...he couldn't help himself...throat-slash be damned. And no sooner had he made eye-contact with the audience when he promptly came face-to-face with the intimidating glares of a hundred angry mugs pointed in his direction.

Newlan was temporarily frozen with fear; he couldn't help but notice the simultaneous squints and stares coming from every corner of the courtroom. But then he promptly realized that the glowering expressions were not directed at him. On the contrary, every set of eyeballs in attendance was focused on one man and one man only; every set of pupils in the entire courtroom was aimed in the direction of none other than legendary Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason.

Gleason was wearing that slight, devilish grin of a smirk which Newlan had grown to admire, and he made an astute observation regarding the noted barrister's plan of action.

"That bastard...he forced Tracy to show up today on purpose. He knew full well that he had no further questions for her after he finished up with his cross-examination last night. But then why did he do it? Did he want to rattle her...annoy her? Did he want the jury to observe her one more time, hoping that maybe she'd crack?"

Of course, regardless of Gleason's motives, Tracy Stone was not amused, nor was Judge Gershwin. Nor was DA Lyons for that matter.

Stone shot daggers in Gleason's direction as she made her way down from the witness stand.

"He had me stressed-out all night, tossing and turning, and for what? For nothing, that's what," grumbled Stone as she delivered one last deadly smirk in Gleason's direction; one last hostile grimace as they crossed paths for what she hoped would be the very last time.

In reply to Stone's actions, Gleason peered over towards the jury box with his own probing expression which seemed to be asking "Did you people see the way she sneered at me?"

Newlan wasn't sure what the rest of the jurors may or may not have seen, but he surely noticed Stone's evil eyes ignite into a pair of matching fireballs as she cast one of her potent spell on Gleason, and based on the vile barb that he scribbled into his notes, his lasting impression of his latest infatuation was one of utter contempt.

Newlan and his colleagues were given the opportunity to view every side of Tracy Stone, and from every angle. The good and the bad; the bold and the beautiful; the innocent child; the emerging nymph; the seductive woman; the protective mother; the wicked jezebel.

Stone's testimony, in conjunction with her facial expressions, revealed every color of her heart, from the bluest blues to the blackest blacks, leading Newlan to jot down the following nonnegotiable conclusion, indelibly stamped into his pad of paper, as well as his mind:

Judging by the contempt coming from the eyes of this little bitch, I have to believe that if looks could kill, then Gleason would be dead right now...as dead as a stinking skunk...in the middle of the road.

Chapter 56 – More Silent Communiqués

Friday morning June 13, 2008 – 10:10 AM

Judging from Frank Newlan's snidely written exposition, one might have been under the false impression that Tracy Stone had just put a lethal hex on renowned Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason; but as it turns out, Newlan's radar was once again off by a few degrees.

Perhaps Stone truly would have been unmoved if by an untimely stroke of fate Gleason were to have dropped dead on the spot, or perhaps not. But regardless of her animosity gradient, and regardless of the uneasy strength of her resolve, she wasn't the only person present in courtroom 630 of the Middlesex Superior Courthouse who may have been wishing the noted councilor a painful death. And while her methods were for the most part fanciful, if no less serious, her counterpart's leanings were much more direct and to the point

Understandably enough, based solely on Gleason's exploitive handling of John Breslin's defensive strategies, Fred Miller's younger brother, Cameron "Cam" Miller had come to despise the sleazy barrister almost as much as he loathed Breslin himself, and as such, he wouldn't have been pained in the least if, by some unfortunate seizure of bad luck, Gleason's central nervous system were to have gotten shut down by a massive coronary right then and there on the courtroom floor; or better yet, a knife in the back for the both of them, and be done with it.

And although Tracy and Cam's thought-processes appeared to have been functioning in total independence of each other, perhaps they were more conjoined at the hip than meets the eye. Perhaps Tracy's spellbinding gaze was aimed at Cam Miller, not at R. J. Gleason. Perhaps he was the brawn and she was the brains behind a covert operation, the likes of which he could never have consciously imagined; the likes of which he wasn't fully aware even existed.

For unbeknownst to Cam, who was seated on the center-aisle end of the front row bench, intensely watching the action, Tracy had subtly initiated a hypnotic brand of eye-contact on him as she wound her way off the witness stand...and somehow, she had infiltrated his mind.

Cam nodded his head in approval, as if to say "nice job", and Tracy cast him a sly wink in return. And as she walked on by, her crackling fingers brushed up against his arm which had been leaning over the starboard side of the pew-styled bench, and as it turned out, this fleeting flick of the wrist was enough to send a sudden shockwave flowing through her befuddled prey's body.

For a second or two, Cam assumed that the magnetic charge was caused by a wallop of static electricity rising up from off of the carpeting. But then in an instant, he determined that perhaps it might be something more. If he hadn't known better, he would have sworn that some sort of effervescent flame had come rushing up from somewhere beneath Tracy's shuffling shoes, right on through to the fiery tips of her fingers, before being transferred into his veins like a piercing shot from an inoculating needle.

Cam wasn't all that clear about what had just happened to him, but he knew that he had to find out. He wasn't quite certain where this vigorous boost of vitality was coming from, but there was one thing he knew for damned sure; in all his life, he had never felt more alive. And then, suddenly it hit him; the feeling he was experiencing at precisely this moment was the very same warming glow that had engulfed him, like the bed of a tanning booth, on that icy morning all those months ago, in the cold, dark cemetery where his brother's body had been laid to rest; there was no doubt in his mind that it was an identical shiver which had stormed through his body, then and now; and furthermore, it was the exact same adrenaline rush he had experienced just yesterday when he found himself consoling Tracy in the courthouse cafeteria. It wasn't static electricity that was sending this unexplainable surge of energy zapping through his bones. No, not at all; it was the alluring touch of one Ms. Tracy Stone.

Cam snuck a hasty glance over to his left, where his wife Susan's head lay resting on his shoulder, in what was a concealed attempt to gauge whether she might have become aware of something suspiciously murky going on between Tracy and himself. The flash of light was so powerful that Cam could have sworn the bolt had flowed right through him and jolted his wife as well. However, Susan Miller was apparently none the wiser, and as a result, Cam's imagination was free to safely drift off in reverential pursuit of its newfound source of fantasy and pleasurable desire, the former Mrs. John Breslin.

With the aid of this insoluble, bottled-up, potion which was flowing through his bloodstream like the time-released formula of a 5 hour energy drink, all things suddenly seemed possible to Cam Miller; all things, including a torrid affair with one Ms. Tracy Stone; all things, including the death and destruction of one Mr. John Breslin; all things, including the demise of one deceitful Attorney at Law, Mr. R. J. Gleason.

Cam carefully weighed out the dizzying pros and cons of all these things and more while he marked the time waiting in breathless anticipation for the next witness to take the stand. He had played out countless scenarios in his head in recent days; scenarios which had come to him like a dream. But now, at long last, the conniving plot of the invisible harlot who had been whispering sweet nothings in his ears for months on end, finally appeared to be crystallizing and coming into focus. With one leap he could see himself scaling the divider that separated the gallery from the defense table. With one leap he could see himself pouncing on top of Breslin before the bastard even knew what hit him. With one leap he could see himself mounting Tracy's sublime body in a dominant missionary position. With one leap he could see himself sticking a shiv in Breslin's back. With one leap he could see himself frightening the very life out of R.J. Gleason. With one leap he could see himself with his hands wrapped around Breslin's neck, choking for all he was worth, regardless of the consequences.

Cam was utterly fed up with the uncertainty of the legal process; he was fed up with the slow-turning wheels of justice; he was fed up with everything that the trial had come to represent. He just wanted the whole mess to be over with and for Breslin to get his comeuppance; not later, but now; not tomorrow, but at that very hour.

And lately, whenever Cam found himself caught up in one of these irritable moods, he would just about always come away convinced that he'd be better off taking matters into his own hands. However, when push came to shove, he'd inevitably chalk up his restlessness to a peculiar fit of bountiful fantasy...up until now that is; because now that the cloak-and-dagger Tracy Stone had secretly come along and strengthened his resolve, there was no stopping him. Now that Tracy Stone had come along and surreptitiously left him feeling as if all things were possible, there was no looking back.

In the past, Cam's good conscience would invariably win out whenever one of these internally combustible arguments broke out in his head; after all no man wishes to end up behind the walls of a prison cell; for then, he'd be looked down upon by civilized society as being no better than the contemptible John Breslin. But now however, all of a sudden, his bad conscience seemed to be gaining the upper-hand, much like the winning side's struggle for the long end of the rope in a hard-fought battle of tug-o-war. Now, he desperately craved for the prodigiously singular chance to follow up on this strange magic which had come over him like a thief in the night. Now he perilously lusted to transform his grim vision into a wonderfully stark reality.

Cam cautiously waded through this thorny sea of pointed mountaintops; he carefully balanced himself on the toothy horns of his dilemma; and with the help of the mysteriously sensual, echoing voice in his head, which had once again come to the rescue in his time of need, he came to an obvious conclusion; at least in his mind anyway.

"Why can't I have it all? If I don't seduce Tracy then you can be sure as hell that somebody else will. Why can't I have my luscious cake and eat it too? But of course, I'd better make my move sooner rather than later, because you never know, I just might wind up going stark-mad crazy any minute now...and in the process, I just might wind up taking Breslin and Gleason along with me for the ride...or even better, I just might wind up taking the both of them out with my own bare hands."

And as Cam meticulously considered every possible cause and effect, his mind became cloudier and clearer, all at the same time.

"Maybe I should hire someone in the joint to slit Breslin's throat. Wouldn't that be ironic...me hiring a hit-man to shank him, just like he hired someone to blow away my brother? Then I'd be in the clear to pursue the more pleasurable sins of the flesh with the son-of-a-bitch's ex-wife. Aaah...but I have to admit that it _would_ be twice as nice if I were somehow able to butcher the bastard myself."

Yes indeed, all of a sudden, all things suddenly seemed possible to Cam Miller. But one thing seemed more than just possible. One thing was absolutely 100% certain; one way or another, he was going to leave an indelible mark on the current proceedings; one way or another, just as sure as the day he was born, with the helping hand of the seductive voice which was ringing in his head nonstop like a church bell gong, he was going to reach historic new heights, never before ventured in his entire life. And if the powers-that-be were going to take him down, then, much like the delusional Saeed Kahn, he had every intention of going out...in grand fashion.

Chapter 57 – Sisters, Only by Name

Friday morning June 13, 2008 – 10:12 AM

While Cam Miller may have been preoccupied with uncensored thoughts of exacting his own form of justice on Mr. John Breslin, his silent tidings did nothing to prevent DA Lyons, who was quite busy in her own right, from calling the next witness to the stand; namely Tracy Stone's sister, Ms. Beth Oakely.

Oakely was shivering like a child who had just emerged from an ocean-dip in the chilly waters of northern Maine, and it was inherently apparent to the jurors that she was a bundle of nerves as she took her oath of sincerity, all the while wondering how the hell she had come to get herself caught up in the middle of such an improbable tale.

Newlan astutely recognized the resemblance between Oakely and Stone even before Lyons had her state for the record that she was Tracy's sister. And furthermore, he perceptively sensed almost immediately that Oakely's personality would prove to be the total opposite of her sister's, and this was before she ever spoke a single word.

"Ms. Oakely do you recall a conversation that you had with your sister sometime early in the month of June 2005?" began Lyons, while at the same time the ebb and flow of the proceeding had the spectators in the gallery curiously hypothesizing as to what might be about to go down next.

"Yes, it was right around that time that Tracy informed me that she was going to file for divorce again, but this time she was adamant that she intended to go through with it," softly replied Oakely.

"And what happened as a result of that conversation?" wondered Lyons.

"After Tracy made her decision known to me, I arranged for her children to stay with my husband Tim and me for a few days. We took care of the kids while Tracy made several appointments to see her lawyer so that she could get the process moving forward again," politely explained Oakely.

"And Ms. Oakely do you recall a particularly troubling incident which occurred during the month of August 2005?"

"Yes, I got a phone call from Tracy's husband Johnny one night asking me to come over to their house. He said it was urgent. I asked him where Tracy was, and he said that she was working. I thought that maybe something was wrong with one of the kids so I rushed right over, but when I got there Johnny told me that he had just gotten off the phone with a private investigator who confirmed that Tracy had been seen kissing Fred Miller in public," reluctantly answered Oakely.

"And did this news upset you?" inquired Lyons.

"Yes...I guess you could say that I didn't approve of the situation, and to be honest, Tracy and I had a bit of a falling out over her relationship with Fred, because she thought I was taking Johnny's side," candidly explained Oakely.

"Ms. Oakely, were you acquainted with Fred Miller?" continued Lyons.

"Yes, I knew Fred from our younger days, but I hadn't seen him in ages, probably since around the mid 90's. And truth be told, I didn't care for him very much, God rest his soul," replied a now emotional Oakely, as Lyons, who wasn't prepared for such negative response, promptly moved on.

"Ms. Oakely wasn't there also an incident during the month of October 2005 at the Marlborough Hospital while your niece was a patient there?"

"Yes, we were visiting Tracy's daughter Rebecca, who was suffering from a urinary tract infection, and after a couple of hours, Fred stopped by to say hello...and then a few minutes later, the phone rang and it was Johnny. And before you know it, Tracy was screaming into the receiver at the top of her lung, which in turn got me all upset, and I pleaded with her to stop it for the sake of her children. Tracy cooled down to some degree after my outburst, and she calmly asked Fred to leave. Fred replied that it was 'no problem' and he left willingly, but then Johnny and the boys showed up, and he proceeded to get into another heated argument with Tracy," vividly recalled Oakely.

The jurors had already heard this exact same story, pretty much verbatim, from the mouth of Tracy Stone, and Newlan for one wondered why they had to have the details of the incident regurgitated upon them again. However, for whatever reason, DA Lyons deemed that this specific episode needed to be reinforced in their minds...and so she muddled on.

Lyons then held up a printed copy of an email that Breslin had sent to Oakely, a few days after the hospital incident, and she submitted it as the next exhibit. Additionally, she requested that Oakely read the email, as follows, in open court:

Lyons went on to have Oakely recount the Thanksgiving 2005 incident where Breslin blew up over her sentimental request to go around the table and have everyone in attendance list something that they were thankful for, and once again she recounted the same basic story that her sister had imparted upon the jurors just yesterday.

From there, Lyons moved on sequentially through the increasingly draining weeks leading up to Fred Miller's murder.

"Ms. Oakely, didn't you receive a barrage of phone calls from the defendant during the month of December 2005?"

"Yes, we communicated quite a bit just before the holidays," admitted Oakely while at the same time nodding her head for emphasis.

"And what were these discussions about?"

"Well, for the most part, they were about Fred. Johnny was very bitter about the fact that Tracy was constantly going out on dates with Fred during his visitations, and that she'd come home drunk all the time when she was supposed to be attending meetings. Meanwhile, he was stuck at home watching the kids all night."

"And Ms. Oakely weren't you inundated with even more phone calls and emails from Mr. Breslin after the first of the year?"

"Yes, by that point, Johnny was very confused. He had spent almost two weeks living with Tracy right around the holidays, and he thought that things were moving back in a positive direction, only to find out that she still wanted to go through with the divorce. He said that he didn't know who else to turn to, and he begged me to help him patch things up between them."

"And what did you tell him?" quizzically wondered Lyons.

"I told him that I thought their marriage was coming to an end, and that he should try to move on. I told him that if it was meant to be then maybe they'd get back together someday. I told him that I couldn't take his side anymore. I told him that Tracy was my sister and that blood is thicker than water. I told him that I was sorry," sadly recalled Oakely, and with the memory of an old wound freshly opened up again, she too broke down in tears, just as her sister before her had done on numerous occasions while she was strapped to the witness stand.

Lyons had hoped to have Oakely recount her activities on the day of the murder, but she realized that it would probably be a pointless exercise given her emotional state, and she figured that there wasn't much else Oakely could add to the reproduction of that unfortunate day anyway. So, in lieu of posing any additional questions, Lyons read a handful of Breslin's emails addressed to Oakely out loud for the jurors listening pleasure, and she had them admitted into evidence after Oakely verified the authenticity of the correspondences.

For his part, Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason also regretted having to get Ms. Beth Oakely involved in her sister's affairs. As far as Gleason was concerned, Oakely was clearly nothing like her sister, but in the final analysis he had a job to do for his client, and so he forged ahead undaunted.

"Ms. Oakely you stated that you didn't care for Fred Miller. Could you tell the jurors why that was the case?" respectfully inquired Gleason, and in return Oakely shrugged her shoulders as she softly replied, "Our personalities just didn't mesh...and his lifestyle wasn't compatible with mine."

"Ms. Oakely when you say his lifestyle wasn't compatible with yours, what specifically are you referring to?" wondered Gleason.

"I guess we just had different interests...different views about life...that all," insisted Oakely.

Gleason obviously wasn't getting the answer that he was looking for so he had no choice but to go to Plan B, and as such, he picked up a sheaf of paper from his briefcase and read from it in a loud, clear tone.

"Ms. Oakely didn't you tell the investigators, and I'm quoting directly from your police report; 'Fred Miller was an alcoholic. He was a marijuana addict. He was a cocaine addict. He was a heroin addict. He was an addict of God knows what else'."

Gleason paused and waited for a response, but when none was forthcoming, with a raised voice he added; "Isn't that what you told them?"

Oakely bowed her head and whispered, "I may have said that."

Meanwhile, Newlan was scribbling into his notebook so fast and furiously that his pencil was already getting dull, but he paused just long enough to take in the murmur from the gallery as the roll call of Miller's vices were put on public display for all to hear.

However, the worldly-wise Newlan wasn't the least bit influenced by Miller's drug use, going so far as to write into his notepad:

Unless Gleason comes up with some credible evidence that a dealer or a junkie killed Miller, then his drug use is irrelevant as far as I'm concerned.

Of course, Newlan, as has already been well documented, was also known to dabble in recreational drug use, so it should come as no shock that he would side with Fred Miller in this regard. But even though Newlan may not have been sold on the implications of Miller's addictive habits, Gleason was quite pleased with the release of these sordid revelations nonetheless.

"Ms. Oakely you testified that on numerous occasions, your sister Tracy was out drinking with Fred Miller when in fact she should have been attending meetings. If I may ask, to what meetings were you referring?" gently demanded Gleason, and Oakely frowned while at the same time she managed to whisper, "AA meetings sir."

"No further questions your honor," announced a visibly contented Gleason. And just like that, another unsuspecting witness, namely Ms. Beth Oakely, came to loathe him.

The next witness of the day, a woman by the name of Ms. Julie Addison, was a former girlfriend of Breslin's who once worked with him at Tex-Ray Defense Systems.

Lyons was able to glean that Ms. Addison dated John Breslin off and on in the early 90's, and that she hadn't heard from him in about 15 years until September of 2005 when she received an unexpected letter from him. Consequently, he followed up with a phone conversation and a request to meet for coffee, in much the same secretive manner that his ex-wife had engaged in when she was plotting her attempt to reconnect with Fred Miller.

Lyons was also able to ascertain that Ms. Addison had rendezvoused with John Breslin on a number of occasions in the fall of 2005, strictly as a friend, and that they primarily discussed his impending divorce.

When it was his turn at the plate, Gleason got Ms. Addison to admit that the primary topic of conversation during her coffee hour meetings with John Breslin centered on his children; how proud he was of them; how much he missed them; how it was breaking his heart to see them getting hurt by the separation of their mom and dad. All of which had Newlan once again resorting to a faintly pertinent boxing analogy.

"If I was scoring this round I'd call it a draw," intoned Newlan while the final witness of the abbreviated session, Officer Juan LaRosa of the Marlborough Police department, gingerly took to the stand.

Officer LaRosa testified to the fact that sometime in the early morning hours of Monday October 10th, 2005 he was called to the Breslin residence by Mrs. Tracy Breslin who wished to file a report; she was alleging that her estranged husband was making harassing phone calls, and at DA Lyons' request, he also confirmed that Fred Miller was present at the time of the incident.

Gleason had only a couple of questions for the respectable cop, starting with; "Officer LaRosa at anytime during your visit to the Breslin home did you have the opportunity to speak to Mr. Breslin on the phone regarding a legal agreement which stated that Mr. Miller was to have no contact whatsoever with his children?"

"Yes sir, I called Mr. Breslin at the request of his wife, and he informed me of the agreement," replied Officer LaRosa.

"And Officer LaRosa did you confirm whether any of the children were present in the Breslin's home during the time of your visit?" added Gleason.

"I asked Mrs. Breslin directly about the children, and she stated that they were upstairs sleeping, but I didn't actually see them," explained Officer LaRosa, as a satisfied Gleason smiled softly and thanked him for his time. He then turned to the Judge Gershwin with the familiar refrain of, "no further questions your honor."

And with that, Judge Gershwin adjourned the trial for the day, but not before enthusiastically commenting on the dedication that was being shown by "this fantastic jury." She then wished the jurors a safe and enjoyable weekend, along with her usual reminders.

"I'll see you all bright and early Monday morning, and as always do not discuss the trial with anyone, do not read about the trial in the newspaper, and do not attempt to research the trial on the internet."

With Judge Gershwin's marching orders behind them, Billy gave the "all rise" signal and the jurors were trotted out of the courtroom one last time for the week.

As the jurors milled about the deliberation room, waiting impatiently to be escorted back to their cars, Mark the lanky, young network security expert whispered to Yong, the pretty Korean woman, "all those phone calls and emails between Breslin and Beth proved to me just how angry and bitter he really was."

Yong nodded her head in agreement, and their meeting-of-the-minds left an eavesdropping Newlan sullenly thinking the worst.

"There go two more jurors over to the guilty side," mumbled Newlan...and try as he might to bite his tongue, he just couldn't help himself. He had to say something to stem the tide of fury which was rising up through him like an erupting volcano, and so he threw his hard-hat of conjecture into the ring one more time for the road.

"That's funny, because in my humble opinion, practically all the evidence we heard today showed just how much Breslin cared about his kids," retorted the opinionated Newlan.

Not surprisingly, Jane, who had also been snooping in on the conversation, also felt the need to toss her two cents into the wishing well.

"Oh come on, Breslin could care less about his kids. He was obviously obsessed over the fact that Miller was seeing his wife and it was eating him up inside," insisted Jane, much to Newlan's dismay. He was very slow to anger, but he had finally reached his boiling point. He was just about ready to unleash a venomous tongue-lashing directed towards any and all jurors who crossed his path when Billy barged into the room and growled, "All right everybody, let's get you down to the garage so you can get the hell out of here for the weekend."

And so with another confrontation averted, Newlan took a deep breath as he trudged over to his automobile, which assisted ever so slightly in his cooling-down reentry into the Earth's atmosphere; and just to be on the safe side, he bit his lip for good measures. However, he still had plenty of spare time on his hands with which to mull things over during the stop-and-go ride home, and he couldn't help but ruminate on how a roomful of people could be presented with the exact same set of facts and yet come to such a dramatically different set of conclusions.

As Newlan finally made his way down the highway off-ramp, the day's events, much like the grating lunch-hour traffic, converged in his mind like a black cloud of thunder and lightning, and his ire once again intensified until he was shaking with a blind rage; as a matter of fact, it was a rage so blind that the intensity of his indignation led him to run right through a red light.

Newlan was brought back to his senses by the sound of breaks screeching in every direction, and when he peered out of his rearview mirror he observed that it was none other than a beat-up old red Ford Taurus which had just missed colliding with the side of his car. Luckily there was no harm done, but nonetheless Newlan looked back. He had to look back, he always looked back. He looked back just long enough to observe the driver of the Taurus giving him an angry middle-finger salute.

Two miles later, Newlan was still trembling as he limped on down the road, except that now he was shaking with fear, not rage.

"I could have been killed...by a red Ford Taurus no less. Man, you can't make this shit up," sighed Newlan, and he knew right then and there that something drastic had to be done, and it had to be done immediately. He knew right then and there that he needed to pay a visit to the only person who might possibly be able to help him crawl out of his debilitating malaise. He knew right then and there that he needed to pay a visit to his primary care physician, Dr. Donald Clay. He knew right then and there that the good doctor would know what to do. He knew right then and there that the good doctor would know...exactly...what to do.

Chapter 58 – The Good Doctor

Friday afternoon June 13, 2008 – 1:45 PM

As Frank Newlan crossed the city limits into his hometown of Medford Massachusetts and approached the fork in the road which would ostensibly take him back to the comforts of his condo, he wrestled with his abrupt decision to drop in unannounced on his primary care physician, Dr. Donald Clay.

Newlan had calmed down considerably by the time he reached the Town Line Inn, and his sudden serenity left him feeling conflicted as to whether an unplanned visit to the doctor was absolutely necessary. Apparently, the extra level of concentration which he had somehow summoned, and which allowed him to continue to drive his car after the near-miss auto accident, had a tranquilizing effect on him.

But the truth of the matter was that Newlan could only fool himself for just so long, because there was no denying the fact that just below the surface of his cool exterior, he was still a bundle of nerves.

In the end however, the storm that had been violently raging in Newlan's subconscious for days on end now appeared to cast the deciding vote, seeing as how the steering wheel of his red Mercury Mystique instinctively pointed itself in the direction of Dr. Clay's office, as if it had a mind of its own.

Appropriately enough, the Steely Dan song "Doctor Wu" came warbling out of Newlan's stereo speakers just as he pulled into the Medford Medical Building parking lot, and right from the very first verse about a woman stepping into your life just when you've lost all hope, he was transfixed by the haunting melody; so much so that he closed his eyes to the world, leaned back in his leather bucket seat, and let the words engulf him as he took in every line, like a dope addict inhaling a potent fix of crack cocaine.

And by the time the chorus kicked in, Newlan was singing along, calling out for the crazy, stoned doctor, as if his life depended on it.

Newlan had the mind to take a few hits off of a joint before stepping out of his vehicle, but then he thought the better of it. Besides, sometimes a great song had almost the same calming effect on him as marijuana did, and so for a change he didn't require the artificial aid of his magical motivator to take on one of the many bureaucracies that he had come to loathe over the years such as the dreaded health care system.

Before submitting his feeble body over to a doctor's examination, Newlan decided to check himself out in the rearview mirror first, and after a week of nearly constant abuse, it wasn't surprising that his nervous system was staging a rebellion, which included the sorriest set of bloodshot eyes he had ever seen. To remedy his symptoms, Newlan squeezed a couple of drops of Visine onto the surface layer of his eyeballs, and since it was a sunny mid-June afternoon, he figured that going with his prescription sunglasses wouldn't arouse too much suspicion.

And so with his failing courage momentarily fortified, Newlan stumbled out of his car, took a deep breath and mumbled "Well, here goes nothing." However, as he sauntered into an office full of grumpy elderly folks, he seriously considered turning around in retreat right from the get-go. But before his troubled mind could even begin to decide whether to stay or go, Doctor Clay's pleasant young receptionist cut him off at the pass and greeted him with a warm smile.

"May I help you sir?"

"Umm...well...I don't have an appointment...but I was wondering whether you could pencil me in for a brief consultation with Doctor Clay?" whispered Newlan. He always made it a point to keep his voice on the down-low whenever he visited the doctor's office ever since an incident years ago where a foxy babe in the waiting room overheard him as he discussed an embarrassing condition involving a sexually transmitted malady with the receptionist.

"I'm sorry sir, but the doctor is completely booked for today, is it anything urgent?" asked the concerned receptionist.

"Could you please ask him whether he can squeeze me in? It's extremely important that I see him. I'm a longtime patient," explained Newlan, but the receptionist just shook her head and politely dismissed his request.

"I'm afraid that's impossible sir...but if you'd like, I can put in a referral for you at the outpatient clinic of the Medford Memorial Hospital."

Predictably enough, Newlan was none too pleased with the receptionist's negative response, and he was getting more and more impatient by the second.

"No, no, no, I don't need to go to an outpatient clinic. I just need to talk to Doctor Clay for five minutes. Please just ask him if he can fit me in for a quick chat. The name's Newlan...Frank Newlan. He's very familiar with me," insisted our anguished protagonist, and the frazzled receptionist could only frown in return, as if to say; "Doctor Clay's gonna be pissed off at me if I do this." But in the end she relented and got up from the receptionist's desk to go seek out the busy doctor.

When the receptionist returned to her post, she shot Newlan a scolding look. But then in the best doctor's office voice she could muster, she gesticulated her response; "Please take a seat Mr. Newlan. Doctor Clay will see you. But you may have to wait a while. There are quite a few patients scheduled ahead of you."

To his credit, Newlan heaped a good helping of praise on the receptionist as he sat down in the corner of the waiting room, but all the while he was formulating a cockamamie theory in his twisted mind; "Why do I get the feeling she thinks I'm crazy? I'd bet a million bucks that Doctor Clay told her what a nut job I am."

With nothing better to do, Newlan immediately began to fidget in his seat, but before he knew it, a half an hour went by...and then an hour....and then another hour.

During the prolonged wait, Newlan attempted to keep himself occupied by sifting through the backlog of magazines which were stacked up on a coffee table in the waiting area; National Geographic, People Magazine, and even The National Enquirer, but none of this so-called doctor's office reading material held his attention for more than a few minutes.

After a while Newlan was tempted to hike on down to his car and retrieve one of the Rolling Stone magazines that he had been carrying around with him since the start of the trial, and maybe even sneak in a quick hit off of a joint, but once again he resisted temptation.

By the time it reached four thirty in the afternoon Newlan had a good mind to leave in a huff. The endless waiting in a stuffy room full of senile senior citizens was making him almost as jumpy as that the trial itself, and he had just about reached his breaking point.

"This is just great," muttered Newlan, "We were lucky enough to wrap things up at the courthouse by one o'clock, but instead of getting my weekend off to an early start I end up spending all afternoon watching a bunch of old hags limp in and out of the doctor's office."

By the time quarter of five rolled around, Newlan was wondering why he even bothered. What were the chances that Doctor Clay could help him wriggle his way out of his predicament? What were the chances that Doctor Clay could somehow ease his worried mind? What were the chances that Doctor Clay could assist him in any way whatsoever?

Newlan seemed to be answering his own questions as he mumbled to himself with a fatalistic sense of cold conviction; "slim and none...that's what the chances are."

Strains of "Doctor Wu" began playing in Newlan's head, which brought him to the realization that he had had just about enough of this foolishness, and he was visibly miffed as he launched himself out of his chair. However, this time he was definitely going to leave; leave without so much as a warning; leave without even informing the receptionist. He was going to leave without a trace, and he was quite possibly never going to come back again.

"It was a bad idea to begin with," grumbled Newlan, but just as he was about to make his final exit, a voice called out to him.

"Mr. Newlan."

It was a familiar voice; it was a friendly voice; it was a soothing voice; it was the voice of Doctor Donald Clay.

Newlan abruptly swung his body around and enthusiastically shook the good doctor's hand. He was slightly embarrassed by the fact that he may have gotten caught in retreat mode, but he managed to blurt out a friendly hello nonetheless.

Doctor Clay seemed to sense that Newlan was about to abandon ship and so with a somewhat simulated inquisitive look outlining his face, he gently prodded his patient; "Going somewhere Mr. Newlan?"

"Oh no, just getting up to stretch the old limbs," fibbed Newlan as he lifted his arms into an aerobic stance.

"Sorry for the delay. Please take a seat and I'll be with you shortly," instructed Doctor Clay as he pointed Newlan towards an empty examination room.

After a few more minutes of anxious waiting, a nurse slipped into the room and administered the obligatory weigh-in and blood pressure test. But when she inquired about the reason behind his visit, Newlan politely declined to discuss his condition with anyone other than the doctor.

And then finally, at just around 5 PM, the short, balding Doctor Clay, clad in a traditional white lab coat, stepped into the examination room with clipboard in hand and a stethoscope dangling around his neck, and he softly asked, "what can I do for you today Mr. Newlan?"

At that point in his frustratingly long day, it didn't take much for Newlan to self-combust, and as a matter of fact, he was off and running before the good doctor had even closed the door behind them.

Just the mere sight of the diminutive Doctor Clay, garbed in white from head toe, caused all of the pent-up anxiety that had been building in Newlan's psyche to explode like a rocket to the moon; just the idea of having an anonymous voice to talk to, to unload on, set him off, ranting like a madman.

"You gotta help me doctor. I swear I think I'm losing my mind. I'm on a trial...a murder trial...bad dreams...nightmares. I can't sleep. I can't eat. Panic attacks...you name it. Oh God help me," wailed Newlan, and with that he began to sob like a baby.

Newlan buried his face in his hands and ran his fingers though his long, stringy hair which helped to ease his disquiet to some extent. And Doctor Clay, being the sympathetic care-taker that he was, patted him on the back while in a calming voice, he comforted his ailing patient.

"It's OK Mr. Newlan...everything's gonna be alright," predicted the good doctor, but of course, Newlan remained utterly unconvinced.

There were those words again; the same words that people had been preaching to Newlan practically since the day he was born. Every time something bad happens, all you have to do is close your eyes and just like that, by some sort of miraculous act of God, everything turns out alright. Well not for Newlan, not at all. He had learned a long, long time ago that everything doesn't always turn out alright.

And yet, these same words brought back contrasting memories which were hidden deep within Newlan's soul. These same words brought back innocent memories of happier times. These same words brought back bittersweet memories of days gone by. These same words brought back painful memories that he'd just assume wash out of his mind forever.

These same words brought back prepubescent memories of being separated from his mother's bosom and being forced to sleep in a darkened crib where faceless killers haunted his dreams.

These same words brought back memories of his dear mother rocking him to sleep, singing him nursery rhymes, as he cried out in the night.

" _Hush little baby don't you cry, mama's gonna sing you a lullaby, nighty night, sleep so tight, everything's gonna be alright."_

These same words brought back adolescent memories of long, peaceful summer days; coming of age memories that he shared with Marianne Plante and no one else.

These same words brought back young adult memories of finding his way in this crazy world; distant memories which could be traced back to the origins of his daily rituals.

And finally these same words brought back recent memories of his serene life before getting caught up in the grueling John Breslin murder trial; before being traumatized by the haunting specter of Marianne Plante's presence in his world once again.

It seemed that every time Newlan managed to convince himself that everything was indeed going to be alright, it never failed that someone or something would come along and prove him otherwise.

Something, such as the terror of being sent off to kindergarten when all he ever wanted was to be cradled in his mother's arm, would come along and prove him otherwise.

Something, such as the sadness of finding out at a very early age how children can behave so cruelly towards each other, would come along and prove him otherwise.

Something, such as the indescribable pain of losing the only woman he ever loved and the horrific aftermath which almost cost him his sanity, would come along and prove him otherwise.

And just when Newlan had come to accept his life of mind-numbing routines, he lost his father...and then his mother. In the blink of an eye, the two people he loved more than anyone in this world were gone, leaving him feeling so lost and alone that he could barely get up out of bed in the morning.

But somehow Newlan fought off the devastating depression and now he just wanted to live his remaining days in peace. Now he just wanted to be left alone; but no, it wasn't to be. Now he was being asked to bear witness to a manipulative competition we call justice, all in the name of someone else's idea of delusional righteousness. Now he was being compelled to participate in a game that he never wanted to play in the first place. Now he was being forced to comprehend how those same cruel children could grow up to become angry adults who were capable of rage and murder.

In Newlan's utopia there would be no jealousy, no hatred, no war, no killing. On the contrary, in Newlan's dreamland, envy and suspicion and violence would be replaced by goodness and hope and people everywhere just living in peace; people everywhere helping their fellow man. Was it so farfetched? Was it so idealistic? Why couldn't every person, of every race, of every religion, of every color, wake up one day and vow to make this world a better place? In this age of computers and cell phones and wireless devices and 24 hour breaking news coverage, who's to say why we couldn't somehow send out the word, informing the citizens of planet Earth that the time had finally come to change our universe for the better.

Of course, in a moment of weakness, Newlan would be the first one to tell you that his ideology was only the byproduct of delusion, and that in the real world, everything doesn't always turn out alright, which brings us right back to where we started; with Newlan crying his eyes out in the confidential company of a trained professional.

"It is not gonna be alright...not this time Doctor Clay. I swear something bad is gonna happen. I swear it's never gonna be alright again," moaned Newlan, while at the same time the good doctor apprehensively looked on. Surely Doctor Clay had witnessed his share of hypochondria-induced outbursts from Newlan over the years, but for the life of him, he could never remember anything this dramatic and intense...and it concerned him greatly.

"Relax Mr. Newlan," counseled Doctor Clay, but Newlan practically laughed through his tears as he babbled on like the tortured soul that he was.

"Relax you say? How the hell am I gonna relax? I can't relax. I feel like my mind is being raped. Every waking hour I feel like I'm being abused. And when I finally do fall asleep it's even worse; the bad dreams, the nightmares. I swear something bad is gonna happen."

"Let me get this straight Mr. Newlan. You're a juror on a murder trial and you're finding it rather stressful. Am I making a correct assumption?" inquired Doctor Clay in a whispered tone, and in a strange way, his mannerisms were beginning to remind Newlan of Breslin's attorney, R. J. Gleason.

Newlan helped himself to a box of tissues which the good doctor had offered him, and he confided in him like a murder suspect who finally spills his guts out to a probing detective.

"Yes Doctor Clay, I suppose you could say that I'm letting this trial get to me. As much as I hate to admit it, I guess I'm just not cut out for this type of stuff. I don't know why, but I'm taking it too much to heart and the responsibility is overwhelming me. I mean, we've got a couple of old ladies on the jury, we've got a couple of kids in their twenties on the jury, we've got a bunch of intelligent professionals on the jury, and not one of them, not one, seems to be taking it as hard as I am. What the hell is wrong with me doctor? Maybe I'm just not normal."

"Well Mr. Newlan, I took a peek at your records and clearly you do have a history of anxiety...separation anxiety over a former girlfriend...substance abuse...an abnormally long period of grieving over your parents' deaths. Now I know that I've recommended you see a therapist in the past, and you've consistently declined any type of formal counseling, but I really think you should give it some consideration," advised Doctor Clay.

However, as one might expect, Newlan was totally offended by the good doctor's professional opinion and he completely dismissed his recommendation outright, without so much as a second thought.

"So you think I'm crazy again? It never fails. We always end up back to that conclusion, always the same convenient fallback plan."

"Mr. Newlan, your decision to participate in counseling is strictly voluntary, but I just so happen to believe in the value of psychiatric therapy," patiently explained Doctor Clay. "But in the meantime I'm going to write you a prescription for Lorazepam. It's a mild sedative used to treat cases of anxiety brought on by emotional stress. It should help you to relax, which in turn should help you to get some sleep."

Before sending Newlan on his way, Doctor Clay had him remove his shirt and he gave him a quick once-over; touching here, prodding there, shining a flashlight down his throat, in his ears, and last but not least, into his pupils.

"Mr. Newlan your eyes look terrible. Is that swelling and redness due primarily from a lack of sleep, or have you been over-imbibing again?" asked the perceptive doctor, and Newlan couldn't help but smile as he confessed to his sins.

"If by imbibing you mean drinking heavily and smoking marijuana, then I plead the fifth. No, on second thought I take that back. I'm gonna come clean. I plead guilty," admitted a contrite Newlan.

Doctor Clay was busily scribbling his John Hancock onto a prescription pad when Newlan blurted out his confession, but he stopped his shorthand just long enough to recommend that his longtime patient slow it down a tad.

"Mr. Newlan, you know I'm not one to judge, but I think you should cut back a hair on your alcohol consumption. Granted you don't smoke cigarettes, and your blood work and cholesterol is consistently within acceptable range, but I think you would be in much better shape if you could just curtail some of the extracurricular activities and get yourself a bit more exercise instead."

And as the good doctor lectured him, Newlan wistfully thought back to their very first meeting. One of Newlan's early treks into adulthood involved the task of finding a doctor of his own after his parents' previous physician had retired, and he meticulously researched the qualifications of numerous MD's before choosing Doctor Clay some twenty years ago. He even went so far as inquiring about the specific medical schools that each candidate had attended, what they specialized in, and whether they were board certified or not. Today of course, this information can be easily retrieved over the internet, but back in the day, digging up a doctor's history required a lot more legwork.

When Newlan showed up for his introductory consultation, Doctor Clay was duly impressed by his thoughtful questions...but it didn't take long for him to start pushing the good doctor's buttons. In fact, all it took was a simple question regarding his new MD's age.

"Why do you ask?" wondered Doctor Clay, and being the smart-aleck that he was, Newlan replied with tongue placed firmly in cheek; "Well, we look to be about the same age, so as we grow older we'll probably be facing the same issues, which can only help us relate to one another on an even plane, if you know what I mean. You know...the old prostate test...with the finger up the old you-know-where."

"Mr. Newlan, you have many years ahead of you before you have to deal with that issue...and besides it's a routine test, nothing to be embarrassed about," retorted Doctor Clay, even though his face began turning red. In any event, as it turned out, their ages were in fact within a year of each other, which, as far as Newlan was concerned, was an important factor in making his final decision on the doctor of his choosing.

And now all these years later, with his prostate exam just around the corner, Newlan continued to give as good as he took.

Newlan patted Doctor Clay's belly and playfully asked, "What about you, doctor? You look like you could use to lose a few pounds yourself. Maybe you need to join me in the exercise room. And don't forget, that little test we talked about 20 years ago is finally coming due soon, so I hope that _your_ doctor is gonna treat you as gently as I'm sure you're gonna treat me."

"Never mind me...you're the patient today," good-naturedly chided Doctor Cay.

"OK, but hey, maybe we should go out for a few drinks sometime. Then we'd be on equal terms. I'm buying...what do you say doctor? Besides I feel like I need to get to know you better before I let you violate me like you're gonna have to do when I come in for my next physical," countered Newlan.

The two men, who met as young adults and who were now facing middle age together, genuinely did respect each other, but that didn't stop Doctor Clay from playfully rebuking Newlan's mock advances just the same.

"I make it a practice to never socialize with my patients," replied the good doctor. "But if I did, you'd be the first one I'd call. You are quite the character Mr. Newlan."

And in return of what he considered to be a high compliment, Newlan feigned humbleness and exclaimed, "And you sir are one hell of a doctor."

Doctor Clay shook Newlan's hand, and he was just about to exit the examination room when Newlan remembered why he had come to see him in the first place.

"But wait...doctor, what about the trial," pleaded Newlan, and Doctor Clay gazed at him for a moment, as if he was trying to read his mind, before replying.

"Let me guess...you want me to write a note for the judge, don't you?"

Newlan could only sheepishly nod his head in admiration at the perceptiveness of his hand-picked physician, and he replied in kind.

"You are something else," reiterated Newlan as Doctor Clay mulled over his request.

"Mr. Newlan, in all my years of practicing as a physician, I've never once been asked for this type of referral. But as far as I'm concerned, your inability to serve as juror due to health issues is a legitimate claim. I'm not sure whether the judicial system is going to go for this, but if anyone calls and asks me about my diagnosis, I will surely state your case. Now get yourself dressed and I'll have your note waiting for you with the receptionist," commanded Doctor Clay.

Newlan was absolutely giddy over his doctor's willingness to help him out of this larger-than-life jam that he had somehow gotten himself into through no fault of his own, and he pumped the good doctor's hand in appreciation, while at the same time exclaiming, "I can't thank you enough Doctor Clay."

And so with his spirits lifted, Newlan hastily put his shirt back on, tucked in his pants, and hustled his way out the door, and as promised, Doctor Clay's note was waiting for him at the front desk.

Newlan was practically floating on air as he waltzed down to the parking lot; so much so that when he got back inside his car he lit up a victory joint. But before he pulled out of his parking space, he pulled out the good doctor's handwritten letter, which was scribbled on one of his prescription forms, and he read the note with a conflicted mixture of amusement and repulsion.

To whom it may concern:

Mr. Frank Newlan has been a patient of mine for over 20 years, and in that time he has suffered from numerous bouts of severe anxiety. I am afraid that the stress and rigors of serving as a juror on such a serious trial has exacerbated his anxiety to the point where he is unable to sleep, or in fact even function adequately.

I would respectfully request that Mr. Newlan be medically excused from his civic duty, since not doing so could have serious and harmful repercussions on his overall health.

If there are any questions regarding this diagnosis, please don't hesitate to contact me.

Sincerely,

Dr. Donald Clay, MD

Newlan plowed through the harsh reality of letter over and over again, and the cutting words left a bitter taste in his mouth every time. Apparently, the mere mention of his weaknesses, put down on paper for prosperity, had a sobering effect on him. But on the other hand, although the act of confronting his frailties left him feeling rather dumbfounded, in the grand scheme of things, he was more than happy with Doctor Clay's conclusion just the same.

"I didn't think I was that messed up...but hey, if it gets me off of this fuckin' trial then I don't care if the good doctor tells the whole world that I'm as crazy as a loon," indifferently reasoned Newlan as he headed directly over to the local pharmacy to get his prescription filled.

Within a half hour Newlan had his medication in hand. But as he sat in his car and skimmed through the accompanying literature, he became a bit alarmed by some of the side effects of the "mild sedative" as Doctor Clay had put it.

"In a sample of about 3500 patients treated for anxiety, the most frequent adverse reaction to Lorazepam was sedation (15.9%), followed by dizziness (6.9%), weakness (4.2%), and unsteadiness (3.4%). The incidence of sedation and unsteadiness increased with age."

"Other adverse reactions to benzodiazepines, including Lorazepam, are fatigue, drowsiness, amnesia, memory impairment, confusion, disorientation, hallucinations, depression, and on and on and on."

To be precise, the pamphlet included a full page of side effects, but Newlan got the point after a few sentences, and it had him comparing the list of adverse reactions to a lyric from one of his favorite Grateful Dead songs entitled "The Wheel" which stated something to the affect that if the thunderbolts don't do you in then the thunderclap will.

By the time Newlan made his way home he was totally spent, so he fixed himself a snack, smoked a joint, popped down a couple of his newly purchased little helpers, and put himself to bed by 9 PM.

Moreover, as Newlan lowered his head onto his soft fluffy pillow, he was comforted by the bliss of knowing that his days as a member of the jury on the John Breslin murder trial were numbered; not to mention the fact that tomorrow was a Saturday, which meant that he could sleep for as long as his little heart desired.

And sleep Newlan did. Aided by his anti-anxiety medication, Newlan feel into a deep lethargy, complete with vivid, colorful, circus-like dreams of clowns and acrobats and jugglers...but also lions and tigers and bears, oh my.

For some reason, Newlan's mind had reverted back to his childhood, and his quixotic subconscious fed him with visions of scarecrows and tin men and witches and munchkins and great wizards of Oz.

Newlan wasn't sure exactly where he was, but he surely knew that he wasn't in Kansas anymore. Not surprisingly, he found himself in the company of none other than his high school sweetheart, Marianne Plante, along with Toto, as he wound his way down the yellow brick road of life, searching in vain for a homeland that had long since passed him by.

Even in his drug-induced dream state, Newlan wondered whether he would ever find his way back to that illusionary dwelling, which he had longed for so badly and for so many years. Even in his chemically ravaged condition, he wondered whether the pursuit of that elusive peace of mind, which had come to define his very being, was truly an attainable goal. Even in the rarified air of his fantasies, he wondered whether unfeigned serenity was something that ever really existed in the first place; for anyone, at any time.

As Newlan took Marianne Plante by the hand and set about his journey, he wondered in vain why the wicked witch always seemed to seek him out; always hovering over him on her broomstick like a great black cloud.

And with these dark shadows following his every move, Newlan wondered when the world had become such a barren place; a place more frightening than the desolate enchanted forest of the evil Wicked Witch of the West.

Newlan wondered why it had all come down to this.

Newlan prayed that he could go back to those innocent times when he could simply repeat three times "there's no place like home" and everything turned out alright.

Newlan wondered and he worried and he pleaded and he prayed; as always, hoping for the best but expecting the worst.

Despite the powerful sedatives which were coursing through his veins like a rush of water through a fire hose, Frank Newlan tossed and turned all night. Even in his comatose state and despite the fact that he had learned long ago that everything doesn't always turn out alright, Newlan seemed to be hoping against hope, on a wing and a prayer, that his wildest dreams might yet come true.

And as such, somehow, in the tear-stained darkness, Newlan seemed to understand that tomorrow, with all its wonder and surprise...was only a heartbeat...away.

Chapter 59 – Domestic Violence

Saturday morning June 14, 2008 – 7:30 AM

As fate would have it, this blazingly bright mid-June New England morning found Marianne Plante dabbed away at the tears that were trickling down her cheeks like a leaking faucet, while at the same time she gazed out of the picture window in her designer kitchen as her two young daughters, Terry and Debbie, frolicked on their backyard swing-set.

"Ah to be young again," sighed Plante as she mulled over what to do about her husband Tom Willis, who was once again missing in action.

For the sake of her children, if for no other reason, Plante was reluctant to file for divorce. But lately she was beginning to feel as if her husband was leaving her with no other choice in the matter. He was hardly ever at home anymore; always out and about, tramping around town with his harem of bimbos. And when he did check in, more often than not these days, they would end up in an epic argument.

Plante was no fool. She knew perfectly well what was going on, right behind her back no less, but she just didn't have the strength to fight it anymore. In fact, she had come to enjoy the peace and tranquility, which warmed her soul like a ray of sunshine, whenever her husband pulled one of his many disappearing acts. However, despite her growing disinterest in him, she couldn't stomach the thought of her husband thinking that he was getting away with something sneaky when his attempts at subterfuge were so transparent.

But regardless of who was winning the battle, the euphonic harmony of Plante's morning was about to come to a sudden end. Regardless of who was losing the war, the mellowing stillness of her dawn was about be shattered in a monstrous way, because Tom Willis had just pulled up in front of their stately home in his shiny new 2008 Infiniti G37 coupe...and he proceeded to stagger in through the front door, itching for a fight.

Willis ignored the muffled cries of his wife emanating from the kitchen, and he darted straight up the stairs towards their bedroom. And when Plante caught wind of her husband's bold entrance, she followed him in hot pursuit, ranting and raving like a lunatic every step of the way.

Rather than counterattacking with an immediate tantrum of his own, Willis's veiled response to his wife's bitchy outburst was to totally ignore her as he headed directly for the closet and pulled out a suitcase.

Plante promptly launched into round two of her extended tirade as soon as her husband's luggage made its appearance. But no matter how much she railed, he continued to spurn her, and he calmly went about his business of packing up some clothing, which infuriated her all the more.

"What the hell do you think you're doing mister?" roared Plante.

"Business trip babe, I'll be back on Monday, Tuesday at the latest," coolly replied Willis...and just like that, Plante finally snapped. Just like that, at long last, she had finally reached her boiling point. By this stage in their yearlong fray, she had finally had just about enough of her husband's foolish games, and so she blocked the path between him and his suitcase as she attempted to shout him down.

"Oh no, you're not going anywhere. Do you think I was born yesterday? You come home smelling like booze and cheap perfume, and now you're gonna go waltzing out the door again...and you think I'm gonna just sit here and take it?" angrily protested Plante.

"You got no choice in the matter babe. You knew what you signed up for when you married me, now stop acting like a child and get out of the way," ordered Willis as he pushed his wife aside. And apparently this half-hearted effort at ensuring that she obeyed his request was all that it took for her to wave the white flag, because once again, just like that, her precarious resolve had been broken; shattered into a million pieces.

Poor Marianne Plante, all she could think to do was to sink down to the floor by the side of their bed and cry like an infant. All she could think to do was to rest her head on her knees and wail like there was no tomorrow. All she could think to do was to beg like a pauper in search of a meal.

"No Tommy, please no. I need you. The kids need you. Please, for once, can't you behave like a man and be there for your family," pleaded Plante.

Unfortunately for Plante however, nothing annoyed Willis more than his wife challenging his manhood, and so in retaliation to her jibes, he planted the heel of his size 11 shoe into the side of her ribcage and pushed as hard as he could until she lost her balance and fell over in a heap onto the floor.

"You need me do you? You've got everything you could ever ask for you ungrateful cunt," mocked Willis. But his sobbing wife begged to differ.

"Everything except a real man," chafed Plante in a valiant foray at getting under her husband's skin, like a deer tick in search of blood.

"Well you should have thought about that before you started flirting around with every guy in sight, you fuckin' whore," roared a now incensed Willis.

"No, it's not true Tommy. I swear on my mother's soul, I've been faithful to you. I swear to God, I'd never cheat on you," insisted Plante...but her defense fell on deaf ears. And although it didn't take long for her to regain her composure, Willis had already packed his bags and was heading for the door by then.

Notwithstanding her slim chances for success, Plante nonetheless followed her husband back down the staircase as she made one last ditch violent attempt at garnering his failing attention.

Plante grabbed a valuable imported Japanese vase off of a shelf in their living room and in one swift motion she heaved it at him. And with the aim of the former high school softball pitcher that she was, the urn smashed high against the front door, just above Willis's head, sending shards of shattered glass crashing down on him, and as an added bonus, cutting his face just above the bridge of his nose.

This unprecedented eruption of rage was so unlike Plante that it momentarily startled Tom Willis. However, once he got past the initial shock of his wife's sudden explosion, he was so furious with her that he was seeing red, literally and figuratively.

Willis was in fact so hot under the collar that in one swift motion of his own, he clutched his wife by the throat, and then he proceeded to pick her up and throw her back down onto the dining room table as if she were a rag doll, knocking over an expensive crystal centerpiece in the process.

With his hand still wrapped tightly around his wife's throat, Willis then pressed his bloody face against hers as he threateningly whispered, "I'm the man of this fuckin' house...do you understand me? And if you ever pull a stunt like this again, I swear to God, I'll kill you. I swear to God, I'll kill us all."

Clearly the damage was already too deeply carved to ever fully be undone, but to make matters worse, Willis spat in Plante's face. And then without hesitation, he stormed out the front door and peeled on down the road in his sporty new Infiniti, leaving behind a cloud of dust in his trail. But what's more, he also left behind a wife who was in desperate need of a strong pair of arms to hold her.

As upset as she was, Plante still managed to retrieve a broom from the closet the minute her husband made his grand departure so that she could sweep up the fragments of glass from the floor before her daughters cut themselves; and alas, as destiny would attest, this routine cleanup chore, this simple back and forth sweeping motion, gave birth to an unintended cathartic effect which would take hold of her with the same intensity as her husband's viselike death grip.

"Fine...go ahead and shack up with one of your little bitches. Well two can play at that game," taunted Plante, who had resorted to talking to her broomstick.

Meanwhile, at the first sound of the commotion drifting out from the open windows of their regal dining room, Plante's frightened daughters huddled inside their backyard playhouse and cowered in each other's arms, while at the same time, somewhere within the stifling confines of their real home, their mother was in the process of tearfully sweeping away more than just the chards of glass from a broken vase.

For ready or not, Marianne Plante was also sweeping up the battered remains of her love; for ready or not, she was sweeping up all visible traces of her husband and depositing them out the back door forever; for ready or not, she was symbolically sweeping him out of her life for good, like a pair of muddy footprints mopped up off the floor of a dirty kitchen.

And just like that, with the last push of the bristles clearing the way, Marianne Plante made a sweeping pronouncement which was meant to whisk away more than just the years, more than just the miles; from this moment forward, it would be out with old and in with the new, so to speak.

Marianne Plante abruptly decided that it was high time she took a chance or two; she abruptly decided that the time had finally come to relive her past; she abruptly decided that the time was right to do what she should have done a long time ago; she abruptly decided that it was now or never; she abruptly decided that the moment was ripe to make a long overdue, but immensely empowering, phone call; a phone call from which there would be...no looking back.

Chapter 60 – A Reunion; 20 Years in the Making

Saturday morning June 14, 2008 – 8:00 AM

After enduring a relatively restful but somewhat bewildering night of sleep, Frank Newlan was up bright and early on this radiant Saturday morning. And although he was vaguely aware of a magnificent dream which found him lost in a fantasyland filled with magical creatures, he couldn't quite recall any of the details.

And furthermore, despite being under the influence of his narcotic medication, and despite being adrift in a world which only existed somewhere just over the rainbow, Newlan's internal clock woke him up as usual, a few minutes before 6 AM...and he had been a pent-up bundle of activity ever since, puttering around his condo, catching up on some long overdue housework.

Newlan ran through his agenda of chores in record time, and as a reward for his industriousness, he decided to leisurely water the plants which adorned his deck while simultaneously taking a moment to reflect on his life and breathe in the fresh air as it wafted across the spectacular Boston skyline. The greenness of the trees were in full bloom, and the refreshing summer breeze delivered a scent of wild roses which lingered about the wide open windows of his condo, not to mention his deeply inhaling nostrils, while at the same time Grand Funk Railroad's "I'm Getting Closer to my Home" blared through his stereo system...and somehow the sensory overflow made him feel good to be alive.

Unlike his late father, Newlan would never describe himself as green thumb, but in the almost five years in which he had been living at his condo, not one of the plants that he had potted on his deck had ever succumbed to neglect. He had carefully studied the botany of New England and its climate, and made his choices, mostly Alberta Spruces and other sturdy shrubs, on the basis of their chances for survivability in extreme weather conditions...and sure enough, his selections had turned out to be very hardy indeed.

In some strange way, Newlan felt as if he were exhaling for the first time since the start of the trial, even though, in reality, a churning anxiety was still bubbling up inside of him. However, now that he had secured the liberating note from Doctor Clay, a ticket off the case if there ever was one, he was fervently hoping that he could put the sad tale securely out of his mind once and for all. But alas, as we all know, fresh wounds aren't always so quick to heal.

In fact, as Newlan plucked away at few strands of weeds which had sprouted up in one of his many flowering pots, out of the corner of his eye he noticed a red convertible pulling into the parking lot of his condo complex and it got him to thinking. It got him to thinking about the red Taurus that almost collided with his red Mercury yesterday afternoon. It got him to thinking about a how, according to his old friend Officer Jimmy Leach of the Medford Police Department, red cars are much more likely to get pulled over for speeding than any other colored car on the market. And of course, it got him to thinking about the mysterious red car which was parked in the Newton garage on the fateful morning that Fred Miller was found shot to death, slumped over in his Nissan Maxima; the same red car that no one could quite positively identify; the same red car that the prosecution was so desperately trying to pin on Sammy Fox.

And as Newlan doggedly thought through each and every variable in this problematic equation, he subconsciously leaned up against the railing on the deck of his condo and scanned down at the parking lot below him, as if in search of a sign...and sure enough, it suddenly dawned on him that he had access to enough empirical data, stretched out right in front of his very eyes, to perform a scientific survey, an unofficial red car census if you will.

Since it was a weekend morning, not many of the building's occupants had to leave for work and thus the condo parking lot was still just about full, which led Newlan to come up with this crazy notion that he should tally up the percentage of red cars that were parked in the lot...and much to his surprise, after a thorough head-count, he found that an estimated 12% of the cars, trucks and SUV's which surrounded the condo complex were varnished and finished in some shade of red.

"Now my obsession is complete," grunted a satisfied Newlan as he chuckled to himself for good measures. He had never given it much thought before, but if he had been asked to guess what percentage of people tooled around in red cars as opposed to some other coloration, he would have probably guessed somewhere around 5%.

"I don't know why my fellow jurors are already convinced that Breslin is guilty when the prosecution can't even trace the alleged getaway car back to his supposed accomplice," mumbled Newlan as his annoyance level rose a notch or two. However, just when he was beginning to come down with a pounding headache from the sheer weight of the unending consternation, he suddenly remembered his pending change of status in the case, and it eased his worried mind thusly; "But wait a freakin' minute...as of Monday morning it's not gonna be my problem anymore."

And then, out of the blue, in a delayed reaction that might have been as surprising as it was unexpected, Newlan was blindsided by a nagging case of mixed emotions, triggered in its entirety by his impending bailout from the trial. It was as if he had all of a sudden concluded that he possessed a legally-binding obligation to hang in there, if for no other reason than to ensure that Breslin got a fair shake; and the conflicted feelings which were creeping up inside of him were beginning to leave him with a guilty complex.

Newlan gazed up at the sun in the Eastern skyline for a few more minutes of heated deliberation before angrily announcing his final decision to the world below; "The hell with it. I'm washing my hands of this miserable mess. I've said it before and I'll say it again, I never asked for this fuckin' assignment in the first place. I got my own friggin' problems to deal with."

And despite his claims of psychic ability, Frank Newlan had no idea just how right he was...for his problems were about to take on a life of their own and then some.

Frank Newlan was about to face off against a dilemma of epic proportions.

Frank Newlan was about to become a victim of circumstances which were well beyond his power to comprehend, never mind control.

For better or worse, after a 20 year hiatus, Frank Newlan was once again about to come face-to-face with the only woman he ever loved.

Newlan may not have been, as of yet, aware of this whirling twist of fate which was about to wreak even further havoc on his tortured soul, but over the din of his stereo he was definitely aware of the phone ringing, and as he raced inside to answer it, he grumbled to himself, "who the hell is calling me, first thing in the morning?"

Newlan peeked at the caller ID, and he scratched his head as he contemplated the now familiar name of "Willis T & M" which was glowing in the display. He was utterly perplexed by what he was observing and he was tempted to let the call kick in to voice mail. It wasn't that he didn't want to speak to Marianne Plante, but right about then, his mind felt as if it was turning into mush, and he just didn't know what to expect from her. He had no idea what she could possibly want from him after all these years and after all the miles of tread-wear in the worn out tires that had carried them down their separate paths.

However, in the end, Newlan decided that he'd better pick up. He figured that Plante might have something urgent on her mind which required his immediate attention, and in a wholly unforeseen way, he was once again spot-on in his estimation.

Newlan answered the phone with nothing more than a tentative "hello" and he was greeted with a subdued, "Hi Frankie, it's me, Marianne again."

"Good morning Marianne, what's up?" asked Newlan, trying to sound casual, even though deep down inside he was a bundle of nerves.

"Well I'm gonna be down in Medford, I'm taking the girls to see their grandparents...and I was gonna stop by the Medford Mall to do some shopping, so I was wondering whether you might want to meet me at the Food Court for a cup of coffee? I'm buying," explained Plante by way of her generous offering. Of course, she was also doing her best to come across as nonchalant as possible, even though deep down in _her_ heart she wanted, or more accurately, needed, to see Newlan more than she had ever needed anything in her entire life, and she needed him now.

Newlan stammered for a moment or two, but he couldn't seem to get any coherent words out of his mouth, so Plante did the talking for him.

"Come on Frankie...don't worry...it's no big deal. I just thought it would nice to see an old friend. And besides it's only a cup of coffee," reassured Plante...and finally after much cajoling on her part, Newlan reluctantly agreed.

"OK then, I'll see you at around 10 o'clock," decreed Plante, while at the same time trying not to sound too excited, even though her fractured heart had skipped more than a few beats at the mere thought of the endless possibilities which were racing through her mind.

Of course it should come as little or no surprise to learn that Newlan was inundated with second thoughts almost as soon as he hung up the phone. It's not that he didn't want to see Plante again after all these years; to the contrary, he had been practically praying for this glorious day to come along for almost half his life...and yet he was fearful. He was fearful of what he might be getting himself into (especially now that the John Breslin murder trial was teaching him more than a few hard-learned lessons about what some people will do for love), and once again he mused, "she's a married woman...what could she possibly want from me?"

While he showered in preparation for his big date, Newlan used the downtime to think the situation through further, and he eventually came to an uneasy truce with himself.

"It's too late to back out now. Besides, she's probably already on the road, and I don't even have her cell phone number. Plus, like she said, it's only a cup of coffee. She just wants to see an old friend. What's the harm in that?"

Being the neat freak that he was, and with some time to kill on his hands to boot, Newlan neurotically tidied up his condo before departing on this most unexpected rendezvous. He had been cleaning the place almost nonstop all morning, but that hardly mattered when the obsessive-compulsive side of him reared its ugly head. Even on weeknights, when he'd come home exhausted after a long day at the office and when he wasn't even expecting houseguests, he still kept every room of his apartment spotless (and on this histrionic morning, the mindless physical activity also included the added benefit of helping him to keep from totally freaking out over the prospect of this unanticipated, yet long-overdue, meeting with his high school sweetheart).

And wouldn't you know it, in the midst of his endless worrying, in the midst his uncontrollable physical and mental scouring, Newlan completely lost track of the time, and when he looked up at the clock on the wall and realized that it was almost 10 AM, he went soaring straight into panic-mode. All of a sudden, he had no time to dig through his drab wardrobe, so he hastily wriggled into a polo shirt, pulled on a pair of khaki shorts, slipped into a pair of open heeled sandals, grabbed his prescription sunglasses...and despite his faltering courage, he made his way out the door.

Newlan hurried past Saeed Kahn, and if he didn't know better, he would have guessed that the shifty doorman was behaving suspiciously again, but he was in much too much of a rush to give it more than a second thought. He was on his way to meet the only woman he ever loved and nothing was going to stop him now, not even the supercilious Saeed Kahn.

Newlan hopped into his red Mercury Mystique like Batman charging into the Bat-mobile, and he gunned the engine towards the Medford Mall, which was less than a mile down the road from his condo, practically within walking distance. In fact, the mall was in such close proximity to his apartment that he actually considered strolling over there by foot, but in the final analysis, he decided that he didn't want to take a chance of over-perspiring in the hot June sun.

Instead, as he sped on down the road, Newlan debated long and hard over whether he should take a couple hits off of a joint, but in the end, he decided against it; something told him that he would need to be on his toes for the duration of this bittersweet encounter, and as was the case more often than not, his gut feeling would prove to be right on the money.

Newlan rushed out the door without making a music selection for the ride, and although he still had a Steely Dan disc loaded in the CD player, he didn't even bother turning it on; since he was going on what amounted to a very short drive up around the bend, he figured he'd instead tune in to the local classic rock radio station WXLZ where the famed Boston area group, The J. Geils Band was in the process of rocking out their 70's hit "Looking for a Love".

Within minutes, Newlan found himself pulling into the half-empty mall parking lot, but the music-lover in him voted unanimously that he should remain seated in his vehicle and sing along until the Geils "love-searching" song played itself out.

Newlan was overcome with an extreme case of the jitters as he crawled out of the driver's side door and made his way into the mall, and as he mapped out a last minute strategy in his head, he decided to enter at the far end of the cookie-cutter edifice and briskly walk over towards the Food Court in hopes that a little bit of exercise might calm his nerves a tad.

Unfortunately for Newlan however, a jaunt through the mall's corridors wasn't going to be nearly enough physical exertion to alleviate his anxiety-laden butterflies. But nevertheless, as he ambled down the homestretch and took a sharp right at the intoxicating scent of dark roasted coffee beans brewing off in the distance, there she was, Marianne Plante, after all these years, standing with her back towards him in the Dunkin' Donuts take-out line.

Plante was fixated on the menu and so she didn't notice Newlan tip-toeing up from behind her, but he, on the other hand, recognized almost immediately that it was her. There was no mistaking the silky shoulder-length, jet black hair, the slender petite figure, the sultry supple body, the soft smooth alabaster skin.

Newlan suddenly felt something stir inside of him, and he took a series of deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself down, but still the nerves persisted. However, after a brief pause, he urged himself to "just go for it" and he muttered accordingly; "Well, here goes nothing."

With his shaky conscience egging him on, Newlan sauntered up to Plante's position in the take-out line and tapped her on the shoulder, while jokingly exclaiming, "No decaf for me ma'am."

And for her part, Plante, who became startled in her own right when she grasped that it was her first love standing there before her like some glorious blast from the past, could barely contain her joy. "Frankie," she shrieked, as if he was some famous rock star, and she hugged him so lustily that it caught him completely off guard.

Newlan was expecting that maybe if he was lucky Plante might greet him with a brief, friendly hug, but when she didn't let go of her embrace right away, he wrapped his arms around her and caressed her shoulder blades while at the same time running his fingers through her silky smooth hair.

Plante was a rather short woman so the best she could do in return was to bury her head in Newlan's chest as she repeatedly whispered, "It's so good to see you Frankie...it's so good to see you."

It took some effort, but the old acquaintances eventually let go of their hold on each other, and while they were still standing face-to-face, Newlan slipped his rather large, coarsely textured hands into Plante's tiny, soft hands as he sighed, "Ah Marianne let me look at you."

And look at her he did. Not only did he look, but he took in her beauty with an overwhelming sense of awe and desire.

"My God Marianne, you haven't change a bit...you're as gorgeous as ever," marveled Newlan as he scanned her entire body, while at the same time committing every last detail into his photographic memory banks.

Plante was sporting a pair of expensive leather sandals, and her perfectly pedicured feet were accentuated by a golden bracelet which was wrapped loosely around her left ankle. Accompanying her footwear was a pair of white cotton shorts and a pink shirt which was decorated with a collection of small gold hearts which formed a big heart. Like Newlan, Plante was also hiding behind a pair of sunglasses, but as his gaze made its way over to her face, he lifted the designer frames up off her nose and peered deeply into her eyes.

As Newlan's penetrating telepathy bore into Plante's cognitive ruminations, he detected a beacon of weary despondency emanating from somewhere just below the surface of her angelic face. She still possessed those big, beautiful brown eyes which he had fallen in love with so long ago, but something seemed entirely out of joint; something seemed altogether out of place; something was undeniably missing; there was no longer any sparkle in her sad smile; there was no longer any glitter in her colorless face; there was no longer any twinkle of radiating vivaciousness in the orbs of her jaded corneas.

As the seconds slowly ticked away, Newlan sensed that something was painfully amiss in Plante's world, and in response he instinctively stroked her cheeks with his chafed thumbs as he softly whispered in her ear, "What's wrong Marianne?"

And Plante gazed back at him longingly as she wistfully replied, "Oh Frankie, you always could read me like a book. It's a long, long story...but anyway, why don't we sit down and talk for a while."

Newlan wound up springing for the coffee, and the high school sweethearts tentatively took a seat in an empty section of the Food Court, as far away from prying eyes and ears as possible.

As they struggle to make themselves comfortable, Newlan glanced at Plante, and in a soothing tone he blurted out his request; "So...tell me all about this long story, I've got all day to listen."

But Plante was momentarily tongue-tied, and so she could do no better than to stare down at her coffee. However, in time, with Newlan prodding her on, the liberating words came gushing out in tearful spurts like a freshly tapped geyser of mineral-rich oil.

"I've had a hard life Frankie, drugs, alcohol, rehab, an abusive husband whose seems to be treating me worse by the day...you name it, I've been through it," confessed Plante.

And as much as Newlan resented the inexplicable way in which they had drifted apart, it pained him to hear how Plante's life had turned out, so much so that he was at a loss as to what to say. But then, in a moment of weakness, he yearningly asked, "What happened to that innocent little girl I use to know?"

Referring to herself in the third person, Plante awkwardly replied with a stark admission; "She grew up Frankie. She grew up, and she found life to be a bit more than she could handle...and to think I let you go because _you_ partied too much."

Newlan pondered her point of emphasis for a second or two, and in response to her unintended barb, he jokingly philosophized as such; "yeah, too bad...just think, if I partied a little bit less and you partied a little bit more, we would have met in the middle...and we might have been a perfect match...and maybe, just maybe, we would have never even broken up."

"Yeah, that's probably true, but unfortunately Frankie, I think I'm stuck with my husband for better or worse...you know, for my kids' sake," bitterly acknowledged Plante as she pulled out a wallet-sized photograph of her daughters from her purse and proudly handed it over to Newlan.

"You never know, things might still work out..." encouraged Newlan, and as he surveyed the picture, he added, "...and by the way, your daughters are beautiful...just like you."

Newlan's sincere compliment coaxed a blushed smile out of Plante, and before long she was happily ready to move on to bigger and better things.

"Oh Frankie enough with my problems, what's going on with you? You're looking pretty good yourself," proclaimed Plante. But rather than bask in her praise, Newlan feigned shock as he took off his sunglasses and positioned his face closer to hers for inspection.

"Me? I look good? Are you kidding me! Check out these bags under my eyes. I've hardly slept at all in the past week. As I told you the other night, I got sucked into this damned hit-man murder trial. You know...the husband, Breslin...he supposedly hired someone to have the boyfriend killed," reminded Newlan by way of his concise explanation.

Knowing that her hotheaded husband could have easily passed for Breslin's kindred spirit, Plante was dumbstruck by the uncanny similarities between the two men, and once again Newlan picked up on her hidden fears.

"What's the matter Marianne, you seemed distracted?" inquired Newlan, but Plante didn't dare to mention even a word about how obsessive and crazed her husband had become, so instead she attempted to write-off her trepidations as a frivolous non-issue.

"Oh it's nothing really. It's just that I heard about that trial on TV, and I still can't believe that you're on the jury. And by the way, you're eyes might be a little bloodshot but you're still quite the handsome man," insisted Plante.

"Well thank you, and you too look marvelous my darling," joked Newlan in the best Billy Crystal as Fernando Lamas accent he could muster.

Like most women, Plante appreciated a man who could make her laugh and she chuckled hardily at Newlan's court jester antics, while at the same time she decided that the moment was right to put her secret plan into action.

"So how do you like your condo, Frankie?" wondered Plante in a not so innocent tone.

"Well, when I first moved in, I wasn't quite sure whether condo living was going to be up my alley or not, but as it turns out, I really enjoy everything about the place. The no-hassle lifestyle is perfect for me. Of course, the condo fees aren't cheap...but it's a nice complex. We got an indoor swimming pool, a fully equipped fitness room, and my apartment itself is a good sized two-bed two-bath, corner unit with a view of Boston," outlined the detail-oriented Newlan, and then somewhat rhetorically, he added, "What more could you ask for?"

Plante's leading question had adeptly guided the conversation into the properly intended direction, and she followed up on her conniving strategy by gaping at Newlan admiringly as she beamed her approval; "I'm so proud of you Frankie. You've done alright for yourself. I'd love to see your place sometime...hint, hint."

"You know I'm right down the road from here, don't you? No more than a mile away," vaguely intoned the dense Newlan, and for good measures, he unwittingly tacked on a hasty invitation to his clumsily delivered observation; "You should stop by sometime".

Newlan wasn't exactly picked up on Plante's subtle signals, and so in retaliation to his cluelessness, she lightly fondled his hands with her soft little fingers, while never taking her eyes off of his, and she proceeded to make her proposal as crystal clear as she possibly could.

"I know where it is. Do I have to put it in writing? I'd like to see it...right...now," clarified Plante in a mockingly impatient tone.

"Um, um, oh, I guess you could come over for a little while," stuttered the practically speechless Newlan.

"What... are you afraid of me or something?" teased Plante, and in a strangely gnawing way, Newlan was indeed afraid. As always, he was as afraid as the Dickens of the great unknown, but he sure as hell wasn't about to admit it to his suddenly resurfaced, long lost lover.

"Of course not...it's just that you're a married woman and all, visiting a single guy's pad. You know, what if your husband finds out somehow?" lamented Newlan. But Plante, on the other hand, didn't seem to share her former lover's concerns in the least.

"Get real, Frankie. How's he gonna find out? And besides, we're just friends. I hope I didn't give you the wrong impression," exclaimed Plante as her old boyfriend looked on in what might best be described as a puzzled frown of bewilderment.

"Oh shit, I totally misread the situation," worriedly speculated Newlan, and he tried his best to back-peddle out of a stance that he wasn't fully aware he had even taken.

"No, of course not...not at all. You didn't give me _any_ impressions, never mind the wrong one. I mean, come on Marianne, look at me....I'm as clueless as ever. It's just that this damned murder trial is making me crazy. I'm suddenly thinking that everyone is out to get me," confided Newlan. But as far as Plante was concerned, his vulnerability rendered him even more attractive to her than he already was.

Plante smiled glowingly in spite of herself as she took Newlan by the hand and boldly asserted, "Come on Frankie, let's go see this fancy condo of yours...and don't worry about my husband, I'll take care of him."

And just like that, the high school sweethearts departed from the mall, strolling hand in hand, with Newlan in tow and Plante leading the way.

"Let's take my car," weakly suggested Newlan in a futile attempt to take charge of the situation.

"OK honey," playfully replied Plante as she practically skipped over to Newlan's backside and placed her arm firmly around his waist.

And so, within minutes of pulling out of the mall parking lot in his aptly named Mercury Mystique, Newlan rumbled into the Medford River Park Condominiums complex, securely in possession of...the only woman...he ever loved.

Chapter 61 – Surveillance Systems Converging

Saturday morning June 14, 2008 – 10:35 AM

As Marianne Plante lounged in the Medford Mall Food Court enjoying a cup of coffee in the company of her dear old friend and lover, Frank Newlan, she steadfastly assured him that there was no way her husband could ever possibly find out about their hastily arranged meeting...but alas, Marianne Plante could not have been more wrong; for while she and Newlan were busily preoccupied with other pressing matters, a palm-sized camera was being trained upon them, snapping up pictures, almost non-stop.

In fact, from the moment the unsuspecting Plante left her home, all the way up to the time she pulled into the mall parking lot, a telescopic eye attached to a nondescript black automobile had been following her every move.

Of course, as the dear old friends departed arm-in-arm from the mall for a private tour of Newlan's luxury apartment, they had absolutely no way of knowing that a trained professional was tailing them right up to the front doorstep of his condo complex. And as the high school sweethearts cruised on down the road, they had no way in the world of knowing that a licensed investigator was calmly documenting the details of their whereabouts into a mini tape-recorder, as well as dictating every scintilla of information he could think of regarding a 6 foot tall, middle-aged man who was sporting an unfashionably head of long, stringy hair, and driving a beat-up, red Mercury sedan.

Dear reader, as you may have guessed by now, Marianne Plante and Frank Newlan were being followed by none other than Brent Blain of the Boston Intelligence Group, and unfortunately for the "clueless" Newlan, as he had self-deprecatingly dubbed himself so long ago, it could only mean one thing; it could only mean trouble; it could only mean trouble with a capital "T".

Compounding Newlan's troubles was the fact that someone else would soon become privy to Blain's information; for no sooner had his car disappeared into the underground garage of his condo complex when the grim detective stopped his pursuit, and instead he pulled over by the side of the road so that he could put in an immediate call to Tom Willis's cell phone.

"Hey Tommy, its Brent...I know you're hooking up with some bitch for the weekend, but gimme a call as soon as you get a chance. I got some news about your wife and it doesn't look good. I tracked her down to Medford where she met up with this grungy-looking dude at the mall...and after about a half an hour they took off to a condo complex just down the road. But don't worry, I got his description...I got his car make and model...I got his license plate...and I got pictures too...plenty of frickin' pictures. I'll send a few to your cell phone right now...maybe you might recognize the asshole. But either way, I got some contacts down at the RMV, and for a few bucks they'll run his plate through their computer system for me...so it's only a matter of time until we know who this bastard is...and then...and then, well, then we can decide how you want to handle this fuckin' jerk," elaborated Blain. And remarkably enough, this private conversation, this confidential alert, this untraceable phone call, comingled amongst thousands of other phone calls, was all it took to flip a mysterious mental switch in Newlan's head.

Improbable though it might seem, at the very same moment that Brent Bain was in the process of relaying a nuanced accounting of the suspicious situation which he had just encountered to his client, Tom Willis, Frank Newlan became aware of a sudden ringing in his ears.

And while in some respects Newlan may truly have been clueless, in other respects he was as wily as the roadrunner with the coyote in hot pursuit; for before Brent Blain had even finished filing his report, Newlan's legendary radar was signaling a silent alarm to his brain just as he pulled into the lower level garage of the Medford River Park Condominiums.

However, despite Newlan's psychic ravings, despite his dark forebodings, despite his pessimistic proclivity, not even he suspected that a hired hound might be watching his every step. But nevertheless, somehow he sensed the presence of an unknown foe stalking him like a villainous stranger in the night. Somehow he sensed the presence of a powerful force aiming its spyglass his way. Somehow he sensed the presence of a malignant master-plan plotting his demise.

On the other hand, buried deep within the cognitive portion of Newlan's naive mind, a contradictory theory which stated that run-of-the-mill people don't hire private detectives to play big brother, coexisted with his paranoid leanings. Only people on trial for murder, only people such as the cagey John Breslin, would resort to such a tactic. And yet as he pulled into his garage parking spot accompanied by the woman of his dreams, he sensed that something was amiss, just as the head security guard at the Louvre would sense a change in the Mona Lisa if she were to be left dangling ever so slightly on a crooked frame. And yet, as he pulled the key out of the ignition, he sensed that a Cyclops-like beam of light was bearing down on him, just like the sun through a magnifying glass in the hands of a child, frying up an ant hill. And yet as he absentmindedly pulled on his chin in a dumbfounded state of confusion, he sensed that someone or something was watching him, just like a hungry eagle eying its prey from atop of a lofty perch.

And when you come to think of it, maybe, just maybe, there really was something to this ESP-like trait which Newlan had been boasting about for all these many years. Maybe somehow he did subconsciously sense that Brent Blain was hot on his trail. Or maybe, just maybe, he was once again being bombarded by a prolonged radio-wave of static which was distorting his extra-sensory vision by a few degrees.

Maybe, just maybe, what Newlan was actually sensing was the hotel-like surveillance system in his condo complex which was magnifying his image at that very moment.

Maybe, just maybe, what Newlan was really sensing were the subatomic packets of data that contained a facsimile of his face as they traveled through a fiber-optic cable and landed on a computer screen which was being monitored ever so closely under the watchful eyes of the complex's trusty concierge, none other than the abominable Saeed Kahn.

But then again, maybe, just maybe, what Newlan was truly sensing were the converging forces of a combined evil which was conspiring to snuff out his very existence and wipe him off the face of the Earth once and for all...like a relentless bloodhound...hunting down vermin...in a cornfield.

Chapter 62 – Who Knows What Another Man Would Have Done?

Saturday morning June 14, 2008 – 10:40 AM

"Are you OK Frankie, are you OK?" incessantly whispered Marianne Plante, but all the while the echoing words indecipherably drifted in one ear and out the other as a mesmerized Frank Newlan gazed hauntingly at a tiny black spider dangling from the windshield of his automobile in what appeared to be a drug-induced stupor.

For a split second, Newlan imagined that he was back in the juror deliberation room on the sixth floor of the Middlesex Superior Courthouse, being attended to after one of his spells by Yong, the pretty Korean juror. For a hundredth of a second, the underground garage of his condo complex was no longer a place where he parked his car, but rather it was the scene of a crime. For no more than a fraction of second, he was positive that a mysterious shadow had been following his every move...and then just as quickly, that second slipped away.

"Are you OK Frankie?" the familiar voice repeated again, but this time Newlan's dreamy anima descended down from the hazy clouds where it tended to hide, long enough for him to murmur a reply.

"I'm fine," insisted Newlan as Plante skeptically peered at him with more than a hint of concern written in stone across her face.

"Are you sure? You seemed to be spacing out, deep in thought...you know, lost in the moment or something," observantly noted Plante.

"Yeah, I guess you could say I was out-of-it for a few seconds there. I had this strange premonition, but I couldn't quite make out what it meant. Anyway, I'm pretty sure that everything's gonna be alright," diffidently professed Newlan, even though his vigilant array of sensory sentinels told him otherwise.

But regardless of Newlan's timid assurances, Plante, who had misinterpreted the situation, reached over from the passenger's seat and stroked his right hand with the tips of her warm slender fingers while reassuring his fragile male ego.

"Relax Frankie...you're always so nervous...so tense. Don't worry, I'm not gonna bite you."

"Jeez, that's too bad. You're no fun," Newlan quipped, and just like that he was back to his old self again, while at the same time Plante smiled mischievously at his comeback, and she mused to herself, "If only he knew what I was really thinking."

"OK, let's go. I'll give you the first class, guided tour," announced Newlan as they emerged from his red Mercury Mystique...and he proceeded to direct Plante on an extended expedition throughout the entire length of the complex

After a brief inspection of the exercise room, the saunas, the racquetball courts, the function room, and the swimming pool, they were just about ready to adjourn up to Newlan's sixth floor corner unit...but of course, not before first passing by the ever-present Saeed Kahn who was watching over the perimeter of the magnificent, marble-tiled floor of the lobby like a man possessed.

And although the stateliness of the shiny opalescent flooring did in fact leave quite the lasting impression on the cortex of Plante's cerebrum, what truly captured her attention was the mahogany ceiling, where, at its epicenter, an oversized chandelier provided a warm, welcoming entrance.

"Wow, this place is something else," marveled Plante, and she was so immersed in the pleasurable task of admiring the décor of the lobby that she never even noticed Saeed Kahn, perched like a vulture on a wary deathwatch by the security desk. Conversely however, upon catching sight of the unfamiliar woman, Kahn certainly took notice of them, and he stiffened with hatred as he swooped in for a closer look.

Kahn assumed that the exotic American lady was Newlan's latest conquest, but still he managed to force a rigid smile onto his face and he greeted them with his fake charm nonetheless.

"Good morning sir. I don't believe I've had the opportunity to meet your guest," exalted Kahn, and Newlan pleasantly played along as he got on with the formalities.

"Saeed, this is an old friend of mine, Marianne Plante. We've known each other since high school."

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance," smiled Kahn as he held out a weathered palm towards Plante, and he proceeded to furnish her with his own personal appraisal regarding his next door neighbor's staunch character.

"Mr. Frank is a fine man...a gentleman...a prince among men," exclaimed Kahn...and as he launched further into his malleable conversation with Plante in his rhythmically dominating cadence, Newlan somehow found himself becoming inexplicably glued to his phosphorescent neighbor's impenetrable, murky eyes, as if he were being drawn to them by some sort of irrepressible force of nature.

Before Newlan could even begin to comprehend what was happening to him, his entire physical-being had become transfixed by a gleam of vibrant light which had steadily commenced to drift downward from the shining, diamond-studded chandelier like an inertly descending parachutist; and from there, the wiry beam of radiant incandescence momentarily illuminated in Kahn's inky eyes before being vaporized like a shooting star getting swallowed up by a black hole.

For his part, Kahn seemed to be entirely cognizant of the likelihood that Newlan might be caught up in his hypnotic trap, which was a logical reaction, given the fact that even though his jet black pupils were bearing down on Marianne Plante, his inner-mind was totally focused on one thing and one thing only; Mr. Frank Newlan.

"Yes my dear, I am from Pakistan..." explained Kahn, but then abruptly, in mid-sentence, he slowly swiveled his head towards Newlan's direction while his blood red lips turned up into a wisp of a smile; a devious smile; a deceitful smile; a treacherous smile.

Newlan suddenly found himself staring into a pair of dark beady eyes, sitting atop of a wicked face, and the mesmeric glare froze him on the spot.

With the shadow of Kahn's smile serving as a catalyst, Newlan flashed back to his most recent nightmares which included Kahn leading the procession to his demise; he flashed back to his fear of falling; he flashed back to his fear of drifting endlessly through life like a leaf caught up in a hurricane wind; he flashed back to his fear of floating forever though space like a ghostly apparition suspended in time. And to make matter worse, he was thoroughly convinced that Saeed Kahn was fully aware of exactly what it was that he was thinking.

Perhaps this spellbinding thrust that Newlan was being subjected to found its origins in some form of Eastern voodoo which Kahn had studied as child. Or perhaps Kahn was subject to the same power of vision which Newlan claimed he, himself, possessed. Or perhaps living next door to Newlan had somehow rubbed off on Kahn. But regardless of whatever the source of his travails might have been, one thing was perfectly clear to Newlan; Saeed Kahn had somehow penetrated his mind; Saeed Kahn had somehow channeled into his psyche; Saeed Kahn had somehow tunneled into his cerebral cavity, and the infiltrating incursion left him feeling gravely exposed.

Newlan was weak from the attack, and it took every last ounce of concentration that he could muster, but somehow he managed to fight off Kahn's invasion; somehow he managed to ward off Kahn's foray; somehow he managed to grasp Plante by the hand, and as nonchalantly as he could, he decreed, "Come on Marianne, we still haven't finished our tour."

"Mr. Kahn seems like such a nice man," intoned a reinvigorated Plante as she and Newlan headed for the elevator.

"Yes, he is," agreed Newlan, albeit in a rather emotionally detached manner.

There was a time when Newlan truly did believe that Kahn was a nice man, but he didn't dare let Plante in on his current feelings regarding the reticent doorman, and the seemingly impulsive reasoning behind his recent change of heart.

Meanwhile, as the elevator catapulted the former lovers up to Newlan's sixth floor condo, Saeed Kahn sat stewing at his desk, hopping mad over the latest perceived insult being sent his way courtesy of the ugly American.

"Another woman...another act of debauchery...right before my very eyes. This man is what is wrong with this God forsaken country. This man will burn in Hell. May The Almighty be my witness...this man shall suffer for his sins," ranted a frenetic Kahn.

However, despite his concerns, Newlan's soul couldn't have been transported further away from the deranged doorman even if he had been riding on a rocket-ship to the moon. For as he admired Plante's reflection in the gold, metal-plated mirror doors of the elevator, his heart began to melt. The soft trusting smile, the beautiful big brown eyes, the silky black hair, it was all still there, seemingly untouched by the hands of time. And on top of that, as they exited the elevator, Plante unthinkingly clung to him, just like she once did in the days of their youth.

With Plante attached to him like a Siamese twin, Newlan stuck the key into the door of his condo and opened it up wide, revealing the inviting foyer of the tastefully decorated apartment.

"Next stop on our tour," declared Newlan as Plante entered and twirled around in astonishment.

"Wow Frankie, you must be rich to afford a place like this! I had no idea."

"What can I say I'm doing alright for myself," proudly, but bashfully, replied a crimson-faced Newlan, before proceeding on with the tour.

Newlan took Plante by the hand and guided her through the apartment, room-by-room. First the formal dining room with its expensive china cabinets and oriental rug; next the living room with its widescreen TV and comfortable leather sofas; after that it was on to the extra bedroom/office which was loaded up with guitars, record albums, and a closet full of CD's; and then into the kitchen which was furnished with a spate of brand new designer appliances.

Newlan was much too preoccupied to pick out a CD, so he clicked on the stereo for some background music as he led Plante out onto the deck where she stood in awe of the breathtaking Boston skyline view.

Plante got herself settled-in on a lounge chair, while Newlan leaned up against the railing and took a deep breath as he contentedly proclaimed, "It's really peaceful up here. I just love staring out at the big city...I could do it for hours."

"Do it for hours...I'm not sure what he's thinking, but I hope it's the same thing I'm thinking," lustfully visualized Plante as she bit her lip and gazed at Newlan with an ache of amorous cravings. However, at the moment, the clueless Newlan had his back turned to her, and as of yet he had no idea of the feelings that were stirring deep within her heart.

"Come on, let's head back inside...the tour's not finished just yet," suggested Newlan, and as they passed through the sliding doors of the deck, Plante semi-purposely stumbled into him and briefly their bodies rubbed up against each other.

And clueless though he might have been, Newlan couldn't deny the unmistakable warmth of Plante's vitality rushing through his veins, but like a fool, he attempted to ignore his feelings; like a fool, he attempted to disregard his desire; like a fool, he attempted to attribute his glowing sultriness to the hot summer sun.

Newlan's aloofness didn't come as a totally unexpected surprise to the increasingly impatient Plante, but in the meantime she silently debated her next move.

"What do I have to do to get him to notice me...hit him over the head with a hammer...or maybe something even more dramatic?"

While Plante plotted out her strategy, her memory wandered back to their younger days, and she recalled how Newlan was slow to recognize the signs of love. It looked like not much had changed. She vividly recalled how she had been the aggressor their first time together. She wistfully recalled how they both awkwardly, yet tenderly, lost their virginity. She dreamily recalled how once Newlan got going, he made her feel so alive. She recalled every moment of their maiden encounter like it was yesterday...and she desperately wanted to feel that feeling one more time.

"Would I make a great real estate agent or what?" joked Newlan as he opened up the door to his sleeping quarters and turned on the lights in the shade-drawn room. And then in the best realtor's voice he could muster, he bellowed, "and last but not least this is the oversized master bedroom, complete with a walk-in closet and a full bathroom, which, by the way, features a whirlpool bathtub with six incredibly relaxing massage-jets."

"Whirlpool bath? Sounds good Frankie," teased Plante, but Newlan still wasn't getting the hint. Amazingly enough, he had yet to piece-together any of the subtle indications that she had been aiming his way all morning...and furthermore, her words didn't seem to register in his brain in the least. For the time being, he was more intent on showing off the furnishings of his bedchamber for the viewing pleasure of his old lover from the distant past, rather than taking advantage of their private moment together to become enthralling secret lovers of the present...and what's more, due to her encumbering marital status, the thought had scarcely crossed his conscious mind.

Nevertheless, Plante duly agreed that the bedroom set was "gorgeous" as she auspiciously wandered about the room, taking in the details of the traditional antique-styled furniture. But when she suddenly came to a stop in front of the full-length mirror and discreetly examined herself, she was confronted by a person that she didn't even recognize anymore; she spied a stranger staring back at her; she beheld a lost soul.

Plante saw something in that mirror that she didn't want to see; something that she wasn't ready to see; something that induced her to whimper softly, with her head in her hands, as she reflexively, but with purpose, reached over and flicked off the light switch. And upon heeding her muffled weeping, Newlan came benevolently to her aid.

"What's wrong Marianne?" whispered Newlan as he caressed the back of her neck in another tender attempt to comfort her. However, this time, as soon as his rugged hands made contact with her smooth, soft shoulders, he was overcome by a slow but steady rumble which had been building up from somewhere deep within his core, and it nearly staggered him, like the tell-tale signs of a smoking volcano just before it erupts. This time, as soon as he laid a finger on her, he was overwhelmed by an undeniable fluttering in his heart, like the jagged edges of an EKG gone haywire just before it flat-lines into eternity. This time, as soon as his palms rubbed against her alabaster skin, he was ravaged by an unquenchable thirst for her body, which absolutely overtook him, like a recovering alcoholic who accidently takes a taste of liquor after 20 years of sobriety.

"I don't know Frankie...I'm just so lonely...and I feel so...dead inside," confided a tearful Plante.

"It's OK Marianne...everything's gonna be alright," consoled Newlan in return, while at the same time he instantly recalled Tracy Stone's testimony, and how she acknowledged that she felt 'dead inside' when for a second time she filed for divorce from her husband, suspected murderer, John Breslin.

With Plante's stagnating words still echoing in his head, Newlan grudgingly reminded himself that everything didn't turn out alright for Breslin and Stone, and with this seismic revelation weighing on his mind, he fretted over the predicament that he seemed to be stumbling into. But regardless of his dilemma, he was powerless to stop the momentum that was building up inside of him like a runaway train.

Plante seemed to sense the tension in Newlan's pulsing fingers, and she delicately twisted herself around and gazed longingly into his eyes...and suddenly he was quite aware of what might be going through her mind. Suddenly he was aware of how her faraway eyes betrayed her emotions. Suddenly he recalled that yielding look from all those years ago. Suddenly he was swept away with libidinous excitement, and he was positive that she was deluged with the same salacious fire that was burning him up inside. Suddenly she vaulted up into his waiting arms, totally immersing herself in his body. Suddenly her legs were entwined around his waist, and, in a delirious fit of rapture, she repeatedly kissed his face.

Dear reader, who knows what another man would have done, perhaps a stronger man with more willpower? Who knows whether another man would have turned his back on this glowing, yet vulnerable, woman, but for Frank Newlan it was a foregone conclusion.

Who knows whether another man would have succumb to the temptations of a married woman, but for Frank Newlan it was all too much. Here he was, almost miraculously, with the long lost woman of his dreams wrapped around his arms. Here he was with the instantly familiar scent of her body still lingering in his mind after all these years. Here he was with her exquisite fragrance triggering a lascivious chemical reaction deep inside of him, from his head to his toes and all points in-between; an irresistible chemical reaction over which he had no control.

Who knows what another man would have done indeed, but in Frank Newlan's mind, there was no question what he would do. There was only one thing he could do, and that was to give in to Plante's voluptuous overtures. Go for the gusto like there was no tomorrow and worry about the consequences later.

It was too late for contemplation. It was too late to turn back now. It was analogous to a black widow snaring its prey into her web; the more the captive hornet fights, the more entangled he becomes; the longer the infatuated dragonfly struggles, the longer he endures enslavement, until finally he is eaten alive. For Frank Newlan it was either seduce or be seduced, but regardless of who the aggressor was to be, in the end he would bow down to his lady's doings.

Newlan dropped his arms down around Plante's buttocks so that he could better support her weight as he carried her over to the side of his bed and steadily lowered her onto the mattress where he planted a deep, steamy kiss on his long lost lover's open mouth

Plante received Newlan's kiss zealously and they traversed each other's tongues, which ignited a simmering passion within him that he didn't even realize existed anymore.

Newlan instinctively rubbed the palm of his right hand in a circular motion across Plante's soft fleshy midsection until her shirt and pants became separated.

Plante reacted to Newlan's touch by guiding his strong warm hand across her throbbing pleasure zone as she kicked off her sandals.

Newlan stood up and firmly raised Plante's upper body while, with vacant eyes, she stared out into nothingness...and without a word, she submissively lifted her arms up as he removed her pink shirt with the gold hearts...which revealed a black bikini top.

Plante snuggled her face, which scantly reached the towering Newlan's chest, against his fully clothed stomach while the tips of her fingers groped for precious jewels.

Newlan gently kneaded Plante's bare shoulders, which were as smooth as his linen sheets, for a minute or two, while she continued her own massaging strokes of treasure-hunting exploration...and then, without warning he reached for the straps of her intimate lingerie, which appeared to be held together by nothing more than a pair of shoelaces.

Plante shivered with rapaciousness as she came to a realization of what Newlan was about to do next.

Newlan slowly untied one of the frilly laced strings, which was enough to cause the bikini top to peel away from Plante's body, unearthing two perfect mounds of milky womanhood.

Plante reached for a pillow and placed it under her head as she leaned back on the mattress while Newlan's mouth followed her down and hungrily explored her rubbery breasts.

Newlan's animal instincts took over as he worked his way down Plante's elegant body and he eagerly removed her white cotton shorts which exposed the other half of the thong-sized black bikini undergarment.

And in response to Newlan's magical touch, Plante's body squirmed involuntarily, with uncontrollable spasms of verve-like energy, as she anxiously awaited her fate.

Newlan repeatedly kissed Plante's inner thighs and then he moved on to her hips where, with his teeth, he untied the spaghetti-like strings which were just barely holding the scantily clad bikini bottoms together.

Plante lifted her lower extremities ever so slightly while Newlan haltingly pulled at the now untied piece of clothing until it finally gave way...and he held it in his hand.

Newlan tossed aside the last remaining hurdle which stood between him and the object of his deepest desire; there before him lay Marianne Plante, completely naked in his lonely bed.

Plante was drunk with exhilaration as she spread her wings, while at the same time Newlan stood up and scanned her incredible writhing body before burying his face between her legs...which sent her into an ecstatic frenzy.

As Newlan concentrated on the task at hand, he couldn't help but recall how shocked and horrified Plante became the first time he suggested that they complete each other in a different way. She may have been the aggressor in their virgin days, but he rapidly came of age, and his vivid imagination clearly got the better of her.

Back in their younger days, Newlan had even written an enticing poem for Plante; a composition which was specifically meant to supply her with a visual picture as to how he was going to take their relationship to another level.

The poem as follows, which he entitled "Hourii", in honor of the mythic, dark-eyed virgin beauty who was believed to have been a nymph in the land of eternal paradise, totally befuddled the young and impressionable Plante.

"It's different," concluded Plante at the time, which was her polite way of saying that she didn't understand the cryptic prose. And yet now, as Newlan filled her full of contentment, if she were asked to recite the poem, chapter and verse, with the fate of the world hypothetically depending on her response, she would have had no problem remembering every single word of the sensual ode (including the eerie reference to a white flag which figured so prominently in Tracy Stone's testimony):

HOURII (a poem by Frank Newlan)

PART 1 – The Surrender

Hourii, Hourii

As pretty as a girl can be

Smile of pearls, your eyes unfurl

That white flag of surrender

You sacrifice your soul for me

Bear the child, humanity

Blinded by faith, yet too blind to see

That in the end, it's you that captures me

Hourii, Hourii

It's you that captures me

Ancient Middle Eastern prose

You stand there in you statue's pose

Your eyes they call me with a stare

I'll follow you now, anywhere

I know it's me you must possess

It's come down to this fate I guess

Hourii, Hourii

I'll be the one who loves you

PART II – The Seduction

You take me to your secret loft

The lights are low, the music's soft

You take me where I've never been

Back to Adam, Eve and Sin

Silk gives way, revealing skin

I close my eyes, my head it spins

Our arms caress, your scent so sweet

Gently now, our lips they meet

We hold each other, soft and smooth

I feel something in my spirit move

So entwined, I can't let go

I worship you from head to toe

A taste of your forbidden fruit

A serum, sticky sweet with truth

Hourii, Hourii

I'll die for you

PART III – The Eternal Flame

I've given up my life for you

And still there's more that I can do

Eternity and that's for sure

I'll be with you forever more

Hourii, Hourii

I'll burn for you

You study stars and moons and tides

For signs of births, of dates, of times

Hourii, Hourii

Who knows what we will find...in our flaming paradise

Hourii, Hourii

Who knows what we will find...in Heaven...or in Hell

Newlan silently wondered what Plante would have thought of the requiem had he presented it to her today rather than when they were scarcely out of puberty, but of course, right about now he had a lot more than just a silly poem on his mind.

Plante's heavy breathing was turning him on like he had never been turned on before, while at the same time his erotic spontaneity was exciting her in ways that she didn't think were possible.

By the time Plante's rhythmic moaning had reached its crescendo, Newlan was utterly aroused, and so he raised himself up and methodically got undressed while she eyed him with breathless anticipation.

And with his grandeur unleashed, Newlan tantalizingly thrust himself towards Plante, rocking her back and forth with spastic, titillating jabs. He repeatedly penetrated her erogenous zone with an almost violent fervor while she simultaneously wrapped her legs around him in a vice-like grip, and as they became one, he couldn't help but notice that the classic rock tune "Feels Like the First Time" by the 70's band Foreigner was blaring out of his stereo speakers.

The high-spirited song might not mean much in the grand scheme of our story, but to the music-loving, superstitious Newlan it meant everything. It meant so much in fact that his love-making took on an even greater urgency, if that was at all possible.

...

After what seemed like hours, two entangled bodies laid in each other's arms, emotionally and physically drained. Plante wanted to go out onto Newlan's deck and have a cigarette, while he had the urge to jump in the shower, but they were both too spent to even speak; both of them lost in their thoughts; both of them clinging to each other; both of them wishing they could turn back the hands of time.

Eventually, Plante gushed out a five star review, as in a hushed tone she exclaimed, "Wow, that was incredible...I guess you've learned a few things since that last time we were together."

"I guess I have," replied a subdued Newlan who was in the throes of a post-coitus depression.

Plante playfully tickled Newlan's stomach and in a frisky tone she placed a request for additional information.

"So...tell me about some of these women who taught you all this stuff."

"Oh you know, just women I've met over the years...after all, I _am_ a single man," shrugged Newlan, and base on his distant tone alone, it was becoming quite obvious to Plante that his mood had shifted to the right by close to 180 degrees.

"Is something wrong?" hesitantly asked Plante as her women's intuition kicked in.

"No, it's just that I was kind of wondering what all of this means. You know, what we just did. I mean, you're a married woman and all," once again reasoned Newlan. And from there he went on to deliver a solemn confession regarding his bewildering confusion.

"And I guess I've just never been able to forget about how things ended between us. But what's even more baffling is that, for the life of me, I've never fully understood what the heck happened that would cause us to drift apart like we did, almost overnight. All these years, I've been racking my brains trying to figure out why the hell we even broke up in the first place...and I still haven't come up with a logical explanation."

"I know Frankie...I'm so sorry. You deserve an explanation...but I don't even know where to begin. It would be impossible for me to try to explain it to you when I can't even explain it to myself...but you have to know that it was never you, it was me. You have to know that I never meant to hurt you...and I don't mean to get you caught up in my problems now, but..." lamentably replied Plante. However, before she could completely finish her sentence, before she could completely verbalize her thoughts, she hesitated ever so momentarily...and once again she broke down in tears.

"But what?" wondered Newlan in a jeering tone; and though his intentions were never meant to hurt the only woman he ever loved, the words came blowing out of his mouth rather coldly, and they stung her nonetheless.

"But I still love you, that's what...can't you understand that?" answered an emotional, tearful Plante. But all the while, Newlan remained impassive and exasperatingly silent as she continued on with her proclamation.

"I knew I shouldn't have come over here...and I'm sorry if I messed up your life, but I was hoping that somehow we could put the past behind us...and now I don't know, maybe it's too late for that. I guess I'd better get going," reluctantly decided a weepy Plante, and as she rose from Newlan's bed, she had every intention of leaving him behind for good.

On the other end of the spectrum, as Newlan watched over Plante's silhouette while she went about the business of getting herself dressed in the darkened bedroom, he just laid there in his bed, physically unclothed and emotionally detached. He watched lifelessly as she slipped on the black bikini bottoms and neatly tied the strings. He watched silently as she swathed the bikini top tightly around her breasts. He watched motionlessly as she collected up the rest of her clothes. He watched and he watched and he watched...but then suddenly an unbearable burden stirred awkwardly within him, almost bringing him to tears.

"For twenty years I've been hoping that this day might come, and now that it's here, I'll be damned if I'm gonna just let you walk away again without a fight," angrily muttered Newlan as he ascended from his bed and made one last ditch valiant effort to try to win a war that in the end, just couldn't be won, regardless of the outcome.

Newlan was still naked as he approached Plante and stood behind her while she continued to hurriedly clothe herself in front of the full-length mirror.

Plante twitched as Newlan's body rubbed against her backside, and she did her best to rebuff his advances, but he was too strong for her.

Newlan put his arms roughly around Plante's waist and she held on loosely as he kissed her neck.

Plante half-heartedly resisted, but Newlan wouldn't take no for an answer, and she couldn't seem to summons up the will to make him stop.

Newlan untied Plante's top and tossed it aside while she rested the back of her head against his muscular chest, in spite of her conflicted emotions.

"What are we doing?" quivered Plante, but she got no reply from Newlan who was transfixed by the visage of her supple bosoms as they reflected enchantingly in the lightless glow of the mirror.

Newlan put a hand to each of Plante's hips and he watched himself in the mirror as he languidly pulled on the heartstrings of her bikini panties until they were once again untied; but she, on the other hand, still had some fight left in her...and she was ready to make one last final stand.

Plante held on to the black spandex material for dear life; it was her last line of defense and for some reason she wasn't ready to let it go just yet.

But then alas, as the war raged on in her heart, she resigned herself to the fact that her forces were wilting from the strain of Newlan's sensual barrage. All it took was a strategic assault from his probing tongue, along with a few nibbles to her earlobe...and the battle was lost...she relinquished herself forever from responsibility...to the victor goes the spoils...to the loser goes a lifetime of servitude, no better than a prisoner of war.

For as it has been so eloquently quoted by the great philosophers and poets, dating all the way back to the English Renaissance, "all is fair in love and war".

And yet the thin white line which straddles precariously between fair and foul can get so blurred sometimes, that it is difficult to truly distinguish the winners from the losers.

For even in victory, the lofty goals of the campaign can, at times, become so dwarfed by the mounting casualties...until it reaches the point where the unwitting paladin can't see the forest for the trees.

For even in defeat, the calculating underdog sometimes snatches the ring right out from under the nose of the King...the priceless prize that she treasured all along.

And so the battle-lines are drawn.

With his tenuous ascendancy to the throne in hand, Newlan released the garment and they both watched in the mirror as the skimpy piece of intimate apparel floated down to the carpeted floor like a shedding feather from the cap of a nesting bird.

Plante let out one last gasp of captivated inevitability as she slowly whirled around to face her conquering hero.

Newlan complied by urgently kissing Plante's puffy lips while at the same time putting one arm around her shoulders and the other arm under her legs.

Plante clasped herself to Newlan neck as he lifted her up off her feet...and all the while their lips never once parted.

This time however, Newlan carried Plante not to his bed, but to his bathtub...and without a second thought he kicked open the shower curtain as he gently lower her into the tub.

Newlan seemed to know exactly what he had in mind as he turned on the shower and let the water flow freely over him until ultimately, at long last, his spirits were rejuvenated; there would be no more shame in veracity. It was as if he were being born again. And with his failing courage fortified, he emotionally confessed to his inamorata.

"I love you so much Marianne. I've loved you ever since the first time I laid my eyes on you. I love you more than you could ever possibly know."

So with his heart laid bare, the two lovers embraced and kissed each other passionately, over and over again, while the warmly flowing water soothed their aching hearts.

As the bath filled to the brim with liquid hope, and as Newlan's tender words sank into Plante's enlightened sense of reality, any remaining inhibitions, any remaining fears, that Marianne Plante may have been fending off were being gradually dissolved and rinsed away like a stormy miracle from Heaven.

After all these years, Plante was finally ready to acknowledge the mistakes that she had made with her life, the yearnings she had repressed for far too long now.

And as the water purified her soul like the healing springs of Lourdes, Marianne Plante sank down to her knees and completely surrendered her body to Frank Newlan. And in response to her alluring touch, Newlan closed his eyes to the world and tilted back his neck in ecstasy as the steaming spray massaged his pulsing head.

And in his ecstasy, Frank Newlan prayed to God for forgiveness; in his ecstasy he prayed to God for guidance; in his ecstasy he prayed to God for a sign that the rushing waters, like a cleansing communion, might somehow wash away...all his sins.

Chapter 63 – Playing With Fire

Saturday afternoon June 14, 2008 – 2:00 PM

While an old flame was being rekindled in unit 630 of the Medford River Park Condominiums until it radiated with the white hot brightness of a million suns, somewhere not so far away, a new flame was rising from the smoking embers of a burning heart which was never quite doused. All that was needed was for someone to come along and poke at the charred remains of the smoldering ashes until once again they glowed a molten orange. All that was needed was for someone to come along and add a drop of fuel to the fire until once again it cracked and popped with the sparkling intensity of a towering inferno.

And just when it seemed as if charred remains were all that was left in Tracy Stone's heart, Cam Miller came along and inadvertently prodded her back to life. Just when it seemed as if smoldering ashes were all that remained in Tracy Stone's soul, Cam Miller came along and added another combustible log to the fireplace of her mortal embodiment.

But now...now that at long last the embers were once again burning red hot in Tracy Stone's veins, Cam Miller was...well, to put it succinctly, Cam Miller was playing with fire.

While one black widow had already captured her prized possession on this entrancing day before the church bells had even struck twelve o'clock in the afternoon, another black widow was in the process of weaving her own web of deceit.

While the seduction of Frank Newlan was nearly complete, the persuasion of Cam Miller was only just beginning...and the inducements which would be offered up by our femme fatale, Ms. Tracy Stone, were more than Cam, or any man for that matter, could ever hope to withstand.

In fact, at that very hour, Cam Miller was about to enter into the humble abode where the ring-leading coconspirator who had plotted his brother's death once laid his weary head to rest at night. At that very minute, Cam Miller was about to set foot into the very same dwelling where the evil plan which led to his brother's demise was hatched and nurtured. At that very second, Cam Miller was preparing to enter his personal house of horrors on a moment's notice; his presence having been requested by none other than our courtesan for bloodlust, Ms. Tracy Stone.

Amazingly enough, Cam's trusting wife Susan wasn't the least bit concerned about the implications of this hurriedly arranged meeting, and as a matter of fact she actually encouraged him to go...and her reasoning seemed quite sound at the time.

"She needs someone to talk to...so go be a friend in her time of need and God will bless you for it later," counseled Susan as she walked, hand-in-hand, with Cam down the winding stairway of their somber home.

And so it was fated to be, that on this beautiful day in mid-June of 2008 Cam Miller would step out of his gloomy castle's front door and cross over another ethereal threshold into his brother's dismal temple of doom at the beckoning of the cunning enchantress who had fortuitously hastened his only sibling's exit from this dreary land of the living.

After much contemplation, and even more consternation, Cam tentatively crept his way into the living room of the Breslin homestead as Stone serenaded him with a warm hug and an appreciative greeting.

"Thank you so much for coming Cam. I just had to talk to someone about my testimony, and I couldn't think of anyone else who could relate to what I'm going through better than you can. Tell your wife that I said thank you to her as well for allowing you stop by. She's such a saint for being so patient with me whenever I call," exalted Stone.

"She's just as concerned about you as I am," solemnly replied Cam.

"I know, but if it was me, I'd never let you out of my sight," purred Stone as she attempted to make hypnotic eye-contact with Cam. But despite her best efforts, Cam repelled the invasion, however unwittingly, and he held his ground for the time being. Of course, then again, whether he could resist Stone's powers of persuasion for the duration of their meeting remained to be seen.

Clearly, persistence had paid off for Stone in the past, and she rightfully assumed that it would only be a matter of time before Cam's pliable heart was fettered in a labyrinth of leather and lace.

However, much to Tracy Stone's dismay, within minutes of Cam's arrival, an unexpected disturbance had taken place right there within the cozy confines of her comfortable home. Before Cam even had a chance to sit down, Stone's hyperactive children, being naturally curious as all kids are, came wandering in from their backyard playground to investigate this unfamiliar man who had just entered their home, and when they barged into the living room and got a close-up look at the man in question, their expressions ranged from shock to hysteria.

"Mommy I thought he was dead. I thought the bad man was dead. I thought he was gone forever," cried Stone's panic-stricken, nine year old daughter, Rebecca.

"It's alright honey this is Freddie's brother, Cam. I know that they look a lot like each other, just like JJ and Kevin look alike. But Cam is a good man. Cam is mommy's friend," softly explained Stone as she wrapped her daughter in a tightly wound hug.

But regardless of her mother's explanation, Rebecca Breslin was inconsolable, and her incendiary reaction prompted her younger brother, seven year old Kevin, to burst into tears as well. Meanwhile, stapled firmly to the other extreme of the measuring stick, eleven year old John "JJ" Breslin, Junior, being the chip off the old block that he was, didn't react with even the slightest bit of fright or tears...but rather with anger.

"You're the reason my daddy's in jail. I want you out of my house," ordered JJ as he made a mad dash towards Cam with his pint-sized fists balled up and ready for mayhem. But mercifully however, Stone intercepted her son in mid-stride, and she went on to angrily chastise him for his troubles.

"Where is this anger coming from JJ? I didn't raise you to be a disrespectful brat. Now you apologize to Cam right this very instance," demanded Stone, but JJ was having none of it.

"Never," screamed JJ as he retreated up the stairs and out of sight, into the protective chamber of his bedroom.

And upon witnessing the reaction of their older brother, who they idolized like a pop star, Rebecca and Kevin were more distraught than ever. But despite the chaotic madness that had descended down upon her household, brought about by her children's manic outburst, somehow Stone persevered. It wasn't easy, but somehow she managed to calm the kids down a tad, and she sent them marching up to their rooms, while in the meantime, Cam knew where he wasn't wanted.

"I'm sorry Tracy, but maybe I should leave," resolved a visibly shaken Cam. However, Stone wouldn't hear of it, and she did her best to downplay the embarrassing incident, and her children's remonstrative backlash towards him.

"Don't be silly Cam. Please, sit down. I should be apologizing to you, not the other way around. I should have warned them that you were stopping by. But they'll get over it. After all, they're just kids being kids...and I'll deal with them later. So please, don't take it so personally," urged Stone in a soothing tone as she took a seat next to Cam on the sofa and rubbed his hand with her strobing fingers.

Stone was very much expecting a favorable response, but once again her advances were thwarted; this time by a force more powerful than she could have ever hoped to conjure up.

Naturally, John Breslin Junior's acting-out episode left Cam feeling very much aggrieved, but he was also overcome by another powerful emotion as well; fear; irrational fear. He was awed by the fact that little JJ looked so much like his father, and he instinctively shriveled away from the touch of the woman who had spawned this dangerous seed.

"What if that kid comes looking for me someday with revenge on his mind," deliberated Cam, while at the same time Stone softly rambled on about one thing or another...and even though her words were the work of a sorceress, they had little to no affect on him.

Cam was so distracted by JJ's actions, and by the uncanny resemblance between father and son, that her colloquy went in one ear and out the other, without ever being fully processed by his brain stem.

"Don't you agree Cam?" inquired Stone in an insistent tone. And despite his confusion, Cam seemed to understand that she was looking for some sort of validation, so he replied in the affirmative, albeit rather unconvincingly.

Stone easily interpreted the blank look painted on Cam's face to be one of out-and-out incomprehension, and she pointedly asked him, "Have you even heard a single word that I've said to you in the last ten minutes?"

"I'm sorry Tracy, but my attention span has been a bit lacking these days...what were you saying," politely replied Cam, and he came to an abrupt realization that it was awfully silly of him to be worrying about the potential of retribution from the hands of an eleven year old kid.

But Cam's worries aside, in response to his admission of inattentiveness, Stone roughly pinched his arm and she stared sharply into his eyes again, this time with a renewed sense of purpose.

"Like I just got through saying, this whole mess is my asshole husband's fault, and as you could see for yourself, my kids are scarred for life...not to mention the fact that I'm an emotional wreck too...and he just sits there in that courtroom day-after-day looking like he's doped up on lithium or something. I swear to God I wish he were dead," confessed Stone as a chilling bolt of anger swept over her like lightening in a bottle.

As it has been well-documented already, the schizophrenic Tracy Stone fluctuated between wanting to see the life snuffed out of her husband, to wanting him _back_ in her life, and all points in between. And as it has also been made exceedingly clear, Cam Miller's inner-voices very much wanted to witness, or even better yet, partake in an outcome where Breslin met his bloody end; but for the foreseeable future however, his own plans were to be kept under lock-and-key, for the sake of all concerned.

And yet, despite his cloak-and-dagger resoluteness, Cam still speculated as to whether his facial expressions might have betrayed his emotions in any way, while at the same time he fervently thought to himself; "Tracy, if only you knew how badly I want him dead...if only you knew."

With a preponderance which more than hinted at her mindreading abilities, Stone then added some weighty substance to her already confessional tome; "I wonder if somehow, some way, somebody could make it happen. I wonder if someone out there could pull a few strings...grease a few palms. Besides, he's better off dead than rotting in jail. Sure the kids would suffer for a little while, but it's better than the alternative of them having to visit him in prison for the rest of their lives."

"Come on Tracy, we don't even know if he's gonna be found guilty yet," reasoned the rational portion of Cam's brain, even though, with each passing day, he was beginning to feel more and more confident about the prospects of a successfully prosecuted outcome to the trial.

But on the other hand, in a twisted way, Cam sometimes wished that Breslin were allowed to walk out of prison Scott free, released on a technicality; because then, between himself and his deceased brother's many friends, they would take care of the rest; they would make sure that Breslin got what he deserved; and if he had any say in the matter, one way or another, Breslin would be looking at a death sentence. Of course, Tracy Stone didn't even want to consider the possibility that her husband might somehow win his release from prison, and she gave Cam an earful for his blasphemous remark.

"After what I've been through this past week, these past two and a half years for that matter, he better be found guilty," argued Stone, while internally, she envisioned her ex-husband's ultimate downfall in her mind's eye.

Stone knew full well that both Freddie and Cam had access to an army of not so reputable acquaintances; people who could pull off her scheming plan without a hitch, and make it look like a walk in the park to boot. Just like Sammy the Fox had done her ex-husband's dirty work, there had to be somebody out there who could do her dirty work. There had to be somebody out there, who, for the right price, could make her problem disappear; be it in prison or out on the streets. If one were to look at the dilemma logically, it would become apparent to anyone with half a brain that all she needed was a tidy sum of cash, and then...and then, John Breslin had better watch his back.

And while Stone plotted her next move in the dark recesses of her mind, she suddenly had an even better idea; an idea which had been brewing in the canyons of her subconscious for quite some time now; perhaps her ex-husband might meet his stunning fate right there in the courtroom...and perhaps Cam would be the 'chosen one' who was destined to hammer the final dramatic nail into his coffin.

Stone had been whispering dark invocations into Cam's ears for over an hour now, and if what she was mumbling wasn't clear enough already, she was about to make it even clearer.

Stone peered even deeper into Cam's eyes and she softly repeated her request, over and over again, in a spellbinding assault on his willpower.

If truth be told, it was she whose voice had been slowly chipping away at his defenses for the better part of the past six months. If truth be told, it was she whose well-aimed silent tocsins had been penetrating his armor for days on end, slowly ingested over time, until in their totality, they did the trick.

"I want him dead...and the sooner the better...and there's a prize waiting for whoever makes it happen," intoned Stone, and by some sort of unspoken decree, these extemporaneous words melted into an enticing mantra which she began raining down on the helpless Cam's brow.

Suddenly Cam's head was spinning in a dizzying fashion as Stone's voice slowly permutated from deadly singing into wordless chanting...and just like that he was putty in her hands; between her piercing eyes, and her mystical incantations, and her heightened resolve, he was no match for her ageless bit of black magic; just like that he was hypnotized before the finishing touches of the hex had even left her mouth.

Cam Miller was now under Tracy Stone's spell. Cam Miller was now at Tracy Stone's beck and call. Cam Miller was now under Tracy Stone's command; and if Cam Miller didn't already want to participate in John Breslin's execution badly enough for his own personal reasons, Tracy Stone was about to provide him with even more motivation to get the job done.

Just in case her powers of persuasion weren't enough of an invitation, Tracy Stone was about to resort to the oldest form of witchcraft known to man. Tracy Stone took the barely conscious Cam's hand and gently placed it on her warm vestibule of womanhood, while she simultaneously whispered into his mesmerized eardrums; "For whoever succeeds, will be granted the key...the key that unlocks...my tunnel of love."

Chapter 64 – Landslides and Falling Stars

Saturday afternoon June 14, 2008 – 4:00 PM

After coming to a binding, if rather nonverbally communicated, truce, Frank Newlan and his high school sweetheart, Marianne Plante, found themselves engaged in an extended session of madly passionate lovemaking for the remainder of the morning and well into the afternoon until finally they succumb to exhaustion and drifted off to sleep in each other's arms; both of them physically sapped of every last ounce of energy that their aging bodies could muster; both of them emotionally drained by the lingering aftereffects of their suddenly torrid affair.

However, before the consummation of their mid-afternoon sojourn, Newlan and Plante went traipsing around from room to room, and from position to position, all in a futile attempt to make up for twenty years of lost time. They went from Newlan's black leather sofa to his semi-private deck. They went from standing, to kneeling, to lying down. They went from left to right, from side to side, from top to bottom, from East to West...and all stops in between.

As a matter of fact, the former couple renewed their acquaintances with such a reckless abandon that it was almost maniacal in its intensity. In short, the reunited lovers couldn't get enough of each other.

Newlan wasn't quite sure where this day was leading to, if anywhere, and so he made it a pressing point to squeeze in enough pleasure to last him a lifetime's worth of pain. He wasn't sure when, if ever, he would even see Plante again, never mind make love to her, and so he ravaged her body in ways that were almost savage in their urgency.

Unbeknownst to Newlan, Plante had also fallen prey to the same sense of uncertainty which he had been brooding over, and as a result, she enthusiastically pleased him with just as much vigor, if not more, throughout the entire course of their midday romp, right up into their naptime.

At just around 4 PM, Plante groggily regained consciousness, and when she realized the lateness of the hour, she woke up in a startled panic.

"Oh my God, I gotta go pick up the kids from my parents' house. My mother's gonna be a nervous wreck wondering where I've been all day," anxiously exclaimed Plante as she hastily got herself dressed while at the same time checking her cell phone, which she had turned off specifically so that she wouldn't be interrupted during her lustful quest for redemption.

Once Plante was fully clothed and sufficiently calmed down, Newlan drove her back to the mall, but just before she exited his red Mercury Mystique, they couldn't resist the temptation of giving each other one last, long kiss goodbye.

And as Newlan wistfully watched Plante putter off into the sunset, he felt a sudden twang of sorrow gnawing at his heartstrings like a classically trained musician running a bow across the bass strings of a cello; he felt that same old unresolved fear of abandonment resurfacing from the depths of his despair like a nuclear submarine emerging from the deep of the ocean; he felt a familiar ache of tormented affliction ripping him apart like a paper shredder chewing up a crooked politician's secret documents.

...

Meanwhile, at the same time that poor Frank Newlan's beat-up old automobile, not to mention his beat-up old heart, was slowly dissolving into nothing more than a distant red spot in Marianne Plante's rearview mirror, she zigged and zagged her subcompact sedan through the cross-town traffic in a frantic attempt to make her way back to her parents house on the other side of town as quickly as possible.

Within seconds of Plante arrival, her two daughters, Terry and Debbie, were at her side and greeting her warmly with a loud warble of "mommy" as they each took a leg and wrapped their arms around her like a brightly adorned rope to a Maypole.

However, unlike her daughters, Plante's mother Marie didn't appear to be too happy to see her, and Planet understood full well that she was in for one hell of a tongue-lashing as soon as she saw the cold stare that dear old mom was sending her way. And to make matters worse, her father Sal ignored her altogether, which was a sure sign that he was even more upset with her than her mother was.

"I need to have a private, grown-up talk with mommy, so why don't you girls run along out into the yard and play for a while," politely requested Mrs. Plante, and of course her granddaughters obediently obeyed her command.

And once the innocent children were well out of earshot, Plante's mother tore into her.

"Where have you been all day? You said you were going shopping for a couple of hours and that was over six hours ago. I've been worried sick about you."

"I'm sorry mom...I lost track of time," hesitantly explained Plante.

"Well, you could have at least called and let me know you were going to be late. I tried calling your cell phone at least ten times, but you didn't even have the courtesy to answer," angrily replied the elder Mrs. Plante.

"I said I was sorry ma...now can we just let it go," demanded Plante; she was hoping that maybe a more forceful tone might put an end to her mother's inquisition, but alas it wasn't to be.

"If you've been shopping all day, then where are your bags?" wondered Mrs. Plante, the elder, in an accusatory tone; a tone which made it clear that she wasn't about to let it go so quickly. But regardless of reproachful tones, Plante stubbornly denied any wrongdoing whatsoever.

"Mom, I just didn't end up buying anything, that's all...why the third degree all of a sudden?"

"Why the third degree you ask? Well I'll tell you why...because your daughters have been crying their little eyes out all day over the fact that you and your husband have apparently been fighting like cats and dogs for months now," protested Mrs. Plante.

"Please mom, stop...I don't want to talk about it," pleaded Plante, and then, as much as she hopelessly struggled to stay calm, she began to cry herself as well.

"I'm sorry honey...I just want to help," professed Mrs. Plante as she took her grown daughter into her arms and rocked her like a baby.

"I don't know what's happening between us mom, we use to get along OK...but now he's so mean and grouchy with me all the time...always complaining about something," admitted a tearful Plante.

"Maybe you two should try counseling, it's helped lots of other couples," suggested Mrs. Plante, but her proposal only made matters worse.

"You don't understand mom, Tommy's been getting abusive lately, first emotionally, and now physically...and I'm afraid he's gonna harm me, or even worse the kids. I'm afraid he's gonna kill us all," confessed Plante as she rapidly went from tears to sobs.

Up to this point in the discussion, Plante's father had stayed out of the fray. He had always believed that it wasn't his place to get involved in his daughters personal affairs, but upon receiving a verbal confirmation of his son-in-law's violent streak, a personality trait which he always had a hunch existed, he went completely berserk.

Salvatore Plante was a decorated ex-marine, and even now, pushing 75, he still looked as if he might be able to hold his own against most men half his age; a fact that came out loud and clear in his response.

"If that son of a bitch ever so much as lays a finger on you, he'll have to deal with me. You tell him that Marianne...you understand me. I'll kill the bastard," roared Sal Plante.

Although Plante was somewhat alarmed by her father's reaction, she nonetheless found his hotheaded words somehow comforting to her, and she hastily exchanged her mother's arms for his strong embrace.

However, in the end, the swirling mix of emotions bouncing around Plante's brain proved to be too much for her and as she held onto her grumpy old dad as tightly as she could, she wailed out her apologies.

"I'm so sorry daddy. I think it's over between Tommy and me. I think it's over for good...and I know I'm disappointing you, but I can't help it...because I just don't think I can take it much longer."

Despite his tough exterior demeanor, Mr. Plante fought hard to hold back his own teardrops as he consoled his only daughter like only a doting father can.

"It's OK honey, everything's gonna be alright. Don't you worry your pretty little eyes out about a thing... and remember, as long as I'm alive, you'll always be daddy's little girl."

Plante's parents took her, each by a hand, and they guided her over to the sofa where they sat on either side of her...and after an extended bit of coaxing, they convinced her that everything _was_ truly going to be alright, in a hopeful way that only the combined efforts of a pair of loving parents can pull off.

It was right about then that Plante began to suffer from a bout of remorseful guilt due to her earlier untruthfulness, and so she reluctantly came clean.

"Mom, I'm sorry, I wasn't totally truthful with you. I didn't go shopping today. I went to visit Frankie Newlan. Remember him? He was my boyfriend from high school," acknowledged Plante, and the mere verbalized formation of Newlan's name, drifting slowly out of her mouth, triggered a moist, burning, throb of pleasure in her loins. But nevertheless, in spite of her sudden candor, she still wasn't quite ready to be completely truthful just yet.

"Now don't go getting the wrong idea...we're just friends...but I needed someone to talk to, and he was nice enough to meet me for a cup of coffee," insisted Plante with mixed results.

Plante could always pull a fast one on her father, but her mother wasn't so easily fooled. Mrs. Plante didn't challenge her daughter, but she could see right through her every word. The sultry look on Plante's face when she mentioned Newlan's name told her mother everything that she needed to know.

"Of course I remember him. Don't _you_ remember me telling you that he works at Tafts, and that he was asking for you a while back," reminded Mrs. Plante, and she went on to extemporaneously vouch for Newlan's character. "He's a fine young man...and he's very highly regarded around the University."

"That scrawny kid from high school?" laughed Mr. Plante as he thought back to the day that he nearly broke Newlan's hand when he shook it for the first time.

But while Mr. Plante playfully disparaged Newlan, Mrs. Plante turned to her husband and forcefully added to her personal reference; "For you information Sal, that scrawny kid turned into a very successful professional who I understand makes quite a bit of money...although, for some reason, he never married."

"Well, he always _was_ a smart kid," conceded Mr. Plante with a shrug.

"He's a great guy, dad...and he's doing better than I could have ever imagined," gushed the younger of the Plante women.

"That shows what I know. I wouldn't have bet a penny that that kid would make something of himself...but I always did like him...at least he was a polite kid," acquiesced Mr. Plante.

"I wish I could let them know how much I still love him," silently mused Plante, but for the time being, all she was willing to confirm was that "he's the sweetest guy you could ever meet."

However, the senior Mrs. Plante's cautious reply had her daughter thinking that dear old mom was somehow reading her mind, and maybe she very well may have been.

"Honey, you really need to think through the implications of whatever it is you are planning to do," counseled Mrs. Plante. And as much as she wanted to, Marianne Plante realized that it was much too soon to reveal anything more than a scintilla of information regarding Newlan to either of her parents. But nonetheless, she replied as honestly as she could for the time being.

"Mom, _I_ don't even know what I'm gonna with myself just yet. But whatever I do, you'll just have to trust me that it will be for the best."

"What, are you thinking of hooking up with this Newlan kid?" wondered Mr. Plante in an incredulous tone.

"Dad, like I just got through saying, I don't know _what_ I'm gonna do. But whatever happens, Frankie will always be special to me. And by the way, he's not a kid anymore. He's nearly fifty years old...and if you haven't noticed, I'm getting up there too."

"Why the hell didn't he ever get married? Is there something wrong with him? Maybe the equipment isn't working quite right...although we know it wasn't a war injury. That kid wouldn't have lasted a day in the service," joked Mr. Plante.

"I don't think that's his problem," replied Plante with a knowing smile, while at the same time the afterglow from her long overdue encounter was still causing the blood to course through her veins at an accelerated rate, leaving her face flushed with color, and her mind filled with fanciful delights.

In any event, after what seemed like hours spent discussing her husband, her future, and Frank Newlan, Plante and her parents were all left feeling slightly better about the situation.

Mr. Plante had initially wanted to call the police and have his daughter fill out a restraining order, and if all else failed he vowed to take matters into his own hands; but luckily, cooler heads prevailed.

Plante convinced first mom, and then dad, that maybe she _was_ overreacting, even though deep down inside she knew she wasn't. She agreed that she would attempt to reconcile with her husband, and if things didn't work out, her parents assured her that she could move back in with them until she was able to reestablish herself.

And so with her parents sufficiently satisfied that things would indeed turn out alright, Plante rounded up the kids for the ride home, and they exchanged hugs all around.

Plante drove as slowly as possible as she and her daughters made their way back to the dreaded hellhole that her home had become, and as if on cue a nostalgic song from her younger days, a song brimming with special meanings, came warbling out of the tinny FM radio of her cramped little car; it was Fleetwood Mac singer Stevie Nicks' ode to her own father, entitled "Landslide" and the words hit Plante like a ton of bricks.

Plante instantly recalled her own independence day, and how her tough-guy father cried like a baby as he walked her down the aisle. But now it was Plante who was bawling like a lost child over the lyrical words being emitted in the form of Ms. Nicks' beautiful voice; words that were being broadcast across a wire, as if by magic; words that tell a coming-of-age story which we all go through at some point in our lives; words which so effectively paint a tender picture of a life experience that is common to us all.

The intricate finger-picking of the acoustic guitar had a hypnotic effect on Plante and when the sentimental chorus kicked in, laced with metaphors about how time boldly changes us all, she found herself tearfully singing along.

And as the achingly yearning tune played itself out in the darkness of the night, Plante's daughters became ever so aware of her muffled sniffling, and they curiously wondered why the sudden outburst of tears.

"Don't worry girls...it's just that this song is making mommy sad," explained Plante, which, for the sake of her naive children, seemed to be as good of an answer as any.

After a bumpy ride filled with the emotional turbulence of a jumbo jet caught in a hurricane wind, Plante finally pulled into the oversized driveway of her stately home, and as she turned off the ignition, she suddenly came to the realization that somewhere along the way, she _had_ become bolder. Somewhere along the way, she _had_ somehow managed to set aside the painful thoughts of her old man (both her father and her husband), and instead she focused her joyous thoughts on one man, and one man only; Mr. Frank Newlan; nonstop, which helped her make it through this rocky flight into the lonely night.

Newlan's scent still clung to Plante's clothing, and as she lifted off her pink shirt, she held it close to her face and inhaled his aroma.

Plante could almost feel the pitter-patter of Newlan's very being crawling inside of her, searching out her womb in a desperate attempt to keep the race alive. And although she was reaching the outer edges of fertility, she prayed for an immaculate conception just the same. She prayed for a bountiful Godsend. She prayed for a miracle child; a child for which she would have gladly given up her very life to bear.

Just before Plante put her daughters to bed, they kneeled by their bedroom window and the three of them held hands and prayed together. And as they prayed, a bright light came shining across the sky like an aurora borealis, and then it disappeared into the night just as quickly as it had arrived.

Perhaps it was a falling star. Perhaps it was a meteor. Perhaps it was something bigger than us all. Plante wasn't sure, but she took it as a sign; a buoyant sign from above.

"Make a wish, girls," appealed a serene Plante, and as she tucked her daughters safely into their sheets for the night, she made her own wish; a solemn wish for the safe return of her Savior.

With her children sound asleep, Marianne Plante finally snuggled herself off into bed for the evening, and when she closed her eyes she dreamed of motherhood. She dreamed of Sainthood. She dreamed of days gone by. She dreamed of mystical times; ancient times; otherworldly times.

And when the sandman came along and sprinkled his stardust upon Marianne Plante's brow, he plunged her into an even deeper sleep; and as she awoke from one divine dream and drifted off into another, she found herself wandering through Bethlehem, accompanied by a lonely man who was searching in vain...for a glorious home...that he had yet to find.

Chapter 65 – Another Man's Woman

Saturday evening June 14, 2008 – 5:30 PM

After Newlan dropped Plante off at her car, he was at a complete loss as to what to do with his tormented soul, and so he found himself aimlessly cruising around suburbia in a foggy haze of depressed confusion. Yesterday's music selection of Steely Dan was still loaded in the CD player, and when blasted at full volume, it had an almost narcotic affect on Newlan's brain, ebbing and flowing like the ocean tide, until it began playing tricks with his mind.

Newlan was feeling more and more as if he were trapped in a bad dream; a dream from which he couldn't seem to snap out of. And his sneaking suspicion that he had somehow been transported into the Twilight Zone was growing stronger by the minute.

Somewhere in between his unexpected involvement in the John Breslin murder trial and the sudden reappearance of Marianne Plante into his life, something in Newlan's world had changed...for the worse. He was certain of it. And although he wasn't quite sure of exactly what it was, he had a nagging hunch that something bad was going to happen...and soon.

However, after circling the Medford city limits so many times that he almost ran out of gas, Newlan's spirit managed to lift him up just beyond that mythical point of no return, and he finally felt well enough to head on back to the solitude of his condo for an all night joint-smoking session.

But then, just as Newlan pulled into his parking spot, the soul-searching Steely Dan song "Any Major Dude Will Tell You" kicked in, and from the very first note of the uplifting tune, he decided that he absolutely could not, under any circumstances, leave the confines of his red Mercury Mystique until the song had played out in its entirety.

All kinds of crazy thoughts were running through Newlan's mind as he sang along to Steely Dan lead singer Donald Fagen's distinctive voice; the arcane lyrics, complete with tales of fighting off demons in a world where the pieces must break apart before they can ever begin to be picked up, never seemed to be speaking to him more than they were at that very moment, and he was choked with emotion as he recited the words back to himself in the privacy of his automobile.

Newlan was practically in tears by the time the second verse kicked in; apparently the emotional whirlwind which his life had devolved into was proving to be a bit too much for him to handle. And on top of everything else, the bittersweet spice of Marianne Plante's bodily fluids still lingered on his tongue like an intoxicating elixir, once again reminding him of the mythic virgin, Hourii.

Newlan recalled coming across the ancient fable back in his freshman year of college while puttering around the library on a snowy winter's day. He still vividly recalled the exact moment when the poignant words of the corollary poem came pouring out of his pen, as if it had a mind of its own, and even now it left him awestruck. He had always been curious as to what makes the creative juices of the mind flow. And furthermore, he had always been bewildered by the way that some of his crazier thoughts seemed to pop-up out of nowhere and land squarely in the center of his brain...and now as the distant memory of the tempestuous Hourii intensified, today was no different.

"How could I write such a haunting poem at such a young age?" marveled Newlan at his own ingenuity, and all these years later, he still didn't have an answer. But he suspected that somehow he didn't actually write any of the mystical poems which made up the majority of his collected works on his own. He suspected that somehow he had some unsolicited help in the matter. He suspected that somehow he just so happened to be the chosen one, randomly anointed to serve as an unwitting medium, haphazardly plucked out of the clouds and recruited to channel some great force beyond the sky.

"A taste of your forbidden fruit, a serum sticky sweet with truth...how else could a dumb punk-ass kid like me come up with something so deep? There surely had to be a supernatural legion of primordial sex-starved warriors influencing my every word," contended Newlan, and he shivered at the very thought of it.

Newlan often contemplated on the peculiar doings of the little man that lived in the back of his head, and inevitably he would get himself all hung-up on what it was, exactly, that made him tick. And every time he found himself in one of these aberrant, existential moods, he'd invariably wind up with more questions than answers...and this time was no exception.

And as if Newlan's mounting problems weren't bad enough, when he got back up to his condo, he realized that he was just about out of weed, so he put in a desperate call to his best friend, Bruce Reardon, who also just so happened to be his local pot dealer as well.

Newlan addressed Reardon with a greeting which some might consider to be oddly nonsensical.

"Hey dude what's up? I got a fifty dollar ticket that needs fixing. Can you help me out of a jam?"

However, the salutation made perfect sense to Reardon because it was he who had come up with the hidden precept behind the message that was being communicated to him in the first place. Ever since Reardon had gotten busted for possession of marijuana with intent to distribute, he wasn't taking any chances; especially since he suspected that it was a so-called friend who had ratted him out.

Reardon trusted Newlan implicitly, but he unfailingly adhered to a strict protocol which stated that all phone orders must be specified in his own archaic version of the English language, and he made no exceptions for Newlan, or anyone else for that matter.

Therefore, Reardon was well aware of the fact that "a ticket" meant "a high", and that the amount of the ticket signified how much weed was being requested. Conversely, Newlan was well aware of the fact that his request to be "helped out of a jam" would simply be answered with a "yes" if Reardon was holding, and a "no" if he was out of stock.

Luckily for Newlan, Reardon just so happened to be open for business on this most despondent of evenings, and so he hurriedly returned the Steely Dan CD back to its appropriate resting place on the shelf of his music closet, and he made another selection from the "S" section before rushing back out the door.

Newlan decided on the Supertramp CD "Crisis? What Crisis?" and as he started up the engine of his car, he felt surprisingly reinvigorated. Naturally, this optimistic energy led him to crank up the volume knob on his CD player, and he let the music wash over him as once again he kicked around the elusive meaning of life.

"Well at least the album title is appropriate. It pretty much sums up my life, that's for sure. Crisis my ass...to paraphrase what Jim Morrison of The Doors once said, 'I'm gonna have my fun before the whole fuckin' shit-can craps out on me'."

Newlan made quick work of the pipe full of weed which was all he had left in his possession, and as his craving for more reefer escalated, he made the drive up to Reardon's house in record time.

Newlan was tooling along at 85 miles per hour, minding his own business and digging on the positive vibes that were blaring out of his speakers thanks to the Supertramp CD. However, his mood changed suddenly when, as he rounded the corner onto Reardon's street, what would have been the last song on side "A" of the record album, "Another Man's Woman" stopped him cold in his tracks.

"I knew there had to be a subconscious reason why I picked this CD. There's always a fuckin' message," cursed Newlan, and with good reason as it turned out.

Newlan felt as if Supertramp's co-lead singer and keyboardist Rick Davies lament about an adulterous man with a guilty conscience was preaching to him personally; and his directive couldn't have been any clearer if it had been spelled out in huge red letters across the windshield of his car.

As Newlan rang Reardon's doorbell, he was suddenly burdened with an overwhelming pang of guilt triggered by the delirious events of his day, and the moralistic Supertramp song wasn't helping matters any.

Newlan tried like hell to maintain a positive exterior as he greeted Reardon's wife and kids, but his lifelong friend wasn't fooled for a second. Reardon sensed immediately that something was bugging Newlan, just by his facial expression and body language alone.

"Want a beer Frankie?" offered Reardon, and as he waited for a response, he closely monitored his old friend's demeanor for any signs of abnormality.

"Is the Pope Catholic?" replied Newlan, which elicited a chuckle out of Reardon and assisted him in arriving at the conclusion that his lifelong pal was hanging tough; regardless of whatever it was that happened to be bothering his tortured soul this time around.

After a brief trip to the kitchen, Reardon handed Newlan an ice cold Corona garnished with a wedge of lime, while at the same time he sent out a global broadcast to his family for a few moments of uninterrupted privacy.

"Honey, me and Frankie are gonna go down to my office. We got some business to attend to...and I don't want you kids bothering us."

But regardless of the less than diplomatic order, as the old friends made their way down the rickety stairs which led to Reardon's basement office, Newlan paranoid skepticism flared up, and he threw out an interfering, if well intentioned, inquiry in an attempt to kick-start the conversation.

"Dude, how much longer do you think it is gonna be before your kids figure out what you've been up to down here all these years?"

"They don't have a clue," Reardon chuckled confidently.

"Yeah but before you know it, they'll be in high school...and you remember what we were like in high school, don't you?" countered Newlan.

"Don't 'yeah but' me Frankie...and besides, that's where I have the advantage. Everything that they're gonna go through in the next few years...well, I already know about it from real world experience, so nothing's gonna catch me by surprise," reasoned Reardon, and they both laughed heartily at the cold hard facts which were hidden somewhere deep within the truth of their words.

As the old pals longingly recalled their younger days, Reardon packed up a bong, took a hit and passed it off to Newlan while simultaneously rasping "check it out...it's a new shipment...killer stuff brother."

Not surprisingly, it didn't take long before the effects of the ganja began to kick in, and Reardon decided it was high time that he broach the subject of his best friend's attitude readjustment.

"So what's going on Frankie? You seem a little edgy these days," asked Reardon in a firm tone.

"Oh it's nothing...I'm fine...just peachy," protested Newlan, albeit rather waveringly.

"Come on dude...who are you kidding? I've known you for thirty years. You can't shit a shitter. What, are you still fucked up over the trial?" pried Reardon.

"Yeah, I guess it's still bugging me," acknowledged Newlan. He didn't even bother mentioning that he was as good as off the case, courtesy of Dr. Clay's liberating note, but Reardon eyed him suspiciously anyway, and he submitted his own diagnosis.

"I'm not gonna meddle, but if you ask me, I got a funny feeling that there's something more to it than that. But hey, we're cool. As long as you know that if someone or something is bothering you, I got your back bro, then I'll let it go. So don't be shy, just pick up the phone if you need me to help out with anything at all."

"Understood," forcefully replied Newlan, but regardless of his pledge, he didn't dare divulge the thorny details of the marathon sexual-healing session which he and the unhappily married Marianne Plante had been engaged in all afternoon.

Reardon stared Newlan down, but when his buddy didn't crack, he called it a truce.

However, after a half hour of extended small talk, Reardon impulsively wrapped Newlan into bear hug and he sentimentally added an "I love you dude" to complete the tender aside.

Reardon wasn't even sure why he went for the greeting card moment; but something in Newlan's sad smile left him with an ominously sinking feeling that he might never see his old friend again, and so he wanted to say goodbye one last time, just in case.

For his part, Newlan somehow sensed Reardon's unspoken concerns, but all he could manage in return was to smile sheepishly as he replied in kind with an "I love you too brother."

And as the two grown men silently pondered the meaning of true friendship, it took every ounce of emotional strength that they could muster to fight back the tears which were welling up in their eyes.

By the time Newlan departed from Reardon's house he was in a rather sentimental mood, and he was sufficiently stoned to boot, so he avoided the highway and took the back roads home, digging on the upbeat music of his youth while vivacious thoughts of the voluptuous Marianne Plante danced through his head like a cluster of x-rated sugar plums.

Newlan was still riding high when he pulled into the condo parking lot, and reciprocally, he was walking with an unsteady gait as he headed up towards the lobby.

The night doorman, Charlie, should have been on duty by now, but Newlan wasn't all that surprised to find Saeed Kahn still manning the security desk, since it wasn't unusual for him to pull a double-shift every now and then.

With the spooky hypnotizing incident from this morning still fresh on his mind, Newlan heedfully presented Kahn with a military salute, and he tentatively questioned him regarding his status for the evening,

"Are you working the night shift as well tonight, Saeed?"

"No, no, no, the night watchman Mr. Charlie, you see, he called in sick again. Always a new illness, you see, always at the last minute," replied a frustrated Kahn in his rhythmic Middle Eastern cadence.

Newlan promptly picked up on Kahn's angry modulations, and despite his wariness, he offered up a dollop of reassurance.

"Well, hopefully you'll have a quiet night," reckoned Newlan in a mildly encouraging tone. But Kahn shot him a dubious look in retaliation, as if to say he was a madman, and he countered in kind.

"Saturday night is never quiet Mr. Frank...the young, wealthy tenants, you see, always with their loud parties. Always disturbing their neighbors, you see...it never ends."

Although Newlan himself had calmed down significantly in recent years, he had had his share of blowout parties since moving into the complex, so he realized that Kahn could just as well have been depicting him in his angry diatribe, and as such he made a hasty exit stage-left while at the same time leaving the combustible doorman with some positive parting words.

"Anyway, have a good night and I hope you can sneak in a nap later on," proclaimed Newlan. And even though his adieu was rather cheerful, his tone was nevertheless guarded.

But just the same, Kahn waved him off with a look that could have killed a charging attack dog, and as Newlan made his way towards the elevator and hit the Up button, his not-so-neighborly concierge continued to ramble on, incoherently, into the night.

"Yes, yes, yes, you see, we will all be sleeping comfortably by morning...in everlasting peace for some, you see, or everlasting fire for others," predicted Kahn; but it was all psychobabble as far as Newlan was concerned.

"What the hell did he mean by that?" wondered a momentarily puzzled and equally startled Newlan. However, as he stepped onto the elevator, he cursorily brushed off Kahn's cryptic paean and attributed his jumble of mixed metaphors to a lack of experience in speaking the English language.

And yet, although the language barrier which stood between the two men had been cause for an occasional honest slip of the tongue over the years, by all rights, Newlan's cautionary radar should have kicked in nonetheless; but instead, his internal vision was blunted by Kahn's otherworldly force-field.

Kahn's unusually strange behavior of late, when combined with Newlan's own bizarre dreams, should have been more than enough to put him on a flashing red-alert. But of course, he had other things on his mind these days, and besides, as of yet, he still held no concrete reason to believe that Kahn was a threat to anyone, never mind society in general, despite his odd deportment of recent days.

In any event, regardless of Kahn's boorish behavior, at the moment Newlan was just thankful that he had managed to slip past the bombastic doorman without further incident, and he happily made his way back up to his condo for a little bit of R & R after this most eventful of days.

But first things first, as soon as Newlan stepped foot in the door, he headed straight for the phone and anxiously checked his messages for signs of a concrete clue that this blissful day spent in the company of the only woman he ever loved wasn't an utter mirage He wasn't even sure whether he wanted to see a message from Marianne Plante blinking on his answering machine...but the debate lingered on in his mind anyway.

As it turned out, there were no messages from Plante waiting for Newlan on the other end of the line, and furthermore, he had no idea of exactly what it was that he was hoping for her to say, if and when she did call again. But in the final analysis, her state of incommunicado, without a doubt, disappointed him, and in many ways his knee-jerk reaction answered his own question regarding his long-term expectations.

Instead of Plante's desirous voice, the only message currently stored on Newlan's digital tape recorder was from his sister Rose who was wondering how he had made out in court the next day, after his unplanned sleepover and his frightening nightmare episode which woke her up in the middle of the night.

Newlan made a mental note to call his sister later as he cracked open a beer and turned on the TV. But within an hour he was bored to tears with all the crap that was being passed off as entertainment these days, so he hunkered down on his laptop instead.

It took a while, but Newlan managed to get caught up on the majority of his tedious, work-related emails, and with his professional obligations fulfilled for the time being, he inexplicably found himself absentmindedly surfing the web for random details related to Fred Miller's murder.

Astonishingly enough, and despite the fact that in Dr. Clay's letter he had a surefire token off the case, Newlan still couldn't get the trial out of his mind...and so, for whatever reason, he found himself desperately searching for ways to put a modicum of closure on the case, one way or another.

In some regards, Newlan wanted off the trial so badly that it caused his entire persona to ache like an amorous craving for Marianne Plante's exquisite body...but in other regards, he just couldn't let it go. In some regards, finding himself being arbitrarily assigned to the case was like finding himself staring at a wreck on the highway, in that he just couldn't look away, no matter how hard he tried. After all, he had to look back. He always looked back. But in other regards, he was ashamed and disappointed in himself for taking the easy way out of the latest in his endless array of emotional traffic jams; regardless of the fact that by being asked to serve on the trial he found himself stuck in the mud of a monumental disturbance which was clogging up his mind like nothing else had ever done before.

"The Big Guy upstairs must have wanted me to be on this case...so who am I to walk away from my appointed rounds," unsteadily concluded a conflicted Newlan as he racked his brain with indecision.

" _Someone_ killed Miller..."postulated Newlan as he continued on with his internet search in spite of himself. "...and if Breslin didn't do it, then who the hell else could it have been?"

Newlan thoughtfully considered all of the innuendos that Gleason had been tossing out at the jury, and he wondered whether the renowned defense attorney was merely trying to distract them, or whether he really did have a concealed reserve of surprise evidence, waiting in the wings, which might exculpate Breslin.

"Well, at the very least, he had better produce a few witnesses who can poke a couple of holes in DA Lyons' theories," figured Newlan...and at that moment, for the first time, the reality of the situation finally sunk in. For better or worse, he was going to miss out on the inevitable fireworks which were bound to take place once the defense began presenting its side of the story, and he wasn't quite sure whether to be happy or sad about his pending departure from the trial.

But regardless of the part that he may or may not end up playing in the case, Newlan obsessively sifted through every internet story he could find regarding the Breslin saga, and just about every one of them included comments from Breslin's ex-wife, Tracy Stone. And so, naturally, Newlan's mind began to drift in Stone's direction...and when it finally settled into a revealing contemplation, the similarities between her tale and Marianne Plante's woes became ever so apparent to him. The correlations were in fact so strong, that as he pieced together the puzzle which was beginning to take shape between him and Plante, their inevitable encounter suddenly seemed as if it might turn into a frighteningly familiar brush with fate.

As Newlan pondered what he had just gotten himself into, the tragic ending to Fred Miller's life wasn't lost on him, not for a minute. But despite his fears, he was helpless to stop the momentum of the train which was barreling down the tracks, headed straight for him; the allure of Marianne Plante was much too strong for him to turn back now, regardless of the consequences.

Newlan was being drawn into a dangerous trap whether he liked it or not, with Marianne Plante serving as the unsuspecting bait...and as he reflected back on their incredible day of lovemaking, he came to a monumental decision; he resolved right then and there that he wanted her back in his life, once and for all, come hell or high-water.

"Damn the torpedoes. I'll do anything for a chance to be with her. I'm never gonna wave that white flag, no matter what the fuck what happens," muttered Newlan...and with his uncanny recall of song lyrics spontaneously springing into action, it's not surprising that as soon as the words 'white flag' left his lips, he instantaneously remembered Tracy Stone's reference to the Dido song.

Newlan had become vaguely familiar with Dido's signature hit song "Thank You" when a few years back he read a story in Rolling Stone magazine which detailed how the tune had been sampled into a chartbusting rap by the white hip-hop artist, Eminem, about an obsessed fan called "Stan". However, he had never even heard of the song "White Flag" until Tracy Stone just so happened to mention the pensive ballad during her blockbuster testimony.

But with the song's title, which was neatly written on Stone's postcard to Fred Miller, subliminally planted in Newlan's mind, his curiosity got the better of him. He punched up Google, and within seconds, courtesy of YouTube, the Dido tune "White Flag" came wafting out of the cheap speakers on his laptop, while he followed along as the words took over his very consciousness.

And from the very first note, the song rang so true that it was almost painful for Newlan to listen to. But listen he did, over and over and over again, until he was literally and figuratively spent.

The opening verse of the tune, about professing your true feelings to an old lover, cut so deeply into Newlan's mortality that it left him feeling obliged to dissect and analyze every single line of the song in a futile attempt to infiltrate the secret world of Tracy Stone and Fred Miller. He was hoping-against-hope that somehow he could penetrate into Stone's thoughts before the badgering abuse of the song's harmonic structure reached the point where the cunning temptress was disturbing his every waking moment. He was praying-against-prayer that somehow he could crack into Miller's mind before the harrying assault of the hymn's melodic tones extended beyond the point where the doppelganger dead man was plaguing his every sleeping hour.

Newlan could almost touch Tracy Stone's torment as Dido lamented her own loss while at the same time she sang of coming to the realization that sometimes you just can't go back when it only means hurting the one you left behind.

Newlan could almost taste Fred Miller's pain as Dido's voice overran his very being with her imagery of sinking ships and white flags juxtaposed against the instinctive inclination to never give up when it comes to love everlasting.

Newlan pounded a clenched fist on his office desk as he tried in vain to exorcise the demons which were creeping up through his very soul as Dido confessed to leaving behind a wake of desolation, all of her own making.

Newlan's heart almost broke in two as he sat there and listened to Dido sing of reunions, of words and feelings left unspoken, of biting your tongue and being the better person so as to not hurt your ex's pride, and of moving on when all the while you know that something is still there.

"No, I can't let it go anymore. I tried to move on once, but I can't live without you Marianne. I swear I'm ready to die for you," wailed Newlan, almost unaware that he was sitting in an empty room.

Newlan must have diligently listened to the brooding song at least fifty times before he finally popped a handful of Lorazepam and put himself to bed with an aching in his heart.

Almost immediately, Newlan fell into a drug-induced stupor, skipping the 4 stages of slumber and instantly advancing directly to "rapid eye movement" sleep (or REM as it is commonly referred to), where his tireless mind continued to work overtime in his dreams.

Newlan imagined that he was seated at a table on board a luxury bus, accompanied by Marianne Plante, Tracy Stone, and Fred Miller, and driving the bus was none other than Saeed Kahn and his co-pilot Mr. John Breslin.

The pairing of regal couples were happily sipping on a quartet of expensive crystal glasses filled to the rim with Dom Perignon, and the women were absolutely glowing over their good fortune, while their dates were engaged in a riveting discussion regarding the many Grateful Dead concerts that they had attended over the years. And as Miller ticked off the list of shows he had seen, Newlan gleefully replied, "I was at that one too."

The two men were rapidly becoming fast friends, sharing not only a love of weed, wine and women, but also of a happy-go-lucky attitude and a "devil may care" lifestyle as well. And furthermore, they were bound and determined to enjoy every last minute of the ride for as long as it lasted.

"You got a good woman there Newlan," slurred a drunken Miller.

"You too," replied an equally inebriated Newlan as they laughed hysterically and clinked their wine glasses.

"Fuck their husbands. They don't deserve these fine ladies," roared Miller with a look of contempt in his eyes. He then turned towards the driver's cabin and boasted his regards.

"You heard me Breslin. And if you have any problems with what I've got to say, then let's step outside and settle our differences man-to-man. You know I'll kick your ass, you piece of shit coward."

Meanwhile, an emotionless Breslin stared straight ahead, just as he had done throughout the trial, while and equally silent Kahn looked on. The lack of response from their rivals prompted Miller and Newlan to foolishly let their guard down, and they proceeded to chug down another bellyful of champagne. Clearly, they were having a good old time for themselves, but then the bus suddenly slowed down to a stop, as did their revelry.

Newlan peered out the side window of the bus and he was perplexed to discover that they had pulled into the indoor garage of his very own condo complex. A confused Newlan then took a look around for a second time, this time from out of the back window, and he took note of the fact that the rear end of the bus had completely entered the interior of the garage. A stunned Newlan gazed outside for a third time, this time from out of the front windshield, and he observed the engine of the bus rumbling like a ticking time bomb.

"What the hell's going on here? What are we doing in the garage?" demanded a tense Newlan.

And in return, Kahn turned a dark eye towards Newlan as he coldly replied, "The bus stops here for you and your friends Mr. Frank. As a matter of fact your life stops here Mr. Frank."

As Kahn spoke his damning words, the luxurious bus magically transformed itself into a moving van, and the table was reshaped into a row of cardboard boxes. In the blink of an eye, Newlan and the others found themselves chained to the walls of the truck, struggling to escape. But alas, there _is_ no escaping when the master of disaster rules the day.

Newlan blinked once and when he opened his eyes he was forced to watch in horror as John Breslin held a shotgun to Fred Miller's head and blew him away.

Newlan blinked twice and he was forced to watch in anguish as Tracy Stone and Marianne Plante were melted into nothingness by Breslin's larger-than-life musket.

Newlan blinked a third time and with the flick of a switch from Kahn's explosive remote-controlled device, he was engulfed in a ball of fire while at the same time chunks of brick and mortar began collapsing all around him, blinding him in the process.

Newlan blinked repeatedly and when his vision was finally restored, standing before him in the midst of the flames was the devil; the devil himself in the form of a snake-like Saeed Kahn, laughing his sinister laugh as he hissed venom in Newlan's face.

Newlan's eyelids were stuck, wide-open, and he was frozen with fear, as he watched in horror while Kahn's face morphed into that of the rage-filled, murderous man who had been permeating his dreams ever since he was a child; a face as old as time; a face which every man, woman and child is destine to confront at one time or another; a face which could only be described as...death itself.

Chapter 66 – An Incident in Progress

Sunday morning June 15, 2008 – 5:00 AM

Sergeant James "Jimmy" Leach of the Medford Police Department and his partner, Officer Gary Graves, had spent the last two hours lounging in their cruiser, hidden in a concealed spot, just killing time while simultaneously hoping to lasso in a few unsuspecting early morning speedsters, and in the process scoring some easy revenue for the city coffers.

Ever since his marriage had begun its slow but steady disintegration, Leach made it a standard practice to work every extra graveyard shift he could get his hands on, in the hopes of earning as much overtime money as possible, so that he might someday achieve his lofty goals, and the sooner the better as far as he was concerned.

You see, Leach had visions of an early retirement and a move down to the posh section of Naples Florida where all the wealthy people lived (mainly so that he could spite his wife for leaving him).

Consequently, this beautiful Sunday morning found Sergeant Leach barely awake, despite being fueled by mass quantities of coffee and amphetamines; for regardless of how many doses of stimulating pick-me-ups he had ingested, after having been awake for close to 24 hours, his sluggishness was almost inevitable, and by the time 5 AM rolled around, he was punch-drunk to boot.

On the other hand, Leach's partner, Gary Graves, who was almost 20 years his junior, was still full of piss-and-vinegar at this late hour, even though he had been partying hard since Friday night...and so it came as no surprise to Leach that Graves was geared up to go out for breakfast after their shift, while he just wanted to head straight home and crash for about twelve hours.

"You're getting old on me Jimmy, before you know it, you'll be pissin' your pants and wearing diapers," teased Graves.

"Yeah, well let's see what you're like when you reach my age, you fuckin' wiseass," grumbled Leach in return.

The playful banter amongst your average cops could be bitingly sharp, not for the easily offended, but for the most part, it was all in good fun; just another way to break up the monotony of long night spent waiting for the sun to rise and turn into morning.

However, as it turned out, on this particular morning, their boredom was about to come to an unexpected end in more ways than one, because as the yawning cops leaned back in the squad car's ergonomically contoured seats and observed the empty roadway from their covert bend in the road, a red Mustang convertible zipped by them at a reckless pace, which elicited Graves to gleefully exclaim, "We got a fish. The motherfucker must be doing at least eighty!"

Leach snapped on the flashing blue lights of their cruiser in response to the red blur of metal, and they were off to the races in hot pursuit, just barely catching up to the powerful muscle car before it whizzed on out of sight.

Once the two cops succeeded in getting the violating offender securely pulled over, they cautiously observed the young black male who was manning the driver's seat, and just to be on the safe side, they did so from inside the bullet-proof cabin of their squad car.

Not surprisingly, the fidgety suspect appeared to be acting rather suspiciously, so before the prudent cops even hopped out of their cruiser, Leach fired up the loudspeaker and ordered the break-challenged driver to assume a position of surrender.

"OK pal, put your hands up on the steering wheel where we can see them. And don't move a fuckin' muscle, you understand me?"

And with their marching orders in place, the two jumpy officers, who were now high on speed _and_ adrenaline, apprehensively approached the vehicle with their itchy trigger fingers at the ready. Even though they had received countless hours of training which had instructed them to behave in a manner contrary to their actions, the laws of the street had taught them otherwise; the laws of the jungle had taught them that they should pull out their guns at the slightest sign of provocation and ask questions later.

"Hey kid, do you know how fast you were going?" grunted Leach, and in response to the intimidating cop's question, the youthful offender's jet-black face peered up from the dashboard of the Mustang and he shifted nervously in his leather bucket seat as he launched into a hyperactive apology; an apology which was cut off in midsentence.

"Is this your car?" inquired Leach in an angry tone.

"Yes sir," politely replied the shaken teenager.

Leach squinted skeptically at the purported criminal while at the same time he shouted out a somewhat rhetorical question over to his partner.

"What do think Graves? Can a punk like this afford a car that goes for 35 grand?"

"I swear it's my car," protested the frightened culprit.

Sir, I need to see your license and registration," demanded Leach.

"It's in the glove compartment," replied the felonious youth as he made a sudden move towards the passenger's seat.

However, before he could even come close to opening up the glove box, the law-breaking miscreant found his blood-red, bulging eyes staring into the barrel of not one but two guns; two guns which were pointed at his head, ordering him not to move.

"What are you a gangbanger?" taunted Graves.

"You think we don't know how you roll?" cracked Leach in an attempt to sound current.

Sweat was pouring down the "innocent until proven guilty" hoodlum's glistening, ebony face, and as he measured up the two service revolvers which were trained on a spot right between his eyeballs, his heart nearly jumped out of his throat.

"Look dude you better not move another fuckin' muscle, or I swear I'll blow your head off," assured Graves, and as he continued on with his unabated verbal assault, Leach took the opportunity to size up the situation.

"Graves...open up the glove compartment, but don't let him get anywhere near your gun. I don't trust this mother fucker," directed Leach. However, just as he spit out his command, an urgent bulletin came crackling across their two-way radio.

"All units report to the Medford River Park Condominiums at once. Repeat...all unit report to the Medford River Park Condominiums. A possible incident is in progress."

"Incident? What the fuck is that suppose to mean?" roared an annoyed Graves.

"Alright kid, get the fuck outta here," ordered Leach, and naturally he got no protests whatsoever from the youthful speed-racer. On the contrary, the juvenile thrill-seeker was so elated by his sudden reprieve that he took off like a 747 barreling down the runway of a major airport. If anything, he zoomed away even faster than he was going when he got pulled over in the first place.

Meanwhile, Leach and Graves jumped back into their squad car and franticly made their way over to the Medford River Park Condominiums like a shot in the dark. They had no idea what, exactly, the dispatcher meant by the word "incident", but they sure as hell...were about to find out.

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.

"I bet you ten-to-one it's either some rich retiree having a coronary, or some guy slapping his wife around," predicted Leach as he radioed in to the dispatcher.

"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 offer.

"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.

Chapter 68 – There's not a Damn Thing You Can Do About it

Sunday afternoon June 15, 2008 – 2:15 PM

The expression on Tom Willis's face was one of utter disbelief as he stared down at the photos of his wife with her arms wrapped around another man.

Willis had just dropped off his latest conquest after returning from a sex-filled weekend on Nantucket, but somehow the irony of the situation didn't seem to dawn on him. As far as he was concerned, the only fact that truly mattered was that he now had physical evidence which proved beyond a reasonable doubt that his wife had been out whoring around behind his back, and any unfaithfulness on his part was totally irrelevant to the current state of affairs.

The outrage that was roiling around inside of Willis's head as he careened on down the highway could probably have been measured by his speedometer dial alone. But regardless of monitoring devices, there was no debating the fact that he was absolutely livid...and whenever he worked himself into one of these lathered frenzies, he would also turn into one hell of a reckless SOB. And as a direct result of his foolish imprudence, he heedlessly pushed his Infiniti G37 coupe to dizzying velocities of well over 120 miles per hours; speeding ticket be damned.

But despite his trembling hands, Willis was still able to skillfully slap on his Bluetooth headset and punch up Brent Blain's phone number while at the same time his luxury automobile reached a rate of acceleration which seemed to be giving the sound barrier a run for its money.

"Hi Brent, it's me, Tommy. I wanna know exactly what the fuck that bitch was up to...every fuckin' detail," demanded Willis. And after receiving a complete debriefing from Blain, he pounded his fist on the Infiniti's leather-wrapped steering wheel and wailed out his own assessment of the matter, loud and clear; "That fuckin' cunt."

Meanwhile on the other end of the line, Blain could practically feel Willis's indignation pulsating through his wireless speaker, like a cell phone on vibration mode, and, recognizing that the situation was dire, he tried like heck to pacify his client's anger.

"Calm down Tommy...and don't do anything rash. As a matter of fact, meet me at the 88 in an hour. We'll have a few beers and talk this thing out, maybe come up with a game plan," instructed Blain.

However, even after giving it the old college try for at least 30 minutes, Blain was no closer to assuaging Willis's fury than he was when the conversation began. As a matter of fact, the scorned husband was still violently angry over an hour later when the two men met up at their local bar and grill.

"Can you believe this shit? She's actually fuckin' around on me," grunted Willis while his voice crackled with an odd mixture of bewildered pain and irritable vengeance.

"Come on Tommy, I'm a private dick. I've seen it all. But I must say, it always hurts when someone finds out for sure," admitted Blain in an almost priestly manner.

"So who is this guy? He looks vaguely familiar," wondered an annoyed Willis as he analyzed the remainder of Blain's photos with a great deal of interest and intensity.

"I don't know, but like I said, I've got a contact at the RMV. I haven't been able to get in touch with him just yet, but when I do, he'll punch up this guy's license plate number into their computer system...and then we'll have him by the balls," explained Blain in a confident tone.

"Good...good...I want you to find out everything you can about this prick. No one fucks over Tom Willis and gets away with it," crowed a seething Willis; and although Blain wasn't exactly sure what to make of the deranged look on his drinking buddy's face, he rightfully assumed that it wasn't a good sign.

"Tommy what are thinking, man? Let me in on the plan. Come on dude, work with me," urged Blain, but at the moment Willis was in no mood to be forthright.

"Never mind what I'm thinking. I'm paying you a shitload of money, so just do your fuckin' job," rebuked an agitated Willis, and his response had Blain feeling edgier than he already was.

"No problem Tommy. You name it, and I'll get it done," dutifully replied Blain in a veiled attempt at placating his hotheaded friend.

"I wanna know everything about this guy...where he works...where he hangs out...what time he leaves in the morning...what time he comes home at night. I wanna know who his friends are. I wanna know about his family. I wanna know if he's fuckin' anyone else. I want to know it all...is that understood?" commanded Willis. But apparently it wasn't understood because Blain shot him a skeptical stare in return as he semi-sarcastically asked "For Christ's sake Tommy...is there anything else you wanna know...like what he has for breakfast maybe?"

"I told you, I wanna know everything...if he takes a fuckin' shit, I wanna know about it," bellowed Willis in a tone that screamed bloody murder.

"OK, OK, Tommy, relax, I get the picture. Tailing a guy like this shit-wad is a piece of cake for me. I'm the best in the business," nervously boasted Blain, and his uneasy bluster seemed to mollify Willis's ire...at least temporarily.

"Alright then, I'm glad we got that settled," whispered Willis, and suddenly he appeared to come across as somewhat composed, even though deep down inside he was still beside himself over his wife's egregious indiscretions.

"You're not thinking about taking matters into your own hands are you?" cautiously wondered Blain, and just like that, Willis's hairpin anger-trigger kicked in again as he pressed his buddy for some answers.

"Why the fuck shouldn't I? She's my wife...if I don't take care of the situation, then who the fuck will?" argued Willis as he banged his fist on the table for emphasis.

"Tommy, like I told you a million times already, I got plenty of contacts. One phone call and the bastard will be in the hospital for a month, spitting out his teeth like they were gum drops," offered Blain.

"Naw, it's not gonna go down like that. I wanna be there to stare into that motherfucker's eyes when he gets what he deserves," explained Willis as a distant look took over his glassy retinas.

Blain didn't particularly care for the direction that the conversation appeared to be headed in, and all of a sudden he seemed a bit apprehensive regarding his drinking partner's intentions, and so he asked him straight out; "so what the hell are you gonna do to this guy?"

"I don't know exactly," replied Willis, and then with a quivering lip he added, "But I do know one thing for sure...one way or another...I want this asshole...dead."

Chapter 69 – Saeed Kahn's Meeting with the Master

Sunday afternoon June 15, 2008 – 2:00 PM

Saeed Kahn was still reeling from the disastrous aftermath of his pre-dawn escapade when the ringing of a telephone disturbed his early afternoon meditation. On the other end of the line was the cerebral master and he was requesting Kahn's presence for a confidential meeting in his quarters at promptly 8:30 PM.

The master had never once beckoned Kahn to a private sitting before, and so all day long the news of this unanticipated audience with the prince left him feeling staggered with a sense of impending doom. All day long he prayed to the Almighty for guidance, but nevertheless the queasiness in the pit of his stomach continued to slosh around, sending a steady stream of bile flowing, unabated, up through his throat and beyond his Adam's apple.

Kahn was so utterly discombobulated by the unfortunate events of the wee hours of this morning that he decided to skip the traditional 8 AM Prayer service in its entirety, which couldn't have made the master very happy. But deep in his heart of hearts he knew full well that the hastily arranged meeting with his superior had a lot more to do with the ill-fated decisions which led up to his absence rather than the actual absenteeism itself.

In Kahn's eyes, the master was a visionary. But he was also a man you would be wise not to anger, and alas, he fretted that he may have gotten on the bad side of his sovereign governor.

And on top of all his other problems, Kahn was now faced with a new nemesis, none other than one Mr. Frank Newlan.

"How could Mr. Frank, that dog of a man, have penetrated my inner world?" wondered Kahn. In his tormented mind, it seemed incomprehensible that Newlan could have possessed the power of vision; a power which was ordinarily reserved for only the most supreme seekers of the truth.

"And yet somehow my thoughts were clear to him. Perhaps he is a more formidable foe than I give him credit for," reasoned Kahn as he simultaneously dangled an ornate dagger in one hand and the suddenly dangerous aura of Frank Newlan in his other hand.

"Ah, but Mr. Frank did not possess the power to interpret the Almighty Spirit's message, where he informed me to alter my plans," exclaimed Kahn as he smiled like a loon and gazed admiringly at himself in the mirror, dressed in his ancestral garb.

Kahn's mood continued to fluctuate from one extreme to another, back and forth, all afternoon, but after many settling doses of liquid encouragement over the course of the day, he was as ready as he would ever be for his sitting with the kingly master.

Kahn arrived at the guru's secret meeting location at precisely the bottom of the 8th hour of the evening, but instead of the expected ceremonial greeting, he was met with the mandate of an unspoken nod, and in return he obediently sat cross-legged on a Persian rug by his pedagogue's feet. However, beyond a bowing of the head, the master sat silently on his throne for quite some time, seemingly lost in prayer. But then suddenly he sprang to life and began to speak, and his impassioned tone immediately struck the fear of Mephistopheles in Saeed Kahn's heart.

"It has been brought to my attention that the suspicions of our adversaries have been aroused...BY YOUR STUPIDITY," shrieked the overseer of truth as Kahn shriveled with the dread of a man facing imminent death.

"I beg your forgiveness my righteous leader," cried Kahn as he kissed the master's bare feet. But regardless of loyalty and devotion, the master was not so quick to absolve his groveling pilgrim of his sins.

"You have jeopardized our plans for zero hour with your foolish subterfuge which was ill advised from the beginning," castigated the perturbed master in a stern voice.

"Please, oh holy man, allow me to explain myself," appealed a terrified Kahn.

The master responded by removing a small sword from his scapular and he tapped his student on one shoulder and then the other before announcing his verdict.

"You may plead your case my son," informed the master, and Kahn, in turn, exalted mightily in his good fortune.

"Oh dear master, the voices informed me to change my course of action, to stage a dress rehearsal, a dry run, a fact-finding mission, a proof of concept if you will," expounded a trembling Kahn. For despite his master's goodwill, at this point in their conclave, Kahn remained petrified by the uncertain prospects which the fates had bestowed upon him; and it showed in his lack of poise.

"But your endeavors were foiled, were they not? Foiled by a man you consider to be a fool, am I not correct?" demanded the master.

"Yes it is so. A buffoon, not fit to be in our presence, somehow invaded my conscience. But how it came to be I cannot say. How it came to be I cannot comprehend. But you...you knew of this harlequin? Oh wise man, please enlighten me," implored Kahn.

"From the very beginning I sensed that a man with the power of vision lurked within your midst...a man with a court jester's exterior, but a dangerous man nonetheless. And yet I chose to allow you to walk down the path of freewill my scion. An error in judgment perhaps on my part, but my inner being, fueled by the Almighty, counsels me in each and every one my decisions, and so, despite our blindness, we mustn't ever challenge the foresight of the all-knowing Emperor," haltingly responded the master with his eyes tightly closed; and from the expression that was etched upon his face, one might surmise that he was summonsing up every last ounce of concentration that his spirit could muster in a vain attempt at solving a most perplexing of riddles.

"I feared that it was so, dear master...but what am I to do to rid myself of this cunning tomfool of a man?" dutifully petitioned Kahn. But alas, the master's answer left him cold.

"My penance for you is elementary in nature my wayward warrior, but it will require the virtue of patience," replied the regal sentry as he looked his pupil squarely in the eyes and paused before adding, "you must regain his trust."

Although Kahn would have preferred a death sentence ten times over, as opposed to regaining Newlan's trust, he didn't dare protest his benevolent regent's leniency. But unbeknownst to Kahn, there was a very good reason for the master's peculiar condemnation. Unbeknownst to Kahn, the supreme leader had bigger plans in mind for him than he could have ever possibly fathomed. But in the meantime, the master wished to minimize the possibility of his overenthusiastic zealot disrupting their plans any further than he had already done.

It was the master's sincere hope that by assigning Kahn to this menial task, it would keep him occupied for the time being...until he could be used for a more sacred purpose.

But Kahn on the other hand was nonplussed by his punishment, and even though he bit his tongue and subserviently bowed his head, deep inside he burned with hatred over this befuddling censure. Deep inside he wanted nothing to do with Frank Newlan, except perhaps to aid in his ultimate and untimely demise.

Of course, it remained to be seen whether Saeed Kahn possessed the stomach for such a messy chore, regardless of his shady past. Because even though, in his sixty-something odd years on this Earth, he had witnessed many a sight not fit for the faint of heart, and he had also participated in many a crime against nature, for some reason, when his moment of glory was at hand, at the last minute he balked. So who's to say that he wouldn't do the same thing again if push came to shove? Was he all bluster? Was he a frightened yellow-belly? Was he a chicken-shit coward? Or perhaps a shred of decency still remained hidden somewhere deep within the beating of his frozen heart. Perhaps a glimmer of humanity still lingered somewhere deep within the depths his soul. And as such, perhaps he suffered from a last second case of a guilty conscience at the thought of massacring his innocent neighbors; some of them foreigners just like him. Or perhaps, maybe, just maybe, there really were voices in his head instructing him to alter his vile plans.

But in any event, whatever the reasoning behind his folly, Kahn was unable to paint the finishing touches on his macabre, yet luminous, masterpiece of a plan. And so what, perchance, might happen, if he were to find himself with a licensed gun gripped tightly in his hand and Frank Newlan's smug face perched within a few feet from the receiving end of his haymaker? Would he have the guts to pull the trigger? Would he have the guts to kill one measly man when he had been unable to stamp out the remnants of a mankind that didn't fit into his likeness?

Only Saeed Kahn could provide an answer to these probing questions with any sense of surety, but the one thing that we do know for certain is that by the time Kahn was dismissed from the master's presence and he made his way back to his automobile, his legs were weak like the jelly from a barrel of ripened grapes.

Kahn flopped into the driver's seat of his car and he shivered with angst as he peered at himself in the rearview mirror. However, much to his delighted astonishment, the eyes that looked back at him were foreign to his sight. The eyes that looked back at him were no longer human anymore. The eyes that looked back at him were the eyes of pure evil. The eyes that looked back at him spoke volumes, and in their treachery they told him all we need to know.

What Saeed Kahn's eyes told him was this; "Regain his trust indeed. This infidel deserves nothing of the kind. On the contrary my reverent master, Mr. Frank deserves nothing less than death...a death of prolonged agony at that...and then...and only then...will I ever be at peace."

...

And so dear reader, there you have it; our lovable loser Mr. Frank Newlan, a man who up until recently didn't have a care or an enemy in the entire world, somehow managed, in roughly the course of twenty four hours, to incur the wrath of not one, but two men...and as we have recently discovered, if someone wants you dead bad enough...there's not a damn thing...you can do about it.

### Chapter 70 – Childhood Miracles (Live to See Another Day)

Sunday evening June 15, 2008 – 8:30 PM

Roughly twelve hours after we left Frank Newlan passed out on the carpeted floor of his living room there he remained, unconscious and dead to the world.

Could Newlan's life have come to an end before either of his enemies ever got a chance to lay a hand on him? Could Newlan have finally succumbed to his own self-inflicted abuse? Could Newlan have finally laid down his burden once and for all? Who but the Man upstairs can say for sure? But what we do know is that Newlan possessed a strong spirit. What we do know is that Newlan possessed a strong will to live. What we do know is that Newlan was not about to give anyone, be they friend or enemy, the satisfaction of finding him checked-out in such a compromising position.

What we do know is that, even in his comatose state, Newlan's shadowy vestige still roamed the Earth, a free man; and somewhere in the deep, dark, crevices of his inner being, his vision still shined on brightly, burning like a beacon of light, soaring like an eagle in flight.

What we do know is that, even in his near-death condition, Newlan's torpid mind reflected itself waywardly onto an incident from his distant past, when he was no more than five years old; an incident which began, innocently enough, with him frolicking around in the tenement hallways of a rundown, squalid apartment complex where he and his extended family lived back in those days.

Newlan's listless mind reflected back on the fact that they resided on the sixth floor, just as he did today; but of course, without all of the wonderful amenities which he could now lay claim to.

Newlan's lethargic mind reflected back on a memory that, up until this very moment, he had dutifully repressed for all these many decades.

Newlan's indolent mind reflected back to a simpler time; a lazy, hazy day from his pre-school aged youth; a day filled with fascination and wonder; a blissful day just like any other day...until his sister Rose tossed a big rubber ball in his direction that is.

Newlan's dormant mind suddenly recalled how he dove for the spheroid like an all-star shortstop chasing down a ground ball. Newlan suddenly recalled how he flipped over the sixth floor stairwell like an Olympic gymnast dismounting from an uneven bar routine. Newlan suddenly recalled how his weightless frame began to plummet like a stone, like a sky-walker who slips off his high wire, spiraling downward to meet his imminent demise.

Newlan's quiescent mind recalled how he closed his eyes and prepared for the end, how he blocked out his fears, and how a split second later he found himself dangling from the second floor railing; somehow, by some miraculous act of God, he was still alive.

Newlan's hibernating mind ruminated over the recollection of how he pulled his forty pound body up over the railing and how he began to cry the tears of a frightened child.

However, like all children, Newlan was blessed with the fanciful recuperative powers of innocence and youth, and ultimately, within a matter of minutes, he block the memory out of his mind, seemingly for good...and from that moment on, he had never once reflected on the terrifying incident, never again, right up until this very day.

Perhaps the mishap never really happened, but in Newlan's mind it was all too real. His sister, who would have been no more than an infant at the time, possessed not even the faintest recollection of the incident. But nonetheless, in Newlan's mind, the apparition was real; as real as his worst nightmares; as vivid as his most pleasant dreams.

It is a well documented fact that Newlan suffered from awful bouts of night terrors throughout his younger years; night terrors which left him thrashing and screaming in his bed; night terrors which left him unable to wake himself up until it was almost too late; until his life was inches away from being snatched up by a murderous madman.

It is also a well documented fact that in the years that followed Newlan's long since blotted out stairway tumble, he had endured countless nightmares where he found himself plunging endlessly through the sky, unable to wake himself up until the calling of death practically stared him in the face; until his body was inches away from being smashed down into the Earth below by the undeniable force of gravity. But never once did he, or anyone else for that matter, relate any of those awful dreams to a true-to-life event which actually did in fact occur back in his early childhood...and from there, left on its own to grow unchecked, the bottled-up memory slowly took root in the fertile soil of some hidden canyon, buried deep within his thought-provoking mind.

And so dear reader as unfathomable as it may be to comprehend, a lucent power, a power greater than any human being could ever hope to muster, saved the life of Frank Newlan, lo those many years ago. Some might call it a miracle. Some might conclude that he was spared for reasons known only to the good Lord above. Some might surmise that his time simply was not up. But regardless of what anyone thinks, Newlan did not die on that long forgotten day...and miraculously, he did not die on this day either.

Miraculously, an ethereal voice from beyond this world informed Newlan that there was still work to be done. Miraculously, a spiritual voice from the heavens apprised him to behold the dawning of a brand new day. Miraculously, a divine voice from the realm of the immortal instructed him to wake up and face his fears...and miraculously, that just what he did.

Miraculously, Newlan woke up with a new lease on life. Miraculously, he woke up with his soul intact. Miraculously, he worked himself up into a sitting position and he decided that he was famished. And just like that, he raised himself up off the floor and fixed himself a meal, as if nothing out of the ordinary had ever happened to him on this most extraordinary of days...even as all the while, somewhere out before him, silently loomed the bleak backdrop to his inevitable...end of days.

...

After a reviving dinner of stir-fried chicken, Newlan relaxed on his leather sofa and treated himself to a glass of wine as he intently took in Game 5 of the NBA Finals between the Boston Celtics and the Los Angeles Lakers. However, despite his fixation on the basketball game, major particles of Newlan's mind remained lost in the clouds; still focused on the embarrassing episode from the early hours of this morning, as if he were being tortured by a piercing braid of thorns jammed firmly into his skull. And furthermore, despite his riveted attention on the unrelenting hoop wars, boundless particles of Newlan's mind remained lost on a magic carpet ride; still focused on his unexpected sensuous encounter with Marianne Plante, as if he were being devoured by a voraciously provocative wet dream. Yes, despite his scrutiny of the fast-paced action on the basketball court, prodigious particles of Newlan's cerebellum remained lost in freefalling tumble, swooping dangerously through the air; still focused on the stunning events of the last week and a half, as if he were being force to observe an agonizing rebroadcast of a life gone terribly wrong.

"How could my radar have been so off base?" wondered Newlan as he brooded over his violent encounter with Saeed Kahn.

"I actually tackled him. How the hell am I ever gonna face him again? How the hell am I ever gonna live this down?" pondered Newlan, but all the while he still stubbornly insisted that his erstwhile friend had been up to no good.

And while Newlan's predicament regarding his treatment of Saeed Kahn may have weighed heavily on his mind, at the same time he remained consumed with a ravenous desire for his forlorn lover, Marianne Plante...and while he was well aware of the fact that his impulsive actions might have dire consequences somewhere down the line, he just couldn't seem to let it go...and while he fretted over the possible repercussions of his illicit affair, not surprisingly, he couldn't quite seem to get the John Breslin murder trial out of his mind either.

And yet despite his dark forebodings, Newlan's hope was that perhaps once the albatross of the trial had been removed from his neck, once he had relinquished the dead weight of a man's life which was still clinging desperately onto his shoulders like a baby in its mother's arms, then maybe, just maybe, his suddenly tumultuous life might finally regain some semblance of normalcy.

Maybe over time, the incident with Saeed Kahn would slowly fade away and become a thing of the past.

Maybe over time, Marianne Plante would return to her husband and leave him alone to wallow in his empty, self-indulgent life just as he had always done.

Or maybe, just maybe, Frank Newlan was about to enter a haunted house of horrors, a perfect storm of irony, a confluence of killers, from which he would never escape alive.

What the future holds for Frank Newlan we cannot say, but what we do know is that his journey would not end on this night. What we do know is that, despite his many problems, on this night, the only thing Newlan truly desired was to witness a Celtics victory and another historic championship for his beloved hometown team.

As it has been so often stated by many a proud athlete, when it comes to the heat of competitive battle, the contestants tend to dwell on the gut-wrenching losses a lot more than they enjoy the rare victories, and Newlan was no different in that regard. As such, with a hard fought championship season standing on the brink of being realized, standing so close that an entire metropolitan region could practically taste it, Newlan expected the participants to seize the moment; seize the moment like there was no tomorrow; seize the moment just as he had done when the splendor of Marianne Plante's enticing body lay before him for the taking.

But alas, unfortunately for Newlan, the moment was not to be seized, neither by him or the Celtics, but not for lack of trying.

Unfortunately for Newlan, regardless of what he may have believed, his encounter with Marianne Plante had been merely a scintilla of pleasure mixed in with a lifetime worth of pain; yes indeed, his rendezvous with his high school sweetheart had been merely a smidgen of sensual revelry stirred into a pot of never-ending heartache.

And in the end, regardless of the dizzying pleasure/pain quota, we must ask ourselves whether it is worth it for _any_ man to take the risk of inviting the same misfortune which had befallen the luckless Fred Miller upon themselves? Newlan couldn't say for certain, but now that the gauntlet had been thrown down, he fretfully decided that he was determined to keep his love alive by any means possible, be it by hook or by crook. Despite his philosopher's heart, Newlan wasn't altogether sure as to whether his impetuous decree was right or wrong, but in the end he waveringly decided that he was ready to fight to recapture the love of his life, even if it meant that he died trying.

As for the Celtics, unfortunately for Newlan, regardless of whatever levels of effort he expected his pro sports teams to exert of themselves, another valiant comeback bid by the men in green had fallen just inches short...and just as he himself had done, the Lakers lived...to see another day.

Chapter 71 – Brilliant Disguises

Monday morning June 16, 2008 – 6:00 AM

Frank Newlan woke up in a daze after another frightful dream-filled night fueled by his latest little helper, the prescription drug Lorazepam. But despite the internal fog, which had yet to completely lift from his brain, Newlan still made a halfhearted attempt to muddle through his exercise routine before preparing for what he fully expected would be his last day of duty over at the courthouse.

And upon completion of his futile excuse for a workout, along with the rest of his standard morning routine, Newlan haphazardly threw on some clothes, and of course he made sure that he had Doctor Clay's liberating letter firmly in his possession before he left for the day.

Per usual, just as he was about to head out the door, Newlan remembered to snatch up the Supertramp CD from his desk and replace it with something else for the ride. And since it was turning out to be another one of those mornings where he didn't have the energy to browse through his entire music collection, once again he kept his attention fixated in the "S" section, and he promptly reached for Bruce Springsteen's "Tunnel of Love" CD.

Newlan's drug-addled sleep, although semi-restful, did little to lessen the weight that he had packed into his boatload full of fears, and as he drifted past Saeed Kahn, who was manning the security desk as always, he was a bundle of nerves. Newlan didn't even bother acknowledging Kahn, but he could almost feel the ashen doorman's stare burning a hole through his heart, just as Dr. Clay's note was burning a hole in his pocket.

With Kahn behind him for the time being, Newlan languidly made his way down to the garage and started up his red Mercury Mystique. But before he even put her into reverse, he plopped in the Springsteen disc and pressed the Random button, which arbitrarily cued up the carnival music of the title cut.

The upbeat background music did little to mask the desperation in Springsteen's words, and so it should come as no surprise that the song, which Newlan considered to be a lyrical metaphor for sex, reminded him of Marianne Plante; it reminded him of Janis Barry; it reminded him of Tracy Stone; it reminded him of the oh so many women who had passed through the revolving door of his life over the years.

Newlan wallowed in the tempo of the circus-like melody, which, despite its lively pace, somehow managed to play off nicely against the song's central theme of learning to live with your fears, and he seemed to be agreeing with Springsteen as he absentmindedly murmured, "yes Bruce, we sure do get lost sometimes... in our own little tunnels of love."

Probably the most well-known tune on the "Tunnel of Love" CD, "Brilliant Disguise" kicked in just as Newlan pulled into the courthouse garage, and the haunting chorus, which questions the true identity behind our brilliant disguises, instantly zapped him with an overpowering case of the chills; a condition which only the swaying force of music had ever managed to produce in his lovelorn veins.

The song's universal message had Newlan at a loss for words, and in his rectitude he wondered about the truth which lay hidden somewhere behind the eyes of Marianne Plante...and Janis Barry...and Tracy Stone...and all of the other headstrong women who had disturbed his peace and serenity for so long now.

Newlan wondered and he wondered and he wondered some more. However, much like Springsteen, he still wasn't quite sure what this world, what this life, was all about; what made people do the impetuous things that they do.

But alas, despite Newlan's existential mood swings, life must go on, and his presence was required, at least for a little while longer, at the site of the John Breslin murder trial, where a bloodthirsty congregation had been patiently waiting for the ticking clock of justice to strike midnight and spell the end for the moribund defendant. For a week and a half and counting, this hungry mob had been solemnly praying for Breslin's head to be handed to them on a silver platter, and Newlan no longer wanted anything to do with the vindictive proceedings which had been bestowed upon him.

Newlan's apathy was growing stronger by the second, and as it intensified, he lackadaisically pulled into the juror parking lot. But this time he didn't even bother to back into his parking space as he had done last week, for all the good it had done

"Not one friggin' juror commented about my red car, and how with its scratched-up bumper, it could very well have been the same car that all those witnesses identified seeing at the scene of the murder," grumbled Newlan as he reported for duty with a chip on his shoulder the size of a boulder.

Newlan was as subdued as he had been at any point since the opening of the trial, and he buried his face into a back copy of Rolling Stone magazine while Patty and the rest of their colleagues began to arrive in dribs and drabs, and from there they casually went about the business of rehashing their weekends.

"So how about you Frank, did you have a nice couple of days off away from here?" cheerfully inquired Patty who was apparently unaware of the fact that Newlan's muted facial expression signaled a desire that he preferred to be left alone this morning.

"It was rather uneventful," deadpanned Newlan, but all the while, deep inside he was harrowingly thinking to himself; "if only she knew what a crested tidal wave of emotions I've been riding on since Friday afternoon."

Newlan didn't mean to be rude, but at the moment he had more important things on his mind, such as mulling over his strategies for getting Dr. Clay's note into the learned hands of Judge Gershwin. How exactly should he go about it? Should he just hand the written diagnosis to whichever court officer showed up first in the waiting room to escort them upstairs? Or maybe he should he hold off until they got up to the deliberation room, and then slip the letter into the reliable hands of Billy when no one else was looking?

Newlan's main objective was to keep as low a profile as possible regarding the good doctor's letter so as not to arouse the curiosity of his fellow jurors. But of course, the overriding goal was to get his butt dismissed from the trial no matter how the sequence of events went down.

By 8:45 AM all of the jurors had arrived with the exception of Joanne, the buxom young blonde, and as the minutes ticked away, Donny the elderly Court Officer was becoming more and more impatient, which was evident by the way he aimlessly paced around the room like a fly crawling along a windowpane.

Donny's anxiety prompted Newlan to hold tight with the news of his confidential letter, and it firmly convinced him that the couriering of the note was a job for Billy and Billy alone.

By 9 AM the jurors had joined Donny in his state of wearily restless. However, just as their listlessness was about to reach its peak, they were startled back to attention by the sound of Billy's voice crackling over Donny's two-way radio, more than loud enough for them to overhear.

"Bring 'em up, seat number ten called in with car trouble, she's off the case," informed a cranky Billy...and as the remaining jurors made the jaunt up to the deliberation room, they were all abuzz over the departure of Joanne or "seat number 10" as she was officially referred to by the judicial staff who occupied courtroom 630 of the Middlesex Superior Courthouse.

"That's all it takes to get off the case? Well my car's on its last legs too," griped an incredulous Newlan as the elevator made the short leap up to the sixth floor. However, regardless of automobile woes, Newlan was sticking to his current plan of action for getting himself excused from his civic duty, and as such, he removed Dr. Clay's note from his pocket in anticipation of passing it along to Billy like a hot potato at a children's birthday party.

But unfortunately for Newlan however, he found that Billy was otherwise indisposed.

Unfortunately for Newlan, no sooner had his fellow jurors entered into the deliberation room when they practically attacked Billy with questions regarding the welfare of Joanne...and so Newlan was forced to sit tight and wait it out for just the right moment to cash in on his ticket to ride.

"Relax people, Joanne's OK" insisted Billy in his thick Boston accent, and with that loose end tied up tight, the next obvious subject to be broached revolved around the implications of being short one juror.

"It's a case of simple math," exclaimed Billy, "we now have fifteen jurors instead of sixteen, and if my calculations are correct, that means we'll only have three alternates instead of four."

"By the way, how _do_ we go about selecting the alternates?" wondered Peter, the ever curious software engineer.

"Well, at the end of the closing arguments, just before deliberations begin, we pick four seat numbers out of a hat so to speak, correction make that three seat numbers now...and the jurors in those seats are declared alternates, meaning that they don't get a vote in deciding the verdict. But they still have to stick around anyway, just in case someone gets sick or something else comes up...like car trouble for instance," wryly explained Billy as he made his way for the door to check in with Judge Gershwin.

Meanwhile, back in the deliberation room a debate ensued amongst the jurors as to the merits of being selected as an alternate. And as it turned out, the opinions were decidedly mixed, if, for the most part, somewhat muted. Although, not surprisingly, Jane was none too shy about making her feelings known loud and clear.

"I definitely _don't_ want to be chosen as an alternate. After all we've been through, you'd have to be crazy not to want your voice heard when it comes time to making our decision," announced Jane, while all around her the conversation picked up steam like a dreary smokestack on a cold winter day.

After the usual outburst of nervous energy, which was becoming the norm amongst this particular group of jurors, the exchange seemed about ready to run its course again when Mark, the lanky young high tech employee, chimed in with a mischievous inquiry that may or may not have been purposely intended to resuscitate the debate.

"What about you Frank?" pried Mark. And although he should have known better, particularly with his exodus, paved in the firm handwriting of Doctor Clay, waiting in the wings, Newlan, who had continued to remain uncharacteristically quiet up to this point in the morning, took the bait anyway.

"Given a choice, I'd _definitely_ prefer to be an alternate. Hey, as I've said a million times already, I never asked for this assignment to begin with," decisively concluded an unapologetic Newlan. But at the same time he was gleefully thinking to himself, "Anyhow, mercifully it doesn't much matter what I prefer, since I'm as good as gone anyway. If Joanne can get herself excused for a mechanical breakdown, then a nervous breakdown has to be a sure bet for dismissal."

However, optimistic though Newlan might have been, it didn't take much to bring his spirits down a notch or two; it didn't take much to egg him on and send him into a tizzy; it didn't take much more than a manhood-challenging comment from Jane to arouse his indignation.

"Why am I not surprised?" huffed out Jane, and just like that, her veiled insult suddenly left Newlan with a flood of second thoughts as far as removing himself from the juror pool. Something told him that maybe it was a little too late to back out now. Something told him that maybe he was morally obligated to stick it out until the trial had reached its ultimate conclusion. Something told him that maybe he was being led by an invisible trail of blood to the zenith of his debilitating nadir.

Along with Jane's bluster, perhaps Newlan's sudden turnaround also had something to do with his drug-induced collapse and his mysterious revival, perhaps not. But whatever the reasoning behind his abrupt change of heart, all of a sudden, something told him that maybe he was meant to be there in courtroom 630 of the Middlesex Superior Courthouse, nestled into seat number 8, present and accounted for until the bitter end of the John Breslin murder trial affair.

"I'll be damned if I'm gonna let Jane or anyone else throw Breslin under a bus before we've even heard all of the evidence. Guilty or not, someone has to make sure that he gets a fair shake," mumbled Newlan under his breath, and then in a booming voice that was as resolute as it was thundering, he further declared his intentions.

"On second thought, I changed my mind. I definitely _don't_ want to be chosen as an alternate," announced Newlan, and his biting tone was clearly intended to send out an unspoken message, and that message was this; "there's no way Breslin's going down with this flimsy evidence if I have anything to say about it."

Of course, not being one to back down, Jane ended the conversation by reiterating the same opinion that had ignited the debate in the first place; namely that one would have to be as crazy as a loon to devote all of this time diligently pondering witness testimony and evidentiary procedure, only to wind up without a say in the final disposition of the matter at hand.

Meanwhile, a conflicted Newlan could practically feel it all just slipping away. Ten minutes ago he was as good as gone, busted loose from the case like an inmate hurtling himself over the prison walls on a hell-bent jailbreak. But now however, he found himself helplessly thinking that he had no choice in the decision other than to somehow see it through to the acrid finish-line no matter how badly he wanted out; for in the final analysis, no one was going to question his resolve and get away with it, regardless of how desperately he had his heart set on walking away and never looking back.

Newlan suddenly envisioned himself playing the role of Al Pacino in The Godfather Part III, and he pictured himself acting out the scene where Don Michael Corleone infamously gripes, "Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in."

The torment on Newlan's face was palpable and he could almost hear the words of Dr. Clay's letter calling out to him from his pocket. Even though he was now more determined than ever to stay the course, he couldn't help but think to himself; "so close to being outta here...and yet so far away."

And while Newlan stewed in the wings, Ron the bank manager mistakenly attributed the origins of his colleague's painful facial vexations solely to Jane's pointed remarks, and as such, he morphed into his customary peacemaker role, and he attempted to broker a resolution by resorting to his routinely effective tactic of changing the subject matter of the moment.

"Hey, by the way, has anyone else noticed that Gleason's been working overtime trying to sling the dirt on Fred Miller any which way he can get away with?" wondered Ron, and without missing a beat, Newlan replied in his usual colorful fashion. "Does a bear shit in the woods?"

No sooner had Newlan spoken when he realized that he had impulsively let an uncalled-for vulgarity slip out of his mouth; no sooner had he spoken when he realized that his sarcastically rhetorical question may not have been appropriate for this particular viewing audience; no sooner had he spoken when he realized that could have substituted a more suitable euphemism for his existential defecation musing.

The problem with Newlan, as with many people, was that, in a kneejerk reaction, he sometimes broke into the crude language which he utilized around his friends, without fully considering the consequences of his actions; without fully considering the nature of his surroundings. This same predicament had gotten Newlan into trouble at work on more than a few occasions, and now it appeared for all the world as if it was going to get him into hot water with his fellow jurors as well, so he took the high road and summarily apologized to one and all with all the sincerity he could muster. However, much to Newlan's surprise, an apology appeared to be entirely unnecessary, seeing as how his colleagues unanimously seemed to find the slightly off-color maxim to be rather innocuous, not to mention more than a little bit humorous.

But unfortunately for the fragile goodwill of the jury, which was being held together by a thread, the harmony that was triggered by Newlan's pun didn't last very long, and all it took was for Jim, the usually self-effacing telecom employee, to harmlessly confront Newlan regarding the one anomaly of his red Mercury Mystique that he did happen to eyeball.

Jim had been waiting for just the right moment to ask Newlan about what in his mind was a truly odd aberration, and he had wrongly assumed that the jovial mood currently emanating from the deliberation room would make for the perfect opportunity to broach the subject.

"By the way Frank, I noticed the other day that you have a "Question Authority" bumper sticker slapped onto the rear bumper of your car. Did you know that Fred Miller had the exact same bumper sticker on his car too?" wondered Jim, while at the same time Newlan's demeanor shifted around the clock in a heartbeat from conciliatory all the way to shocking disbelief.

"I might have been aware of it," cautiously replied Newlan, even though he in fact knew full well about the foreboding phenomenon that the bumper sticker (which when combined with the many strange happenings of recent days) represented; and furthermore, as he had feared from day one, -- ever since the occurrence of his bizarre Grateful Dead dream on the rocky bus ride to the murder scene in Newton, along with the unveiling of the obvious rebellious nature that he shared with the late Fred Miller \-- these unmistakable warning signs had indeed turned out to be a precursor of things to come.

But of course, Jane wasn't buying into any correlations between the two men whatsoever; literally or figuratively.

"So when did you go out and buy that bumper sticker?" quizzically asked Jane in an accusatory manner; she seemed to be insinuating that Newlan had added the bold fashion statement to his car quite recently, in some sort of perverted attempt at enhancing his connection to Fred Miller. And of course, Newlan didn't care for her veiled remark in the least. And of course, he told her so in no uncertain terms.

"I'll have you know that I've had that damned bumper sticker on my car for as long as I've owned the old jalopy...so please lay off of me," angrily pleaded an offended Newlan, but Jane was utterly unimpressed by his ruffled feathers and she unapologetically replied in kind.

"Well I'm sorry, but all of these supposed coincidences seem kind of suspicious if you ask me."

Jane's accusation had Newlan teetering on the edge of his breaking point and he was surely just about ready to blow a gasket, but luckily for him, Mike the reticent car salesman, came to his defense in the nick of time.

"Actually, as I was driving home on the first day of the trial, I happened to be stuck in traffic behind Frank's car and I saw the bumper sticker as well...which wasn't surprising since it sticks out like a sore thumb. Anyway, I thought that it was pretty spooky at the time, but I wasn't sure whether anyone else happened to notice that the same bumper sticker was also plastered on the back of Miller's car, so I didn't want to say anything for fear of influencing anyone, and more importantly for fear of freaking everyone out," confirmed Mike in a matter-of-fact tone.

And upon digesting this remarkably uncanny and upsetting bit of news, Jane's reply seemed to bellow the fact that she may have finally met her match, at least for the time being anyway.

"Well, now you really do have me freaked out...that is so eerie," exclaimed Jane; except that on this occasion her voice was tinged with a hint of fear as she considered the implications behind Newlan's seemingly otherworldly series of happenstances.

Newlan slowly pivoted his head around the deliberation room, studying his colleagues faces for a response, and he sensed that everyone was staring back at him as if he were some sort of crazy occultist; everyone that is, except for one juror. For out of the corner of his eye, Newlan observed that the fascinatingly lovely magazine editor, Natalie, was gaping at him. And furthermore, it was with what could only be described as an awe-inspired look of wonderment that she gazed at him, and not a stare of trepidation in the least.

As far Newlan was concerned, Natalie's glimmering glimpse, Natalie's shimmering ray of sunshine, Natalie's simmering sliver of sensuality, was enough to brighten his spirits ten times over; and for that matter it was enough to bring eyesight to the blind; it was enough for the ever concupiscent Newlan to slyly return the glance of his secret admirer and mutter to himself, "Yes indeed, we can officially declare that the heat wave is on...now that the Ice Princess has been completely thawed out."

But innocent flirtations aside, by now it was almost 10 AM and mercifully for the beleaguered Frank Newlan and the rest of the jurors, they were finally called into the courtroom to reprise their leading roles in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts' stage-crafted quest for justice. Clearly, the tensions that were heating up between Jane and Newlan had nearly reached a boiling point which left them just about ready to totally unload their frustrations on each other, and so, as uncharacteristic as it sounds, mulling over witness testimony came as a welcome respite from their near constant bickering.

For her part, Judge Gershwin seemed to somehow sense the strain that was building up under the skin of each and every one of the jurors, and as a small gesture of her appreciation, she went out of her way to praise them.

After the crowded gallery was seated and settled in, the honorable judge turned towards the jury box, and with a bright, cheerful voice, she gushed, "And good morning to our _extraordinary_ jurors."

And then, just like that, without further ado it was on to more important housekeeping. Once Judge Gershwin had dispensed with the usual conventional inquiries regarding whether any of the jurors had discussed or researched the case, she addressed the matter of the clearly conspicuous empty seat at the near end of the jury box.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury as you can see, one of your colleagues has been excused due to a transportation issue...but as I stated at the start of the trial, situations such as this are precisely the reason why we have four extra jurors assigned to each case," patiently explained Judge Gershwin. And with that, another long, grueling week in the John Breslin murder trial was officially underway.

The morning began with DA Lyons calling a parade of employees from Tex-Ray Defense Systems to the stand, each of whom apparently possessed a wealth of information regarding one Mr. John Breslin.

DA Lyons had each and every one of Breslin's co-workers present the jurors with reams of glum details pertaining to his pending divorce. DA Lyons also had each and every one of Breslin's co-workers informed the jurors of his sometimes odd behavior on the days and weeks leading up to the murder of Fred Miller. But most importantly, DA Lyons had each and every one of Breslin's co-workers forage into great depth regarding his relationship with a certain Ms. Nancy O'Brien.

However, after a few hours of documenting this strategic line of questioning into his notepad, Frank Newlan for one, was exasperated.

"Alright already...we get the picture. Nancy O'Brien was a friend of Breslin's. How many people do we need to tell us the same thing over and over again before it reaches the point of diminishing returns?" grumbled Newlan. And furthermore, in Newlan's opinion, for the most part, the testimony of Breslin's co-workers was doing more to hurt the prosecution's case than it was to help it.

As a matter of fact, as far as Newlan was concerned, Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason's cross-examination of the "Tex-Ray gang" (as Newlan not so affectionately dubbed them) was quite compelling, and furthermore, it allowed the cunning barrister to delve even deeper into the "human side" of his client.

Gleason got each and every one of Breslin's co-workers to recount how on multiple occasions, he was quoted as saying that much he missed his children dearly. Gleason also got each and every one of Breslin's co-workers to recount how on multiple occasions, he shed a tear as he discussed his children. But most importantly, Gleason also got each and every one of Breslin's co-workers to recount how on multiple occasions, he expressed grave concerns about the welfare of his children.

Gleason then went on to get each and every one of Breslin's co-workers to recount how he had become noticeably subdued and withdrawn over the course of the divorce proceedings, with one co-worker going so far as to describing Tracy and John Breslin's disintegrating marriage as "very sad". But on the other hand, Gleason also got each and every one of Breslin's co-workers to recount how on multiple occasions, he had expressed a firm commitment to work out his problems with his wife.

And furthermore, for a bit of icing on the cake, Gleason got each and every one of Breslin's co-workers to state that, in their opinion, he was "a good guy".

However, even though Gleason considered the revelations of Breslin's co-workers to be good theatre, he realized that he still needed to produce something much more substantial if he was going to succeed at heading DA Lyons off at the pass, and since he was not one to be outdone, he skillfully got each and every one of Breslin's co-workers to recount, in vivid detail, the manner in which they were treated by the police, and how the detectives attempted to put words into their mouths; ironically in much the same manner that he and DA Lyons were now attempting to put words into their mouths.

Gleason went on to relentlessly harp on the fact that not one of Breslin's co-workers had observed him acting even the least bit suspiciously on the day of the murder, which led Newlan to believe that DA Lyons must have been desperate to drill the Nancy O'Brien connection into the jurors' heads. Otherwise, why else would she have allowed them to be exposed to all of this glowing testimony on Breslin's behalf?

One of the Tex-Ray witnesses, a gentleman by the name of Richard Galvin, happened to share an office with Breslin, and he recounted a conversation, which he couldn't help but to overhear, between Breslin and his erstwhile wife, where the forlorn defendant matter-of-factly stated, "I'm sorry Tracy, but you brought this on yourself."

Galvin testified that after the phone call he picked Breslin's brain as to what the dispute was all about, and he went on to say that Breslin informed him that his wife needed money, and that he wasn't intending on giving her a single penny more than what his lawyer said she was entitled to.

And on and on it went throughout the morning, with one Breslin co-worker after another taking the stand.

But as morning turned into early afternoon (and after being marched in and out of the courtroom three times due to the obligatory objections and subsequent disputes), the jurors were at long last allowed to recess for lunch break.

Contrary to the discordance of the morning, the jurors were in a reasonably good mood during the lunch hour (especially for a Monday) and they made quick work of their free meals. And as they munched away at their sandwiches, out of the blue, in a voice tinged with mock pride, Stan the affable software salesman exclaimed, "Did anybody else picked up on how Judge Gershwin was fawning all over us...and how she went out of her way to refer to us an _extraordinary_ jury?"

"Sure, but I bet she says that to all the juries," purred Newlan in an equally mock tantalizing tone, without ever really considering the comic value of his faux wager. But nevertheless, his unrehearsed one-liner elicited a reflexive outburst of laughter amongst his casual acquaintances on the jury.

Although Newlan never considered himself to be much of a comedian, his friends always felt as if he possessed a quick wit, which was borne out by the fact that on many an occasion, he had them in stitches after delivering a well-timed wisecrack.

In any event, other than his brusque witticism, the remainder of Newlan's lunch hour was uneventful for a change, and he spent the rest of the break catching up on his Rolling Stone magazines, while at the same time Billy led a handful of jurors on a stroll down to the outdoor garage for their daily fresh air break (and of course, so that Annie could inhale a cigarette or two).

Everyone in the walking party, including Billy, was still in a good spirits upon their return from the hastily arranged field trip, and whenever one of these moods struck him, Billy would find himself hanging around in the deliberation room, chatting-it-up with any juror who was willing to listen. Not surprisingly, the female jurors attempted to steer the conversation in the direction of Billy's personal life. Where he lived? Was he married? How many kids did he have? And so on and so forth.

Like most outgoing, Type 'A' personalities, Billy enjoyed talking about himself, and he proudly passed around photographs of the wife and kids. And as far as where he lived, he was also quite proud of the fact that he was a life-long resident of Northtown; a tiny section of Boston that sat nestled in between what was once the predominantly Italian North End and the mostly Irish Charlestown.

Perhaps there truly is something about a man in uniform, or perhaps there was something intoxicating about Billy's thick Boston accent, but whatever it was, the fact remains that he had the ladies of the jury hanging on his every word, and they pressed him for the full 411 regarding what it was like growing up in Northtown. But alas, as Billy was quick to point out, the ever-growing homogenization of the old neighborhood had permanently altered the closeness of the community for the worse.

"Ever since all those yuppies came storming in, it's nothing like it use to be. They must have bought up every building in sight and then they gutted them and turned them into these fancy, expensive condos...which drove out just about every working class Irish and Italian family in the entire district. But what's even worse is that most of the little family-run, mom-and-pop businesses got taken over by the big chain-store conglomerates. Yup, it really has changed...so much so that I've even thought about moving out to the suburbs myself. But of course, after all these years I'm so entrenched in what little that's left of the community that it would be hard for me to ever leave the place," expounded Billy with a pensive sigh.

And while Billy's thoughtful conversation was all well and good, unlike the women, Mike the car salesman had something gnawing on his brain that he just had to unload on the chatty court officer; something a lot more topical and relevant than the changing face of a few city blocks.

"I heard that Sammy the Fox was originally from Northtown," nonchalantly spilled out Mike with a playful look etched all over his face. But Billy wasn't the least bit amused.

"How'd you know that?" testily asked the puzzled court officer.

Oh, it's no big deal...it's just that some of my old friends happen to be from your part of town and they may have mentioned it in passing. As a matter of fact, I was thinking of looking them up for a few drinks...I bet you they could give me the complete lowdown on old Sammy the Fox," calmly explained Mike, as Billy sneered at him in disdainful contempt. However, just as Billy was about to explode in anger over this blatant violation of juror misconduct, Mike hastily added, "After the end of the trial of course."

Naturally, Mike's revelation prompted a couple of the more brazen jurors, Jane being one of them, to curiously inquire as to whether Billy was at all familiar with Sammy the Fox.

And suddenly Billy had a confused look sprawled upon his face, as if he was debating whether to answer the question or to make a hasty retreat from the room. But in the end, he cautiously replied, "no, but I know of people who know him."

From that six-degrees-of-separation tangent, Billy and Mike proceeded to throw a handful of names out for discussion, and as it turned out, they shared a smattering of common acquaintances.

"Small world!" declared Mike and Billy simultaneously, and the serendipity of their declaration managed to wedge a slight smile back onto both of their faces.

"Yeah, just about everyone from Northtown knows one another...or they know someone who knows someone if you catch my drift," sleepily drawled Billy as the conversation meandered along to its eventual conclusion...and before they knew it, Brandon popped his head in the door and announced that it was "5 minutes to show time."

Brandon's news forced an involuntary grimace to appear on Newlan's face...and so as not to be misunderstood, he went on to pontificate his dismay to no one in particular.

"Damn it, the lunch hour goes by so fast, and the rest of the day seems to drag on forever."

Of course on this point there was unanimous agreement for a change; and yet the solidarity amongst the jurors did nothing to brighten Newlan's mood.

But regardless of Newlan's mood swings, the show must go on as they say, and as such, the afternoon session started off much as the morning did, except that now the jurors were forced to listen to the musings of the patrons who frequented the Irish-American club in Watertown Massachusetts where Breslin worked a night job as a part-time bartender.

DA Lyons called upon four patrons of the private club, just to basically establish the fact that Breslin tended bar, as he always did, on the Friday night of Fred Miller's murder; just as he did practically every Friday night for those past several years. And while she was at it, Lyons also attempted, with mixed results, to get Breslin's Irish-American Club cohorts to admit to the fact that they were aware of his impending divorce, as well as his obsessive desire to keep Fred Miller away from his children.

For his part, Gleason easily enticed these same patrons to heap mounds of praise upon Breslin while Lyons could do nothing but stew in the wings. It was only when Gleason coaxed one of the club's long time patrons, a gentleman by the name of Dean Bennett, to proclaim that "Johnny never, ever mentioned harming Fred Miller...that would be totally out of character for him," did Lyons object, and Judge Gershwin immediately had the speculative latter portion of Bennett's comment stricken from the record.

"Well, it might be stricken from the record but it's too late to strike it from my mind," silently declared a semi-dazed Newlan as he forced himself to pay attention even though visions of Marianne Plante's smoldering, supple body were causing him to lose focus on a regular basis. On the other hand, now that things were beginning to heat up again in this tension-filled, almost sexual, dual between Lyons and Gleason, he pledged to kick up his awareness level a notch or two and lock it into place.

And while Newlan coaxed his mind back into clarity, the next witness to take the stand was the chairman of the Watertown chapter of the Irish-American club, Sean Patton.

Mr. Patton was an elderly man, who, despite his many years living in the US, still possessed a thick Irish brogue; and on top of that, he appeared to be utterly confounded by the courtroom surroundings which he had somehow found himself drawn into, almost like a cat stuck in a tree.

DA Lyons must have spent a good half hour directing Mr. Patton to wax poetically about every little detail that went into governing a private organization such as the Irish-American club, but eventually she got down to the crux of his testimony, and that was to produce records which showed that Breslin closed the club on the night of January 13th, 2006.

Lyons had Patton explain how the security system at the club worked, and how each employee was given a distinct code which was used to turn the burglar alarm off and on. She then produced a printout which indicated that employee number 10 had set the alarm on at 23:05 (or 11:05 PM) on the night in question.

"And who was employee number 10?" patiently asked Lyons.

"That would be John Breslin," tentatively answered Patton. And with that, Lyons submitted the printout into evidence, while Gleason on the other hand had nary a question to present to Mr. Patton.

The next witness to take the stand identified himself as Jim Wheeler, an employee from a company called RKN Telecommunications.

Mr. Wheeler was a tall, awkward man who nevertheless maintained an air of confidence about him that bordered on arrogance.

DA Lyons permitted the mid 30ish Wheeler to indulge the jurors in a long litany of boring facts pertaining to the phone industry, and by all accounts, he seemed to be enjoying his moment in the spotlight immensely.

Lyons primary reason for calling upon Wheeler was to have him identify the activation date of a particular phone calling card, and when Wheeler finally got off of his soapbox, he expertly interpreted the phone records for the calling card in question; phone records, incidentally, which were subpoenaed by the DA's office.

Specifically, Wheeler determined that the first call made from this particular card was at 10:20 AM on the morning of January 6th, 2006, and that the last call was at 1:05 PM on the afternoon of January 12th, 2006. And furthermore, each and every call placed from this specific card was directed to the exact same phone number, 978 211-6545; a phone number belonging to one Mr. Samuel Fox.

Newlan shifted anxiously in his swivel chair as he digested the significance of the calling card information and he scribbled his thoughts into his notepad for prosperity:

The prosecution finally seems to have some evidence pointing to possible suspicious activity by Breslin, but I'm still not quite convinced (not yet anyway!).

When Lyons had completed the process of pounding the calling card information into the jurors' heads like a butcher tenderizing a cut of low-grade meat, Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason realized that he had his work cut out for him, and as he slowly approached the witness stand he began his valiant attempt at putting the information which Jim Wheeler had just presented into some sort of proper perspective.

"Mr. Wheeler wouldn't you agree that a phone calling card is an inexpensive way to make a phone call and that it represents a good consumer value?" asked Gleason, and Wheeler immediately went into salesman mode, albeit a bit too overenthusiastically for some of the jurors.

"Yes, these cards are a fantastic value! In fact you can make most local calls for as little as a penny per minute," exclaimed Wheeler in an exaggerated tone which made it sound as if he were a pitchman for one of those late night TV commercials where they hawk everything and anything that's of little or no use to the average person.

"And these cards are often sold as promotional items aren't they Mr. Wheeler?" added Gleason.

"Yes indeed. You could consider them to be an impulse item, which is why we work with our distributors to place the cards near the cash registers in many major department stores," confessed Wheeler.

"Now Mr. Wheeler, if a person using one of these cards were to place a call that went into voice mail, the call would still be considered billable, wouldn't it?" queried Gleason.

"Absolutely" confirmed Wheeler.

"And Mr. Wheeler even with your encyclopedic knowledge of all things phone related, you would have no way of knowing whether any of the calls identified in these phone records were answered by a person or whether they went into voice mail, isn't that true?" demanded Gleason as he held up the subpoenaed phone records which DA Lyons had just submitted into evidence.

Gleason's logical chain of inquiries had a riveting affect on the courtroom audience, and the hushed silence only served to further heighten the already rapt attention of one Mr. Frank Newlan.

"That SOB Gleason...if I didn't know better, I'd swear that he just tried to get a little dig in on this pompous bastard Wheeler," mumbled an astonished Newlan, while at the same time Wheeler brightly replied, "that would be correct sir."

"No further questions," announced Gleason, and with that, Mr. Jim Wheeler paraded from the stand with his head held high; and with that, Mr. Jim Wheeler strutted from the stand with a noticeable lilt clicking in his heels; and with that, Mr. Jim Wheeler departed from the stand with a singular sense of purpose in mind.

In fact, as soon as Wheeler exited the courthouse, he head straight for the media tent, earnestly looking for the nearest TV camera he could find; and it was his sincere hope that he might turn his big day into an even bigger coup by procuring some face-time on the local news.

At that point in the proceeding, Judge Gershwin called for another respite, and the jurors pretty much spent their entire coffee break joking about what an egotistical clown that Mr. Jim Wheeler turned out to be.

Upon their return into the courtroom, the jurors were greeted with the last witness of the long, drawn-out day, Sergeant Terry McDonald, from the Massachusetts State Police.

Sergeant McDonald was a supervisor on the State Police homicide team, and on Friday January the 13th, 2006 he was called upon to provide his expert services at the scene of the Fred Miller homicide investigation.

Among other things, the jurors learned that Sergeant McDonald attended Fred Miller's autopsy, and they learned that he had inventoried the belongings which were taken from Miller's person; belongings which included 541 dollars, a vile containing 42 white oval pills, a baggy containing 20 small packets of a white powdery substance, and another baggy which contained what appeared to be 10 hand-rolled cigarettes.

As one might imagine, this tidbit of information had Newlan scribbling furiously into his notebook, and all the while he was thinking, "It looks like Breslin isn't the only person in this investigation who was involved in some suspicious activity."

But regardless of Newlan's observations, as Sergeant McDonald's testimony continued to take shape, the jurors learned that he had personally interviewed most of the witnesses in the case, including many of Breslin's co-workers, which eventually led the authorities in the direction of Nancy O'Brien.

McDonald also organized a flyer drop at the scene of the murder, which, as he explained it, involved handing out informational bulletins and posting them in store windows and on telephone poles in and about the general vicinity of the Newton garage. Unfortunately however, Sergeant McDonald was obliged to admit that this "getting the word out" strategy turned up no useful information.

And on Saturday morning January 21st, 2006, Sergeant McDonald, in a clever, although not entirely uncommon, move, arranged for the trash cans which were placed in front of the elderly Mrs. Breslin's home to get picked up, not by the garbage man, but by the State Police; and from there, the entire messy haul was delivered to the State Police Crime Lab where it was painstakingly examined for possible evidence.

"And what if anything did you find?" wondered DA Lyons in a bright curious tone.

"We found a few credit card receipts, we found an empty cardboard container which depicted a pair of binoculars on the front of it, we found a couple of old locks, we found a booklet that contained records such as addresses, phone numbers, and the like, written in it," meticulously reported Sergeant McDonald.

Newlan could tell by the enthralling look on his colleagues' faces that they were eating up the sergeant's story. But all the while, he himself remained skeptical, and the words he jotted down into his notepad clearly bellowed his skepticism.

If this was incriminating evidence, then why the hell would Breslin dump it in the trash where anyone could find it, without even shredding it? If you ask me, there's something rotten in Denmark, and it's not the garage!

However, as Newlan scribbled away, Lyons forged on with her methodical reenactment of the so-called "trash pull".

"Did you find anything else Sergeant McDonald?" asked DA Lyons in an insistent tone.

"Ooooh yeah...but you don't wanna know," joked McDonald as he held his nose and contorted his face into a disgusted look. But unfortunately for the dutiful Sergeant McDonald, his amateurish attempts at humor were met with complete silence, and he actually had one juror, who shall remain nameless, thinking to himself, "oh sure, like your shit doesn't stink Mr. Big Shot detective."

Meanwhile, Lyons ignored McDonald's comedy routine and carried on without missing a beat.

"Sergeant McDonald did the evidence from the trash pull lead you in the direction of any additional information?" wondered the no-nonsense DA Lyons.

"Yes, we were able to trace one of the credit card receipts to a Walmart in Northborough Massachusetts. And from there we were able to determine that the credit card was used to purchase a prepaid phone calling card for nine dollars and ninety nine cents," explained a suddenly dead serious Sergeant McDonald.

"I see, and who was the provider of the calling card in question?" continued Lyons in the best inquisitive tone she could muster.

"We were able to trace the calling card to a company by the name of RKN Telecommunications Services," informed Sergeant McDonald as he tilted his bifocals down toward a notebook which was resting in his lap.

"Now Sergeant McDonald could you please tell the jurors how you went about tracking this information," politely requested Lyons.

"Well, we started out with Walmart, and we obtained a court order for their records, which led us to the Credit Card Company, as well as to RKN Telecom," explained Sergeant McDonald with the swagger of a man who held in his hands the power to dig up dirt on any man in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, living or dead.

"And who was the credit card registered to?" wondered Lyons in a condescending tone.

Sergeant McDonald put on his glasses again, and for some reason, he read his answer from his notebook , even though every person in the courtroom with even half a brain in their heads knew precisely what he was about to say.

"The credit card belonged to a Mr. John Breslin," triumphantly announced Sergeant McDonald,

"And how about the phone card?" gleefully added Lyons.

"We worked with a gentleman from RKN Telecom by the name of Jim Wheeler, and he was able to provide us with a detailed record of the usage of the calling card in question, including the fact that every call that was made on this particular card was directed to phone number 978 211-6545...a number which was traced back to a Mr. Samuel Fox," elucidated a smiling Sergeant McDonald.

"And what happened after that?" wondered the tenacious DA.

"Well, it took many months of investigation, including placing Mr. Breslin and Mr. Fox under 24 hour surveillance, as well as obtaining search warrants and phone taps, but eventually we obtained enough evidence to charge Mr. Breslin and Mr. Fox with the murder of Fred Miller," elaborated an exultant Sergeant McDonald.

"No further questions your honor," exclaimed DA Lyons, but before she had even finished her sentence, Gleason approached the podium posthaste.

"Now Gleason's really gonna have to start earning his keep...so let's see what he can do up there," croaked Newlan to himself in his exaggerated sportscaster's tone, and not surprisingly Gleason wasted no time in getting to the point.

"Sergeant McDonald, were the white pills, _or_ the packets of a white powdery substance, _or_ the hand-rolled cigarettes, ever tested to determine the nature of these substances?" demanded Gleason straight out, without even the hint of subtly.

"No sir they weren't," replied Sergeant McDonald in a tone which seemed to indicate that he was put off by the question.

"And why was that?" wondered Gleason.

"Well, because the man was dead, so the identity of these items seemed irrelevant to me," elucidated Sergeant McDonald as he stared down the retreating Gleason.

"I see, Sergeant McDonald, I see" muttered Gleason and he turned his back on both the seething detective and the influential Judge Gershwin as he announced, "No further questions your honor."

By the time Sergeant McDonald wrapped up his testimony, it was close to 5 PM, so Judge Gershwin had no choice but to dismiss the jurors for the day; but of course not before, as always, reminding them not to discuss the case with anyone, including their fellow jurors.

And yet, amazingly enough, within seconds of entering the deliberation room the jurors had already disobeyed the prudent judge's instructions, while in the process, showing a total lack of disregard for her supreme eminence.

" _Now_ things are really starting to get interesting," asserted the wheelchair-bound Dan, but his comment was nothing compared to what was about to come down next.

"I was so impressed by Sergeant McDonald's testimony, and how he was smart enough to have the police search through Breslin's trash. Can you believe how stupid he was?" bellowed Jane...and predictably enough, Newlan jumped right into the fray.

"That's just the problem, I _can't_ believe he was _that_ stupid," retorted Newlan, "because if that receipt had anything whatsoever to do with the murder, then there's no way he throws it in the trash two weeks after the fact without even ripping it up. He could have thrown the receipt away the day he bought the calling card...he could have burned it in an ashtray...he could have flushed it down the toilet...but no, he puts in the trash where anyone can find it...it just doesn't make any sense," incredulously insisted Newlan.

"So what, are you calling Sergeant McDonald a liar?" implored Jane, and suddenly Newlan felt as if fourteen pairs of eyes were staring at him, demanding an answer.

"I'm not saying he's a liar. But what I am saying is that, in my opinion, something seems fishy about this evidence. I'm sorry, but that's how I see it," asserted Newlan with an obstinate shake of the head, and naturally his comments were met with an outraged barrage of rebuttal.

"Hey you're all entitled to your own opinions...and I'm entitled to mine," stubbornly declared Newlan, and with that, he ended the day just as it had begun. That is to say, he ended the day with just about every one of his fellow jurors upset with him over his audacity to still believe that John Breslin was innocent...until proven guilty...beyond a reasonable doubt.

Chapter 72 – I've Got a Feeling...Somebody's Watching Me

Monday evening June 16, 2008 – 8:00 PM

Marianne Plante didn't know quite what to make of her habitually surly husband Tom Willis's suddenly placid behavior...and it was beginning to worry her. The fact that he was his usual gloomy self was nothing new, but conversely, he was also keeping a peculiarly low-profile which was totally out of character for him, and on top of that, as an added twist to his mysterious demeanor, he was suspiciously eyeballing her every move as she made a halfhearted attempt to clean the house.

The children were attending a sleepover at the home of one of their classmates, so the Willis's had the place to themselves, which in happier times would have led to a romping chase around the house until they were both naked on the floor. But alas, these were not happy times in the marriage of Marianne Plante and Tom Willis.

For better or worse, Plante always understood exactly where she stood with her husband; whether it was his incessant complaints aimed at her lack of cooking skills, her lack of cleaning skills, or her lack of lovemaking skills, he was always unceasingly vocal with his criticisms, so this sudden turn of events was totally baffling to her.

Under normal circumstances Plante would have relished the respite from the verbal abuse which her husband dished out in measured doses on a regular basis. However, the state of affairs in Plante's life was anything but normal these days, and so the cold-shoulder treatment gave her serious pause for concern.

Plante wasn't altogether certain whether it was merely her guilty conscience, or whether it was her woman's intuition, but something told her that her husband's distrusting nature had somehow been aroused; something told her that his radar had picked up on an unfaithful vibe pulsing from her morally deficient scruples; something told her that he could see right through her, right into her very soul, and she was absolutely terrified by what he might discover, or even worse, what he might have already discovered.

Yes, Marianne Plante's heart was being emotionally undressed alright; emotionally undressed in broad daylight; emotionally undressed in plain sight, and in more ways than one. In some ways, Plante felt as if her husband had donned a pair of powerful x-ray glasses which left nothing to the imagination. And in that same vein, in other ways, she felt as if her inner most secrets had been stolen from her cerebrum; snatched up and put on display for public dissemination; put out on display for all the world to see.

And furthermore, Plante was scared to death of the implications the she was drawing from her perceived vulnerabilities and the tragic consequences that they might set into motion.

"What's wrong Tommy? Please, talk to me," pleaded Plante until she was blue in the face, while at the same time her husband lay sprawled out on the sofa, indifferently balancing a can of beer on his belly as he watched the Red Sox take on the Philadelphia Phillies in interleague play.

But for Tom Willis however, passiveness was not a natural condition, and so it was only a matter of time before his wife's pitiful pleas managed to light his combustible fuse.

"Can't you see that I'm watching the game? So please, just leave me the fuck alone," demanded Willis in a tone that bordered on violent; in a tone that bordered on a man who was a ticking time bomb; in a tone that bordered on a man who was just about ready to explode.

"Please, Tommy I'm begging you. We need to talk. Can't _you_ see that I'm falling apart? We need to fix things or else we might as well split up. We can't live this way anymore. It's not good for either one of us. It's not good for the kids. Please Tommy help me, I feel so dead inside," wailed Plante in a raised tone of her own that was gut-wrenching in its despair.

But despite his wife's tearful lament, Tom Willis continued to stare stoically into the TV set, and his long, chiseled face showed no signs of emotion; his impassive, deadpanned face revealed not a clue as to what he was really thinking inside that evil head of his, which mercifully was just as well for the sake of Marianne Plante's tenuous sanity.

However, as is our duty, we are compelled to let you, the dear reader, in on exactly what Tom Willis was thinking in regards to his "dead inside" housewife. At that moment, what Tom Willis was really thinking was this; "never mind feeling dead inside, you just might be feeling dead on the outside pretty soon, you fuckin' bitch. You and that asshole boyfriend of yours...whoever the fuck he is."

As was made clear by his ruthless thoughts, at this hour, Willis was still unaware of Frank Newlan's identity, and he was just dying to find out; at this hour, Willis was impatiently marking his time until his hired hand, Private Detective Brent Blain, got back to him with the much anticipated vital information regarding the sleaze-ball who had despoiled his prized possession; the classless act who had deflowered his private garden; the no good piece of shit who had stolen his personal property; a piece of property which, mind you, he rightfully and legally owned.

You see, as far as Tom Willis was concerned, his wife was much like an ornament that he, and only he, was allowed to make use of for his own decorative purposes; for his own personal pleasure. And the fact that another man was somehow able to break the chains of abuse which he had always wielded so masterfully in controlling her spirits was killing him inside; and he wasn't about to take it lying down.

Meanwhile, although Willis was tempestuously glaring at his wife and silently contemplating his hostile plan of action, she, on the other hand, continued to appeal for some sort of resolution to their unruly stalemate.

"Please Tommy please, you're freaking me out. Please say something, anything, please," implored Plante, until finally Willis had had enough, and he blew up like a nuclear reaction run amok.

"You want me to say something do you? Well you should have thought of that before, before, before..." roared Willis. But in spite of his infamous temper, he caught himself just as he was about to say, "...before you shacked up with that fuckin' Casanova, who's as good as dead, by the way."

"Before what...before what...please tell me, before what," pressed on Plante. But her husband wasn't about to divulge what was on his mind, at least not yet anyway. Instead, Tom Willis sprang up from the sofa, and like a madman he howled, "Before you started acting like a fuckin' whore."

Willis's accusation stung Plante more than all of the humiliating insults he had ever hurled on her combined, and now that the gauntlet had been thrown down, she had a dire decision to make; confront her husband once and for all or back down forever.

And so, regardless of her equally imprudent indiscretions, Marianne Plante at long last decided that no one, not even a rabid animal, deserved to be treated this way.

Despite her fears, Plante got up into her husband's face, and with the help of a seething rage which seemingly came bounding up from out of nowhere, she was ready to give him a good solid piece of her mind. However, before she could say so much as a single word, Willis slapped her to the ground and let loose with the vilest stream of insults imaginable. And then, to add insult to injury, he just left her there where she lay, balled up on the floor, as he pulled on his jacket and headed out the door in a huff.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going, you asshole? You're a fuckin' coward," defiantly whimpered Plante as her husband's Infiniti coupe took off like a rocket propelled grenade and left a cloud of dust lingering in the driveway.

It took a standing eight count before Plante was able to lift herself, physically and emotionally, up off the proverbial mat, but she eventually regained her composure, and when she did, her first thought was to call on Frank Newlan.

But unlike her indecisive days of yore, this time Plante acted immediately on her initial impulse, and as the telephone rang in unit 630 of the Medford River Park Condominiums, as the caller ID announced the party on the other end of the line, Frank Newlan stiffened with an alarming mixture of foreboding apprehension and decadent delight.

Newlan was becoming increasingly unsure of what he might be getting himself into, but he desperately needed to hear Plante's voice just the same; for on the one hand, Newlan loved Marianne Plante. He loved her unconditionally. He loved her with every beat of his aching heart. He loved her from somewhere deep within the breadth of his being. But on the other hand, the fact remained that she was now a married woman. And if he had previously doubted the ever-present danger that this virally-induced strain of a clandestine arrangement might present, then the Breslin trial was a much needed dose of reality; the Breslin trial was a wake-up call; like a cold shower; like a bone-crunching punch in the nose; like a hard slap right across the face.

And so with all of this and more flashing across his mind, Newlan answered the phone only to find Marianne Plante crying softly into the receiver.

"What's wrong Marianne?" cooed Newlan in the most soothing voice he could muster.

"Oh Frankie, I'm so unhappy. Tommy and I have been fighting again, and I just don't know what to do with myself anymore," confessed a sniffling Plante.

"I don't know what to say Marianne," admitted a befuddled Newlan.

"Just be there for me Frankie...that's all I ask," beseeched a slobbering Plante.

"Of course I'll be there for you Marianne. No matter whatever happens in life, no matter how many years go by, you'll always be my friend...and I'll always care about you. But right now, I think you really need to figure this out on your own," counseled a suddenly standoffish Newlan.

"I love you Frankie," blurted out a desperate Plante. But her tender declaration only served to further distance the growing gap between her and Newlan.

"I'm sorry to say it Marianne, but I think you either need to work things out with your husband, or you are gonna have to get a divorce...and whatever happens, it can't be about me," advised Newlan in a sobering tone.

"I know Frankie...in my heart of hearts I know that I need to make some changes in my life, but it's so hard. I just tried to talk to Tommy about it again, but he doesn't want to hear it. He just walks out on me every time I bring up anything that's the least bit painful...and I just don't know what to do anymore," sobbed Plante.

"Hang in there Marianne, because I'm sure that whatever is meant to be...it will happen in the end...and whatever happens, it will be for the best. And I can't make any promises, but who knows, maybe someday we'll find ourselves..." began to predict Newlan. But alas, his voice faltered just as he was about to spit out the word "together."

However, regardless of Newlan's existentially uplifting ramblings, in her own mind, Plante saw no resolution to her predicament in sight, and her tears turned into hysterics as the harsh reality of her dreary situation began to sink in.

As a matter of fact, the situation seemed altogether hopeless until finally Newlan resorted to using those preciously clichéd words of wisdom which had come to define his own life of hopeless hope; infamous words which he no longer completely believed anymore in his own right.

"It's OK Marianne, everything's gonna be alright," portended Newlan, but at the same time he continued on with his sermon of misplaced accountability.

"But for now, as hard as it might be, I wholeheartedly believe that you are gonna have to resolve your issues on your own...because, if you do get divorced, I don't want it to be directly, or even indirectly, related to me in any way."

Of course, after the steamy events of the weekend, one could make the case that it was already much too late for Newlan to back away from the gambling table; he had already shown his cards; he had already played his hand; he had already cashed in his chips; he had already called the dealers bluff, only to find that the house doesn't always play fairly when it comes to rolling the dice of love.

"Frankie there's something I need to tell you. I think you might already be involved, whether you want to be or not. I think he knows that something's going on. He's been acting really strange lately, like he's suspicious about something...and I think...I think he knows about us...and I'm so sorry that I got you in the middle of all this," lamented Plante while at the same time Newlan fell into an utter state of disbelief as he deciphered the impossible words that were streaming out of his paramour's mouth.

"What do you mean he knows about us?" demanded Newlan in a panicky voice.

"I think he knows," repeated a choked-up Plante, and all of a sudden Newlan felt a cold, sticky perspiration dripping down from the brow of his forehead as he repeated his question.

"How the hell can he know about us?" wondered an incredulous Newlan, and for her part Plante was just as bewildered as he was.

"I don't know, but I think he knows," was the only explanation that Plante could come up with. And so for the next hour, the two of them racked their brains out trying to piece together the scant clues that were available to them, as if they were attempting to solve some sort of mind-teasing riddle, until finally they rationalized that there was no way Tom Willis could have possibly known about their illicit rendezvous; or perhaps more likely, they had merely talked themselves into believing that their secret was safe.

But regardless of their comfort level, regardless of whether they honestly believed what they were desperately trying to convince each other was true, the troubled lovers hung up the phone with the promise that Plante would keep Newlan apprised of the situation; although at the moment, her assurances were of little consolation to him; in fact, he was so stressed out that he was practically climbing the walls of his apartment.

Newlan was behaving very much in a like a caged animal as he paced around his condo in a daze...and when, out of the corner of his eye, he happened upon Dr. Clay's letter and the vial of Lorazepam sitting on his kitchen table, his first instinct was to reach for the ampoule and swallow a handful of pills before putting himself to bed. However, the subconscious scars of his near fatal overdose were still fresh on his mind, so instead of drugging himself up, he screamed out, "SON OF A BITCH" as he punched his fist into the kitchen wall; simultaneously almost breaking his hand and bashing a hole clear through the cardboard-thin drywall.

Newlan howled in pain as he lunged at the prescription container and flung it across the room like a catcher throwing out a runner at second base, and then in a release of pent-up tension, he reached for the letter and began tearing it into pieces. And when that didn't sufficiently relieve his nerves, he placed the torn remnants of Dr. Clay's note into the kitchen sink and put a match to it, setting off the smoke detector in the process, while at the same time the danger alarms in his head went ringing off as well.

By now Newlan was in full panic mode as he switched on the ceiling fan and cursed his misfortune. And yet even after his fervent attempts at stress release, the demons of his recent drug-addled past still hadn't been fully exorcized from his bloodstream, and so, last but not least, he flushed the Lorazepam down the toilet bowl as he sank to his knees and vomited away his dinner.

After his convulsions had subsided, Newlan spat wretchedly into the master bathroom sink, and he watched on helplessly as the scraps of his meal, much like his foolish dreams, were flushed away into the sewer hole of his life. And although the hypnotically flowing water cleansed his mind to some degree, he was still a bundle of nerves, and so to remedy the situation, he settled himself down to a few too many shots of whiskey before calling it a night.

However, the whiskey was almost as damaging to Newlan's psyche as the Lorazepam had been, and so it's not surprising that he fell into a series of dreams; dreams of someone following him...someone watching him...someone, but not just anyone.

In Newlan's dreams, the evil, ghoulish face which had haunted his youth for so many years was back. But this time, it was more determined than ever to finish the job.

In Newlan's dreams, the enraged face was back. But this time, it was more chilling than an Arctic frost, and it was determined to wring the life out of Newlan's heart once and for all.

In Newlan's dreams, the faceless face of his past was without a doubt following him, just as surely as day will follow night. But this time, the lunatic was determined not to fail in its frantic attempt at obliterating Newlan's tortured soul.

In Newlan's dreams, the possessed apparition was inexorably following him, just as surely as spring will follow winter. But this time, the relentless demon was determined not to stop its dogged, deathly pursuit until they had journeyed all the way...to Hell...and back again.

Chapter 73 – Learning to Let Go (A Mother's Love)

Tuesday morning June 17, 2008 – 7:45 AM

Despite draining down a half a bottle of whiskey, Frank Newlan was up at the crack of dawn and out the door like clockwork after completing his usual morning routine; and not even the specter of Saeed Kahn could slow him down to a trot on this fine sunny day.

Kahn was busy interrogating a guest who had the audacity to try to sneak by him without signing in, which allowed Newlan himself to shuffle past the preoccupied doorman unnoticed for a change.

Newlan was vaguely aware of a foul nightmare which had disturbed his sleep all night, and of course, he hadn't forgotten about Marianne Plante's suspicions regarding her husband, but he wasn't going to let anything dampen his spirit on this bright, beautiful morning.

Newlan had pretty much convinced himself that there was no way Plante's husband could have known about their lusty tryst, and even if he did somehow find out, what was he going to do, kill him? What were the odds? After all, he was intimately familiar with the sordid details behind the extramarital affairs of countless friends and co-workers, not to mention his own bygone indiscretions, and none of them ever ended up in the mess that was the John Breslin murder trial.

And so with these positive thought in mind, Newlan hustled down to his car, fully prepare to take on another tricky day. However, as soon as he put the key into the ignition and reached for the stereo knobs, he realized that he had forgotten to pick out a CD for the ride, and he kicked himself over his absentmindedness. But at this point in the morning, seeing as how he was already buckled up into the driver's seat of his red Mercury, he was much too lazy to make his way back upstairs again; not to mention the fact that he would have had to pass by Saeed Kahn again and run the risk of agitating the shady concierge, so he decided to leave well enough alone and listen to the radio instead.

Newlan expertly puffed on a joint and fiddled with the channel frequency dials, all while merging onto the highway at 70 miles per hour...and when his search for a half decent song came up empty, he ended up back on the classic rock station, WXLZ, waiting for the advertisement cycle to end.

While Newlan bided his time in anticipation of the DJ playing some old school rock & roll after the commercial break, a soft, soothing, sensual voice came rustling out over the airwaves, asking an age old question...and offering some answers to boot.

"Are you one of the many millions of unhappily married people, living a life of quiet desperation?" wondered the stimulating pitch-woman. "Well we at the Ashton Madson Agency can help. Since 1997 we've specialized in matching up people just like you for an affair of a lifetime, guaranteed or your money back. So if you're a married person looking for an affair, please call or visit our website today. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain. We're secure, discrete and absolutely risk free...so what are you waiting for?"

At the outset, Newlan assumed that the endorsement was just a hoax being perpetrated by the shock-jock morning DJs; just a couple of tricksters having some fun with their listeners; just a couple of jokesters have a few laughs with the morning commuter audience. But as the commercial played on and he realized that it was no joke, he was aghast to learn that a borderline illicit service such as this, arranging hook-ups for desperate housewives and straying husbands, was allowed to air on the radio.

"I can't believe they're actually advertizing this crap on the airwaves. Absolutely risk free my ass...you'd have to be soft as a grape to sign up for something like this...you'd just be asking for a world of trouble...big-time trouble," groaned Newlan, and as he pondered the implications of this newfangled 21st century dating service, he continued to carry on his conversation with the sexy voice which was wafting out of his car's stereo speakers like a flirtatious tease.

"What about the risk of a jealous husband blasting a bullet hole through your head?" incredulously wondered Newlan.

"And besides, I guess I don't need this type of service, since I've been getting _my_ affairs for free," muttered Newlan...and then it hit him; the irony of the advertisement hit him right on the crown of his big, fat, superstitious noggin.

"What if this commercial is trying to tell me something?" whispered Newlan as a flare-up of his incurable anxiety attacks began to kick in.

"But _what_ is it trying to tell me? Could it have something to do with John Breslin's fate? Or maybe it has something to do with Tracy Stone and her affair with Fred Miller? Or maybe, just maybe, it has something to do with Marianne Plante and Tom Willis and...and...and...me. Could it be possible? What the fuck is happening to me?" mumbled Newlan as all Hell began to break loose in the warzone of his mind.

But regardless of what the advertisement may or may not have been trying to rely to Newlan, he would soon have to put his probing questions on hold for a while, because for the immediate future he needed to be on his toes so that he would have the wherewithal to play his small part in settling the cut-throat dispute between one Mr. John Breslin and the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

And with all of this turmoil swimming through Newlan's head like a great white shark on the attack, the drive to the courthouse went by like a whooshing blur...and before he knew what hit him, he was seated in his swivel chair, pencil in hand, waiting on DA Lyons to call the next witness to the stand.

Newlan had a faint recollection of his fellow jurors discussing the topics of the day in the deliberation room, but he was so preoccupied with his own issues that they could have been talking to the ghost of Fred Miller himself and he wouldn't have noticed. However, now that he found himself in the courtroom, he was prepared to turn on the jets of his concentration stream and set them into high gear.

"Your honor the prosecution calls Ms. Brenda O'Laughlin to the stand," announced DA Lyons as a neatly dressed, middle-aged woman approached the bench.

"Hmmm I wonder what she's got to do with all of this?" thought Newlan as O'Laughlin nervously spelled out her name for the record.

"Ms. O'Laughlin, are you familiar with phone number 978 211-6545?" asked Lyons as she got right to the point for a change.

"Yes, my husband Jim and I subscribe to a cell phone plan which included five phones, so we took one phone each for Jim and me and our two kids...and then he kind of rented out the extra phone for a few bucks a month, first to his friend Tim Holder, and later to another friend, Sammy Fox," explained O'Laughlin.

"And Ms. O'Laughlin do you remember when Mr. Fox took over usage of the phone in question?" continued Lyons.

"I believe it was around November 1st of 2005," recalled O'Laughlin as Lyons volleyed for position with Gleason attempting to spike her every serve.

It took an extended series of questions and objections just to establish the simple fact that O'Laughlin had become casually acquainted with Fox through her husband, and that her husband and Fox were old friends from way back when they were kids growing up together in the Northtown section of Boston. However, despite the momentum-breaking objections, Lyons wrapped things up nicely by inquiring about perhaps the most mysterious piece of evidence in the entire case.

"Ms. O'Laughlin, did your husband sell a used car to Mr. Fox?"

"Yes he did...it was a 1995 red Ford Taurus which we sold to Sammy for $1,500.00."

Lyons produced a photograph of the automobile in question, which she displayed on the overhead projector, and O'Laughlin went on to positively identified the car as the same vehicle that belonging to her husband before he sold it to Sammy Fox.

Most of the jurors didn't pay much mind to the rundown old Ford Taurus, which was even more beat-up that Newlan's Mercury Mystique (not to mention the fact that they were an exact color match, which isn't too remarkable of a coincidence when you consider that both vehicles were 1995 model automobiles, manufactured by Ford Motor Company).

However, as soon as the snapshot hit the big screen, Newlan began scanning the enlarged image of the Ford Taurus intently, looking for signs of the scratch marks on the front bumper which the many employees of the Barron Insurance Agency had testified to in such vivid detail. But much to his astonishment, Newlan didn't observe anything close to resembling the damage that had been described by the dubious witnesses, and furthermore, he was freaked out by the color match with his own car, regardless of the fact that the two vehicles were built by the same automaker.

Not surprisingly, at least to Newlan anyway, DA Lyons promptly removed the photo from the overhead projector as quickly as she could, and accordingly he jotted down a pertinent observation into his notepad:

For some reason, I get the impression that DA Lyons doesn't want us to get a good look at that photo of Fox's car.

"And do your remember the approximate date of the transaction Ms. O'Laughlin?" wondered Lyons while the photograph of the red Taurus sat on the desk of Court Reporter Jerry Montgomery, conveniently and conspicuously out of view of the jurors peering eyes.

"Yes, it was the summer of 2005. I'd say around the beginning of August," guesstimated O'Laughlin.

And while this exchange of nonstop question and answer was taking place, an unexpected beeping tone suddenly began belching somewhere within the midst of the courtroom like a flatulent cow. And while it wasn't an overpoweringly loud sound, it was still cacophonous enough that it filled the courtroom with a mesmerizing dissonance. And while it wasn't an overly conspicuous chirp, it was still clamorous enough to momentarily distract the venerable DA. And finally, while it wasn't an overwhelmingly shrill racket, it was still piercing enough for even the zoned-in Newlan to detect, which shouldn't have been too much of a surprise considering the fact that the origins of the offending frequency was right there in the middle of jury box; one row down and four seats to his right to be exact.

The jangling echo, faint though it may have been, was in fact resounding enough to provoke Judge Gershwin into sending a cross-eyed stare in Billy's direction, and he in turn glared into the jury box. The chiming alert, indistinct though it may have been, was in fact strident enough to instinctively incite Newlan to gaze up at the clock on the wall in search of a cuckoo, only to observe instead, that it was exactly 10 o'clock. And furthermore, the gonging announcement, muffled though it may have been, was in fact disruptive enough for Newlan to gleefully surmise, "uh oh...it looks like someone is gonna be in big trouble with Billy."

Luckily, DA Lyons had just about completed her interrogation of Ms. Brenda O'Laughlin, so in basketball parlance it was "no harm no foul". But unfortunately for the members of the jury, the damage had already been done, and as far as Billy the no-nonsense Court Officer was concerned, they were going to have to pay dearly for this egregious transgression.

Similarly, the beeping clang had little to no affect on renowned Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason. And if anything, it appeared that the minor distraction may have somehow fired him up even more than he already was, because, for whatever reason, he came charging out of the gates like a bull in a china shop.

"Ms. O'Laughlin was the front bumper of the vehicle your husband sold to Mr. Fox damaged in any way?" inquired Gleason while holding up the photo of the beat-up red Taurus.

"It had a few scratches on it but no serious damage," replied O'Laughlin. And while she elaborated, Gleason returned the photo back up onto the overhead, seemingly, as if he was reading Newlan's mind.

For his part, Newlan immediately launched back into his detailed note-taking and visual inspection of the snapshot, while at the same time Gleason requested that the picture be entered into evidence as the next exhibit.

I'll be dammed...where the hell is all of the peeling paint that supposedly stood out like a sore thumb on the front bumper of the unidentified red car? I'm gonna have to take a very close look at that photo once deliberations start (and I'm gonna make sure that the rest of the jurors take a good look at it as well), because I have some serious doubts as to whether this is the same car that was parked in the Newton garage the morning that Fred Miller was murdered!!

"Ms. O'Laughlin, if I may change the subject, were you aware of whether Mr. Fox had undergone any medical procedures which required hospitalization in the fall of 2005?" continued Gleason while letting the photo of the much ballyhooed red automobile linger on the projection screen for a little while longer.

"Yes, he had a full right knee replacement sometime around late October or early November of 2005, if that's what you're referring to," replied O'Laughlin.

"That's exactly what I'm referring to," exclaimed Gleason, and he presented O'Laughlin with an almost dementedly wide smile before continuing.

"Now Ms. O'Laughlin, did you have occasion to see Mr. Fox after his surgery?"

"Yes, he would stop by the house and visit my husband every once in a while," explained a visible tense O'Laughlin.

"And how would you describe his condition?" wondered Gleason.

"Well, if I remember correctly, he was still on crutches up until around Thanksgiving, and after that he was getting around with the aid of a cane, albeit with a noticeable limp," recollected O'Laughlin.

"And Ms. O'Laughlin, do you remember the last time you saw Mr. Fox?" probed Gleason.

"Yes, it was in early April of 2006, probably just days before he got arrested," recalled O'Laughlin.

"And what was his physical condition at that time?" exclaimed an obviously worked-up Gleason.

"Well, he had definitely improved, but he was still making use of a cane, and he was still walking with a bit of a limp," expounded O'Laughlin.

"No further questions your honor," announced Gleason, and, unlike the limping Sammy Fox, he practically skipped back to his desk while Ms. Brenda O'Laughlin slowly made her way down from the stand.

Meanwhile, Newlan decided to utilize the transitory break in the action as an opportunity to take a hasty peek over at the DA's table where he observed Elaina Lyons squirming uncomfortably in her seat as if someone had just put a match to her toes...and he went on to add even more fuel to the imaginary fire by jotting down the following commentary into his notepad:

You gotta be kidding me! Fox supposedly snuck up on Miller, caught him off guard, shot him, limped back to his car and then made his getaway without anyone ever seeing him, either on the day of the murder or on any of the other days when he was allegedly scouting out the garage. This is starting to sound really farfetched to me! Man you can't make this sh*t up!!

When DA Lyons had finally regained her composure, the next witness she called to the stand was the aforementioned Tim Holder who explained that he had used a cell phone belonging to Jim O'Laughlin with the number 978 211-6545 from August through October of 2005, at which time he decided to return it due to cash flow issues.

Holder, a 40 year old truck driver, was not on the witness stand for very long, and his testimony went uncontested by Gleason, but for the jurors he was a memorable witness nonetheless.

Holder was short of stature but long on personality. He possessed a thick head of jet black hair, and he showed up in court wearing a pair of cut-off shorts, a white tee-shirt, and a pair of floppy sandals. And on top of all that, his rough-and-tumble mannerisms and streetwise vocal intonations reflected the tough guy attitude which one might expect from a truck driver; all of which left a lasting impression on the jurors who unanimously considered him to be quite the colorful character.

The next witness, an attractive 43 year old woman by the name of Kathleen Ritz, was called upon to provide verification that Sammy Fox had dated her cousin, Nancy O'Brien, the oft mentioned co-worker of Breslin's whom Newlan was very much looking forward to hearing from.

Ms. Ritz also confirmed that she had called Fox on at least three or four occasions at phone number 978 211-6545, and that he was driving a red Ford Taurus throughout the latter months of 2005 and into 2006.

For his part, Gleason didn't have too many questions for Ms. Ritz, but he did use the opportunity to have her reiterate that Sammy Fox was still hobbling around with a pronounced and obvious limp in his stride well after the murder took place in January of 2006.

Up next on the witness stand was a gentleman in his late fifties by the name of Gerald Chaison. Mr. Chaison had been renting a room in his home to Sammy Fox for one hundred dollars a week from August of 2005 right up on through April of 2006 when Fox was arrested and held without bail.

Among other things that the jurors learned from Mr. Chaison was that he met Sammy Fox through an ad he had placed in the "Roommates" section of the local newspaper, and that Fox was behind on his rent by a few hundred dollars.

DA Lyons made sure to have Mr. Chaison point out that Fox's room was on the second floor of his home; and that, even with his knee replacement surgery, he was able to maneuver up and down the stairs at the time of the murder.

Mr. Chaison also confirmed that Fox drove a 1995 red Ford Taurus, and that he made frequent use of a cell phone even though there was a landline phone in the house which, per their rental agreement, was available for his usage to make local and toll-free calls, as long as he didn't take advantage of the privilege.

And finally DA Lyons had Mr. Chaison acknowledge that he was familiar with Nancy O'Brien, and that he knew her to be Sammy Fox's former girlfriend.

When it was Gleason's turn at the plate, he continued to pound away at the implications regarding the aftereffects of Fox's knee surgery, and he got Mr. Chaison to admit that Fox was still having trouble getting in and out of his car well into 2006. And as far as Fox's financial situation was concerned, Gleason was able to get Chaison to reveal that Fox received a weekly VA check as a result of his military duty when he served the country so nobly in Vietnam.

"One last question Mr. Chaison, are you familiar with a gentleman by the name of John Breslin?" politely asked Gleason as he neatly wrapped up his cross-examination, and Chaison uttered a simple "no" by way of firm reply; a reply which was met with a gentle smile and a "thank you Mr. Chaison...no further questions your honor" from the renowned defense attorney.

After the morning break DA Lyons called upon a witness that, based on the murmur echoing throughout the courtroom, caught many people in attendance by surprise.

"Your honor the prosecution calls Mrs. Sandra Breslin to the stand," announced the staunch DA as John Breslin's elderly mother limped into the courtroom, while at the same time Newlan was staggered by a sudden sense of unbearable grief.

Mrs. Breslin reminded Newlan so much of his own mother that he almost went into a funk right then and there in the courtroom. He was already on the verge of tears when out of the corner of his eye he noticed Mrs. Breslin blow a kiss towards her son while she sat and waited for whatever it was that these ill-informed lawyers were going to try to do to her.

And while DA Lyons did indeed try in vain to get Mrs. Breslin to cooperate with her, it was all to no avail, because although Breslin's mom may have been long in the tooth, she had developed a hard-nosed stubbornness in her old age; a stubbornness born of wisdom; a stubbornness which more than matched DA Lyons' resoluteness, and in fact raised her a few chips to boot.

Meanwhile, even though Newlan could clearly detect Mrs. Breslin's pallid, tranquilizing voice as she spoke directly to the jurors, she may as well have been speaking in Greek, because her words were a blur to him...and his mind was streaking off to another place and time.

Newlan heartbroken memory banks were working overtime, recalling in great detail how he had sacrificed two years out of his life so that his mother wouldn't have to live the rest of her days in a nursing home after she had suffered a fractured hip in a fall on her slippery kitchen floor.

Luckily for the elderly Mrs. Newlan, her son just so happened to be paying a surprise visit to her on the fateful day that the unfortunate incident took place. Otherwise, she would have been laid out on the floor for God knows how long before someone heard her moaning cries for help.

To this day, Newlan had never forgotten the fear in his mother's eyes when he found her, helplessly sprawled out on the floor. And over the next twenty four months, he felt as if he himself were tumbling down into a bottomless pit as well. However, his descent from grace was not so much physical as it was mental, and he found himself falling into a deep well of depression as he watched his mother deteriorate; powerless to do anything about it. Over time, she, in turn, slowly transmuted into a helpless soul in her own right. And yet, as she became more reliant on others for assistance, she gained a childlike quality about her; a dependency borne of love; an unmistakable innocence of purity, as if she were aging in reverse.

As the excruciating days went by, Newlan hoped for the best, but between old age and her many other ailments, his mother never fully recovered, and despite his beyond-the-call-of-duty efforts and his exhaustive dedication, two years later she was dead.

Newlan still recalled the funeral as if it was yesterday. He still recalled how the elderly priest, Father Callahan, saw the distress in his eyes as he comforted his soul.

"Don't despair my son, for our faith teaches us that you'll see your mother again one day," preached Father Callahan, and Newlan was in fact duly impressed by his ecclesiastic piety.

But now as Newlan sat in the courtroom and bore witness to the manner in which DA Lyons verbally assaulted the frail Mrs. Breslin, it was almost too much for him to take. He couldn't help but to fixate on his own mother, and then just as suddenly he flashed back to his father, lying in bed, dying of cancer. He instantly recollected how his old man, with trembling fingers, attempted to call his daughter Rose on the telephone. He acutely remembered taking the phone out of his father's hand only to realize that he had somehow randomly called the local funeral home. And while Newlan apologized to the undertaker on the other end of the line, he clearly recognized the providence of his father's pending mortality. A mere two days later, his dear old dad was dead and he was left haunted by yet another in a never-ending series of inexplicably eerie incidents which had come to define his tumultuous life.

Newlan was practically put into a dreamlike trance by the sight of Mrs. Breslin, and as he reflected unendingly on his own parents, he came to a sudden, nonnegotiable conclusion; sometimes people have to learn to let go. Mrs. Breslin had to learn to let go of her son. John Breslin had to learn to let go of his wife. Tracy Stone had to learn to let go of Fred Miller. And last but sure not least, Newlan felt an aching in his heart as he concluded that maybe, just maybe, he desperately needed to learn to let go of Marianne Plante.

"But why does it have to be so hard? So painful," whispered Newlan, while his closest neighbor in the jury box, Natalie, watched in horror; her colleague appeared to be trapped in some sort of a purple haze, obliviously talking to himself in the middle of a murder trial, and there was absolutely nothing whatsoever she could do in response to his insane ramblings except to nudge him ever so gently. And mercifully, thankfully, gratefully, her actions were just enough of a gesture to break Newlan out of his engrossing stupor.

When he finally came back to his senses, Newlan scribbled down the words "THANK YOU" in big letters into his notepad and he nudged Natalie in return as he flashed the notebook in her direction.

"DON'T MENTION IT...BEATIFUL SONG BY DIDO, BY THE WAY," scribbled back Natalie, and along with the written message she offered Newlan a gentle smile. And as he acknowledged the twinkle in her eyes, her undeniable tenderness wasn't lost on our mistrusting protagonist, not in the least.

"She really is a wonderful person...and what a fool I am. Anyway, I'm sure as hell not gonna mention it to her or to anyone else for that matter, and I hope that she doesn't either. But I must admit, I never made the connection to the Dido song...and I sure would like to pick her brain about what made her think of that," contemplated Newlan as, bit by bit, he began to regain his composure. And yet a lump remained lodged in his throat for the remainder of the morning, in loving memory of his departed parents.

And while the general population of the courtroom may not have been cognizant as to what was going on in the far corner of the jury box, that didn't stop DA Lyons from working herself up into a lather as she attempted to persuade Mrs. Breslin to discuss the various financial transactions which she deemed relevant to the case, such as a tax return check that Mrs. Breslin had cashed on behalf of her son in September of 2005.

However, much to DA Lyons' dismay, Mrs. Breslin consistently replied to each and every one of her questions with the same puzzled words, not to mention the same puzzled expression etched upon her face.

"I'm sorry Elaina, but I don't understand what you're asking me."

DA Lyons was none too happy with what she believed to be Mrs. Breslin's feigned state of confusion, and furthermore, she was stunned that Mrs. Breslin would refer to her by her first name, in a court of law no less.

However, although Lyons was appalled by Mrs. Breslin's lack of etiquette, she was also well aware of the fact that coming across as heavy-handed with a senior citizen, even if the senior citizen in question was the mother of a murderer, would not go over very well with the jurors, so she looked the other way as far as this transgression was concerned.

After getting nowhere with the money trail, the tenacious DA attempted to get Mrs. Breslin to go over her version of the events leading up to the murder of Fred Miller and the subsequent police investigation, but the shrewd senior citizen continued to play dumb.

Mrs. Breslin was even unwilling to intelligently discuss the curious "squirrel in the basement story" which had been baked into Breslin's alibi...and after close to an hour, DA Lyons gave up, leaving Newlan to note:

Not sure what DA Lyons gained by calling Mrs. Breslin to the stand, other than to show that she cashed her son's IRS refund check on September 24th, 2005, which could have been proven just as easily by subpoenaing the bank's records of the transaction.

Had she known what he was thinking, DA Lyons would have respectfully disagreed with Newlan's opinion, but after witnessing the spectacle that R. J. Gleason was about to put on, she would soon change her tune.

Not surprisingly, Mrs. Breslin was quite a bit more lucid when her son's attorney was doing the talking, and if Newlan didn't know better, he would have sworn that he was watching an Academy Award winning actress in action.

"Mrs. Breslin did your son ask if he could come live with you after he was served with his divorce papers?" wondered Gleason as he gently tested the waters of the elderly woman's mental capacity.

"Yes he did, and of course I told him that he was welcome to stay with me for as long as he wanted to," confirmed Mrs. Breslin in a tone that seemed to say that to do otherwise would have been nothing short of heretical.

And now that Gleason felt comfortable about Mrs. Breslin's ability to coherently elucidate her thoughts in front of a packed courtroom, he waded even deeper into the ocean of potential strife.

"Mrs. Breslin, how did you feel about Tracy's divorce request?"

"Why I cried for days when I heard the news. I was shocked and surprised. I loved Tracy like a daughter, and I thought that she loved me...and I adore the kids more than you could ever imagine," explained an appalled Mrs. Breslin, while at the same time her revelations had more than a few jurors joining Newlan as he sat on the verge of tears.

"Mrs. Breslin, after your son moved in with you, he had his children, your grandchildren, over to your home often during his visitations, didn't he?" added Gleason.

"Oh yes it was wonderful...we'd have so much fun. We'd play this game where Johnny would take the kids up the hill and they'd look for grandma with their binoculars...and I'd be waving to them from my front porch," reminisced Mrs. Breslin with pride, just as any loving grandmother would do.

Things were going quite swimmingly at the moment as far as R. J. Gleason could ascertain, but of course, at the other end of the pool DA Lyons launched up out of her seat at the first peep of the word binoculars, and she vehemently objected, again and again, only to be shot down by Judge Gershwin, who repeatedly replied "He may have it," as fast as Lyons could spit out her objections.

DA Lyons was uttered repulsed by the charade that R. J. Gleason and Mrs. Breslin were putting on; using her grandchildren to explain away the binoculars was despicable as far as she was concerned, and she was sure that the councilor for the defense had put the not-so-senile witness up to it. But in the end, she was forced to concede that there really wasn't much she could object about.

Newlan, on the other hand, found the episode to be rather comical, and he sort of felt as if he were witnessing a Saturday Night Live spoof of a game show, not a murder trial, while at the same time Gleason's lips had contorted into a slight smirk as he watched his adversary struggle with the judge for a change.

"Now Mrs. Breslin, regarding your son's IRS tax return, could you please tell the jurors what you did with the check?" asked Gleason once the commotion from the binocular testimony had calmed down.

"Why yes, Johnny asked me to cash the check for him while I was at the supermarket...and so, that's what I did," innocently replied Mrs. Breslin.

"And what happened to the money?" wondered Gleason.

"Well, the check was for four thousand and four hundred dollars, so Johnny gave me four hundred dollars to help pay some of the bills, and he asked me hold on to the rest of the money for him," explained Mrs. Breslin (very articulately we might add).

"And where is that money, Mrs. Breslin?" continued Gleason in a patient tone.

"Why, as I've told you before Mr. Gleason, the money is in an envelope in my strongbox, which is hidden in my closet," answered Mrs. Breslin as her eyes wrinkled up in apparent bewilderment.

"And did you ever tell anyone about this money?" calmly asked Gleason.

"Yes, I told my attorney Maria about it," replied Mrs. Breslin with a puzzled look on her face which seemed to be saying "Why are you asking me all of these stupid questions?"

"You're referring to Maria Durran aren't you?" patiently prodded Gleason.

"Yes, of course," replied Mrs. Breslin in a tone that seemed to be wondering why she was being asked to state the obvious.

"And is Ms. Durran in the courtroom today?" continued Gleason.

"Yes, she's right there," replied an exasperated Mrs. Breslin as she pointed out into the audience.

"And if I were to ask you to produce this lockbox, would you be able to do that, Mrs. Breslin?" wondered Gleason.

"Why yes" replied an utterly baffled Mrs. Breslin. But then again, her perplexed state probably shouldn't come as too much of a surprise when you consider the fact that DA Lyons was objecting to just about every word that came spewing forth out of Gleason mouth until she was blue in the face.

Naturally, the objections led to another heated sidebar discussion, which in turn led to the jurors being excused for lunch while the parties attempted to hash out their differences.

Meanwhile back in the deliberation room, unfortunately for the jurors, their lunch break started off on a sour note...and it just got worse as it went along. For no sooner had the they sat down to their sandwiches when Billy came marching into the room, furious over the clearly audible ringing sound that had escaped from the jury box earlier in the morning...and once again he soon discovered that the guilty party was none other than Peter, the absentminded software engineer in seat number 12.

However, in Peter's defense, this time he immediately raised his hand and took full responsibility for the crime without the least bit of prodding.

"I'm sorry, it was me. Somehow the alarm on my wristwatch got turned on, but I swear it will never happen again," vowed a grimacing Peter.

"Damned straight it will never happen again because from now on I want all cell phones and all watches checked in with me every morning, no questions asked," demanded Billy, and not surprisingly, his marching orders set off another barrage of complaints. But this time however, Billy wasn't about to change his mind, and the mood in the deliberation room turned from sour to bitter in a hurry.

A handful of jurors even took out their frustrations by glaring angrily at Peter as they ate their lunches in silence. But conversely, Newlan, who didn't wear a watch or own a cell phone, was deriving quite the kick from their ordeal.

Newlan was hoping that somebody would bring up the trial since he was itching to get in his two cents regarding the red car photograph and Sammy Fox's knee surgery, but alas, no one took up the campaign which was probably just as well, considering the foul mood that most of the jurors were in.

After lunch, Annie requested that Donny, the elderly Court Officer, escort her on her daily cigarette break expedition, and more than half the jurors joined in on the chance to nab a bit of fresh air. Per usual, Newlan declined to partake in the lunchtime exercise, but when his colleagues returned, Annie broke out into a hacking fit of a cough, as if on cue, which alarmed her fellow jurors. Of course, she insisted that she was OK (although her words hinted otherwise).

"Relax, I'm fine, so don't worry about me...and before anyone goes making any wisecracks, I'll tell you straight out that I know these damned cigarettes are gonna be the death of me someday, but I'm not quite ready to kick the bucket just yet," unconvincingly declared Annie (although she did manage to get at least one sympathetic juror on her side, even if the rationale behind the support was rather twisted).

"I know how you feel Annie. I'm a bit of a hypochondriac myself. It seems like every time I get a little ache or pain, I'm immediately checking for symptoms on WebMD, and the next thing you know...I think I'm dying," wryly explained Newlan, while at the same time his latest revelation regarding what was but just one of his many personality quirks drew more than a few chuckles, particularly from the usually reserved car salesman Mike.

"You're a funny guy Frank," complimented Mike. And in return, with the hint of a smile on his face which made it difficult to determine whether he was joking or not, Newlan reiterated his lack of frivolity regard his health-related obsessions; "No really, I'm serious."

Whether he intended to be humorous or not, Newlan's aside brought to mind his many visits to Dr Clay's office, and he ruefully reflected on the good doctor's telling note which, like Fred Miller, was now nothing but ashes. However, at the very least he figured that maybe his self-deprecating anecdote provided a bit of comic relief for his stressed-out colleagues, many who were still grumpy over the loss of their cell phones, and so he felt as if he had done his good deed for the day.

Meanwhile, as the jurors were impatiently waiting to be returned to the courtroom, a spirited discussion was taking place between Judge Gershwin and the attorneys, including Mrs. Breslin's lawyer, Maria Durran.

During the lunch break, Durran had driven Mrs. Breslin back to her home, and when they returned to the courtroom they were in possession of a small metal lockbox; it was in fact the same strongbox that Mrs. Breslin had described to Gleason, and apparently there was a question as to whether this particular item should be allowed into evidence.

At one point during the debate, attorney Durran got up from her seat in the gallery and attempted to speak, only to be sternly reprimanded by Judge Gershwin, who shouted her down thusly; "Ms. Durran, please remain seated, and I don't want to hear another word from you. Your client is not on trial here so I consider your actions to be inappropriate, and I will not hesitate to have you removed from this courtroom. Do I make myself clear?"

And while Judge Gershwin's fit of anger was never witnessed by the jurors, Ms. Durran's tongue-lashing shocked the rest of the courtroom into submission, and the misbehaving attorney bowed her head and put on a face which appeared to be asking for leniency as she whispered, "yes your honor."

When the jurors finally did return from lunch they found Mrs. Breslin still on the witness stand, and the first thing R. J. Gleason asked of her was to hold up the object which she had sitting on her lap, high enough so that the jurors could see it. And of course, Gleason's request signaled that, in the end, despite Judge Gershwin's admonishment, he and Durran had won their argument, because what was obviously sitting in Mrs. Breslin's lap was the much disputed strongbox which contained, among other things, an envelope stuffed with four thousand dollars worth of one hundred dollar bills.

Gleason had Mrs. Breslin display the envelope, which contained the words "IRS REFUND CHECK" neatly written across it, in the direction of the jury box, and he went on to have her verify that she had never touched any of the money since the day she cashed the check for her son. Gleason then asked Mrs. Breslin what else was in the metal storage container, and she proudly showcased an endless array of birth certificates, report cards, baby pictures, insurance policies, bank statements and a vast assortment of miscellaneous trinkets.

The number of items that Mrs. Breslin was able to fit into the small lockbox seemed to be a downright impossible accomplishment as far as Newlan was concerned, but then he thought about the amount of junk he had stuffed into his own cluttered file cabinet and he smiled ruefully at his private, personal joke.

It took a while for Mrs. Breslin to get through her story, and by the time Gleason had completed his cross-examination, DA Lyons was completely incensed, or "ready to blow a gasket" as Newlan put it in his notepad.

When it came time for Lyons to rebut Mrs. Breslin's testimony, she came across as cold and impatient towards the delicate senior. In fact, in her own mind, Lyons had resolved to wage an all out war against Mrs. Breslin, regardless of her advanced age, or as Newlan recorded it for posterity in his notepad:

... _it looks like DA Lyons just took off the kid gloves._

DA Lyons was so upset with what she believed was an absolute farce being perpetuated by R. J. Gleason that she leaned over to her assistant in training, associate DA Paul Gentili, and whispered, "I don't care how cute and cuddly Mrs. Breslin is, she's obviously fibbing, and I'm not going to let her off that stand without a challenge."

But unfortunately for DA Lyons, she was unable to frazzle Mrs. Breslin in the least, and she finally realized that she was dealing with one cool customer disguised as a little old lady so she cut her losses and called off the assault.

However, Lyons had a backup plan in mind to deal with Mrs. Breslin, and as she announced that she had no further questions, she snatched the four thousand dollar envelope out of the arthritic hands of the grandmotherly witness and she requested that it be entered into evidence as the next exhibit; all of which sent a jolt of electricity charging through the courtroom.

As a matter of fact, the shock on Mrs. Breslin's face was so pronounced that it might have almost been measurable on a voltage meter, and Newlan noticed that the sprite octogenarian even made a feeble attempt to lunge for the money as it was being removed from her grip. For good measures, the coldhearted Lyons then took the lockbox, along with everything in it, and she went on to introduce that precious item into evidence as well.

And so ends Mrs. Sandra Breslin's small but potentially important part in our tale. But regardless of importance, her stunning testimony weighed heavily on the mind of Frank Newlan, and his ponderings led him to believe that she was either a critical witness in the case, or perhaps she was just a desperate mom who would do anything, including commit perjury, for the sake of her son. And although Newlan still wasn't quite sure which end of the spectrum he was leaning towards, he was positively certain that the majority of his colleagues would be favoring the latter of his two hypotheses.

After the circuslike atmosphere that surrounded Mrs. Breslin's testimony, the next set of witnesses greatly assisted DA Lyons as she attempted to restore some semblance of sanity to the proceedings; which isn't too much of a surprise when you consider that they were all starch-collared, white-shirted, blue-suit-and-dark-tie wearing employees of the Waltham Savings Bank.

Lyons went to great lengths to show that Sammy Fox had deposited one thousand dollars into his meager bank account on the exact same day that Mrs. Breslin cashed her son's IRS refund check. But was it merely a coincidence...or was the timing of the transaction more than slightly suspicious? Even Newlan had to admit that it could have been the latter. Then again, he wondered whether the jurors were ever going to see something more in the way of definitive proof that this money, along with the rest of the alleged payoff loot, made its way into Sammy Fox's pocket.

The next witness to take the stand was a detective from the Newton Police Department by the name of Steve Fontaine, and he capably described his duties on the day of the murder, such as searching for evidence at the scene of the crime, and inspecting the dumpster which was located behind the garage; all of which turned up nothing of significance.

Based on the tip that the police had received from Tracy Stone, Fontaine also took a ride up to Tex-Ray Defense Systems at about 12:30 PM day of the murder, but when he was unable to locate John Breslin, he promptly left the premises and returned to the scene of the crime.

Besides the crime scene details, the bulk of Fontaine's testimony revolved around the execution of the search warrant on Mrs. Breslin's home; a task that he helped to coordinate in the spring of 2006 just before Breslin was finally arrested.

Detective Fontaine testified that he and his team scoured the house, and in so doing they retrieved items such as financial documents, address books, cameras, a laptop, and last but not least, a pair of binoculars. He them produced a photograph of the various items that were seized in the raid, all of which were laid out neatly on Mrs. Breslin's dining room table, and DA Lyons briefly displayed the photo on the overhead projector before having it entered as evidence.

In Newlan's eyes, the binoculars, while not a child's toy, looked to be a fairly cheap department store set, and he couldn't understand what all the fuss was about.

"What are they trying to prove...that Breslin spied on Tracy and Fred with those binoculars? Unlikely, and probably irrelevant anyway," thought the suddenly lawyerly Newlan, and he wrote as much into his notes.

When it was Gleason's turn to address Detective Fontaine, he wanted to know firsthand how many officers were involved in the execution of the search warrant. And while Fontaine couldn't remember exactly, he estimated that it was anywhere from 5 to 7 officers.

At this juncture of the day, Newlan was listening intently to every word from every witness, and he felt as if Fontaine had given a reasonable answer to Gleason's last question, but that was before he noticed that the detective's response set off Gleason something fierce.

"Detective Fontaine are you saying that you don't have a written record of the search?" demanded Gleason in a raised voice.

"No sir," replied Fontaine in rather matter-of-fact tone.

"Very well, then based on your answer I would assume that you don't have a complete listing of the areas of the house that you searched," deduced Gleason.

"I don't have a written list, but I can tell you that we pretty much searched the house from top to bottom and that we turned the whole place upside down," cheerfully replied Fontaine in a tone which implied that he enjoying the job of ransacking people's homes.

Not to be outdone, Gleason broke into a broad smile, as if to say that he was enjoying himself immensely as well, and he slowly paced over to the court reporter's table and lifted up Mrs. Breslin's lockbox as he asked a rather obvious question.

"Detective Fontaine does this item look familiar to you?"

"No sir it doesn't," replied Fontaine.

"Mr. Fontaine did you or anyone on your team search Mrs. Breslin's bedroom closet?" wondered Gleason.

"I assume we did," answered Fontaine coldly. By now he had had enough of R. J. Gleason's veiled insinuations, and luckily for the both of them, the renowned defense attorney had completed his cross-examination, otherwise who knows what sort of fireworks might have erupted.

But nevertheless, Gleason's connotations were clear, or at least they were clear to Frank Newlan who wrote in his notepad:

A thorough search of the home by trained professionals should have certainly uncovered the lockbox which would have cleared up the money trail question once and for all. Obviously Gleason thinks that the detectives were negligent and I'm sure that this will be fodder for his closing arguments!

As Detective Fontaine left the witness stand, Judge Gershwin announced "I believe this would be a good time to take a brief recess" and once again the jurors were marched back into the deliberation room for another respite.

Newlan had a sneaking suspicion that Judge Gershwin desired to discuss the next witness with the attorneys before that person took the stand, and as we have already observed many times before, the prophetically inclined Newlan was right on the money.

By this time of the day, the jurors were reaching the point of exhaustion so they were relatively sedate as they waited to be called back into the courtroom, but then, out of the blue, Jim, the roguish telecom employee, broke the calm in a big way.

"Can you believe this crap about the money? I'm not buying it for a minute. And then we have to put up with, 'here's little Johnny's report card, and here's little Johnny's first grade picture'," mocked Jim in an old lady's voice.

Jim was going for a comic-relief moment, but much to his chagrin, his mimicry, however unintended, caused Newlan, who was still stuck in a rather fragile state over the unleashed recollections of his own elderly parents, to go absolutely ballistics.

Newlan shot up from his chair and pointed a finger in Jim's direction as he roared out his condemnation.

"Shut your friggin' mouth. That's someone's mother you're talking about. I don't give a crap what Breslin did or didn't do...you don't talk about someone's elderly mother that way. That's bullshit if you ask me."

The tension of the day was clearly getting the better of Newlan and he even surprised himself with his short fuse, while at the same time, his colleagues' reactions ranged from awkward uneasiness to wide-eyed horror.

Meanwhile, upon hearing the commotion that was coming from inside the deliberation room, Brandon barged through the door and demanded that the two men bury the hatchet.

"Sorry Frank I didn't know you felt so strongly about it," offered Jim in a semi-sarcastic tone.

"Well you should be sorry. Just leave his mother out of it OK," angrily requested Newlan.

"OK, relax, I get your point," muttered a now contrite Jim as he extended his hand in friendship.

And in response, Newlan, who was really just big old softie at heart, took Jim's hand and replied in kind.

"I apologize as well. I guess I overreacted. It's just that this damned trial is bringing out the worst in me."

The remainder of the break found the jurors moping around in stunned silence, not daring to say anything that might set off one of the combatants, and before long they were mercifully dragged back into the courtroom for more tales of misery and woe.

The announcement of DA Lyons' next witness caused another stir from the gallery which almost rivaled Tracy Stone's grand entrance; for into the courtroom came strolling none other than Ms. Nancy O'Brien, the prosecutions infamous star witness who Gleason had mocked so derisively in his opening statement.

Throughout the gallery, necks were straining to get a glimpse of O'Brien as she made her way down the aisle and onto the witness stand, and what the audience saw for their troubles was a rather tall, big boned woman with stylish, shoulder length brown hair.

Newlan, who was expecting some sort of biker chick, was quite surprised by just how timid and frightened the conservative looking O'Brien appeared to be; even though, in the back of his mind, he had a sneaking suspicion that her demure mannerisms might all just be an elaborate act; a skillful ruse; a flat-out hoax.

But conniving dupery or not, O'Brien was in fact shaking like a leaf as she took her seat on the witness stand and stared out into the packed courtroom.

After DA Lyons got the preliminaries out of the way, such as the fact that O'Brien was divorced mother of two teenage sons, and that she lived in the suburb of Tewksbury Massachusetts, and that she had been employed at Tex-Ray Defense Systems for 25 years, she immediately went to work establishing O'Brien's role as the vital link between John Breslin and Sammy Fox.

O'Brien patiently explained how she met had Fox in the mid 90's at a barroom in the south shore city of Quincy, and that they hit it off immediately, partly due to the fact they had both grown up in the Northtown section of Boston, although they didn't know each other as kids.

O'Brien went on to admit that she had dated Fox off-and-on from the time they met in the mid 90's up until the time that he went to prison in 2002. She then confirmed that she had also been friends with John Breslin for many years as well, which wasn't too surprising since they had both worked for the same company for over 20 years.

"And how did Mr. Breslin and Mr. Fox eventually end up making each other's acquaintance?" inquired Lyons.

"Well Sammy would come by Tex-Ray and meet me for lunch once in a while, and one day a few of my co-workers, including Johnny, joined us. Johnny and Sammy were sitting next to each other at the table, and by the time lunch was over, you would have thought that they were old friends," recalled O'Brien.

"And did they in fact become close friends?" asked Lyons.

"No, not really. They seemed to get along well, but other than our occasional lunchtime meetings, they didn't really hang out together...although I do recall that Johnny seemed to be a bit obsessed with Sammy, and he would constantly ask me questions about him," replied O'Brien.

"What kinds of questions would he ask?" wondered Lyons.

"Well, for one thing, he wanted to know about Sammy's past...and he was especially intrigued by the fact that Sammy had done time for murder. He was also fascinated by the fact that Sammy somehow ended up getting out of prison. I guess he just assumed that if you got convicted for murder, you'd never see the light of day again," explained O'Brien.

DA Lyons then quickly rushed through the details of the three years that Fox was in prison from 2002 through early 2005, but she lingered on the topic long enough for the jurors to learn that during this time period, O'Brien grew tired of waiting for Fox, and she eventually stopped communicating with him while he was "in the can" as she put it.

"So when Mr. Fox got out of prison did you resume dating?" continued Lyons.

"No, he wanted to, but I just didn't feel the same way about him anymore...and although I always thought that he was kind of misunderstood, I was worried that he might be a bad influence on my kids," confessed O'Brien.

"Well did you at least remain friends with Mr. Fox?" added Lyons.

"Yes, we were still friends. He would call or stop by my house now and then. But it seemed like every time we talked, he would try to get me to take him back, which made me feel kind of uncomfortable around him at times," admitted O'Brien.

"And Ms. O'Brien, after Mr. Fox got out of prison wasn't there an incident involving him and your ex-husband in September of 2005?" asked Lyons in a prying tone.

"Well there was _almost_ an incident, but I defused it. Basically I had an argument with my former husband, and I made the mistake of telling Sammy about it...and he got all upset and he offered to beat up my ex. But I told him in no uncertain terms that if he did that, I'd never talk to him again," firmly explained O'Brien.

"And was Mr. Breslin aware of this dispute?" wondered Lyons.

"Yes, it seems that one day Sammy decided to call Johnny at work, and he asked him if I was dating anyone...and he asked Johnny to keep an eye on me. Well I eventually found out about it since Johnny couldn't keep a secret to save his life, and naturally I got very upset. And I guess at some point I told Johnny about how Sammy was continually harassing me because he wanted us to start dating again...and then in the same conversation, I told Johnny how Sammy had threatened to beat up my ex," revealed O'Brien.

"And what was Mr. Breslin's response to the information you divulged?" continued Lyons.

"I don't really remembering him saying too much about it, but shortly thereafter he started to confide in me about his own marital problems, and how he wished that Fred Miller would have an accident on his motorcycle. And then one day, out of the blue, he asked me for Sammy's phone number," recalled O'Brien.

During this exchange, Gleason unsuccessfully objected a number of times which eventually led to the inevitable prolonged sidebar. And after this latest private discussion amongst judge and lawyers finally wound down, Judge Gershwin informed the jurors that they could only use O'Brien's third person revelation that Sammy Fox wanted to beat up her ex-husband as it may or may not have related to Breslin's state of mind. However, despite the honorable judge's good intentions, Newlan wondered why she was mentioning all of this now, when O'Brien made that comment three questions ago, and as far as he was concerned it was all just legal mumbo-jumbo anyway.

In any event, DA Lyons forged ahead undaunted.

"Ms. O'Brien, so did you end up giving Mr. Fox's phone number to Mr. Breslin?"

"Yes, I gave it to him, without really thinking about what I was doing...but then afterwards I was curious, so I stopped by Johnny's office and I asked him why he wanted Sammy's number, and..." began to explain O'Brien, but then she paused momentarily while Lyons urged her to go on.

"So what did Mr. Breslin tell you?"

"Um, at first he avoided my question, and then he changed the subject and started telling me about his own marital problems again. He mentioned that his wife's boyfriend was hanging around their kids and that he was a drug addict. He said something to the affect that he didn't want this druggie anywhere near his kids. Well, as you can imagine, that got my suspicions going, and I ask Johnny again why he wanted Sammy's phone number. I said to him flat out, 'I hope this doesn't have anything to do with your wife's boyfriend.' And when he didn't say anything, I said to him, 'well does it?' And eventually he said, 'maybe.' At that point, his callous attitude was beginning to make me furious, and so I angrily said to him, 'maybe, what do you mean maybe?' And that's when he said, 'well maybe I want Sammy to help me have something taken care of'," recalled O'Brien.

"And what was your reaction to Mr. Breslin's admission?" wondered Lyons.

"Well I was very concerned, as you can imagine, and I plead with Johnny not to get Sammy involved in his problems. I told him that he needed to try to work things out with his wife rather than relying on any strong-arm tactics," recounted O'Brien.

"So did anything ever come of this conversation," asked Lyons in an annoyingly fake inquisitive tone (or at least it was annoying to Newlan).

"Yes, a few days later, Sammy came by my house and he was very upset. He said that he got a call from Johnny about beating up some guy, and he went on and on about how he was trying to straighten out his life. He said he didn't do stuff like that anymore, and he wanted to know why I was sending Johnny to him," recollected O'Brien, and her answer triggered yet another objection from Gleason. When Judge Gershwin nodded her head in the negative, he asked to approach the bench, which of course led to yet another lengthy sidebar discussion.

After the latest sidebar huddle had been dissipated, Judge Gershwin took it upon herself to provide the jurors with a detailed explanation regarding statements made during a joint venture, and she made it clear that additional evidence which backed up the alleged statements was required to prove a joint venture; all of which led Newlan to once again tune out the protracted legalese.

Judge Gershwin's instructions may or may not have been informative to the jurors, but either way, as soon as she gave Lyons the go ahead to continue, the unyielding district attorney picked up right where she left off.

"Ms. O'Brien, how did you respond to Mr. Fox after he confronted you about his conversation with John Breslin?"

"Well, first of all, I told him that I had nothing to do with Johnny asking him to beat up anybody. And second of all, I told him that if he volunteered to beat up my ex-husband who's to say that he wouldn't beat up someone else for a few bucks, so don't go giving me that holier-than-thou act," replied an animated O'Brien.

"Now Ms. O'Brien, moving on to the month of October 2005, where you aware of any contact that occurred between Mr. Fox and Mr. Breslin during this time period?"

"Yes, Sammy was in the VA hospital for his knee replacement surgery, and Johnny told me that he had gone to visit him a couple of times...and then after Sammy got out of the hospital, he told me that Johnny had stopped by to visit him at his place."

"And do you recall any other unusual behavior on the part of Mr. Breslin around this same time period?" wondered DA Lyons, while at the same time Newlan wondered what was so unusual about visiting a friend who was in the hospital.

"Yes," replied O'Brien, who then paused before adding, "We use to go out to lunch a few times a week...sometimes with a few co-workers...sometimes just me and Johnny...and all of a sudden, he always seemed to be looking around for payphones."

"Why did you think that was so unusual?" wondered Lyons, once again with the same exaggerated, inquisitive tone.

"Well because Johnny owned a cell phone...and besides who uses payphones anymore?" replied O'Brien.

"So did you ask him about the payphone calls?" continued Lyons in an insistent tone.

"Of course I asked him, and at first he just shrugged his shoulders and said that it was none of my business. But I was persistent, and finally he told that he was calling Sammy. He admitted that he was using payphones so that his calls couldn't be traced, and naturally I wanted to know what they were up to. After a little bit of prodding, Johnny eventually blurted out that he had hired Sammy to have his wife's boyfriend, Fred Miller taken care of. He said he was sick and tired of Miller hanging around his kids, and I think his exact words were that he wanted him taken care of once and for all and out of the picture for good," recalled O'Brien.

"And what was your reaction to this news?" asked Lyons.

"I was horrified. I was just sick to my stomach about the whole thing. I was worried that Sammy would end up back in prison...and I didn't want to see anyone get hurt, let alone killed, so of course I pleaded with Johnny not to go through with it," exclaimed O'Brien.

At this point in O'Brien's testimony, Newlan scribbled down a common sense question into his notepad; it was an assessment that probably had occurred to just about everyone in the courtroom; what he wrote to himself, in large capital letters, was this:

IF WHAT O'BRIEN SAYS IS TRUE, THEN WHY THE HELL DIDN'T SHE CALL THE POLICE???!!! WHY THE HELL DIDN'T SHE TELL SOMEBODY...ANYBODY, ABOUT THIS???!!!

Lyons herself was actually wondering the same thing that Newlan was in the process of jotting down for prosperity, but since she was well aware of the fact that Gleason would surely cover this ground when it was his turn to interrogate the witness, she continued on with her own list of questions.

"Ms. O'Brien, did Mr. Breslin ever say anything about how he intended to pay Mr. Fox for this service?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact he did. He said something about an IRS check. He said he was going to give Sammy half of the money up front, and that he'd get the rest of the cash after...he did the deed," explained O'Brien, and her voice trailed off considerably as she muttered the words "He did the deed."

"So what happened in the weeks immediately following this exchange?" added Lyons.

"Well, nothing really, and for a while I thought it was a dead issue..." replied O'Brien, but then she paused momentarily before continuing when she realized that referring to the matter as a "dead issue" was probably a poor choice of words.

"...because for one thing, Sammy was recovering from surgery, and he could hardly walk, never mind beat someone up. But as the days went by, I could tell that Johnny was getting more and more frustrated with his situation...and I recall that on the Monday after the Thanksgiving holiday, Johnny came into work in a really bad mood. He said that he wanted to resolve the situation in the worst way, but he told me that Sammy's advice was for him to just be patient."

"Were you surprised to find out that Mr. Breslin and Mr. Fox still intended to pursue their course of action?" wondered Lyons.

"Yes, and as a matter of fact I called Sammy out on it, but he told me to calm down, and that he had no intentions of beating anyone up. He said that he was just playing Johnny for a sucker. He said he was going take him for as much money as he could, and then tell him to scram or he'd report him to the police," relayed O'Brien, while at the same time, most of the jurors were eating up her story, hook, line and sinker. But of course there was at least one juror who thought the whole production seemed a bit too well rehearsed.

DA Lyons, on the other hand, knew for a fact that O'Brien's story was well rehearsed, because she was the one who had helped coach her, but that never stopped her before, and it wasn't about to stop her now.

"Ms. O'Brien if we could proceed onto the first week of 2006, what, if any, conversations did you have with Mr. Breslin during this time period?" continued Lyons.

But instead of responding, O'Brien eyeballed Lyons warily, as if to say that she was looking for a bit of guidance, and after a slight nod of the head by the DA, the prosecution's star witness proceeded on with her performance.

"Johnny had been on vacation around the Christmas holidays, and when he came back to work he was in a great spirits. I hadn't seen him that happy in ages, and he said that he had spent most of the last two weeks living with his wife and kids," recalled O'Brien.

"And did you in turn mention anything about _your_ holidays to Mr. Breslin?" added Lyons.

"Yes, I told Johnny that Sammy had given my kids some expensive gifts, and Johnny jokingly said, 'so I guess that's where my money went.' But he was in such a good mood, that I don't think he even cared about the money anymore," reminisced O'Brien.

"So you assumed that everything was OK?" interjected Lyons.

"Yes, but within a week Johnny was back to being his moody self again. He told me that Tracy was still going to go through with the divorce, and that although the holidays had been pleasant, it still didn't change anything for her," recalled O'Brien.

"Now directing your attention to January 13th, 2006 Ms. O'Brien, were you aware of anything being amiss on that day?" trudged on Lyons.

"No, not really...I had gotten an email from Johnny first thing that the morning asking me if I wanted to go to lunch, and then I never heard back from him...but I didn't think anything of it. I just assumed he got tied up with some work-related stuff. And then later that morning I got a call from Sammy saying that he hoped Johnny didn't get someone else to take care of his problem...but then he hung up before I could ask him what he was talking about, and at the time I really hadn't put two and two together yet," explained O'Brien.

"And did you know that the police had paid a visit to the Tex-Ray offices later on that same day?" added Lyons.

"No, when I left work to go home that night I had no idea what was going on," insisted O'Brien.

"So when did you first find out about Mr. Miller's death?" wondered Lyons.

"Well, the next morning Johnny called me at home and he was literally begging me to meet him for a cup of coffee. He said it was really important, so I met up with him, and I noticed right off the bat that he had this frightened look on his face...a look that I had never seen before. He looked like he was in some sort of a daze, and he kept repeating, 'something bad happened, something bad happened' over and over and over again," recounted O'Brien, while at the same time Newlan almost keeled over in disbelief.

Although no one would ever become aware of Newlan's latest crisis of confidence, it was at that exact moment, as the sound of the words, "something bad happened" made their way out of Nancy O'Brien's mouth, that his entire body went numb. It was at that exact moment that he instantly recalled how he had informed his friends Bruce Reardon and Pat Horn, as well as Dr. Clay, about his premonition that "something bad" was going to happen to him...and now his irrational fears were being further reinforced in the most aberrant of ways.

"Man you can't make this shit up," whispered Newlan to himself as he massaged his aching temples. DA Lyons, of course, was totally unaware of his frivolous concerns as she proceeded to nudge O'Brien along, and for that matter she would have been completely unconcerned had she been made aware of Newlan's foolish word-association games anyway.

"And did Mr. Breslin eventually provide you with any details as to what he was referring to when he stated that something bad had happened?" wondered Lyons.

"Yes, I asked him what the heck was going on, and finally he told me that Fred Miller had been murdered. He told me that the police had questioned him, but he insisted he had nothing to do with it," explained O'Brien.

"So how did you leave things with Mr. Breslin?" followed up the persistent DA.

"Well, the whole situation was eating away at me for the rest of the weekend, and I ended up having a run-in with Johnny on Monday morning. But later that day, he took me aside and said, 'look Nancy I swear I had nothing to do with it. Sure, Miller was a druggie and a dirt-bag, and I didn't want him around my kids, but no way was I involved in this.' And I guess I believed him," shrugged O'Brien.

"And how about Mr. Fox, did you have any discussions with him regarding Fred Miller's murder?" continued Lyons.

"Yes, as soon as Johnny told me what happened, I called Sammy and confronted him. But he also insisted that he had nothing to do with it...and then maybe a month later he called me up out of the blue, and he said that he had talked to some of his pals down in Northtown and they told him that Fred Miller was murdered over a drug deal," recited O'Brien.

"Well, did you believe him?" pressed on Lyons.

"Truthfully, I didn't know what to believe," conceded O'Brien.

"So did things eventually get back to normal?" replied Lyons.

"Well things were a little tense that first week after the murder, what with the police interviewing everyone at work, but after that I guess you could say that things slowly got back to normal...until sometime in March that is," explained O'Brien.

"And what happened in March?" inquired Lyons.

"Johnny came barging into my office one the morning, and he was very agitated. He said that the police might want to question me again, and that I should answer all of their questions with just a yes or a no. He said that I shouldn't tell them anything about how I gave him Sammy's phone number...and as it all began to sink in...I suppose you could say that I started freaking out. I remember that I was yelling at him, 'what do you mean they want to talk to me? I have nothing to do with this.' And then he angrily replied, 'Well I guess they figured it out." And then he stormed out of my office," recalled O'Brien in an animated tone.

"I see, so what happened after that?" asked Lyons, once again in her mock inquisitive tone.

"Well later that same day, the police came to Tex-Ray, and just as Johnny had predicted they said that they wanted to talk to me. And then about a week after that meeting, they came to my house two days in a row, the second time unannounced. Then they interviewed me a few more times after that, and at some point they asked me to write down all of my thoughts into a notebook, and they gave me a calendar so that I could try to cross-reference the dates when specific events occurred," recounted O'Brien.

"So did you produce the notes as requested?" continued Lyons.

"Yes, I stayed up half the night and I filled out about twenty pages of notes. And the next day I turned my notes over to the detectives...and after they had a chance to read my story, they asked me a lot of follow-up questions about what I had written down," revealed O'Brien.

"And what happened next?" wondered Lyons.

"A few days later I got subpoenaed to testify before a grand jury," sadly confirmed O'Brien.

"And isn't that when you sought the services of an attorney?" knowingly asked Lyons.

"Yes, I hired attorney Kevin Jones," admitted O'Brien.

"And with the help of your attorney you were granted immunity from prosecution. But in return for your immunity, you promised to tell the authorities everything you knew about the murder of Fred Miller. You promised that you would testify at the trials of Mr. Breslin and Mr. Fox, isn't that true, Ms. O'Brien?" demanded Lyons.

"Yes," whispered O'Brien, and Lyons then ripped off a series of questions in a raised voice.

"And at that point didn't you flat out tell the detectives what Mr. Breslin had told you?"

"Mr. Breslin told you that Fred Miller had to be eliminated, didn't he Ms. O'Brien?"

"Mr. Breslin told you that a beating wasn't enough because he didn't want Fred Miller to be able to report anything to the police, didn't he Ms. O'Brien?"

"Mr. Breslin told you that he was working with Mr. Fox to accomplish this task, didn't he Ms. O'Brien?"

"Mr. Breslin told you that he was going to pay Mr. Fox ten thousand dollars for his services, half the money up front, and the other half after the job was completed, didn't he Ms. O'Brien?"

And not surprisingly, O'Brien softly answered, "yes" to each and every one of DA Lyons inquiries.

"No further questions your honor," announced Lyons, while at the same time Newlan whispered, "thank God," as he locked up at the clock and realized that it was almost 5 PM.

Judge Gershwin released the jurors for the day with the now customary warnings not to discuss the case, and she informed O'Brien that she was required to return to court tomorrow morning for cross-examination.

The jurors were then summarily marched into the deliberation room, and as they waited to be escorted out to their cars, the feisty Annie wasn't the least bit shy about making her feelings known.

"Can you believe this O'Brien woman? If she knew all this crap was going on, then why the hell didn't she go to the police?" exclaimed Annie.

"My thoughts exactly," seconded Newlan.

"I'm sorry, but I think they should put her _and_ Tracy Stone in jail for a while, and then maybe they'll tell us what they really know," growled Annie. And at that moment Newlan realized that he still might have an ally amongst the jurors; at that moment it hit him that he still might have a companion on the 'not guilty' side of the aisle; at that moment he came to believe that, despite Nancy O'Brien's damning testimony, Breslin's fate was not quite sealed just yet.

Newlan turned his head slightly in a covert attempt to make subtle eye-contact with Annie, who was sitting diagonally across from him, and she returned his gaze with a clandestine wink and a wry facial expression which clearly confirmed what he was thinking.

And as far as Newlan was concerned, what may have been even more amazing than Annie's proclamation was the fact that not one of the other jurors disputed her words in any way.

It was unclear to Newlan whether this sudden lack of vigor was due to the fatigue that had been brought on by another long day of testimony, or perhaps it was out of respect for the elderly, or perhaps he and Annie weren't the only jurors who were skeptical of O'Brien's story. But whatever the reason, everyone in the room was unanimously happy that the day didn't end in another argument. And just to make sure, Ron the banker changed the subject as was his wont to do.

"Hey, by the way, did any of you guys see that big, biker-looking dude who escorted O'Brien into the courtroom?" wondered Ron, and in return, all of the jurors reacted with a roar or recognition; all of the jurors, except for Frank Newlan that is; because he, of course, kept to his dedicated practice of not looking out into the audience for any reason whatsoever.

But nevertheless, Newlan wondered out loud what this "biker dude" looked like, and Ron smiled that mischievous smile of his as he happily described O'Brien's unofficial bodyguard in great detail.

"Huge guy, shaved head, goatee beard, leather biker's jacket, sunglasses...I'm telling you the guy looked like he was right out of central casting for some biker movie," exclaimed Ron.

"Interesting," replied an outwardly fearless Newlan, but inside he wondered whether he and his fellow jurors could, in any way, shape, or form, be in some sort of danger.

This latest turn of events left Newlan feeling a bit queasy as they ended their day. But more importantly, he had a funny feeling that his first impression regarding Nancy O'Brien was right on the money. He had a feeling that O'Brien's guarded comportment was actually a well-rehearsed persona invented specifically for her court appearance.

Like Annie before him, Newlan had a feeling that Nancy O'Brien was not the little miss innocent she was making herself out to be...and as was the case more often than not, his first impression turned out to be...one hundred percent...correct.

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.

"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 descended 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.

"Frankie your home brother, relax dude. I think you were having a nightmare," whispered Reardon in comforting tone as Newlan peered around blindly, taking in his surroundings. But even with his eyes wide open, he still didn't fully comprehend the fact that he was burrowed in the backseat of Horn's automobile which was now idling in front of his condo complex.

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".

Chapter 75 – Bar Hopping

Tuesday evening June 17, 2008 – 11:55 PM

Court Officer William Brady, better known to the jurors in the John Breslin murder trial only as "Billy", was having himself a roller coaster of an evening. Billy's day had been bad enough, but his night got off to an even bumpier ride as it crested towards its first downhill jaunt. First of all, he had incurred the wrath of Judge Gershwin due to his less than stellar supervisory skills, and in turn he was forced to take it out on the jurors by cutting off their cell phone privileges. And on top of that, his plans to spend the night out on the town, carousing with his friends while watching the Celtics game, was met with fierce resistant from his wife Joanna. But in the end he got his way as he almost always did; despite the jurors' maniacal complaints; despite his wife's relentless objections.

Of course, once Billy stepped foot out the front door, his mood brightened considerably, and as he and his troupe of merry men hopped from bar to bar to bar, consuming enough booze at each location to quench the thirst of a small army, they were feeling no pain. In the course of a few short hours, they had made their way through just about every pub in Northtown before eventually settling in to watch the fourth quarter of the game at the Lucky Shamrock, where they ordered up a bottle of Dom Perignon in celebration of a victory which, much like them, was in the bag so to speak.

Billy and his gang's barhopping excursion was quite an impressive accomplishment when you consider the fact that Northtown was home to more pubs per square mile than any other city neighborhood in the entire country.

Ironically, the Northtown section of Boston was the same world where both Billy Brady and Sammy Fox had come of age. Ironically, Northtown was a world where a punk like Billy Brady could emerge to become a court officer, employed by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, while at the same time someone like Sammy Fox could also prosper (in between stints in prison that is).

Northtown was an equal opportunity melting pot where a man could make an honest buck while living side-by-side with minor league hoods of every shape and size imaginable. They were all there; the Irish, the Italians, the Chinese, the Mexican, and every skin color in between, and they all strived for the same goal, which was of course to work their way up the ladder of respect in this cold, cruel world. Whether it was a lifetime gig with the police department, or an induction into the big time rackets of organized crime, it didn't much matter which career direction these goodfellas chose because either way, they'd get their fair chance to rule the city of Boston with an iron fist.

In many ways, Northtown was the perfect hometown for a man of Sammy Fox's repute, since he himself was an equal opportunity entrepreneur. Fox was equally comfortable working with the Russian mob, the Asian ruffians, the Hispanic switchblade brigade, the inner city gang-bangers, as well as the aforementioned Irish and Italian gangsters.

And so for better or for worse, it was in this world that Billy Brady grew up; it was in this world that he had transformed himself into an unsophisticatedly urbane professional; and for that matter, even though the neighborhood had changed significantly over the years, it was in this world that he still lived, and he had no intentions of ever leaving, right up until his dying days.

There were people in certain pockets of Billy's world who looked up to him as if he were a king for the mere fact that he had risen from the ashes of their meager roots to make something of himself, while at the same time there was also yet another brand of people in Northtown who simply tolerated his presence and his choice of profession. Yes, for the most part, the seedier element of Northtown simply ignored Billy and he ignored them. That is to say, the crooked con men working on the wrong side of the tracks simply ignored Billy, except of course for those rare occasions when he might prove to be a valuable resource to one of their many causes; except of course on those rare occasions when he might be able to provide them with a wealth of useful information; except of course on those rare coincidental occasions when he just so happened to be presiding over a criminal case in whose outcome they had a vested interest.

And yet, despite its many tempting faults, it was in this world that Billy Brady was having a whale of a good time for himself. It was in this world that he would flirt with the lovely local ladies who admired him from afar each night as he returned home from work adorned in his alluring court officer's uniform. It was in this world of multicultural diversity that he strutted around like some sort of UN ambassador of goodwill.

It was in this world that Billy was ordering drinks for all, and like everyone else in the city, he was basking in the glory of another Boston championship. After the final buzzer had sounded, Billy and his raunchy pals ventured outside to smoke a victory cigar in the tradition of the late Celtics patriarch Arnold "Red" Auerbach. But unfortunately for Billy however, it was right around this time that his night took another hairpin turn for the worse. Unfortunately, it was right around this time that a fistful of companions of none other than Sammy the Fox sauntered their way into the Lucky Shamrock like a militia of marauding thugs. Unfortunately for Billy, he was just the person that Sammy's buddies were looking for. Unfortunately for Billy, Sammy's henchmen were quite interested in having a little chat with him. Unfortunately for Billy, the "friends of Sammy" escorted him into a private room in the back of the pub that at all times was reserved just for them; a room whose golden walls were painted in the blood of their enemies.

Billy's familiarity with Sammy's crew dated all the way back to the days of their youth when he was a fledgling street punk just like they were. But now these same hoodlums had grown up to become full-fledged gangsters while at the same time destiny had bestowed him with a different calling and steered his life down a decidedly divergent path.

Just being seen with this motley bunch of ex-cons had Billy on edge, but he didn't have much choice in the matter at hand. He may have developed and nurtured his share of powerful connections over the years, and he may have had the long arm of the law on his side, but even so, he knew full well that these guys were not to be messed with. He knew full well that if he crossed this savage gang, he could find himself buried in a three foot ditch in the blink of an eye. He knew full well that if these crazy bastards wanted someone dead bad enough then there wasn't a damned thing anyone could do about it.

"What's up fellas?" nervously asked Billy as a round of beers and a bottle of Jamison's Irish whiskey magically appeared at the backroom's banquet-sized table within seconds of their arrival.

"Relax Billy, we just wanna talk to you about something," slurred the drunken leader of the pack, a mammoth of a man named Tommy Doyle.

"What is it Tommy? You name it. Anything I can do to help you guys, all you have to do is ask," assured Billy in his thick Boston accent.

"Well, we heard that you're working on the Breslin trial right now so we have a little favor to ask. We want you to find out whatever you can that might be of help to Sammy," calmly solicited Doyle.

Billy's face immediately froze with fear as he contemplated the mobster's request, but somehow he managed to plead his case.

"Tommy, if it ever got out that I slipped you guys some confidential information..." groused Billy, but Doyle cut him off at the pass in midsentence and firmly restated his request.

"I told you to fuckin' relax Billy. It's not gonna get out. You have my fuckin' word on it. Just find out whatever you can...and then you and I will sit down and have a private conversation, just the two of us. And no one will ever be the wiser, you got it," insisted Doyle.

"OK Tommy for you, no problem...gotta take care of my homeys," apprehensively agreed Billy as a weak smile formed on his face.

"So how's the trial going anyway?" wondered Doyle.

"Well, it started out OK for Breslin, but the DA still has her heavy hitters scheduled to testify...like today for instance, her star witness, Nancy O'Brien, took the stand," recounted Billy.

"That fuckin' bitch...she betrayed her own hometown," spat out Doyle, and like clockwork his sidekicks concurred by shouting out in unison, "Fuckin' bitch."

"So you think Breslin's going down?" inquired Doyle. and as Billy thought about the question for a moment, a relevant speck of information came to mind; information that he was more than willing to share, and when he finally replied, he had juror number 8, Frank Newlan, very much on his brain.

"Well from what I hear, there's one juror who seems to be buying up everything the defense is selling. But I think most of the jurors have already made up their minds that Breslin's guilty," informed Billy in a matter-of-fact tone as he knocked back a shot of whiskey.

"That piece of shit better hope he never gets out of the slammer or he's a fuckin' dead man," shouted a now angry Doyle, and in return Billy grimaced as he stuttered, "I didn't hear that."

"Do me a favor and see if you can find out why that one juror seems to be siding with the defense. It's a long shot, but maybe he tells us something that can help Sammy. You never know, at this point I'm just grasping for straws," requested Doyle who almost seemed to be thinking out loud as he spoke.

"Can do, can do...but you're never gonna find twelve gullible fools like this guy," squawked Billy who by now was very drunk.

"What the hell's that suppose to mean? Do you think Sammy did it?" demanded Doyle.

"No, no, no...you misunderstood me...I didn't mean that at all," pleaded Billy.

"Well good...because Sammy said he had nothing to do with it. And if that's what Sammy said, then that's how it's gonna be. Now let's go have a drink at the bar," commanded Doyle.

As luck would have it, as Billy and his unwanted group of associates took a seat in the rear corner of the horseshoe-shaped bar, who should happen to come strolling into this same fine establishment but none other than Mike Robinson, or "Mike the car salesman in seat number 2" as he was better known as by the jurors in the John Breslin murder trial.

Mike and his own rowdy cast of characters were also out celebrating the Celtics victory, and by this hour in the evening they were pretty well lit up like a ten foot Christmas tree. And although they had long since passed the legally drunk limit, Mike apparently still had an itching desire to satisfy his insatiable urge for one last thirst-quenching drink before calling it a night.

But truth be told, Mike also had another ulterior motive for choosing to stop in at the Lucky Shamrock; like Billy, he was also familiar with a few old acquaintances from the Northtown section of Boston who frequented this particular pub, and he was hoping that they might be hanging around the old dive on this joyous evening. And sure enough, almost immediately upon entering the tavern, he recognized his Northtown pals sitting right there at the front of the bar.

Without so much as an explanation, Mike discretely slipped away from his suburban band of weekend warriors so that he might accidentally bump into his colleagues from yesteryear for an impromptu powwow.

By all accounts, Mike seemed to be having a fairly animated discussion with what appeared to be his brethren from some long since disbanded brotherhood, and in short order they pointed him to the opposite corner of the bar which was currently occupied by a Mr. Thomas Doyle and his posse, as well as one Mr. William "Billy" Brady.

When the inebriated Mike grasped that it was none other than Billy the Court Officer who was raising his glass in a toast with this rough-and-tumble looking gang of outlaws, he turned as pale as a ghost. When the boozy Mike realized that Billy was hanging out with a clan of hooligans who were, based on reliable sources, "a bunch of vicious leg breakers", he retreated back to his table as inconspicuously as possible.

Mike turned his back away from where Billy was situated and he hid his face in the thick of the crowd as he whispered to his buddies, "let's suck down these drinks and get the hell out of here."

Mike was shaking like a leaf by the time he and his friends left the bar, but luckily for him, the preoccupied Billy never laid an eye on him. Luckily for him, none of his former associates ever mentioned a word to Tommy Doyle about his shady inquiry into the life and times of one Sammy the Fox. Luckily for him, he got out of the Lucky Shamrock in the nick of time and by the skin of his teeth, and he vowed never to set foot in Northtown again.

The exact details of Mike Robinson's conversation with his erstwhile cohorts and why it was so disconcerting to him is unknown to all except the parties involved, but was it enough to put an innocent man in prison? Was it enough to set a guilty man free? Was it enough to provide the little extra impetus which was necessary to set the record straight one way or another?

The answers to these questions we cannot surmise, but what we do know for certain is that fact can sometimes mysteriously be transformed into fiction. What we have seen time after time again throughout the course of history is that fiction can sometimes masquerade as fact. What we have learned on countless occasions over the years is that fact and fiction can sometimes be twisted and turned and shaped and molded and spit out in a form that becomes utterly unrecognizable when seen...from the eyes of a juror.

Chapter 76 – The Crime of the Century (Twenty Two Pages)

Wednesday morning June 18, 2008 – 4:50 AM

In the blink of an eye, Frank Newlan suddenly decided that it was about time to rise up out of his posturepedic bed. It wasn't even 5 o'clock in the morning yet, but Newlan figured that he may as well get on with this endless night which had somehow turned into dawn. Looking on the bright side of the equation however, he reckoned that at least for one night anyway, he wouldn't have to deal with the madness of an ugly, faceless gunman haunting his dreams. Newlan had no fear of this recurring theme of a nightmare for one simple reason and one reason only; and that was due the fact that he hadn't had a moment of sleep all night long, not even a wink.

Perhaps it was fear, perhaps it was confusion, or perhaps it was something a lot more complicated than that, but whatever it was, Newlan's mind refused to drift off into unconsciousness, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many sheep he counted.

The bottomless pit that was Newlan's stomach had been tying itself into knots ever since he returned home to his condo after the Celtics game only to be greeted by the words "T & M Willis" lit up on his caller ID over and over again; and as a result, as a directly related byproduct of his nerve-wracking insomnia, the flashing letters had stayed, physically and mentally, etched upon his brain all night long like a red hot brand being burnt into his skin. By 3 AM, Newlan's gurgling tummy, along with the rest of his soma, had woven itself into a basket case as he worried himself silly, and he wondered deep into the night why Marianne Plante would call him repeatedly and never leave a message. He wondered whether somebody really had been tailing him last night or whether he was just being a paranoid fool as usual. He wondered why his subconscious had gotten him all roiled up in series of bad dreams, with each subsequent vision somehow producing worse and more lifelike apparitions than the previous one.

And just when Newlan had wondered about Marianne Plante until he could wonder no more, he turned his attention towards the John Breslin murder trial. He wondered about the red car until he was blue in the face. He wondered about the garage in Newton and his irrational, claustrophobic fear of closed-in spaces. He wondered about the larger than life aura which seemed to be calling out his name. He wondered about the stronger than death chokehold which seemed to be taunting him from afar. He wondered about the Newton garage, the scene of Fred Miller's assassination no less, and how it seemed to be luring him into a trap with the scent of blood as its bait.

Newlan wondered about Tracy Stone and how he would love to be able to just sit down with her over a cup of coffee and calmly discuss her ordeal like two mature, consenting adults. He wondered about the life and times of Fred Miller and how they had so much in common. He wondered about how it was all going to end for Miller's wandering spirit, not to mention his own restlessly tortured soul.

Newlan wondered about his dear childhood friend, Karen McDermott, tragically knocked down in the prime of her life by an unfortunate car accident. He wondered about his mother and father and how he loved them so very much, and how he missed them more with each passing day.

Newlan could feel himself falling apart again and he wondered why he was suddenly unable to shed a tear. Why now, when he wanted more than anything to cry like a baby, had he become so numb to the world? Why now, when he was finally ready to release every ounce of pent-up emotion that had built up inside of him, had he become so dead inside? Why now had his heart become so empty?

Newlan wondered all night until he could wonder no more, and at that point he dragged himself out of the sack and fiddled with his guitar for a while, scratching out the chords to a few Beatles songs. And miraculously enough, somehow, the soothing sound of the twanging metal strings echoing across the living room relaxed him and put him into a state of deep meditation.

After an extended session of guitar playing and soul-searching, Newlan ultimately mustered up the strength to forage his way out the door, but not before first replacing the Springsteen CD with another selection from the "S" section, and fittingly, this time he chose another album by the 70's super-group Supertramp, entitled "Crime of the Century".

Oddly enough, for someone who had been gallivanting about the city all night, for someone who had been boozing until the break of day, for someone who hadn't had a minute of sleep in the last 24 hours, Newlan was surprisingly alert as he made his way towards the elevator. However, although his mind may have been vigilantly attentive, his lack of sleep had left him irritable, and so he never even peeked over at Saeed Kahn as he crossed the lobby and headed down to the garage in search of his red Mercury.

"Fuck him and the horse he rode in on," defiantly muttered Newlan as he hopped into his car and blasted the speakers for all they were worth while at the same time a joint dangled from his mouth.

As Newlan sparked up his cigarette lighter, the Supertramp tune "Bloody Well Right" blared in the background, and once again all was right in the world of our weary troubadour, if only for a few minutes.

The title track of the album kicked in just as Newlan pulled into the courthouse parking lot and he instantly concluded that there was no way he could abandon the cozy confines of his car just yet. As the piano chords rang out from his straining speakers, he decided straight-out that before making his way into the courthouse he just had to listen to at least the first verse or two of the multi-part opus before the tune drifted off into its long instrumental jam section. And afterwards he was still humming the all too relevant lyrics out loud to himself in sing-song fashion while he stood waiting for the guard to escort him into the complex.

"Hmmm, I wonder whether Breslin and Sammy the Fox were truly planning the crime of the century, or whether this mess can all be explained away somehow?" pondered Newlan's good side, but naturally his bad side was quick to offer up a reply. "Well if Nancy O'Brien is to be believed, then they were definitely up to no good."

Like clockwork, Newlan was the first arrival of the day. However, the next person to arrive at the courthouse on this fine sunny morning was not Patty as was usually the case, but none other than Billy the Court Officer looking for all the world as if he had just dragged himself out of bed ten minutes ago.

"Billy, you eyes are even more bloodshot as mine. Don't tell me, let me guess...you were watching the Celtics game and you stayed up for a few too many celebratory drinks," correctly postulated Newlan. Although, when you consider the fact that at least half the adult population (not to mention a good share of the teenagers) in the State of Massachusetts had partaken in a few victory toasts the previous evening, it didn't take a genius -- or a psychic -- to make such a bold prediction.

"You got it. Well...it went something like that anyway, and now I'm paying for it," groaned Billy in his heavy Boston accent.

"I know you're not gonna believe this but I ended up going to the game," bragged Newlan as he showed off his ticket-stub.

"You hot shit you! That ticket must have cost you a fortune," exclaimed Billy.

Newlan shrugged his shoulders in a "what are you gonna do" manner, while Billy, not so serendipitously, got down to the business of keeping his shady Northtown associates happy.

Billy tried his best to play the part of nonchalant conversationalist, but sure enough, Newlan's legendary radar went up as soon as the slovenly-attired court officer began picking his brain in search of his opinions regarding the trial.

However, Billy, who was quiet skilled at putting people at ease after all these years of calming down reluctant jurors, playfully assuaged Newlan's fears by taunting him into submission.

"Relax my man. We're just two adults having a conversation. Besides, it's like they say in Vegas...what goes on in the courthouse stays in courthouse," assured Billy, and little-by-little Newlan opened up until he overwhelmed the worn-out court officer with a swarm of details regarding red cars, unreliable witnesses, evidence that appeared to be a little too perfect, and last but not least, the possibility that maybe, just maybe, someone else besides John Breslin wanted Fred Miller dead as well.

"I guess I got more than enough out of him to keep the Northtown boys happy...and just in time too," thought Billy as he drew up a copious list of mental notes in his brain while at the same time in through the out-door walked none other than juror number 2, Mike the reticent car salesman, looking even worse than Newlan and Billy combined.

"Hey, you're in early, don't tell me...Celtics game hangover?" correctly guessed Newlan for the second time while Mike nodded his head in confirmation. But as usual he didn't say much of anything. And on top of that, he didn't dare even look Billy in the eye, what with the memory of his close encounter still fresh on his mind.

Before long the rest of the jurors began to trickle into the room and they immediately sensed that something was amiss with the early arrivals. Maybe it was the puffy red eyes, or maybe it was the droopy eyelids, or maybe it was the stale stench of alcohol on their breath, but regardless of what had given their secret away, the jurors easily spotted the lack of sleep that was etched upon the faces of the late night partiers. And furthermore, most everyone surmised that the Celtics victory was at the root of their problem. But since they were all equally giddy over the now paid-in-full prospect of another championship banner being fitted for the Garden rafters, the overindulgence of the three revelers was disregarded, and when Newlan went around the room showing off his Celtics ticket-stub to anyone who got within earshot, they were all one big happy family for a change.

Dan the handicapped juror rolled into the waiting room at precisely quarter to nine, and with a full cast of characters in place, they were ready to head upstairs and face another day of dreary witness testimony. But just as they were about to file out of the waiting room and onto a waiting elevator, a headcount by Billy revealed a missing person, and after a hurried roll call they realized that Peter, the absentminded software engineer in seat number 12, had yet to arrive.

"I wonder if he's still stressed out over his watch going off in the courtroom yesterday?" speculated Jane with a laugh, but as it turned out, the cause of Peter's absence was far more serious.

At about that same time, Donny radioed downstairs with news that Peter had called in with an alibi, and the mitigating circumstances behind his absence were more than justified.

"Death in the family...he's already been excused by Judge Gershwin," explained Donny.

"Ten four, we're on our way up," groggily answered Billy.

The jurors were genuinely sorry for Peter in his time of despair, and they pressed Billy to obtain his home address so that they could send out their condolences. They weren't even aware of who had died, but they felt bad about the situation nonetheless. Although for the sake of full disclosure, it must be pointed out that more than a few jurors not so secretly wondered whether Peter had conveniently conjured up a dead relative just so that he could get himself excused from the case.

For his part, it was apparent to Newlan that the stress of the trial had begun to take its toll on Peter, perhaps an even greater toll than the havoc it was reaping on his own life. But in the end, he just couldn't bring himself to believe that Peter had faked someone's death just to get out of seeing the trial to its conclusion.

Of course the loss of another juror had another obvious implication, which Annie, the feisty little HR clerk, was quick to point out.

"Oh rats, that means we're down to two alternates," lamented Annie, and the same thought had also crossed Newlan's mind as well. Over the last couple of days, he had once again secretly concluded that he'd just assume be chosen as an alternate juror (but this time he wasn't about to admit it, lest he get himself embroiled into another argument with his good friend Jane). He figured that when the time came to roll the dice, he'd just pray like crazy and hope for the luck of the draw. But then again, at the rate they were losing jurors, he seriously doubted whether there would be _any_ alternates left for the picking by the time deliberations rolled around.

In any event, alas we must say goodbye to Peter. But for the remaining members of the John Breslin murder trial jury, justice trundled on, and after the usual delays they were marched into the courtroom for another grueling movement in life's bittersweet symphony.

The now monotonous morning ceremony had the suddenly exhausted Newlan feeling as if he were repeating the same day over and over again, just like Bill Murray in the movie "Groundhog Day", and he rubbed his eyes vigorously in an attempt to stay alert, while at the same time Nancy O'Brien, who was impatiently waiting on the witness stand, fidgeted restlessly in her own right. And after being reminded by Judge Gershwin that she was still under oath, renowned Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason got right down to business.

Gleason had been itching to interrogate Nancy O'Brien ever since Day One of the trial, and as such, he came storming out of the gates, leaving O'Brien looking like a hypnotized deer who was about to be run over by a Mack truck; it was a look that would remain in place throughout the course of the morning.

Newlan, who was beginning to get second wind, had been anxiously anticipating Gleason's cross as well, and the venerable defense attorney didn't disappoint. As rundown as he was, the drama that was about to unfold in front of his very eyes kept him focused to the point where he felt as if he was watching a riveting, pulse-pounding movie.

Gleason started O'Brien off with a few softball tosses before bringing on the heat. First he reestablished the fact that she was a single mother and the primary financial provider for her two children, and then he went on to document her marital issues which included a restraining order that she had obtained against her ex-husband.

And as Newlan intently listened in, he wryly thought to himself, "Sounds like her marriage was almost as bad as the Breslin's."

Just like Tracy Stone before her, O'Brien appeared to be caught off guard by some of the information that Gleason had dug up, which as far as Newlan was concerned, only went to show that the dedicated barrister was doing his homework.

"Ms. O'Brien would it be fair to say that you'd do anything for your children?" asked Gleason in an understanding tone.

"Of course," replied O'Brien while at the same time Newlan silently surmised, "he's definitely going somewhere with this line of questioning,"

However, when Gleason's probing moved on to O'Brien's interviews with the police in the month of March 2006, Newlan's hunch didn't immediately pan out, although he would soon be proven right as usual.

"Ms. O'Brien when the police interviewed you for the first time in March of 2006, would you say that they were polite and professional, and that their questions were just general in nature?" Gleason speculated, and O'Brien thought long and hard about her practice sessions with DA Lyons before proceeding on cautiously.

"I'd say that's true, but they did ask me a lot of detailed questions about Johnny's situation with his wife."

"I see, and what did you tell them?" continued Gleason, and O'Brien went on to list a litany of conversations that she had had with Breslin.

"I told them that Johnny was going through a divorce, but that around Christmas of 2005 he thought that they were gonna be able patch things up...and then just as quickly, things fell apart again. I told them that I advised Johnny to stay at home and take care of his kids until he was legally forced to leave. I told them that I thought Tracy was just going through some sort of a mid-life crisis. I told them that Johnny couldn't understand why Fred Miller would want to get involved with a woman who had three young kids at home to take care of."

Gleason then responded in kind with his own list of questions.

"Now Ms. O'Brien, I'm going to read directly from the police report of your first interview, and I'd like to know whether you recall making any of these statements," explained Gleason before continuing.

"Didn't you tell the police that John Breslin did not appear angry when discussing Fred Miller?"

"When the police asked you whether John Breslin ever said that he wanted Fred Miller killed, didn't you reply, 'no, not to me'?"

"When the police asked you whether John Breslin owned a gun or could get hold of a gun, didn't you respond, 'no, not that I'm aware of'?"

"And when the police asked you whether you had any knowledge of Fred Miller's murder, didn't you answer, 'none whatsoever'?" recited Gleason.

O'Brien hemmed and hawed her way through each and every question, claiming that she couldn't remember her exact responses since it had been over two years. But Gleason countered by having her read the written police report, and finally she reluctantly agreed that she had made the statements he had attributed to her.

And while many of the jurors appeared to be unfazed by O'Brien's apparent inconsistencies, the exchange led Newlan to jot down a very pertinent annotation into his notepad:

Gleason's laying the groundwork to show that O'Brien changed her story quite a bit over the course of her many interrogations.

"Now Ms. O'Brien I'd like to move on to the unannounced visit that the detectives made to your home a week later...wouldn't you say their demeanor was a little more forceful?" asked a knowing Gleason.

O'Brien took a quick peek out into the audience where her attorney was seated, hoping for some sort of advice in the form of a hand signal, but when none was forthcoming she admitted that the detectives were much more demanding of her than they had been in her previous meetings with them.

O'Brien had a major dilemma on her hands. On the one hand, if she wasn't completely truthful, she ran the risk of forfeiting her immunity deal and winding up in prison. But on the other hand, if her answers didn't conform to the story that she had rehearsed with the detectives and DA Lyons, then her goose would be cooked just the same. The detectives in question, Carolyn Curran from the Newton Police Department and William Donavan from the Massachusetts State Police, could not be in attendance because they were also scheduled to testify in the case, but they assured O'Brien that someone would be monitoring her every word.

Unfortunately for O'Brien however, Gleason's inquiries were not going to be as easy to answer as were the prosecution's questions, which shouldn't be surprising considering the fact that she had been studying DA Lyons' list of queries for weeks on end.

"Ms. O'Brien, didn't the police tell you that there were rumors running around Tex-Ray about you...where you were claimed to have said that you had connections to the Irish mob...that you knew people who could get things done?" continued Gleason. And when O'Brien didn't immediately answer, he flashed a devious smile as he added, "Keep in mind that I have the police reports from your interviews on hand just in case you need to refresh your memory."

Newlan, who had long since come away impressed by the forthright defense attorney's panache, silently urged him on with a "way to tighten the screws Gleason" chant, while at the same time O'Brien reluctantly recalled the detectives' questions. But not to be outdone, she denied that there was any truth whatsoever to her co-workers innuendos regarding her association with the mob.

"Ms. O'Brien, would it fair to say that the police pressured you to reveal as of yet unsupplied information to them, and that they accused you of not being completely forthcoming?" demanded Gleason, while a frightened sounding O'Brien muttered, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Very well...very well..." countered Gleason, before adding in a barking tone, "...well, didn't the police say that you could lose your children? Didn't they say that you could be charged as an accessory to murder if you didn't cooperate?"

"Ah ha, I had a feeling that the questions about her kids had a purpose," thought Newlan, while at the same time O'Brien insisted that she didn't quite remember exactly what the police had said to her.

Truth be told, Gleason didn't actually possess any record of precisely what strategy the police had used on O'Brien to get her to talk, but from all his years of experience, he pretty much knew how the game went.

"And Ms. O'Brien, during a subsequent interview, these same two detectives asked you all about Sammy Fox, didn't they? They wanted to know how you met. They wanted to know how long you dated. They wanted to know whether you were aware of Mr. Fox's prison record. They wanted to know the intimate details behind all of the cards and letters you sent to him while he was incarcerated from 2002 to 2005. And finally they wanted to know if you gave Sammy Fox's phone number to John Breslin...and I believe your exact words were, 'I don't give out Sammy's number,' isn't that what you told them?" demanded Gleason as he read directly from the police report. And in return, O'Brien softly admitted, "Yes that's what I said."

"And then after enduring another round of pressure-packed interrogations, again, administered by the same two detectives, Curran and Donavan, you finally told them for the first time that you recalled John Breslin stating that he hoped Fred Miller got in a motorcycle accident and died a painful death. You told them that John Breslin said he hoped that somebody would come along and beat the shit out of Fred Miller, give him a dose of what he deserved. You told them that you thought John Breslin had gotten a hold of Sammy Fox and picked his brain about what it would take to have Fred Miller murdered. You told the police that you attempted to talk both John Breslin and Sammy Fox out of harming Fred Miller. Did you or didn't you tell them all of these things?" growled Gleason.

"Yes, yes sir I did," politely replied O'Brien.

Gleason then went with his incredulous tone as he held O'Brien's notebook up over his head and added his Doubting Thomas observation regarding her ever-evolving story.

"And yet a few days earlier you handed the police this notebook, filled with twenty two pages of notes, TWENTY TWO PAGES, and never once in any these notes did you EVER mention that John Breslin asked Sammy Fox to kill Fred Miller. Never once, and I should know since I've scoured through these pages many, many times, Ms. O'Brien."

Gleason paused for effect and then he asked O'Brien pointblank whether she had mentioned Breslin's IRS check in her notes, and in turn she stared blankly ahead in an apparent state of confusion, while at the same time DA Lyons objected profusely, mainly over procedural issues, but also to stem the tide of the assault, like a timeout during a basketball game.

After a lengthy pause of consideration by Judge Gershwin, Lyons' objection was sustained which led to the first of the day's many sidebar battles.

As was the case more often than not, the jurors were eventually asked to leave the courtroom and Judge Gershwin declared that they could consider this respite to be their morning break.

O'Brien's thus far contradictory testimony had pretty much reduced the jurors into a state of astonished silence, and they used most of the break-time to line up for their turn in the bathroom...and when they were returned to the courtroom, the arguments and objections resumed almost immediately, which led Newlan to scribble down the following observation into his notepad:

Gleason is trying like hell to get the jury to hear what's in (or more precisely what's not in) O'Brien's notes, but DA Lyons keeps successfully objecting.

Gleason then offered O'Brien's notebook up as an exhibit and once again Lyons objected, which led to another sidebar and another victory for the DA as Judge Gershwin explained to the jurors that the notebook was considered to be hearsay.

Gleason then had another brainstorm. He requested that O'Brien read the notes to herself, and of course Lyons objected again. However, this time Judge Gershwin didn't immediately rule in the tenacious DA's favor.

Judge Gershwin questioned Gleason regarding what purpose he hoped to serve by having O'Brien read her own notes, and his eyes lit up as he jumped at the chance to respond to the judge's inquiry.

Gleason was standing in close proximity to the witness stand while this wit-matching exchange with Judge Gershwin was taking place, and Newlan's conveniently favorable positioning afforded him an unobstructed view of the renowned defense attorney's expression, as with a wry smile he calmly stated, "one word your honor, impeachment."

And just like that, Gleason's reply sent the entire courtroom into a tizzy. But oddly enough, DA Lyons objections desisted, perhaps out of fear that her star witness's entire testimony might be expunged if she continued to push too hard. The buzz in the courtroom was so overpowering that Judge Gershwin actually had to resort to banging on her gavel and shouting for "order in the court."

For Newlan, the scene was reminiscent of a Perry Mason episode, and he couldn't resist the temptation of leaning over towards Natalie and whispering, "Wow, just like TV."

Meanwhile, in her infinite wisdom, Judge Gershwin did indeed allow Nancy O'Brien to reread her notes, and as such, the jurors, along with everyone else in the courtroom, had to sit in silence as she slowly wound her way through twenty two pages of handwritten notes.

As O'Brien concentrated on the task at hand, Gleason patiently paced back-and-forth and to-and-fro, circling the witness stand as he went, and his scattered movements caused O'Brien to occasionally gaze up from her note with a bewildered look splattered across her face.

"He's obviously distracting her," whispered Newlan as he leaned towards Natalie, while at the same time Gleason came dangerously close to invading O'Brien's personal space.

Whether Gleason's intentions were malicious or not we cannot say, but Newlan for one, was finding his shtick to be somewhat comical, and at that moment he was also feeling pretty darned good about the fact that he had managed to coax a smile out of his attractive neighbor, Natalie, in seat number 7.

As the minutes ticked on by, the situation was becoming rather uncomfortable for all involved, and Newlan noticed that more than a few jurors were squirming in their seats while they waited out the excruciating silence

However, just when it seemed that a mutiny amongst the ranks of the jurors was inevitable, finally after nearly 25 minutes, O'Brien looked up from her notes and signaled that she had completed the rereading of her gripping twenty-plus page essay.

And with the wheels of his plan now fully in motion, Gleason wasted no time attacking O'Brien's credibility.

"Ms. O'Brien, did you mention anywhere in your notes that John Breslin said he hoped Fred Miller got into a deadly accident on his motorcycle?" demanded Gleason. But DA Lyons immediately objected before O'Brien ever had a chance to answer.

It seemed that the manner in which Gleason was posing his questions deemed them to be inadmissible, and so he attempted variation after variation of the same question, but each attempt was met with a successful Lyons objection, and Judge Gershwin was practically chuckling as she repeatedly announced, "Sustained."

Judge Gershwin even offered Gleason a hint as to where he was going wrong, which led a frustrated Newlan to whisper, "just tell him what the friggin' problem is and let's move on."

Gleason, as one might suspect, was exponentially more frustrated than Newlan could even begin to imagine, but the message eventually got through to him; a message which stated that he was required to pose his inquiries regarding O'Brien's notes in the negative for them to be admissible, all of which left Newlan feeling as if he were watching the TV game show, Jeopardy.

Gleason repeated his query one last time, but this time in a legal form that finally past the muster of the nitpicking Judge Gershwin.

"Ms. O'Brien you did _not_ mention anywhere in your notes that John Breslin said he hoped Fred Miller got into a deadly accident on his motorcycle, did you?"

"No, I did not," whispered O'Brien as a smiling Judge Gershwin nodded her head in approval.

With one successful inquiry in the books, Gleason was now on a roll, asking question after negative question, and with each query he got O'Brien to admit to the fact that another one of the statements she later made to the police was not present in her handwritten notes.

"Ms. O'Brien you did _not_ mention anywhere in your notes that John Breslin told you Fred Miller needed to be killed so there would be no evidence, did you?"

"Ms. O'Brien you did _not_ mention anywhere in your notes that John Breslin and Sammy Fox were concocting a plan to murder Fred Miller, did you?"

"Ms. O'Brien you did _not_ mention anywhere in your notes that John Breslin paid Sammy Fox even a single penny in return for the murder of Fred Miller, did you?"

"Ms. O'Brien you did _not_ mention anywhere in your notes that John Breslin paid half the money up front and that the other half was to be paid after the job was done, did you?"

"Ms. O'Brien you did _not_ mention anywhere in your notes that John Breslin used the proceeds of his IRS refund check to finance the murder, did you?"

"Ms. O'Brien you did _not_ mention anywhere in your notes that John Breslin informed you of the fact that he had taken to using pay phones so that his calls could not be traced, did you?"

"Ms. O'Brien you did _not_ mention anywhere in your notes that John Breslin asked you not to tell the police that you had given Sammy Fox's phone number to him, did you?"

And as Gleason spat out question after question, each one louder than the last, Newlan was furiously scribbling into his own notepad, trying as best he could to keep up with the now hard-charging advocate. During a brief break in the action, he even took it upon himself to inject a bit of his own commentary into the proceedings, jotting down the following opinion:

Gleason is scoring points on this for sure!

It was also at this point that a germane question dawned on Newlan; if none of the crucial information regarding Breslin's alleged self-implicating statements was contained in O'Brien's synopsis, then what the hell _was_ in her notes, all 22 pages of them? But unfortunately, since the annotations were not allowed into evidence, the jurors would never become privy to the exact nature of the entries which O'Brien had scrawled into the mysterious notebook.

Gleason finally concluded the notebook affair with one last broadsided swipe at what he considered to be a deceiving and possibly perjuring witness.

"Ms. O'Brien not once in your 22 pages of notes did you EVER mention any information directly linking John Breslin and Sammy Fox to the murder of Fred Miller, did you?" shouted Gleason in a booming voice.

"No sir," whispered a beaten O'Brien for the umpteenth time, just as she had done in response to each and every question regarding the passages in her 'diary' so to speak.

"And yet a mere two days after authoring these extensive notes, you suddenly recalled all sorts of intricate details. Details which, for some reason, were never mentioned anywhere in your notes...details which, for some reason, eluded your memory up until that point," speculated Gleason.

O'Brien shrugged her shoulders as she rather unconvincingly attempted to explain her amnesia and sudden recovery.

"I was scared...I wasn't thinking straight...but as I got a clearer head, some of the details started coming back to me."

"Ms. O'Brien isn't it true that when you testified before the grand jury, you chose to invoke your 5th amendment right on the advice of your attorney?" continued Gleason who had now reverted back to a calmer tone.

"Yes sir," whispered O'Brien.

"And isn't it also true that your attorney negotiated and immunity deal with the police and the prosecutors?" inquired Gleason.

"Yes sir," once again replied O'Brien.

"No further question your honor," exclaimed Gleason, and he appeared to be walking on air as he made his way back to the defense table.

However, before Gleason even had a chance to sit down, DA Lyons bustled towards the podium for her shot at rebuttal, and she guided O'Brien though her paces as she reiterated how frightened she was, and how an unidentified vehicle had been following her, right up to her doorstep, and how someone had repeatedly called her home and left her threatening messages, and how she contacted Trooper Donavan for assistance.

With Lyons' gentle guidance leading the way, O'Brien went on to confirm that her notes were never meant to be a comprehensive recapitulation of her many conversations with John Breslin, and that no one ever instructed her as far as what to write or what not to write in these notes.

O'Brien insisted that many of the discussions she had had with Breslin and Fox regarding Fred Miller came back to her over time and that she didn't deliberately try to mislead the police.

"And Ms. O'Brien isn't also it true that when the immunity proffer was made to you, the police were of the opinion that on the 13th day of January 2006 you had no knowledge whatsoever regarding the murder of Fred Miller, and that the most you could have been charged with was being an accessory after the fact?" continued Lyons.

"Yes," nodded O'Brien.

Lyons went on to pose a few more questions and each question made use of the word "proffer" which led Newlan to thinking; "What the hell is a proffer? I don't even know what that means."

Judging by the puzzled looks emanating from his colleagues, Newlan wasn't the only juror who was confused by the word "proffer", but luckily Judge Gershwin seemed to notice that something was amiss in the jury box, and as if on cue she came to the rescue.

The thoughtful judge turned to the jurors and with a warm smile she admitted, "ladies and gentlemen of the jury, sometime, as judges and attorneys, we utilize language that the average normal person doesn't use in everyday life."

Judge Gershwin then turned back towards DA Lyons and requested that she take a moment to explain words such as "proffer" to the jurors.

Newlan had to laugh, because after all of Judge Gershwin's efforts, DA Lyons never did get around to expounding upon the meaning of the word proffer, and she continued to use the same verbiage as she wrapped up her rebuttal of Nancy O'Brien. This oversight led Newlan to make a note to himself that he absolutely had to look up the word proffer in the dictionary as soon as he got home.

Meanwhile, Gleason took another whack at Nancy O'Brien and once again he got her to reiterate the fact that she had replied "no, not to me" when the police initially asked her whether John Breslin had ever said that he was going to have Fred Miller murdered.

This back and forth went on between Lyons and Gleason for another few rounds of question and answer, but their points had already been made; Nancy O'Brien was either a frightened single mother who was in possession of volumes of relevant information regarding the murder of Fred Miller, or she was a reluctant fabricator, manipulated by the police into saying exactly what they wanted to hear.

Mercifully, Nancy O'Brien finally stepped down from the stand at just before 1 PM, which led to some very interesting lunchtime conversation back in the deliberation room. Although, in sharp contrast to what was about to go down, the jurors respite began playfully enough, with Ron and Jane mocking Judge Gershwin's comments regarding the use of the word proffer.

"Was it just me, or did Judge Gershwin insult us?" wondered Ron.

"Oh no, it's not her fault that we're just normal average people," teased Jane to hoots of recognition.

The mood in the room was unmistakably lighthearted until the spunky Annie, who just couldn't leave well enough alone, decided to pick up where she left off yesterday, unmercifully lambasting Nancy O'Brien into a pulverizing pulp; all of which led more than a few jurors to come rushing to O'Brien's defense.

"The poor thing was scared...I don't blame her for not tipping her hand," concluded Jane, while the wheelchair-bound Dan added, "yeah, you could tell that she knew what was going on right from the very beginning, a lot more than she was letting on, but she was too afraid to say anything to the police."

A handful of jurors went on to make similar comments, which led Annie to angrily rant, "She's full of baloney...and so are all of you too."

The battle raged on for quite some time, but Annie held her ground even though she was woefully outnumbered.

And while the combatants continued to shout each other down, Newlan was quietly taking in the action for a change, when out of the corner of his eye he noticed that Mike was sound asleep at the back table.

Newlan, who could have used some peace and quiet of his own right about then, was getting quite a kick out of the contrasting scenes, which led him to envy his slumbering colleague, and he thought to himself, "I wish I could fall asleep in the middle of World War Three, just like Mike."

The anger toward Annie had reached a noisy crescendo when Newlan finally decided that he had had enough, and despite his best efforts to keep out of the fray, he just had to join in on the festivities.

"As far as I'm concerned her entire testimony is disqualified," announced Newlan rather matter-of-factly, in sharp contrast to the fevered pitch of his colleagues.

"How can you say that?" protested Jane.

"It's simple really...I honestly don't know whether she just went along with everything the police told her to say or whether she was truly scared. All I know is that she changed her story a million times so I choose to believe none of it," explained Newlan.

"So you're saying the police told her what to say, and she was lying to save her own skin?" concluded Pam the freelance web designer.

"I'm saying it's a possibility...or at the very least, they persuasively guided her in the right direction," answered Newlan.

"Oh come on, the police don't do stuff like that," scoffed Mark, the lanky young network security specialist. Of all the jurors, Newlan had hit it off with Mark from Day One, but regardless, he wasn't about to be swayed by what he believed was a very naïve statement on Mark's part, and he responded in kind.

"Believe it or not, I've witnessed stuff like that, first hand...but hey you can believe what you want to believe and I'll believe what I want to believe," insisted Newlan, and much to his amazement, his colleagues took his advice for a change and they reluctantly came to a fragile truce.

Meanwhile, as the jurors were in the process of being hauled back into the courtroom, Newlan was feeling pretty good about the fact that at least one juror still seemed to be unconvinced of Breslin's guilt, namely the elderly but forceful Annie.

After the fireworks of the morning, the afternoon session was rather uneventful, and it started off with more employees from Tex-Ray Defense Systems taking the stand.

First up was Tex-Ray's Manager of Information Security, a soft spoken woman by the name of Donna Murray.

Ms. Murray patiently explained to DA Lyons how the State Police contacted her seeking information regarding John Breslin and Nancy O'Brien, and that after the detectives had obtained a court order, she provided them with records of Breslin and O'Brien's network log on/log off times, their phone records, their instant messenger (IM) records, their email records, and their internet activity records.

Gleason was quick to have Ms. Murray point out that the police had also obtained a wiretap on Breslin and O'Brien's phone lines, as well as on their email and IM accounts, while at the same time Newlan vaguely recalled Gleason mentioning the wiretaps of Breslin's phones in his opening statement. It seemed like ages ago, but Newlan memory banks suddenly opened up, and he distinctly recalled Gleason stating that the wiretaps didn't produce a shred of evidence, so it was no small wonder that he wanted to make sure that the jurors were aware of the wiretaps, which DA Lyons conveniently neglected to mention.

And as he had done with the obnoxious Jim Wheeler from RKN Telecommunications, Gleason also had Ms. Murray verify that there was no way to distinguish between live phone calls, hang-ups, and voice mail messages, when reviewing telephone records.

The next few statements came from various Tex-Ray employees whose phones were commandeered to either place or receive calls to/from Sammy Fox's cell phone. One by one, Lyons got each of the employees, such as IT Specialist Suzanne Regan, to testify that they weren't familiar with anyone by the name of Sammy Fox. Lyons then used phone records to show that Ms. Regan's office phone had been used to call Fox's cell phone number on numerous occasions during the month of December, 2005.

Gleason attempted to rebuff this evidence by asking whether Ms. Regan was familiar with Nancy O'Brien, and when she answered 'yes' he also established that O'Brien's office was situated in close proximity to Regan's office. Gleason also went on to have Ms. Regan verify that there were no special security codes on her telephone and that anyone could have used it undetected if she wasn't around.

Although Gleason never came right out and said it, his implications were clear; Nancy O'Brien could have made those calls to Sammy Fox just as easily as Breslin, and since she was Fox's former girlfriend and he was an ex-con there may have been some underlying reason why she didn't want to make use of her own phone.

Not all of the jurors were buying into Gleason's inference, but his connotations seemed clear to Newlan and he scribbled down the renowned defense attorney's theory in his notepad for good measures anyway.

The next witness delivered pretty much the same story as Ms. Regan, which seemed to illicit only a halfhearted effort from DA Lyons, and no questions from Gleason.

The third of the Tex-Ray phone call witnesses was an elderly Administrative Assistant by the name of Ms. Ethel Dement, and Lyons had her describe the multiple wrong number phone calls she received on the date of Friday January 13th, 2006. Lyons produced phone records that proved the calls were placed from the cell phone belonging to one Mr. Sammy Fox, and for the record Lyons had Ms. Dement state that she too didn't know anyone by the name of Sammy Fox.

Gleason didn't even bother challenging Ms. Dement's statement, and it was on to the next round of witnesses who were all employees of the Waltham Massachusetts branch of the Pilgrim Bank where Mrs. Sandra Breslin had gone to cash her son's IRS refund check.

For some inexplicable reason DA Lyons called upon three different bank employees, a teller, a branch manager, and a senior investigator, just to establish a fact that no one seemed to be questioning. The only tidbit of information that Newlan found mildly interesting was the fact that, technically speaking, the teller shouldn't have cashed the IRS check that Mrs. Breslin brought forward to the counter without one of the payees, either Tracy or John Breslin, present. But interesting though it may have been, he still didn't see the relevance of the details being presented by DA Lyons, although by now he had come to expect this overflow of minutia as being an integral component of her modus operandi.

Mercifully Gleason had no questions for any of the bank witnesses and the jurors were released for the day at approximately 4:25 PM.

While they were waiting to be escorted down to their cars, Ron the banker made use of his own experience to expound upon the many nuances of the banking industry which were overlooked by the last few witnesses.

Jane however, preferred to focus on the fact that Sammy Fox seemed to be randomly calling phones at Tex-Ray Defense Systems on the morning of January 13, 2006 in an apparent desperate attempt to get a hold of John Breslin. But naturally, the ever contrarian Frank Newlan on the other hand, saw things through a different shade of lenses.

"I admit it seems suspicious, but why would Fox be calling Breslin at his office if he had just murdered Miller, knowing full well that the calls could be traced?" wondered Newlan.

"I'll tell you why, because he's stupid, that's why," countered Jane.

"Well maybe, just maybe, Fox heard about the murder on the news and he stupidly, but innocently, decided to call Breslin to find out if he knew anything about it," theorized Newlan.

"Please...don't insult our intelligence," scoffed Jane, and her snide remark found Newlan's face bursting into a bright shade of crimson.

Newlan respected Jane's opinion, even if he didn't agree with everything she said, but her attitude was beginning to annoy him, and to his credit, Stan, the mild mannered software sales rep, sensed the tension, so he amicably threw out a sensible suggestion.

"Here's an idea, why don't we wait until after deliberations begin before we start going public with our opinions."

Although it took the intervention of a third party, both Jane and Newlan realized that Stan was one hundred percent in the right, and they promised to at least try to keep their opinions to themselves. They even ceremoniously shook hands as a goodwill gesture meant to ratify their uneasy ceasefire, and when Billy finally led the jurors down to their cars, they were unanimously thankful to be outdoors, breathing in the warm summer air.

By now Newlan was literally and figuratively exhausted, and he was just dying to get back home. All he could think about was cracking open an ice cold beer, turning off the telephone, and vegetating on his black leather sofa with the hope that a brand new morning might bring about a better day.

As Newlan started up his car, the Supertramp song "Crime of the Century" picked up just where it had left off, with co-lead singer and keyboardist Rick Davies eerily predicting his future as he sang of lewd, gluttonous masked men and love stories gone awry.

Newlan fished out the remnants of the morning's half-smoked joint from his ashtray which helped to calm his nerves during the traffic-jam filled ride home, while at the same time he contemplated the hidden meanings behind the esoteric Supertramp song...and not surprisingly, once again, his mind suddenly became fixated on...the only woman...he ever loved.

Chapter 77 – Confrontations (A Gun in Her face)

Wednesday evening June 18, 2008 – 7:40 PM

"Newlan...Frank Newlan."

The words rolled bitterly off of Tom Willis's tongue as if he were regurgitating some sort of foul tasting medicine out of his system. After three days of false starts and endless delays, Willis finally had the information he'd been waiting for and now...well, now it was just a matter of time before he exacted his revenge.

It took a few days longer than expected for Willis's private investigator friend, Brent Blain of the Boston Intelligence Group, to track down his contact at the Registry of Motor Vehicles, but as they say, patience is a virtue, and now Willis had in his possession, everything he could ever possibly want to know about one Mr. Frank Newlan.

Willis had a name. He had a phone number. He had a home address. He had a place of employment. He had an automobile make and model as well as a license plate number. He had a detailed account of the perpetrator's whereabouts and activities...and of course he had pictures, plenty of pictures.

Being the professional that he was, Brent Blain had done a top notch job of tracking down his pal's unsuspecting nemesis, and even now, he and his staff continued to monitor the home-wrecker's every movement, practically day and night.

The only puzzling detail that Blain couldn't quite figure out was why this Newlan guy had been observed driving in the general direction of the Middlesex Superior Court in Woburn every day this week when his records indicated that he worked at Tafts University.

"Maybe he's on jury duty," deduced Blain. However, as far as Tom Willis was concerned, none of these trivial details mattered in the least. As far as Willis was concerned, he was about to become Frank Newlan's worst nightmare...and there wasn't a damned thing anybody could do about it.

Willis rushed home as soon as Blain called him with the unmasking disclosure regarding Newlan's identity, but much to his surprise, much to his chagrin, his wife Marianne and their two children were nowhere to be found. And while he frantically patrolled the house looking for hidden clues, he wondered whether his wife might actually be in Newlan's bedroom at that very moment. He had preferred to confront her first, before moving on to Newlan, but the waiting was killing him and so he finally decided to pick up the phone and have a little man-to-man talk with his wife's so called high school sweetheart.

When Blain first sprang the news on him, it took a while for Newlan's strangely familiar surname to jog Willis's memory banks, but then he vaguely recalled a number of occasions where his wife had casually mentioned something in passing about the boy she dated back in her high school days.

It had to have been at least ten years since Willis heard his wife utter Newlan's name, and so like a fool, he never took him as a serious threat. Like a fool, Willis assumed that Newlan was just some pimply-faced kid from high school. Like a fool, Willis neglected to fully comprehend that pimply-faced kids sometimes grow up to become unscrupulous adults; immoral miscreants who would pounce on another man's misfortunes at the drop of a hat.

But Willis would be a fool no longer. His heart was pounding with malice as he dialed Newlan's phone number, while at the same time Newlan had just plopped himself onto his black leather sofa when a ringing tone disturbed his peace and tranquility.

"Damn it, I meant to turn that fuckin' phone off," lamented Newlan as he bent back up to see who the hell it could be this time, and when he observed the words "T & M Willis" illuminated on his caller ID, his reaction was decidedly mixed; his reaction was decidedly excruciating, like the exposed nerve of a throbbing toothache; his reaction was decidedly joyous, like a child on Christmas morning; his reaction was decidedly teetering in that broad-ranged spectrum, lost somewhere between exhilaration and dread, or quite possibly a fervid stew of both extremes all rolled up into one big heap of emotional turmoil.

For some reason, Newlan had an inkling that something dramatic was about to unfold, and as was often the case, his sixth sense was right on the money.

Newlan reluctantly answered the phone, and when he heard a man's voice on the other end of the line he figured that he was in for quite the rude awakening. Somehow, from the moment that Newlan's lips met Plante's open mouth for the first time in ages, he sensed that he was placing himself smack dab in the middle of an irreversible predicament, and sure enough, his forebodings had come to pass.

"Is this Frank Newlan?" demanded the rough-sounding voice on the other end of the receiver.

Newlan was petrified; partly out of fear, and partly out of guilt, but he spoke as calmly as he could in hopes that his faltering voice wouldn't betray his frittering emotions.

"Yeah, this is him," replied Newlan, and his affirmative response was the only green light that Willis needed to hear for him to go ahead and release a torrent of fury upon his unsuspecting adversary.

"Yeah, well this is Tom Willis, you no good motherfucker...you think you can go fuckin' around with somebody else's wife and get away with?" roared Willis.

"Calm down for a second and let's just talk this out," suggested Newlan, but Willis was having none of it.

"Fuck you, calm down. You're a dead man Newlan. You understand me? A dead man, you fuckin' loser," threatened Willis. But surprisingly his attempts at intimidation seemed to have had the reverse effect on Newlan, and despite his fears, he returned Willis's serve with his own volley of contempt.

"Yeah, but I'm a lovable loser, so fuck _you_ Willis. I'm not afraid of you. Hey, you go around treating your wife like dirt...it serves you right if you end up getting what you deserve. So why don't you just go fuck yourself, you piece of shit," boldly declared Newlan.

Predictably enough, Newlan's tersely worded kiss-off sent Tom Willis spiraling into a state of livid frenzy, and as such he railed into his antagonist like there was no tomorrow.

"Don't you dare talk to me about my fuckin' wife," ordered Willis.

"Yeah and what if I do? What the fuck are you gonna do about it?" demanded Newlan in attempt to egg Willis on.

"I'll tell you what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna come down there and I'm gonna beat the living shit out of you. Then I'm gonna spit you out into the fuckin' river where they'll find your dead ass floating downstream in about a week or two. You understand me Newlan? I swear to God I'm gonna find you and I'm gonna kill you. Do I make myself clear, you motherfucker?" promised the menacing voice of Tom Willis.

"I don't have to take this shit. Go to hell, you fuckin' jerk," bellowed Newlan, and with that final salutation he hung up the phone in Willis's face and headed straight for his whiskey cabinet in a futile attempt to calm his nerves. Meanwhile, Willis headed straight for his gun cabinet where he retrieved a fully licensed, fully loaded, 357 magnum pistol; the same exact model currently being used by many a police department across the country.

In recent years, Willis had gotten into the habit of keeping a small cache of firearms, safely locked and carefully hidden, in strategic areas of his home. But at the moment he was so enraged that safety was the furthest thing from his mind, and unfortunately for Marianne Plante, she and her children just so happened to come wandering home at exactly the wrong time.

Almost immediately upon pushing open the ornately carved front door, Plante detected the look of a madman in her husband's eyes. It only took one glimpse of his surly, bony, football-shaped face, contorted in a knot of rage, to warn her that trouble was brewing, and so naturally she proceeded cautiously.

Sensing danger lurking just around the bend, Plante ordered the girls to their rooms so that mommy and daddy could have a grownup's talk. However, civilized conversation wasn't exactly what Willis had in mind at the moment, and as soon as their children were out of earshot, he slapped his wife hard across the face which sent her sprawling backwards against the front door where he dug his foot into her midsection for good measures.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" wailed Plante as she cowered on floor.

"You fuckin' bitch...you think I don't what you've been up to? You think I don't know how you've been screwing around behind my back? You no good fuckin' cunt," jeered Willis as he towered over his fallen wife.

"I don't know what you're talking about Tommy...please stop this right now, for the girls sake," pleaded Plante.

"Oh yeah...play dumb...you don't know what I'm talking, do you. Well I'll tell you what I'm talking about. I'm talking about that fuckin' scumbag you've been hanging out with...Newlan...does that name ring a bell? Frankie fuckin' Newlan," derided Willis, much to his wife's dismay.

Plante was in a complete state of shock over her husband's discovery, but she went into full denial mode in a last ditch effort to somehow avert a catastrophe.

"You've got it all wrong Tommy. He's just a friend. I just needed someone to talk to. You're never home anymore. Please Tommy, please listen to me," begged Plante, but apparently it was too late for pleading; and furthermore, Willis was utterly insulted and disgusted by his wife's rebuttal, and he told her as much.

"You're so full of shit, it isn't even funny. I've had someone watching you for weeks now. You think I don't know how you've been flirting with every guy in town? You fuckin' douche bag whore," howled Willis. But as far as Plante was concerned, this bit of revealing news was the final straw; the straw that broke the camel's back so to speak.

And so dear reader, as we know from our own experiences, inevitably, there comes a time in a person's life, a rock-bottom nadir if you will, where they reach a breaking point; a boiling point; a point where nothing much matters anymore...and it was at just about this moment that Marianne Plante and Tom Willis had both reached that mythical point of no return.

Plante was outraged by the gall of her husband. How could he have someone following her when he was out on the town with a different floozy just about every night of the week? However, in Willis's twisted mind -- courtesy of the immortal words of the Godfather of Soul himself, James Brown -- it was a man's world, and any indiscretions that he may have committed were off limits for discussion; all that mattered was that his wife had betrayed his trust, and for that she had to pay, and pay dearly at that.

But regardless of her husband's misguided opinions, Plante rose from the floor like a phoenix rising from the dead and she got right up in his face like a lioness in heat.

"How dare you have someone follow me? I've had it with you Tommy. I just can't take it anymore. I want a divorce right now. Frankie Newlan was the best thing that ever happened to me and I should have never let him go for a...for a...for a...," stuttered Plante as she searched her mind for just the right words; and then with an emotional mixture of bravado and tears, she chose the phrase that would send her husband off the deep end; "...FOR A COWARD."

Plante's proclamation finally sent Willis literally over the edge. Apparently he had been teetering on the brink of insanity for quite some time now, and he wife's biting insult was the last straw. And if truth be told, the cocksure Willis was actually quite insecure underneath that gruff exterior of his, and he was none too happy to have to listen to his wife verbally expose him for what he was, a coward.

"You want a divorce, do you? You think I'm a coward, do you? You wanna fuck around with other guys, do you? Well how about you try this on for fuckin' size," suggested Willis in a threatening tone...and then he did it. Tom Willis did the one thing that separates disagreements from quarrels; quarrels from arguments; arguments from violence. Tom Willis pulled out his 357 magnum pistol...and he pointed it...in his wife's face.

Chapter 78 – Revenge in Motion

Wednesday evening June 18, 2008 – 8:30 PM

While Marianne Plante and Tome Willis were engaging in a domestic battle to end all battles, somewhere miles away, Tracy Stone and Cam Miller were engrossed in a much more tranquil discourse; a dialogue that revolved around a much more simpatico, although perhaps no less deadly, joint venture.

Tracy rang up Cam's home phone number, "just to check in" as she put it, and once again his unconcerned saint of a wife, Susan, didn't have a clue as to the unforeseen infiltration of the mind that was about to take place.

"Have you given any more thought to what we talked about the other day?" purred Tracy, but at the moment Cam was having trouble remembering exactly what it was she was referring to. He wasn't quite sure whether it was the turmoil of the trial, or whether there might be a more holistic explanation for this nagging mental block, but nevertheless he sensed that there was something unusual behind his abrupt memory loss, and on top of that, all of a sudden, he felt as if he were falling into some sort of paralyzing stupor.

And what was even more peculiar about this billowy lethargy, which was creeping into Cam's soul like a caterpillar up a grapevine, was the fact that it appeared to be triggered merely by the whispering sound of Tracy's soothing voice; it was as if her voice and her voice alone was putting him into this dreamlike state.

Yes, there was no question about it, Tracy's lenitive intonations were having a medicating affect on the unwitting Cam, and as much as he resisted it, as much as he fought it, he could feel his body going limp; he could feel his heart growing weary; he could feel his eyelids slipping into a droopy slumber; he could fee his mind falling into a sleepy unconsciousness, and furthermore, he felt totally helpless to do anything about it.

Cam hung up the phone after about a half hour, and although he was as wide-eyed and alert as could be, somehow he felt as if he were missing a 25 minute block of time from his life, a block of time that was completely unaccounted for; a seemingly nonexistent 25 minute chuck of his life was gone, vanished and apparently lost forever in the astronomic void of purgatory.

In fact, Cam had absolutely no recollection of what he and Tracy had just discussed, not even the faintest idea. However, regardless of his selective amnesia, he found himself involuntarily heeding her unspoken words. He found himself making his way down to his basement office. He found himself pulling up a chair. He found himself sitting at his desk. He found himself scouring the internet. He found himself searching though the depths of cyberspace...but for what he wasn't sure.

Cam fingers were pounding away relentlessly at his laptop's clicking keyboard as if they had a mind of their own, as if he were absorbed in a symphonic piano recital, when out of the blue, a photograph depicting the inside of a prison cell flashed across the screen, and it didn't take long for him to come to the conclusion that the image would make a fine addition to his brother's memorial website. It didn't take long for him to come to the conclusion that it was high time he began a taunting campaign aimed squarely at the Breslin faction, aimed squarely at the Breslin camp. It didn't take long for him to come to the conclusion that his latest blog entry should be entitled as follows:

JOHN BRESLIN'S FUTURE HOME!!!

In addition to the photo, Cam also came across something buried deep within the dregs of the vast, viral, worldwide web which would prove to be a lot more practical to his cause. After a mind-numbingly extensive search, he stumbled upon a rather enlightening newspaper article which detailed the efforts of an inmate in a New York prison who was able to fashion an old wooden broomstick into a primitive weapon. And with this newly found scrap of information in hand, Cam Miller was overcome by a dizzying inspiration. Cam Miller was overtaken by a precipitous revelation. Cam Miller was overpowered by an overwhelming force of nature; a force of nature which revealed to him that with this devastating knowledge securely locked-up in his brain he now possessed the necessary ingredients with which to make a quantum leap into the hellish, thirst-quenching abyss of bloodlust and gore.

"A jagged, knifelike stake, sharpened to the point where it could be plunged into the heart of a vampire...a whittled, wooden paling rod, capable of passing unnoticed through any metal detector known to man, capable of piercing the soul of a soulless man," whispered a smiling Cam, and suddenly vivid visions shot through his head unannounced.

Cam couldn't even begin to explain where these delusions of grandeur were coming from, but he was relishing in the near hallucinogenic quality of the experience nonetheless. He was exalting in the righteous rhymes of the sultry voice that was whispering sweet nothings in his ear. He was extolling in the virtuous rhythms of the buxom figurine that was twirling around in his sulphurous imagination.

On top of everything else, the guttural side of Cam's chimera was quite taken in with his serendipitous broomstick discovery, and, aided by the ever-so-subtle persuasions of a sorceress's bewitching touch, he was very much intent on proving out his theory in a real life application. And furthermore, although he was completely oblivious as to the inner workings of his ransacked and imprisoned psyche, he was just as intent on pleasing the source of his unquenchable addiction; the voluptuous enchantress, Ms. Tracy Stone.

### Chapter 79 – Familiar Territory (Welcome to the Club)

Wednesday evening June 18, 2008 – 9:20 PM

Although Frank Newlan's verbal sparring session with Tom Willis felt strangely empowering, the confrontation still left him shaking with indignation nonetheless. And even though almost two hours had passed since the skirmish, enough time for him to down a full bottle of whiskey, he was still lost in a stunned state of shock over what had gone down.

Newlan wasn't exactly sure how Willis found out about his encounter with Marianne Plante, and furthermore, he didn't care. All he knew for sure was that he had one big mess on his hands and very few options to rectify the situation.

"Maybe I should take a drive up there and confront him, man-to-man" contemplated Newlan. Although he realized that he might well end up fanning the flames of the brushfire until it roared like a blazing inferno, he was seriously considering this option when the phone rang and once again the caller ID displayed the words "T & M Willis".

Newlan was agitated, not to mention quite drunk, when he picked up the phone, and so he took the initiative to speak first and ask questions later.

"Look Willis if you wanna talk this out like a man, I'm all ears. Otherwise, leave me the fuck alone," growled Newlan. However, the sound that he discerned on the other end of the line wasn't the angry bellowing of a jealous husband...it was the muffled cries of a battered wife.

"Marianne is that you?" asked Newlan in a somewhat slurred tone.

"Yes it's me...oh I'm so sorry Frankie. I never meant to get you involved in my problems," whimpered Plante.

"What the hell's going on Marianne? Your husband called a while ago and he went ballistics on me. He even threatened to kill me," calmly revealed Newlan.

"Don't worry about him. He's in jail Frankie. He pulled a gun in me. Can you believe it? A fuckin' gun on his own wife...the mother of his children," wailed Plante.

"Now calm down Marianne...just take a deep breath and try to relax," counseled Newlan, and after an all out crusade he eventually managed to get Plante's runaway emotions somewhat under control. And when he did, he pressed her for more details.

"He's had someone following me for weeks now, and somehow he found out about you," continued Plante, while at the same time Newlan muttered under his breath, "I knew somebody was tailing us."

"We got into this big argument and I finally got fed up. I told him that I want a divorce, and that's when he pulled the gun on me," unsteadily recounted Plante, and after pausing to catch her breath for a moment, she proceeded on with her sorry tale.

"I thought I was gonna die Frankie. I swear on my grandmother's soul, my life flashed before my eyes...but then, luckily my daughters came running downstairs which distracted the asshole long enough for me to lock myself in the bathroom and call 911," chronicled Plante as Newlan breathed a sigh of relief and muttered the obvious.

"Thank God nothing happened to you or the kids."

"But wait there's more," continued Plante. "He was screaming at me to come out of the bathroom, and when I wouldn't budge he said he was gonna break the door down. But I told him that I had already called the cops, which made him furious. That's when he said he was gonna go settle the score with you...and he took off out the door."

"Son of a bitch...how the hell did I get myself into this mess?" wondered Newlan, more to himself than to Plante, and once again she apologized profusely.

"Frankie, I think it's only fair that I tell you everything. The cops caught up with Tommy just as he was about to get on the highway, and he was headed south...towards Medford I assume. The cops told me that with the new domestic violence laws, they could possibly hold Tommy indefinitely if I press charges and file a restraining order," anxiously disclosed Plante.

"Well you are gonna press charges, aren't you?" inquired Newlan in a placid tone. He assumed that it would be a foregone conclusion, but when Plante didn't immediately reply, he repeated himself, except this time more forcefully. "Well aren't you?"

"Of course I am Frankie. I already talked it over with my parents. My father is on his way up here to get me and the kids as we speak, and he's gonna bring us down to their house for the night...but I was wondering, what should I tell them about me and you?" replied Plante as she once again began to sniffle.

"I don't know what to say Marianne. At the moment, I can't even think straight. But maybe you shouldn't tell them anything for now. Look, you know how I feel about you, but as we discussed the other night, you have some decisions to make...important decisions...and once you do, we'll see where the road leads us," advised Newlan.

"But Frankie, I need you to help me through this...I love you Frankie," confessed Plante as her sniffles exploded into sobs.

"I love you too Marianne, but right about now I think you need to take a few days to think things through...and I mean everything. Your husband, your kids, your future, your life, your happiness, it's all on the line. You've just been through a traumatic experience. Let the dust settle. Let me get through this murder trial. And then if the cards falls into place, I'll be there for you...and we'll deal with whatever comes our way, no matter what the consequences," insisted Newlan, and Plante reluctantly agreed.

Newlan stayed on the line, talking Plante down from the ledge of despair until her father arrived, and then he spoke briefly to Mr. Plante regarding his daughter's predicament.

"You're a good kid, Newlan," admitted the surly old timer.

Newlan had the urge to respond by saying "Thank you Mr. Plante...oh and by the way this kid is almost 50 years old", but instead he simply said, "Thanks and good night Mr. Plante...oh and please take care of your daughter for me."

Afterwards Newlan sat out on his deck, and although he was as glum as can be, he still made a valiant attempt at enjoying the cool summer breeze as he dreamily gazed out into the distance at the Boston skyline, all lit up like the magical city of Oz.

As he lay back in his favorite lounge chair, Newlan fruitlessly attempted to figure out what was going on in his world. But for the life of him, he couldn't make any sense of it, and he eventually dragged himself off to bed.

And believe it or not, after all he had been through in the last few days, Newlan was still having trouble sleeping. As drunk as he was, his mind refused to turn itself off. Even after being awake for almost 36 hours, wide-eyed and restless for practically the entire time, a few hours of repose would not come easy for him.

When all else failed, and with his strung-out brain buzzing like a swarm of locusts, Newlan resorted to staring at the ceiling, while at the same time he partook in some long overdue self-pity.

"Why is this happening to me? Why do I all of a sudden feel like Fred Miller's brother from another mother? Why do I feel as if I'm gonna be spending the rest of my life looking over my shoulder every time I pull into the condo garage?" speculated a bewildered Newlan. But of course, deep in his heart-of-hearts he knew that the answers to his questions were staring him right in the face, and finally, at long last, he managed to lull himself to sleep.

And what with his irrational fear of garages fresh painted in his mind, it's not surprising that Newlan dreamed a dream where he found himself alone in a dark, abandoned garage. However, it wasn't the garage in his condo complex that he was dreaming about. No, instead Newlan's subconscious placed him inside the dank, musty garage in Newton Massachusetts where Fred Miller's life came to an end.

Newlan found himself lost and wandering aimlessly through the depths of the ramshackle structure, searching for a passageway out. Newlan could almost smell the stale stench of a rotting corpse as he desperately attempted to make his way towards the exit, which at the moment appeared to be nothing more than a hazy dot, far off in the distance. Newlan attempted to flee with every ounce of energy he could summons, but try as he might, he couldn't seem to gain any ground, and his feet felt as if they were cemented in a debilitating coat of lead.

Newlan could barely see a thing in the smoky darkness, but somehow his sense of hearing appeared to have been enhanced, which allowed his telescopic, satellite ears to pick up on the origins of every little creak and groan; every little bump in the night; every little pop and ping that echoed through the garage; every little pulsing murmur; murmurs which seemed to be emanating from somewhere underneath the cracking pavement no less.

And just as the racket reached a deafening crescendo, Newlan felt an infernal presence blocking his path, and with every beat of his heart he sensed that he was no longer alone. He sensed that someone or something was watching his every move, mocking his failing courage, tormenting his flickering heart. And then...and then he saw it. He saw it floating out from behind a pillar of stone. He saw it rustling towards him. He saw what in his mind could be one thing and one thing only. He saw the torture soul of Fred Miller. He saw Fred Miller reach out his decomposing hand and affirm his presence. He felt Fred Miller's translucent arms wrapped around him in a shimmering embrace. And finally, he heard Fred Miller's voice. He heard his voice as plain as day, crackling out from his mouthless face.

Just as sure as the day he was born, Frank Newlan felt Fred Miller's cold breath burning in his ears, and he heard his whispering voice as it made a seminal announcement; he heard his thundering voice as it cried out loud and echoed in his skull; he heard his frozen voice as it sealed his fate with the following bone-chilling words; "Welcome to the club...Newlan."

### Chapter 80 – Real Men?

Wednesday evening June 18, 2008 – 11:40 PM

Charles "Charlie" Mercurio was teetering on the verge of an emotional collapse as he stared into the bathroom mirror at the pink scar running halfway across his gut like a slithering snake.

It had been over two years since Mercurio plunged a serrated knife into his belly in a desperate, drunken attempt at ending the pain that had overtaken his soul. It had been over two years since he found his sorry, subpoenaed ass being dragged before a grand jury which was hearing evidence in the murder case against his good friend, John Breslin. It had been over two years since he fearfully withheld pertinent information from that same grand jury...and when Assistant District Attorney, Elaina Lyons, caught him in an outright lie, it was all too much for him to take. When Lyons threatened him with prison if he didn't come clean, he resolved right then and there to drink himself into a coma, in hopes of never waking up again. And when that didn't work, he resorted to the aforementioned drastic measures which left him with a foot long disfigurement indelibly stamped into his abdomen.

The events of the past two years had, without a doubt, eroded Mercurio's sanity, bit by bit, until ultimately he reached the point where his whole world was falling apart at the seams; and it had all started some twenty four months ago when he was "three six packs into a case of beer" as he so eloquently put it to DA Lyons; it had all started some two revolutions around the sun ago when he decided that life was no longer worth living; it had all started some 700 days ago when he took matters into his own hands so to speak and attempted to end his life.

Apparently not much had changed in the last two years, for much as Mercurio was then, so here he was tonight, inebriated to the max and questioning his own existence; here he was, questioning his Lord and savior; here he was, questioning whether he had the strength to carry on.

Tomorrow Mercurio would testify at the trial of his old pal, Johnny Breslin, and he knew full well that there was a good chance he might say something which would abet in the prosecution's objective of sending Breslin to prison for the rest of his life; and the mere thought of Breslin's plight, the mere thought of his own predicament, was playing tricks with his unstable mind.

Luckily Breslin's attorney, R. J. Gleason had seen to it that Mercurio's suicide attempt would never come to the jury's attention, but Mercurio was well aware of the fact that everything else was fair game...and he was preparing himself for the worst.

Even though Mercurio's doggedness was tenuous at best, after two years of anguish and deliberation, he had resolved to tell the truth. What else could he do...try to kill himself again? There was no way he was going to risk being brought up on perjury charges, no matter how good of a friend Breslin had been to him, so it was either tell the truth or end it all. And although both options were still on the table, neither alternative seemed very appealing to him at the moment.

As far as Mercurio knew, Breslin was innocent. But some things just didn't seem to add up, and lately he was beginning to question his old drinking partner's motives. Could Breslin have deceived him? Could Breslin have gotten him caught up in trap? Could Breslin have taken him for a fool?

For the past two years, Mercurio had been wondering off and on whether there was any chance, any chance at all, that he may have unwittingly played a small part in a monstrous murder plot. It just didn't seem possible, and yet, the thought had crossed his photographic mind on more than a few occasions since his suicide attempt and his subsequent half-hearted recovery.

Clearly, Mercurio's brain worked in strange ways, but there was even more to it than meets the eye, for he just so happened to be one of those people who was born with the uncanny ability to recall mundane details which most of us would never retain, and he distinctly remembered that cool autumn night in October of 2005 when he took a ride with Breslin to his former home in Marlborough Massachusetts for the purpose of checking up on his estranged wife, Tracy.

Mercurio vividly recalled Breslin's fist-pumping reaction when the DJ on the classic rock station WXLZ played the AC/DC song "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" while they were cruising up the highway. He still recalled Breslin's exact words; "Crank it up Charlie...I love this fuckin' song."

Mercurio still recalled the possessed look in Breslin's eyes as he enthusiastically sang along to the tongue-in-cheek lyrics. It was as if Breslin had been on the receiving end of some sort of higher-calling, a calling informing him that the redemption he had been praying for would soon be at hand, much like the tall tales that one of those phony preachers on the TV might tell as they begged for money in return for a promise to save your soul.

Mercurio still recalled Breslin asking him to pull over so that he could use a pay phone, and he still recalled replying, "What the hell you want to use a pay phone for Johnny? I'll let you borrow my cell phone if you don't have yours on you."

Mercurio still recalled Breslin taking him up on his cell phone offer, and he never forgot how Breslin stepped outside of the car so that he could, as he put it, "talk in private".

Mercurio still recalled it all like it was yesterday, and furthermore he would never, ever, be able to forget how victimized he felt when the police informed him that his phone had been used to call an ex-con by the name of Sammy Fox; a convicted murderer no less.

Mercurio still recalled holding onto an envelope full of cash which Breslin had given him. Breslin's excuse was that he was hiding the money from his wife because of his forthcoming divorce, and it seemed like a perfectly good explanation as far as Charlie Mercurio was concerned.

Mercurio still recalled Breslin dropping by his house unannounced, right around Christmastime, with a request for half the money so that he could buy gifts for his kids.

Mercurio still recalled Breslin's phone call at 5 PM on the night of Sunday January 15th, 2006, where he asked him to return the rest of his money. He still recalled taking a ride with Breslin over to the 88 Bar and Grill in Andover, not far from the Tex-Ray Defense Systems offices, that very same evening. He still recalled how Breslin cautiously trekked into the restaurant alone with the packet of money, and how he ambled slowly back out about 15 minutes later, empty-handed. He still recalled how Breslin inform him that he'd just had a brief meeting with his divorce attorney and that he had paid him the balance of his bill.

Mercurio still recalled that a few days after their rendezvous to the 88 restaurant, Breslin confided in him that his wife Tracy's boyfriend had been found shot to death and that he was a suspect.

Mercurio still recalled how Breslin explained to him that Tracy had sicced the cops on him, and how he had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the murder of his estranged wife's lover.

Mercurio still recalled how a couple of months later, Breslin stopped by his house and told him that the cops might be paying him a visit, for no reason other than the fact that they were friends.

Mercurio still recalled how Breslin counseled him to be careful what he said because the police were trying to find a way to pin the murder on him any way that they could.

Yes, Charles "Charlie" Mercurio recalled all of these things and so much more...and now he would have to share his memories with a courtroom full of vengeful people.

Mercurio didn't know exactly what these pain-in-the-ass lawyers were going to ask him, but he damn well knew that he had better tell the truth. He damn well knew that he had better answer their questions to the best of his idiot-savant-like abilities or he just might wind up being Breslin's cellmate.

For two years Mercurio had racked his brain attempting to make some sense of this thorny situation which he found himself in through no fault of his own -- other than the fact that he was just trying to be a good friend -- and now the day of reckoning was finally at hand. For the most part, he had attributed Breslin's strange and sometimes suspicious behavior to his pending divorce, but now, when push came to shove, he wasn't so sure.

"The poor guy's under a lot of pressure," reasoned Mercurio at the time, but now he wondered whether he had been duped. Now he wondered whether he had been tricked. Now he wondered whether he had been played as a pawn in big game of chicken.

But on the other hand, Mercurio often wondered why Breslin hadn't come to him with his dilemma in the first place. He would have straightened out this dude Miller, no problem. He would have left Miller broken and bleeding in the gutter, where he would have had plenty of time to think long and hard about whether he wanted to keep messing around with the friends of Johnny Breslin.

However, that was all ancient history, and now in the blink of an eye, here he was, two years later, once again forced to come face-to-face with the turmoil that had destroyed his life. Tomorrow, he just might be forced to rat out a friend and the guilt was killing him.

At the heart of Mercurio's quandary was the fact that, where he came from, such a thing was unheard of, which brought him, full-circle, right back to his tormented predicament of two years ago, and in his mind he wavered over whether he should end it all rather than to be considered a snitch for the rest of his life.

You see, where Charles "Charlie" Mercurio came from, real men took their secrets to the grave.

Where Charles "Charlie" Mercurio came from, real men lived and died with honor.

Where Charles "Charlie" Mercurio came from, real men didn't hit on another man's wife.

Where Charles "Charlie" Mercurio came from, disrespect was as serious a crime as murder in the first degree.

Where Charles "Charlie" Mercurio came from, the laws of the street ruled the day.

Where Charles "Charlie" Mercurio came from, friends had each other's backs.

But sadly, in his present state of mind, none of these axioms seemed to matter much anymore; because now, as he stared at the bright red stitches on his stomach while at the same time holding a gun to his head, he just wanted it all to be over; the innuendos; the obligation; the shear madness and overwhelming responsibility which had been placed squarely on his lap.

Yes indeed, Charles "Charlie" Mercurio was having himself one hell of a nervous breakdown.

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 Plante, 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 Attorney 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, regardless 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 transferred 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 Marlborough 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.

Chapter 82 – Betrayal & Subterfuge, Legitimate & Imagined

Thursday afternoon June 19, 2008 – 12:50 PM

As John Breslin's old pal Charles "Charlie" Mercurio sobbed away his troubles on a corridor bench just down the hall from courtroom 630 of the Middlesex Superior Courthouse, who should come strolling out from the men's room a mere few feet away from where Mercurio was sitting but none other than Fred Miller's best buddy and former roommate, Robert Hurley.

Hurley, who had been in attendance for the majority of Mercurio's confessional testimony, couldn't help but feel sorry for the poor guy...and he told him as much. Hurley hunkered down next to Mercurio and he made a sincere effort to comfort him, and even though his condolences were more than genuine, he never once made eye-contact with the crestfallen witness. Instead he just stared down absently at his shoes as he mumbled his denouement.

"You feel like you've been let down, don't you? Maybe you even feel a little betrayed, a little sick that a friend could lie to you," narrated Hurley in an empty tone that made it sound as if he were talking to a ghost.

"Yeah, and it sucks big time," tearfully admitted Mercurio.

"Well I know the feeling too," confided Hurley as he began to tear up as well...and after a prolonged silence, which he spent collecting his thoughts, he continued on with his stark summation. But this time, he really was talking to a ghost.

"Damn it Freddie, how could you desert us? Just when I needed a friend more than ever, you checked out on us. I told you to stay away from that bitch but no, you wouldn't listen. But no, you were too smart to get hurt. But no, you could handle whatever life threw at you. Sure you could, and now look at you...where did it get you? Dead, that's where it got you...or even worse, not quite dead, but still lingering in the attic, in the basement, in the closet...in my fuckin' mind," wailed Hurley, who ironically was now being comforted by Mercurio.

Meanwhile, at the exact same moment that Charles "Charlie" Mercurio and Robert "Hurl" Hurley were endeavoring to assist each other through their distinctly unique crises, the jurors in the John Breslin murder case were also discussing friendship, or to be more precise, a lack thereof. And while they picked at their catered lunches, Jane made her larger-than-life presence, not to mention her bigger-than-a-breadbasket opinion, known to one and all.

"Nice friend Breslin turned out to be. Jeez with friends like him, who needs enemies?" rhetorically asked Jane.

"He used that sucker like a rented mule," added Jim, the strident telecom employee.

"He was manipulative right up to the very end?" chimed in Mark, the obstinate network security administrator.

"No question about it, he conned his own friend. The poor guy was clueless and Breslin got him caught up in his mess," opined Mike, the reserved car salesman, who was becoming more vocal with each passing day.

And while most of the jurors were focused on what they perceived to be the manipulation of Charlie Mercurio, Annie had a differing take on the matter; a take which tended to imply that she still hadn't totally given up on finding Breslin not guilty.

"All I know is that Gleason better call Breslin's divorce lawyer to the stand to back up the claim he made to Mercurio that he was paying off his legal bill on the night they stopped by the 88 Bar and Grill," argued Annie, and Newlan privately agreed with her assessment.

Of course, if Newlan could have somehow been made aware of the fact that the 88 restaurant was the very same watering hole where Tom Willis and Brent Blain had mapped out their plans for tracking him down, he might have swooned over like a wilting sunflower plant and anxiously exclaimed his infamous adage, "man, you can't make this shit up".

As it was, Newlan was fed up with the way that most folks, such as his fellow jurors for instance, not to mention Tom Willis, tended to jump to conclusions without knowing all the facts. But conversely, he also recognized that at the moment he had little ammunition with which to fight his way out of either predicament.

As far as Newlan was concerned, no one could say for sure what was going on in the mind of Charlie Mercurio when it came to what was discussed in private between him and John Breslin, least of all his smart-aleck colleagues. And yet even he secretly acknowledged that Mercurio came across as the type of person who could have been easily taken for a ride without ever realizing that he was being fleeced. But on the bright side, Annie comments echoed his thoughts exactly, and he continued to be encouraged by the fact that he might have at least one person on his side when deliberations began, for he still wasn't ready to convict Breslin just yet.

And furthermore, despite the surveillance of a private investigator, no one was privy to what went on between him and Marianne Plante behind the closed doors of his condo, and as far as he was concerned, no one was ever going to find out. Regardless of whatever conclusions her "crazy-assed" husband had come to, Willis had no real proof, one way or another, and Newlan, who seemed to be oblivious of the dangers of dealing with a gun-toting lunatic, had a good mind to tell him as much. But on the bright side, Willis's "crazy-ass" as it were, was currently seated in a jail cell, so for the time being at least, he posed no imminent danger to our unwittingly dense and guilt-riddled protagonist.

And anyhow, in the end, reason prevailed and Newlan decided that he would not confront Tom Willis, even if he were to be presented with a golden opportunity to do so, smartly concluding that there was no sense tempting fate. In the end, Newlan bit his tongue for a change and decided to leave well enough alone and not challenge his colleagues to a debate regarding Charlie Mercurio's testimony. And as it turned out, his reticence somehow soothed him as he was marched back into the courtroom for another afternoon of adventure and mayhem in a twisted tale that was beginning to bear more than a few startlingly striking similarities to his own tattered life.

The afternoon session started off with Judge Gershwin providing the jurors with a definition of the term "stipulation" as it related to a criminal court proceeding.

"Essentially, a stipulation is an agreement between the DA's office and the council for the defense that is introduced as evidence in lieu of a witness being physically present to testify. In general, a stipulation can occur when neither party disputes the evidence in question, and it can help to prevent delays and defray court costs which can occur when a witness is unavailable to testify for whatever reasons," elucidated Judge Gershwin. And with that explanation in hand, a stipulation was presented to the jurors right off the bat. The stipulation in question, which acknowledged the phone number sequence for Breslin's work-issued cell phone, seemed innocuous enough, which was probably why it wasn't disputed by either side in the first place.

With Judge Gershwin's "stipulation" spiel behind them, DA Lyons approached the podium and with a rare hint of afflicted emotion in her voice she announced, "Your honor the prosecution calls Mr. Cameron Miller to the stand."

And once again the courtroom was abuzz and heads were crooked, as they were for the introductions of both Tracy Stone and Nancy O'Brien. But this time of course, the jockeying for position in the gallery's pew styled benches was for the purpose of gaining a better view of the murdered Fred Miller's only brother "Cam".

However, the courtroom audience, and in particular the impressionable jurors, would not see the vengeful Cam Miller that we have come to know, nor would they see the Cam Miller who had become inebriated by the toxic vapors of Ms. Tracy Stone. No, instead, the jurors would get a glimpse into the tortured soul of a man who missed his brother so much that he ached inside. And although his testimony provided little of substantive value to the prosecution, his words went a long way in evoking the sympathy factor within the jury box. It was obvious to Newlan that DA Lyons' main goal was to swing open the wide doors of the jurors' brains which housed the empathy department, and although it was a transparent ploy, it was powerful nonetheless, and he didn't blame her for utilizing this not uncommon "humanization" courtroom tactic.

Cam Miller was reduced to tears as, at the request of DA Lyons, he reminisced about his childhood memories of carefree days spent in the company of his older brother Freddie. Miller took the jurors on an emotional journey through his past; Freddie teaching him how to fish; Freddie teaching him how to ride a bike; Freddie turning him on to music; Freddie taking him to his first concert, a Grateful Dead concert no less; Freddie going off to college in Arizona; and finally, Freddie turning up dead, murdered in the prime of his life.

Cam Miller recalled the day of his brother's murder in excruciating detail, and by the time he reached the climactic scene where a police officer got a hold of him on the phone and informed him that his brother was deceased, there wasn't a dry eye in the courtroom.

At one point during his testimony, Cam jabbed a subtly insulting comment in Tracy Stone's direction, saying something to the affect that he thought his brother should have run the other way when Stone reemerged into his life again, and that he had a feeling things would end badly, although not this badly. But of course, when all was said and done, he couldn't really be too harshly critical of his brother, seeing as how he was having a hard time fighting off Stone's empyrean advances himself.

Cam Miller's testimony ended dramatically with DA Lyons displaying a photograph of Cam and Fred, decked out in tuxedo's, on the overhead projector, and Cam tearfully sniffling, "that was a picture of Fred and me on my wedding day...he was my best man."

Wisely, Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason chose not to pester Cameron Miller with any questions which might disturb him and by transference the jurors as well. But nevertheless, as Miller left the stand, his sad demeanor transformed itself into a steel-eyed glare directed towards Breslin and his attorney; a glare which spoke volumes in a way that even a million words could never do justice to.

And although Cam Miller had accomplished the objective set out by DA Lyons, his own ambitions had yet to be fulfilled, and as such, it should be noted that he might just yet make his presence felt inside the halls of the Middlesex Superior Courthouse; and as such, it should be noted that we may not have heard the last of his name, uttered inside the wall of courtroom 630. However, for the time being anyway, his part had been played out, and the next witness to take the stand was a Newton Police detective by the name of George McManus.

McManus was assigned the thankless task of researching the particulars behind the countless phone calls that were made between John Breslin and Sammy Fox, and whether there might be any patterns to these phone calls (and as the jurors would soon find out, his research was quite extensive to say the least).

McManus's testimony featured a twist on the DA's side of the aisle. For the first time since the commencement of the trial, it would be Associate District Attorney, Paul Gentili, who would be leading the debriefing. Apparently, DA Lyons felt that Gentili's flat, low-pitched voice would be perfect for the task at hand, and as usual she was correct in her assumptions.

Gentili's inquiries featured an elaborate and impressive display of Microsoft Excel spreadsheets and PowerPoint slides which documented over three months worth of phone calls made between the defendant John Breslin and his alleged co-conspirator Sammy Fox. The jurors were even provided with a handout so that they could follow along more easily, and for the next two hours DA Gentili patiently rambled on in a sleep-inducing monotone.

Gentili gently guided Detective McManus through the paces as he methodically elaborated on the location of various payphones, and with the clever use of PowerPoint slide-in features he superimposed Breslin's whereabouts when he was alleged to have placed outgoing calls from specific payphones to none other than Sammy the Fox.

McManus displayed records of Breslin logging off from the Tex-Ray network and then ten minutes later, records would show a call being made to Sammy Fox from a pay phone not far from the Tex-Ray offices.

The same drill was used to verify the fact that Breslin had closed down the Irish-American Club in Watertown on the night of January 13th, 2006, and then six minutes later, records showed how a pay phone a block from the club was used to make a call to Sammy Fox; reliable, if not undisputable evidence that a phone call was made from Breslin to Fox on the very night of the murder.

"Now I see why the prosecution had the chairman of the Irish-American club verify that Breslin closed the joint on the night of the murder," silently pondered Newlan, and suddenly the element of doubt began to creep into his head regarding the innocence of one Mr. John Breslin.

Meanwhile, at Gentili's tranquil urgings, McManus meticulously documented every single traceable phone call that was made between Breslin and Fox, close to 100 calls in total. With the aid of a circular pie chart graph, the jurors saw that a sliver of the calls were made from Fox's cell phone to one of Breslin's many phones; a portion of the calls were made from Breslin's work phone to Fox's cell phone; a slice of the calls were made from Breslin's cell phone to Fox cell phone; a heaping share of the calls were made from various payphones to Fox's cell phone; payphone calls which were paid for with the much ballyhooed calling card that Breslin had purchased at his local Walmart. And on top of that, the prosecution was able to provide supporting evidence which placed Breslin in the vicinity of more than a few of the payphones in question at the precise times that the calls were being made.

Gentili even presented phone company records showing how the placement of a cell phone call from Fox to Breslin was transmitted from a tower atop of the Barron Insurance Agency office building in Newton, which got Newlan thinking to himself, "hmmm, that contradicts the statement that Fox made to Detective Sasso where he insisted that he hadn't even so much as passed through the city of Newton during the month of January 2006...and that also explains why Gleason fought so hard to get the cell phone expert, Alex McKeon, to concede that it was possible for a cell phone call to connect to a tower more than five miles away."

While Newlan was coming to grips with the reality of the evidence that was being presented to the jurors, another stipulation was being made by which the owner of a convenience store located within the general vicinity of the Tex-Ray office complex verified the authenticity of footage that came from his emporium's security camera. The jurors were then shown a grainy video taken from behind the front counter of the shop, and into the picture walked none other than John Breslin ordering what appeared to be a can of soda. The recording also displayed an exact date and time, and McManus then produced records of a payphone call from a phone directly outside of the convenience store to Fox's cell phone at roughly the same moment that Breslin had just exited the store. And this was only the beginning.

On and on it went with Gentili and McManus chipping away, bit by bit, at any alibi that Breslin may have had...and after two hours of similar mind-numbing detail the jurors were justifiably irritable. But nevertheless, Newlan forced himself to listen, even if it killed him.

Newlan's patience paid off, at least in his mind anyway, when somewhere around three quarters of the way into McManus's testimony, he determined that Gentili was attempting to slip something past the jurors, and he caught him in the act, red-handed. Not long after McManus documented for prosperity the phone call that was placed from Charles Mercurio's cell phone to Sammy Fox's cell phone, Gentili softly prodded the witness with the following question; "and on January 10th of 2006, a call was placed from Fred Miller's cell phone to John Breslin's office phone at Tex-Ray Defense Systems, wasn't it Mr. McManus?"

"Hold on their big fella...a call from Fred Miller to Breslin...what the hell was that all about?" wondered Newlan, but as usual the prosecution didn't elaborate. And although it may not have mattered much in the grand scheme of the case, for days on end, Newlan was hung up over what the two men might have discussed. Did they get into a heated argument, much as he and Tom Willis had? Did they engage in a civil conversation? Or perhaps they never even ended up talking at all. Perhaps Breslin wasn't available and Fred Miller left a message, or maybe he said nothing and just hung up. Newlan had a million scenarios playing out in his head, but unfortunately for him, Gleason didn't broached the topic either, so he would never know for sure what the nature of this mysterious call might have been.

Much to Newlan's dismay, the testimony regarding the phone call from Fred Miller to John Breslin slip past most of his colleagues due to Gentili's expertly camouflaged delivery, and the few that did pick up on the subtly-rendered statement, didn't think it amounted to a hill of beans.

In any event, just as the jurors were surely about to drift off into a deep sleep, en masse, Gentili's ploddingly-paced interrogation of Detective McManus came to a merciful end, clocking in at just over two grueling hours. At that time, Judge Gershwin sagely decided that it would be an opportune moment for another break, and the jurors shuffled lazily back into the deliberation room, completely exhausted.

"Veedy interesting," exclaimed Mark, in a fake Einstein tone, before his fanny even hit his chair.

"Yeah, I assumed you'd find that interesting," retorted a bitter Newlan. He had been drained of every last ounce of energy by Detective McManus's testimony, and he was irritable to boot. At the moment, the fight had been knocked out of Newlan and he was beginning to wonder why the hell he even cared. But care he did, and as such, he concluded that he needed some alone time to digest everything he had just witnessed before he was ready to make any reckless decisions, before he was willing to make any rash statements. And so for the time being he kept his feelings to himself as best as he could until the resumption of "show time" as Billy would say.

When the jurors were returned to the courtroom, Gleason began his cross-examination of Detective McManus by recapitulating the details of an impromptu meeting that they had just engaged in.

"Detective McManus, during the break you and I had a conversation out in the hallway and you helped me breakdown some of the statistics pertaining to the phone calls that were placed between Mr. Breslin and Mr. Fox, isn't that correct?"

"Yes sir," replied McManus, and then, reading from a sheet of paper, Gleason went on to document the relatively brief duration of the nearly 100 phone calls in question; amazingly enough, all but a handful of the phone calls were under 30 seconds, with many clocking in at under 20 seconds; factual statistics that McManus didn't dispute in the least.

Gleason then had McManus reiterate that the phone records alone, extensive though they may have been, could not be used to determine how many of the calls in question were picked up by an answering machine and how many were picked up by an actual person. And of course Gleason went ahead and had McManus state the obvious; which was that it would be impossible for anyone to determine what was said during any of the phone calls in question.

However, as much as he tried to poke a few holes in the evidence, Gleason seemed to be grasping at straws, even in the eyes of the hard-to-convince Frank Newlan, who wrote into his notepad:

Gleason did the best he could to put a dent in the phone record testimony, but no matter how you cut it, it seems mighty suspicious that Breslin and Fox were making all of these clandestine phone calls, at all hours of the day, right up to and including the night of the murder.

As you might imagine, DA Lyons was quite pleased with the work of her assistant, Paul Gentili, and she was wearing and ear-to-ear grin as she called the next witness, Richard Baker, yet another State Police Detective, to the stand.

Baker's primary job was to schedule and coordinate interviews with many of the witnesses, and he was also in charge of gathering up much of the ancillary evidence such as computers, answering machines, written correspondences and the like, along with countless other items that proved to have little or no value to the case.

The only truly revealing portion of Detective Baker's testimony was as it related to Tracy Stone's former boyfriend, Peter Perry; the same Peter Perry whose collarbone was shattered in a tussle with the late Fred Miller.

Detective Baker recounted how he tracked Peter Perry down and found him living in a suburb just outside of Hartford Connecticut. Ostensibly Perry had an airtight alibi regarding his whereabouts on the morning of January 13th, 2006; he claimed that he was at work on that date and time, and that there were at least a half dozen people who could vouch for him.

Detective Baker went on to chronicle the interviews he conducted with Perry's co-workers, which, by all accounts, seemingly ruled out Peter Perry as a suspect in Fred Miller's murder. But of course, as usual, R. J. Gleason wasn't totally convinced.

"Detective Baker, were you able to gather any verification of Mr. Perry's whereabouts beyond the verbal corroboration of his co-workers?" asked Gleason.

"No sir, what did you have in mind?" replied Baker with a slight smirk.

"You know, timecards, security cameras, credit card transactions, phone records, things of that nature," elaborated Gleason.

"No sir, we weren't able to obtain any of those items," confirmed Baker.

"Well they sure were able to gather some of those items when it came to Breslin...and I suppose that's Gleason's point," surmised Newlan, while at the same time Gleason wondered, "Detective Baker, did you even try?"

But evidently Detective Baker didn't try; as a matter of fact, his face became flushed with anger as he admitted as much.

"No sir, we determined that the corroboration of Mr. Perry's whereabouts by his co-workers, along with other details obtained during the course of our investigation, ruled out Mr. Perry as a suspect in this case."'

"Really, what other details are you referring to?" added Gleason.

"Look Mr. Gleason, there was no evidence that Mr. Perry had even been in the State of Massachusetts in the last several years, never mind being involved in the murder of Fred Miller," shot back Baker.

"Well isn't it possible that he could have hired someone?" rationalized the devious Gleason, and his hypothetical question had many of the jurors visibly shaking their heads in disgust, while at the same time Newlan admired Gleason's tenacity, regardless of the implausibility of his hypothesis.

"There is absolutely no evidence whatsoever to suggest that theory, Mr. Gleason," reasoned Baker.

"I see, well then no further questions your honor," announced Gleason, while Newlan took the time to scribble the following observation into his notebook:

Gleason gave it the old college try, but I don't think he's gonna convince anyone that Peter Perry was involved in this mess unless he comes up with some overwhelmingly convincing evidence during Breslin's defense.

And finally, the last witness of the long day was none other than the lead detective on the case for the Newton Police Department, the oft mentioned Carolyn Curran.

Detective Curran was a tall attractive 42 year old woman who had very long, very straight, light brown hair, and as she approached the witness stand, it was also rather obvious that she had an air of confidence about her as well.

Right off the bat, DA Lyons had Curran enumerate the list of activities that she engaged in on the day of Fred Miller's murder, and from there her testimony seemed to trundle along quite nicely (at least until R. J. Gleason got a hold of her that is).

"Well, one of the first things the team of detectives assigned to the case, including myself, did was to interview Mr. Miller's co-workers at the Barron Insurance Agency. This led us to contact Tracy Breslin, who now goes by the name of Tracy Stone...which in turn led us to pay a visit to her estranged husband John Breslin, who was living with his mother in Waltham at the time of the murder," explained Curran.

"And were you able to locate Mr. Breslin?" asked Lyons.

"Yes, Detective Donavan from the State Police and I drove out to Waltham and parked down the street from the address that Tracy had given us. After about ten minutes, a man emerged from the front door of the residence in question, and it appeared that he may have noticed us since he went back inside within seconds of leaving the house. But then a few minutes later he resurfaced from the basement door, this time carrying a water bottle. At that point we decided to pull up to where he was standing and we identified ourselves as police officers. We then confirmed that he was in fact John Breslin and we asked if we could speak to him for few minutes," replied Curran.

"And what was Mr. Breslin's response?" inquired Lyons.

"Well, he kept asking us, 'what's this all about?' and he appeared to be extremely nervous. In fact, I observed that the water bottle he was holding in his hand was shaking uncontrollably. Anyhow, we informed him that we'd let him know why we were there in due time, but first we wanted to ask him a few questions. But he wasn't being very cooperative with us, and so eventually we just came right out and told him that we were investigating the murder of Fred Miller. And oddly, he didn't seem surprised in the least, which isn't the reaction you'd expect from someone who has no knowledge of a crime where a person of familiarity is murdered. Instead he kept on repeating that he had nothing to do with it," answered Curran.

"And Detective Curran, did Mr. Breslin's mother return home while you were in the process of interviewing him?" asked Lyons.

"Yes, she pulled up in front of the house and she asked her son what was going on. He told her that we were with the police, and he also told her not to talk to us. I attempted to pull Mrs. Breslin aside, but Mr. Breslin became very agitated and he hollered at us to leave his mother out of it. Mr. Breslin then informed us that he had left work for a few hours to take care of a problem with a squirrel in the basement of his mother's house, and that he had to return to his office immediately for a meeting. At that time, we had no reason to take him into custody, so we let him go, and we returned to the scene of the crime so that we could conduct more follow-up interviews," recalled Curran.

"Did you eventually interview Tracy Stone again?" continued Lyons.

"Yes, Detective Donavan and I interviewed Tracy in person on the day after the murder as well as the day of the murder, and she provided us with more details regarding her relationship with Fred Miller, as well as with more details regarding the marital problems she was having with her husband. Tracy also revealed that her husband had made a number of threatening comments directed towards Fred Miller," replied Curran, and with DA Lyons guiding her every step of the way, she went on to document the events that led up to the arrest of John Breslin and Sammy Fox, including how the police eventually became aware of Nancy O'Brien and what her connection was to the two men.

Curran also participated in executing the search warrant on the Breslin home in Waltham, and she expanded further upon the now infamous binoculars (but try as she might, she still couldn't convince Newlan that they were anything more than a kid's toy).

Not surprisingly Gleason chose to focus on a handful of discrepancies in Curran's testimony as compared to her written reports and her subsequent grand jury testimony.

"Detective Curran, while you conducted your interview with Mr. Breslin in front of his mother's home, you didn't take any notes, did you?" asked Gleason, and Curran admitted as much, which promptly sent Gleason cruising down the dangerous road of insinuating police incompetence.

"Detective Curran, before becoming a lead investigator you must first complete quite an extensive training curriculum, including studying topics such as using the proper methods and techniques for interviewing witnesses and writing reports, and subjects of that nature, isn't that true?" rambled Gleason in an innocently inquisitive tone. And although Curran cautiously replied in the affirmative, in the back of her mind she wondered what Gleason was up to with this line of questioning...and of course, she would soon find out.

"Detective Curran, would it be fair to say that you wrote your report outlining the events of January 13th, 2006 on that same evening, presumably so that the details would be fresh in your mind?" added Gleason.

"Yes that's correct," replied Curran, and with her acknowledgment officially on the record, Gleason went in for the kill.

"And yet you never once mentioned in your report that Mr. Breslin was extremely nervous...you never once mentioned that he was shaking uncontrollably. You never once mentioned in your report that Mr. Breslin told his mother not to talk to the police. You never once mentioned that Mr. Breslin became agitated. You never once mentioned that Mr. Breslin was uncooperative. And on top of that, you never once mentioned any such details to the grand jury, isn't that also true Detective Curran?" boomed Gleason in a voice so abruptly loud that it almost startled Curran out of her seat.

Detective Curran tried desperately to explain these oversights, but Gleason insisted on 'yes' or 'no' answers, and so she was forced to admit that the statements she had just made within the last hour were neither in her written report, a report which was authored on the very same day that Fred Miller was murdered, a report which was authored on the very same day she conducted her interview with John Breslin outside of his mother's home, nor were any of these statements ever uttered by her when she appeared before the grand jury, some two years ago.

"And finally Detective Curran, the first time you interviewed Nancy O'Brien, you asked her if Mr. Breslin had ever said anything to the affect that he wanted Fred Miller killed, and she replied, 'no, not to me,' isn't that true?" continued Gleason.

"Well yes, but she later told us..." began Curran, but she was cut off by an annoyed Gleason in midsentence.

"I'm not interested in what she told you later, so please listen carefully and just answer the question. 'Yes' or 'no', did Nancy O'Brien reply, 'no, not to me,' the first time you asked her whether Mr. Breslin ever said that he wanted Fred Miller killed?" angrily shouted Gleason.

"Yes," admitted Curran in a cross tone, and with that, another day of testimony in the John Breslin murder trial had come to an end. And with that, the overwhelmed jurors were whisked out of the courtroom for another day. And with that, the jurors went their separate ways, but not before another round of unabashedly biased commentary. And with that, Frank Newlan left behind the parallel universe that the trial was beginning to represent in his distorted mind, and once again, he reentered the real world with his all too real problems staring him right in the face.

For the most part, Newlan was able to block out his own issues while he was seated in his comfortable swivel chair, within the safely secured confines of the jury box, intellectually pondering testimony from witness after witness. But on this uneasy day, the floodgates of emotion opened up the second he pulled out of the courthouse parking lot, and he found himself running; running in place through the quicksand of his life; motoring away as steadily as he could through the gridlock in his soul; crawling through the morass of his own making; but to where, he could not say; from whom, he did not know.

Whether he realized it or not, Frank Newlan was making one last ditch effort to escape; but escape from what, even he couldn't quite comprehend. Maybe Newlan was attempting to escape the unknown; maybe he was attempting to escape his fate; maybe he was attempting to escape his past; maybe he was attempting to escape his present; or perhaps he was desperately trying to escape an uncertain future...which was finally coming into focus.

Chapter 83 – Blood on the Tracks

Thursday evening June 19, 2008 – 5:15 PM

Frank Newlan took a deep pull off of a freshly rolled joint and he struggled to relax his mind as he sat stuck in traffic just outside the Middlesex Superior Courthouse after completing another long and arduous day sitting in the jury box of the John Breslin murder trial.

Disc one of the Bob Dylan and The Band CD "Before The Flood" had just played through to completion and Newlan craved for more as he hypnotically hit the eject button and swapped in the Dylan classic "Blood On The Tracks" while the traffic on either side of him slowly crawled along.

As was the case for many a hippie of Newlan's generational era, rock & roll music had the power to alter his consciousness like no drug alone could ever hope to accomplish. But of course when you combined the Buddha-like qualities of Dylan's nasally voice, along with the powerful reefer which was his poison of choice, the effect was doubly delirious, and so it's no wonder that from the first notes of "Tangled Up In Blue" he literally felt himself being transformed from a bookish juror into some sort bionic soldier from another universe; he figuratively felt himself morphing into some sort of intrepid warrior who was being sent off on a perilous odyssey from which he might never return; he literally and figuratively felt himself mutating into some sort of hulking superhero, conjured up from a comic book of his youth.

And in his current state of mind, as he edged his way down the road until he had reached the merge onto the highway which would ostensibly lead him back to the comforts of his condo in Medford Massachusetts, his airborne cranium became lost in the clouds of a fantasyland where valiant heroes routinely face-off against treacherous villains and thieves.

The road was sneaking up on Newlan, little-by-little, and in his stupor, as he approached the on-ramp he suddenly straightened out the steering wheel of his car and inexplicably kept on rolling down the line, steadily veering away from the highway in the process. Oddly enough, he was traveling in more or less the opposite direction of his home base, for all intent and purpose headed off to parts unknown.

Perhaps Newlan was subconsciously apprehensive about going home. Perhaps the wanderlust which pervaded his soul from time to time was acting up again, or perhaps he simply needed to get something off his chest. But whatever the reason, Newlan's beat-up old red Mercury was once again steering him down an unfamiliar road, as if it had a mind of its own and he was just a hijacked passenger, going along for the ride.

Newlan could feel the all too familiar, but entirely inevitable, lump in his throat beginning to swell as the eminent singer/songwriter blamed his long lost love's departure on a "Simple Twist of Fate", and as the haunting song came to a poignant end, he felt the warm sting of a single teardrop rolling down his cheek like a bead of sweat. However, rather than wiping away the salty droplet, he did nothing to stop it. Somehow this latest in a long line of emotional bloodlettings felt organic to him; like a tenet built up upon years of heartbreak; as natural as a drop of rain; as traditional as the perplexing running of the bulls.

By the time an outraged Dylan launched into the tale of the "Idiot Wind" Newlan became aware of the fact that he was also being whisked by the currents of lunacy in a southward direction when he passed a traffic sign pointing him towards Route 9 Newton.

"You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go" warbled Dylan on the next song, while at the same time Newlan came to the unavoidable realization that maybe he was running away from the pain which Marianne Plante had put him through all those years ago; and when Dylan segued into the blues-drenched "Meet Me In The Morning" Newlan was catapulted into the midst of an overpowering déjà vu experience.

It had been over two weeks since Newlan and his colleagues made their day-tripping bus ride over to the garage in Newton where Fred Miller's life came to an abrupt end, and it suddenly dawned on him that he was retracing the exact same steps which the bus driver had taken on that surreal afternoon.

Newlan's single teardrop turned into a torrent of despair as he sang along with Dylan to a personal favorite of his, "If You See Her, Say Hello". And then his long and winding journey reached its ultimate apex when the well worn "Shelter from the Storm" came blaring out from his red Mercury's stereo speakers and he found himself pulling into the dank, musty garage which had haunted his dreams on more than a few occasions in the past fourteen days.

The garage was practically empty at that hour of the evening so Newlan had his choice of parking spots, and he was drawn like a magnet to the very same spot where Sammy Fox was alleged to have strategically located his red Ford Taurus.

Newlan backed into the parking spot just as the mysterious red car had done; the same red car that had been observed to be parked within the crumbling walls of this very garage on multiple occasions during the days leading up to, and finally culminating in, Fred Miller's murder; the same red car that had never been positively identified, no matter how DA Lyons tried to spin it.

Newlan leaned back in his bucket seat and stared out into the eerie darkness of the garage as the last song on the CD "Buckets of Rain" came to a melancholy end, while at the same time he also came to an uneasy understanding of his own mortality; he came to an awkward appreciation of his own existentiality; he came to an unsettled awareness of his own finality.

Newlan wriggled out of his car and he robotically decided to stroll around the perimeter of the neighborhood while he unknowingly reflected on the day's events. In his subliminal mind, it was a bad day for the defense. In his imperceptible mind, the plethora of telephone calls and the supporting evidence linking Breslin to those calls was very damaging, if not downright incriminating. In his inaudible mind, John Breslin had some explaining to do.

"They even had evidence of Fox's cell phone bouncing off the tower on top of the building where Fred Miller worked," muttered Newlan to himself as he gazed up at the roof of the Barron Insurance Agency building where the cell phone tower stared back down at him like some sort of haunted totem pole.

As he crooked his neck towards the sky, Newlan could clearly see the large antenna sticking up menacingly over the top of the dilapidated office building. Up until now, he had never really noticed that office buildings were being used to house cell phone towers, and he contemplated the Vegas odds of Fox's cell phone transmission connecting to Breslin's phone right off the very tower he was now scrutinizing as if it were some sort of historical landmark.

On the other hand, Newlan was familiar with the location of the VA hospital where Fox's knee replacement operation had been performed, and he reckoned that it wasn't all that far from the Barron Insurance building.

"Could Fox have been just passing through this area inadvertently, on his way to an appointment at the hospital, when he made that call...or was he really on some sort of reconnaissance mission, reporting his findings back to Breslin as the prosecution intimated at?" pondered Newlan out loud as the bone-chilling possibilities played out in his mind.

However, as Newlan tallied up his scorecard as it currently stood, he wondered to himself; was the covert telephone call activity, along with everything else that the prosecution had presented up until this point in the case, sufficient evidence to convict Breslin? Amazingly enough, in Newlan's mind, the answer was still "no." In his mind, the possibility still existed that someone else killed Fred Miller and it was all an unfortunate coincidence for Breslin, just as Sammy the Fox had theorized to Detective Sasso.

Of course, on the other hand, Newlan wasn't so utterly naïve as to think Breslin was completely innocent. He fully understood the distinction between innocent and guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. He realized there was a strong possibility that the murder went down just as the prosecution had painted the bloody picture. He realized that Breslin could very well have been involved, knee-deep, in the death of Fred Miller, and somewhere buried within his heart-of-hearts he realized that Breslin probably was guilty. But his overriding concern was whether the prosecution had proved its case beyond a reasonable doubt...and once again Newlan's answer to that question was still an unequivocal "No" with a capital "N".

It was becoming abundantly clear to Newlan that he was subconsciously treating the lack of any indisputable physical evidence as the microdot-sized loophole with which to exculpate Breslin, while conversely, most of his colleagues were viewing the preponderance of circumstantial evidence as the catalyst with which to put Breslin behind bars for the rest of his life.

Newlan lost track of the number of times he walked around the block, wandering aimlessly up and down the side streets and winding his way back past the Barron Insurance Agency building, desperately attempting to sort out the problems of his own little world, as well as the issues of a bigger world that stood just beyond his reach.

Crippled with consternation, by the time Newlan decided to head back to his car it was twilight, and the garage was completely empty, and as he set forth into the teeth of the darkened structure, his conscience continued to weigh out the facts of the Breslin case until his head hurt.

"But if Breslin didn't do, it then who did? I know the defense isn't compelled to prove that someone else did it, but it wouldn't hurt if they offered up a few theories of their own," insisted Newlan as he thought back to Gleason's opening statement where he claimed that the government's case was "a theory, just a theory".

Newlan ambled up to the exact spot where Fred Miller had been shot down, and he scoured his surroundings like a TV detective looking for the slightest of clues. As he twisted himself around in a plodding circle, he wondered how a heavyset man with a pronounced limp could have snuck up on Miller and then made a frantic getaway without anyone ever seeing him. He could almost feel Miller's presence penetrating his soul as he whispered an urgent plea; "come on Freddie, tell me what the hell really happened that morning."

Newlan strained to channel his self-perceived psychic tendencies, which triggered a brainstorm of activity in his cranium that left him tingling with a heightened sense of awareness. He inhaled the cool night air, and with it, he could practically taste Fred Miller's spirit, entering into his inner-being. He took another deep breath, and suddenly, there it was again; the same scent of blood that he had experienced when the jurors made their supervised visit to the garage on that rainy day two weeks ago. The strange odor seemed to have a mesmerizing effect on him, and before he knew what hit him, his head began spinning uncontrollably and panic set into his heart.

Newlan stumbled his way back towards his car and he fumbled for his keys in the darkness. His radar told him that someone or something was watching him, and when push came to shove, he really wasn't in the mood to find out who or what it was.

Newlan's problems appeared to be rapidly multiplying by the second, for now, not only could he smell blood, not only could he sense the presence of an unearthly apparition, but he could also hear footsteps; footsteps aimed in his direction; footsteps steadily making their way towards his location in the garage.

With his heart beating so fast that it felt as if it was going to explode in his chest, not only could Newlan hear footsteps, but suddenly he could also see the form of a shadow emerging from behind one of the rickety support beams. He could see the form of a man carrying a suddenly illuminated flashlight in his left hand.

And as if to compound his nightmarish problem, as the silent figure drew closer, not only could Newlan see a flashlight in its left hand, but he could also see a gun in its right hand; a shining metal gun, as clear as the nose on his face.

Newlan's knees grew weak and he practically fainted as he wondered whether he might be coming face to face with Fred Miller's real killer after all.

"Don't move," commanded a husky voice and as the burly body that went along with the voice came into focus, Newlan could see that it was the silhouette of a Newton Police officer; a rookie Newton cop by the name of George Haley who just happened to be on foot patrol in the area when he noticed what he suspected to be a suspicious-looking character loitering in the garage.

"What the hell are you doing here?" demanded Haley in a gruff tone. And although he may have come across as badass cop, although he may has sounded tough, his knees were shaking almost as badly as Newlan's were, and he might have actually been more spooked than Newlan was, if that was even physically possible.

Newlan's mind was a whirlwind of motion; he knew full well that he had better think of something quick, and like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, he came up with an excuse which just may have saved him from a major hassle with the Newton Police, the State Police, and most frightening of all, the no-nonsense Judge Gershwin.

Newlan's photographic memory instantly recalled that one of the early witnesses in the Breslin trial was a dentist by the name of Dr. Barnett, whose office was located in the Barron Insurance Agency building, and since the glowering cop certainly wasn't going to afford him the opportunity to scheme up anything better, he stammered, "I'm sorry if I startled you officer, but I just came from Doctor Barnett's office. I cracked a crown on what I thought was a pitted prune, and she was nice enough to fit me in for an after-hours appointment since it was kind of an emergency. My tooth was killing me."

Haley was vaguely aware of a Dr. Barnett's name stenciled into one of the windows of the nearby office building and so he dropped his guard, inch-by-inch, and then his gun. But he scolded Newlan nonetheless.

"Well you almost gave me a heart attack...stumbling around the garage in the dark like that," grumbled the strapping cop.

"My mistake, but I can explain. I think the laughing gas is still wearing off. You see, I have this phobia about dentists, and I have to get knocked out cold every time I need to have the least bit of work done on my teeth," disclosed Newlan who didn't even have to resort to making up this portion of his tall tale since he truly did have an irrational fear of the dentist's chair.

"Well don't you know that someone was murdered in this garage a couple of years ago? Shot down dead...so it's not exactly an ideal place to be acting suspiciously," scolded Haley.

"No officer I wasn't aware of that," fibbed Newlan who of course wasn't about to tell the foolish cop that he was a sitting juror on the trial of the very murder he was referring to.

"Are you alright to drive?" asked the concerned Haley who by now was showing his softer side.

"Yes officer," replied Newlan, and Haley quickly reverted back to form, shouting, "alright then, go on and get the hell outta here."

And wouldn't you know it, just as Newlan pulled out of the garage Haley received a call on his two-way radio from none other than fellow Newton Police Officer Ron Torrez.

"Haley, where the Hell are you?" came Torrez's voice crackling through the static.

"I'm inside the garage next to 435 Comm. Ave...just chased out some shady-looking dude with long stringy hair, ten-four," replied Haley.

"I'll be right over," exclaimed Torrez and within seconds his police car, with its blue lights flashing, came screeching to a stop in front of the garage where Haley was now standing.

"Who the hell was this guy?" asked Torrez.

"I don't know... but his story checked out. He had an emergency visit with Doctor Barnett so I let him go," replied Haley.

"You mean you didn't even get his name...his license...registration...nothing?" wondered a perplexed Torrez.

"No, should I have?" sheepishly replied Haley.

"It's no big deal, but just out of curiosity, what kind of car was he driving?" wondered Torrez.

"I don't know...but it was a beat-up old shit-box. I think it was a Ford, or maybe a Mercury," answered Haley.

"You gotta be shittin' me. What color was it?" demanded Torrez.

"It was red," replied Haley in a matter-of-fact tone. But matter-of-fact or not, based on past history, Torrez didn't like what he was hearing, and when he and Haley took a walk over to the Barron Insurance office building, he was even more disturbed by the situation when they found all the doors locked up tight and not a light to be seen in Dr. Barnett's office.

When the two relatively green cops returned to the precinct, Torrez dissected the circumstances of the red car sighting with his superiors, Sergeant Frank Alden and Lieutenant Lou Bowen until he was blue in the face. However, after much consideration, Bowden considered it a dead issue.

"Besides, we already cracked the Miller murder a long time ago, so it's gotta just be a coincidence and I don't wanna hear another fuckin' word about it...case closed...is that clear?" forcefully concluded Bowden...and although Torrez reluctantly agreed, he wasn't so sure.

In any event, regardless of what the impressionable Newton cop thought, by the time his boss had made his final pronouncement, Frank Newlan was halfway to Medford, and there was little chance of Officer Torrez, or anyone else for that matter, tracking him down, even if they wanted to.

"Holy crap...if Judge Gershwin ever found out that the Newton cops discovered me wandering around that garage, seemingly investigating the case, she would have handed me my head on a silver platter. Man, you can't make this shit up," whispered Newlan as he shook his head in disbelief.

The Dylan CD was into its third rotation as Newlan pulled into his own parking garage, and with his head swimming in an ocean of confusion, he shut down the ignition just as the acclaimed lyricist once again blamed all of his troubles on...a simple twist of fate.

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.

Chapter 85 – The Prosecution Rests

Friday morning June 20, 2008 – 8:00 AM

After another restless night, Frank Newlan made his way out the door carrying a month-old magazine from his trusty Rolling Stone collection in one hand, and a two disc anthology by the 70's era metal-rock band Blue Oyster Cult entitled "Workshop Of The Telescopes" in his other hand. The band, who gained wide popularity in the late 70's by combining their metaphysical lyrics and esoteric themes with intense pyrotechnics displays, not to mention their extended buzz-saw guitar jams, were referred to by some as BOC for short, and simply as The Cult by others (not to be confused with the 80's hard rock band of the same name). But regardless of which moniker they were identified with, to a younger Newlan they were a mystical force to be reckoned with...and now they were a perfect foil for his troubled mind.

Newlan's repose had been interrupted by strange voices and disturbing visions all night long, and as was often the case, the aftermath of his nightmares carried over into his waking hours.

First Newlan discerned the echoing voice of Tracy Stone, luring him into a web of deceit, and then he observed Marianne Plante's naked body, slithering towards him as she mutated into a venomous serpent and swallowed him whole, until he was dissolved into oblivion, while at the same time her faceless husband, Tom Willis, watched on gleefully in the background. Next he heard Fred Miller calling out to him from beyond the grave. "Its killer stuff man, killer stuff," endlessly repeated Miller's decomposing corpse as Newlan tossed and turned in a cold sweat. And finally Newlan watched on helplessly while Saeed Kahn, John Breslin and Sammy Fox, accompanied by the mysterious masked stranger of his youth, surrounded his flanks and taunted him with a slew of derogatory curses as they dragged him from his condo by his arms and legs and into the nearest elevator shaft, where he was sent spiraling into one of his infamous falling dreams. As always, Newlan awoke just before he hit the ground, but the damage had already been done, and he spent the rest of the evening balled up in a fetal position, praying for daylight.

And so it was against this backdrop that Newlan was forced to come face-to-face with Saeed Kahn as he did just about every morning. By now, Kahn was repulsed by the very sight of "Mr. Frank", and conversely, Newlan didn't give a damn. The moment Newlan caught a glimpse of the black eyes staring him down, his lips began to quiver like an allergic reaction from outer space, and his lack of sleep, in conjunction with his growing hatred for the forlorn doorman, incited him to lash out violently.

"Get outta my face today Saeed...I'm not in the mood for any of your bullshit," warned an agitated, sleep-deprived Newlan, but Kahn was unimpressed. On the contrary, he was enraged by Newlan's callous attitude and he was dead-set on answering his foul neighbor's challenge with exploding fists of flashing metal fury.

As Newlan sauntered along on his not-so-merry way, Kahn's beady eyes zeroed in on the small of his back and he fingered the handgun that was tucked neatly in his waist, hidden by his official Security Guard jacket. His trigger finger was itchy, oh so itchy. But somehow he managed to resist the temptation to blow Newlan straight to Hell, right then and there on the spot. For despite his occasional lapses of judgment, Kahn's erudite master had taught him well; he had taught him to be imperturbable; he had taught him to be unflappable; he had taught him to be calm, cool and collected. However, his teaching's notwithstanding, Mr. Frank was stretching his patience quite thin.

"In due time, in due time," chanted Kahn in a mantra-like cadence, sounding eerily similar to the evil Wicked Witch of the West.

The BOC tune "Career of Evil" blared ominously in the background as Newlan lit up a stress-calming joint for the ride to the courthouse. But not even the effects of the reefer could soothe his frayed nerves, and he was still seething over Kahn's attempts at intimidation as he pulled into the courthouse parking lot.

Once Newlan passed beyond the gates of the secured, compound-like structure, he begrudgingly put his game-face on and tried his best to put Saeed Kahn, Marianne Plante, her jailed husband, and the sorry state of the world in general, out of his head for the day...but alas, he wasn't entirely successful.

While Newlan marked his time waiting for his colleagues to make their grand entrances, his head was spinning like a top as he attempted to figure out what could have possibly possessed him to cruise over to the scene of the crime, particularly when taking into account his irrational fear of claustrophobic, enclosed spaces, such as the dark, polluted parking garage where Fred Miller met his fate. However, despite his fearful musings, before long the elderly Patty arrived and brightened his mood in a way that only she, amongst all the jurors, had been able to accomplish.

The "juror soul mates" exchanged pleasantries, and they were in solemn agreement as far as their hopes that the trial was nearing its merciful conclusion.

"It had better be over soon because I can't take much more of this," complained Newlan.

"Yes, the grind is taking its toll on me as well...and on all of us, really," agreed Patty.

Next to come strolling into the waiting room was the irascible Jane; but for some reason, she was a bit subdued this morning, which wasn't like her at all. She usually commuted with Annie, but the two women weren't seeing eye-to-eye these days and apparently their disagreement was directly related to the trial; and furthermore, her mood was directly related to their difference of opinion.

"Patty's right. I think that the trial is even taking its toll on my old pal Jane the Pain. Although, I'm surely not gonna ask her what's up with the pouty face," wryly reflected Newlan. But much to his chagrin, when Patty excused herself to use the ladies room, he found himself alone with his perceived nemesis.

After an awkward silence, uncomfortably spent trying not to make eye-contact with each other, Jane broke the ice and asked Newlan how many years he had been living in Medford; and when it was reveals that they had both resided in the same town for most of their adult lives, they became engaged in a trivial game of name-dropping.

As the conversation inched its way toward civility, Jane vividly recalled Newlan's brief bio when, in the early days of the trial, the jurors circled around the deliberation room and took turns introducing themselves. Jane specifically remembered the fact that Newlan was employed at a "local university" as he put it, and she decided to use his unexpected guard-lowering attitude as an opportunity to press him for more details. Curiously enough, at just about that same moment, Newlan recollected Jane's casual aside where she stated that her brother was a Dean at Tafts University, so he came clean and admitted that he worked at Tafts as well; and as it turned out, although Newlan didn't work closely with Jane's sibling, they had in fact met a couple of times over the years.

It also turned out that Jane graduated from Medford High School the same year as Newlan, and that they were acquainted with many of the same people, including Marianne Plante.

Just the mere mention of Plante's name induced a shiver to go creeping up and down Newlan's spine, and Jane seemed to sense that she may have touched a nerve, so she abruptly changed the subject and instead she wondered aloud whether she and Newlan had ever met before.

Newlan didn't remember Jane from a hole in the wall, but he acknowledged the possibility that they may have passed each other once or twice over the years, inside the hallowed hallways of Medford High School, and they both smiled slightly as they chatted amicably about how the world can be so big and small all at the same time.

And miracle upon miracles, as they shot the breeze, little-by-little the layers of resentment began to dissolve and the two former classmates resolved to reconcile their differences.

"I just don't think that some of the stuff Gleason nitpicks about, such as why Detective Curran neglected to mention the fact that Breslin's hands were shaking when she wrote up her written report, are all that important," calmly explained Jane.

"Oh I do. I think he was trying to show that Curran might have been embellishing her story. After all, she's a detective, she's trained to keep track of the details...and so, when she's lax in her responsibilities, and more importantly, when the descriptive details of her story change that significantly, Gleason finds it suspicious...and so do I," retorted Newlan, but in a friendly professorial tone.

And then in a major break from script, Jane decided to give Newlan's reply a moment or two of serious, introspective thought, and upon completion of her analysis, she responded accordingly.

"Oh really...hmmm....well maybe I should be more open-minded about what Gleason has to say," admitted Jane.

"And maybe I should be more tolerant of your opinions," concurred Newlan.

"It's a deal," added Jane as she extended her hand.

Theoretically, the ceremonial handshake between Jane and Newlan was to be the start of a new beginning, and the stately treaty took place just as a handful of jurors were entering the waiting room; and as it turned out, their colleagues, one and all, were pleasantly surprised by this unexpected development.

"What's this...are you two making some sort of secret deal?" cheerfully exclaimed the wheelchair-bound Dan.

"Oh no, we've just come to an understanding," explained Jane as she winked slyly in Newlan's direction.

Before long the remainder of the crew arrived, and the mood was somewhat lightened by their TGIF attitude, which would conceivably allow them to at least put the enormity of their pending decision out of their minds for a couple of days.

But by the time Billy led the jurors upstairs to the deliberation room, it became apparent that one amongst them was not sharing in their lightheartedness. Jim, the puckish telecom employee in seat number 6, was wearing an expression of fear written all over his face; an expression that couldn't have been any clearer even if it had been stamped on his forehead in red paint.

Newlan was tempted to ask Jim what the problem was, but he minded his own business for a change, and it turned out to be just as well, for within minutes of their arrival, Jim was spilling his guts out to the congregation, open-forum style.

"You're not gonna believe this, but I found out this morning that Breslin's cousin works for the same company as me, and he was in courtroom yesterday, watching the trial for a few hours. Anyway, I guess he saw me in the jury box...so needless to say, I'm uptight about the situation," fretted Jim. And although he wasn't quite sure what to do about the dilemma, when Billy popped his head back in the door with his "10 minutes 'til show time" warning, Jim explained his plight to the gregarious, if sometimes grumpy, court officer, and in response, Billy immediately pulled him out of the room.

Newlan recalled his own encounter with Judge Gershwin when he raised a stink over the fact that his nephew worked at Tex-Ray Defense Systems, but the prudent judge wasn't buying it then and he had a feeling that she wouldn't be buying it now; and as such, Newlan figured that Jim would be back in short order. But then again, Judge Gershwin let the youngster, Joanne, off the hook due to something as frivolously inconvenient as car troubles, so what did he know.

As it turned out, Newlan didn't know much at all, because after about 20 minutes, Billy returned to the deliberation room and quietly retrieved Jim's belongings...and so goes the fate of another juror, honorably discharged from the John Breslin murder trial, much to the dismay of his colleagues.

"I'm no math major but this means we're down to one alternate," groaned Annie, and just like that, the ill-considered inquiries regarding the rules of selecting alternate jurors began to pick up steam again.

The usually ultra-quiet waitress, Lisa, even asked Billy, "Can anyone who wants to be an alternate, volunteer for the job?"

"Sorry it doesn't work that way. I thought I told you already, it's like a lottery. We draw a name from a hat, and one of you lucky people gets to take home the prize. Then again, who knows what's gonna go down between now and deliberations? But I can tell you one thing, if any of you are even remotely thinking about trying to wiggle your way off the case, well, you better have one hell of an excuse, because there is no way Judge Gershwin's gonna let this thing get dangerously close to a mistrial unless one of you is half-dead and lying in the hospital," grumbled Billy.

The remaining unlucky 13 jurors grimly heeded Billy's remarks, but they weren't afforded much time to get over the shock of Jim's departure, because they soon found themselves being marched into the courtroom for the all too familiar morning ritual.

Once the formalities of the day were completed, the first order of business was another stipulation, which Judge Gershwin delivered in her clear, impartial tone.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Melanie Fox of Manchester, New Hampshire was 15 years old during February school vacation week in 2006 when she accompanied her father Samuel Fox as he drove into the Northtown section of Boston. Melanie states that during the ride, Mr. Fox received a call on his cell phone and after a brief conversation with the party on the other end of the line, he pulled over and retrieved an object from the trunk of his car which was wrapped in a towel, and he placed the object in the back seat. At some point during the resumption of their ride into Northtown, Melanie became aware of the fact that the object protruding from the towel was a gun. And furthermore, when they arrived in Northtown, Melanie states that she observed two men, one younger and one older, take the gun from the car, and in turn, she observed her father giving the men a wad of money."

As Judge Gershwin narrated the stipulation, many of the jurors, including Newlan, shook their heads in disgust, and although the equitable judge pretended not to notice, she sent a sympathetic smile towards the jury box nonetheless. However, as was usually the case, the impetus behind Newlan's outrage didn't fall into line with what his colleagues were thinking. But regardless of their divergent reactions, after the reading of the stipulation, the next witness to take the stand was none other than the lead detective on the case, Massachusetts State Trooper William Donavan.

Lyons started off by requesting that Detective Donavan speak to the long list of accomplishments he had attained while serving as a member of the State Police force; it was an unquestionably impressive resume, one which led to a fast-track promotion from lowly patrolman, all the way up to the rank of Sergeant in the department of Homicide Investigations.

Lyon then guided the tall, handsome detective, practically by the proverbial hand, as he walked through the events of January 13th, 2006 in blow-by-blow fashion, as if it were all part of some sort of stream-of-consciousness blog.

Lyons was methodical and meticulous as she led Donavan along while he recounted every significant event in the case which took place from the date of January 14th, 2006 all the way through April 4th, 2006, culminating in the arrest of John Breslin and Sammy Fox in all its gory detail.

The majority of the information presented by Detective Donavan was a rehash of evidence and testimony that had been submitted by previous witnesses, but it was brilliantly laid out in such a way by DA Lyons so that it seamlessly wove her entire case together like a tightly-fisted glove.

With the aid of charts and diagrams and bank transcripts and phone records and even with the trash from the Breslin's garbage can, DA Lyons ingeniously ironed out any remaining loose ends in her carefully assembled case, and all the while Detective Donavan provided his expert commentary, leading to an extremely convincing summation of the government's assumptions.

The last intriguing bit of information that Detective Donavan relayed to the jurors pertained to a search warrant which was executed on the desk of Breslin's Tex-Ray office.

"And did you find anything of significance in Mr. Breslin's desk?" asked a quizzical Lyons.

"Yes, we found a copy of a Boston Record American newspaper, dated January 14th, 2006, in which they ran a special edition front page headline story about the Fred Miller murder," calmly replied Donavan as DA Lyons held up the newspaper in question and proudly paraded it around the length of the jury box before submitting it as the next exhibit.

Immediately following the flag-waving newspaper spectacle, DA Lyons turned towards Judge Gershwin and in a breathless tone she announced, "No further questions your honor."

While Lyons was still in the process of retreating back to the prosecutor's table, renowned Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason sprang up from his seat and strode towards the witness stand with a sense of purpose; with a sense of putting a stop to injustice; with a sense of history; with a flair for the dramatic.

"Detective Donavan when you and Detective Curran spoke to Mr. Breslin in front of his home on the afternoon of January 13th, 2006, you eventually told him that Fred Miller had been shot didn't you?" asked Gleason.

"Yes," admitted Donavan, who seemed to be wearing a forced smile on his face which left Newlan with the lasting impression that the influential detective might be derisively smirking at Gleason.

"And didn't Mr. Breslin respond that he had nothing to do with it? That's what he told you, isn't it?" insisted Gleason with a raised voice.

Donavan acknowledged as much, but for good measures he gave Gleason a look that said, "no one raises their voice to me."

"Now Detective Donavan, regarding the cigarette butt that was found at the scene of the murder, wasn't it your decision not to test this item because it was deemed to be too old to be of significance?" demanded Gleason, and for some reason DA Lyons objected to this line of questioning, which led to the inevitable lengthy sidebar discussion.

During the sidebar, Newlan locked his sights in on Detective Donavan, in what was a desperate attempt to reach inside the mind of the award-winning criminologist. Everything about Detective Donavan seemed just a little bit too perfect as far as Newlan was concerned, and he was trying like heck to see through the façade. After a couple of minutes of fixated contemplation on Newlan's behalf, Donavan became aware of juror number 8's gape and he returned the gaze...and then he raised him a glare. A colossal stare-down ensued, and astonishingly enough, Donavan blinked first and lowered his eyes as if he were reviewing his notes, but not before first nodding in recognition and shooting Newlan a squinted glance which clearly stated, "You better hope that I never see you on the streets, you asshole."

Whether Newlan truly flustered the unflappable detective, or whether it was all just once again a figment of his vivid imagination will forever remain unclear, but in any event, when testimony resumed, Gleason moved on in another direction and he more or less forced Detective Donavan to confirm that no money, not a single dollar, was ever directly linked as to having traveled from Breslin's bank account into Fox's pockets; granted there was circumstantial evidence present to be sure, such as the thousand dollars in cash which was deposited into Fox's checking account on the very same day that Breslin's mom cashed his IRS check for him, but nothing definitive just the same.

It appeared that Gleason, in not so many words, was stating that two could play at the game of omitting key information, and in his mind there was no evidence of substance, beyond an immaterial coincidence, corroborating an exchange of money between Breslin and Fox.

"And isn't it also true Detective Donavan, that you tracked down a $7,500 payment which Mr. Breslin made to his Divorce Attorney, Joseph Catino in the fall of 2005?" pounded away Gleason. And once again Donavan couldn't deny the facts, which led to another snide tactic that Gleason had already resorted to on more than one occasion over the course of the trial.

"Very interesting...but the government conveniently neglected to mention this fact, isn't that true detective," suggested Gleason. But of course, his pointed observation didn't go unnoticed by DA Lyons. In her zeal to object to Gleason's ploy, she shot out of her chair like a cannonball, and Judge Gershwin concurred; decreeing that Gleason's question be stricken from the record. However, it was already too late for that, since the seeds-for-thought had already been planted into the minds of the more impressionable jurors, namely Annie and Newlan.

"And Detective Donavan isn't it also true that you spoke to attorney Catino and he confirmed that Mr. Breslin paid him two thousand dollars on the weekend of January 13th, 2006?" inquired the relentless Gleason.

"Yes, but he..." began Donavan. However, in another well-worn maneuver, Gleason cut him off before he could completely finish his answer.

"Detective Donavan, I apologize, but I was simply looking for a 'yes' or 'no' answer...no further commentary is necessary, and in fact I have no further questions for the witness your honor," countered Gleason with a devious smile; it was a smirk that had the equally simpering Donavan steaming mad as he left the stand.

And no sooner had Gleason completed his interrogation of the talented detective when DA Lyons dramatically proclaimed, "your honor, the prosecution rests."

Lyons announcement elicited another deafening murmur from the gallery which was just the reaction she was looking for. She had considered offering up a few rebuttal questions for Detective Donavan in an effort to counterattack Gleason's insinuations, but it was her fervid desire to end on a memorable note, and she figured that there would be plenty of time for rebuttal when attorney Catino took the stand.

After restoring order to the courtroom, Judge Gershwin turned towards the jurors and with her patented warm smile she informed them that before the defense began its case, a short break was in order.

Meanwhile, back in the deliberation room, the bickering began anew as soon as the jurors made their way beyond the perimeter of the now closed door; as usual spurred on by the latest evidence in the case.

"What kind of person rides around town with his teenage daughter while he's carrying a gun in the back seat?" exclaimed an animated Yong in her rhythmic Korean accent, while at the same time spontaneous chants of approval sprang up all around the room. But Newlan on the other hand viewed the uproar as an opportune moment to verbalize the headshaking disgust which he had demonstrated earlier in the morning.

"Do you really believe that a guy who just got out of prison on weapons charges is gonna be stupid enough to drive all the way into Boston with a gun sitting in the back seat of his car?" asked an incredulous Newlan.

"Correction, he pulled over and took the gun out of the trunk somewhere along the way to Northtown, probably when he was close to arriving at his destination" amended Mark, the lanky young network security specialist...but Newlan was unmoved.

"Well that makes even less sense. Why wouldn't he just leave the gun in the trunk and let his cronies take it from there? What if got stopped for running a red light? It would be like giving the cops a gift-wrapped Christmas present. Again, it makes no sense at all," countered Newlan.

"No one ever said these guys were the sharpest tools in the shed, Frank," rebutted Mark.

"Well if you ask me, I think the police coerced that poor girl into saying whatever they wanted. Who knows, maybe they even threatened her, maybe they told her that she might go to prison if she didn't cooperate. How's a frightened 15 year old suppose to handle that kind of intimidation?" challenged Newlan, and although he was once again beginning to get a little hot around the collar, he took a deep breath and kept his cool.

Much to Newlan's surprise, Jane came to his aid and agreed that although she wasn't quite sure whether coercion was involved, she did find it a bit farfetched that Fox would be cruising around town with a gun in the backseat of his car.

Newlan was pleased with Jane's unexpected gesture of support, and her partial endorsement helped him to maintain his composure. But in the back of his mind he was thinking, "jeez, the tension is bad enough now, I can just imagine what it's gonna be like during deliberations."

Ron the banker sensed the fraying of nerves all around him, and, as he had done so many times before, he seamlessly changed the subject.

"So do you think Breslin's gonna testify?" asked Ron to no one in particular. But in this case, the negative response was unanimous.

"I doubt it," chimed in Newlan. "Defendants rarely testify in murder cases. Their lawyers are just about always against having them take the stand. It's too risky."

Tempers temporarily cooled off as an assortment of jurors expounded upon whether Breslin would ever dare to testify in his own defense, but then Yong, who appeared to be taking over the antagonist's role which was held up until recently by Jane, commented on the audacity of Breslin to keep a newspaper clipping related to the murder, hidden in his desk as if it were some sort of macabre souvenir.

And of course Newlan, who seemed to have an endless imagination when it came to police impropriety and cover-ups, followed up with what was sure to be another riot-inducing hypothesis.

"Oh come on, anyone could have planted that newspaper in Breslin's desk...the police...a disgruntled co-worker. Let's see, hey maybe even somebody by the name of Nancy O'Brien. Hmmm why didn't I think of that sooner," chided Newlan. Remarkably, his colleagues let the insinuation slide, unchallenged, possibly due to the plausibility of the theory, or possibly due to a sudden case of the jitters. In any event, a nervous silence settled in over the deliberation room as the jurors simultaneously came to the realization that the case was reaching its final climax and soon it would all be in their hands.

The pensiveness of the lull afforded Newlan a chance to reflect in his own mind about the case that DA Lyons had presented to them; Detective Donavan's testimony had given Newlan a lot to think about, and even he had to admit that the circumstantial evidence appeared to be insurmountable. But the nagging fact remained that there wasn't a single speck of physical evidence linking the gimpy-legged Fox to the scene of the murder; and no, the red car wasn't going to do it for him. If anything, in Newlan's bloodshot eyes, the red car testimony did more to hurt the prosecution's case that it did to help it; and round-and-round the speculation twirled, from Newlan's cerebrum, all the way back to his cerebellum; up and down the spirited fervor flowed, from Newlan's heart, all the way into his soul; back and forth the suppositions traveled, from Newlan's ass, all the way up to his elbows.

In the final analysis however, after much contemplation relative to the premises which had been building up in his mind since the very first day of the trial, Newlan was quite sure of what he had to do; he was obligated to follow his conscience; he was compelled to go with his gut feeling; despite the fact that Fred Miller was in all probability his kindred spirit reincarnated, he was forced to make an unfavorably onerous determination, one that might forever affect the Miller family's everlasting peace of mind. But nevertheless, regardless of the aftereffects, and even if it turned out that every other person in the deliberation room was against him, Frank Newlan was quite positive of what he had to do; and what he had to do was to make the difficult decision to vote not guilty, and what's more, his verdict was non-negotiable.

Newlan reckoned that the defense's scorched earth campaign, led by the wily R. J. Gleason, was bound to produce a few witnesses that would bolster Breslin's case; it was bound to produce a shred or two of contradicting evidence that would support Breslin's claims; it was bound to produce a couple of tearful outbursts that would further Breslin's cause. And so, all in all, Newlan was feeling pretty good about his conclusion, regardless of what anyone else thought. And conversely, although his colleagues never came out and said as much, it was becoming obvious to most of them that they were going to have to fight Newlan tooth-and-nail if they were ever going to convince him to vote guilty.

Newlan had a strong urge to announce his decision right then and there, lest anyone get the idea that he could be swayed, but somehow he managed to keep his feelings to himself.

After his heart-to-heart talk with Jane, Newlan had turned over a new leaf and he figured that it was probably for the best that he kept his cards held close to the vest for the time being.

"And besides," Newlan whispered to himself, "it won't be long before my peers get a good dose of what's hiding behind the eyes of...juror number 8."

...

And so dear reader as the prosecution rests, what says you of the evidence presented thus far? Do you find that the defendant John Breslin is guilty of this murderous conspiracy? Or perhaps you side with Frank Newlan and feel that the government has failed to prove its case beyond a reasonable doubt. Either way, you can rest assured that a final decision will not be rendered until after we have heard the defense's side of the story, which may yet lead to a few surprises. For after all, as the old saying goes; there are always two sides...to every story.

Chapter 86 – The Right to Testify

Friday morning June 20, 2008 – 11:00 AM

John Breslin stared impassively into his notebook, and as he reread his pointed take on the happenings that had occurred inside of courtroom 630 of the Middlesex Superior Courthouse for the past two and a half weeks, he realized that his was faced with a prodigious judgment of his own. Yes indeed, the poker-faced defendant had a monumental decision to make...but unfortunately time wasn't on his side. He could feel his future teetering in the balance. He could feel all hope abandoning him forever. He could feel his life slowly slipping away. But as much as his body ached with emotion, he was powerless to stop the tide as it turned against him, and he had reached the point where he was ready to flip a coin and let the fickle fortunes of fate decide his destiny. And while his resolution wasn't technically a life-or-death decision in the truest sense of the word, his freedom was riding on it, and if he guessed wrong, then he might as well be dead.

Breslin considered himself to be a riverboat gambler, and as such, as he and his lawyer, renowned Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason sat alone in their jail cell sized conference room and mapped out their strategy (ironically, in a room not far from the deliberation room where a 12 member jury of his peers would ultimately decide his fate), he had come to the irreversible conclusion that he was ready to lay the full pot of gold on the table; winner takes it all, loser takes a fall.

Outside the conference room, two burly court officers silently stood guard, while inside the confines of the windowless chamber Breslin pleaded his case to his sympathetic attorney. But alas, despite his suddenly passionate fervor, his pleas were falling on deaf ears.

As you may have guessed by now, Breslin was debating the merits of whether he should testify on his own behalf, while at the same time Gleason was doing everything in his power to convince his client otherwise.

Gleason was planning to call a handful of witnesses to the stand, including, among others, the two women, Kate Preston and Geeta Kishyoukaya, who lived in the general vicinity of the garage where Fred Miller was killed. These were the same two women who had been interviewed by the police as they canvassed through the neighborhood on the day of the murder, and what they independently had to say was very telling as far as Gleason was concerned.

DA Lyons never revealed what information Preston and Kishyoukaya had provided to the investigators, but Gleason was privy to the police report, and he happened to think it contained some relevant information that the jurors should hear.

Additionally, Gleason was planning to call a DNA expert to contradict the inconclusive report that was returned by the Massachusetts State Police Crime Lab. He was planning to call Fred Miller's so called "problem client"; the same man who informed Miller's boss that he did his best work with a 38. He was planning to call Tracy Stone's ex-boyfriend, Peter Perry; the same Peter Perry whose shoulder was dislocated and snapped into fragmented pieces by Fred Miller. He was planning to call the private detective who Breslin had hired to dig up dirt on Fred Miller. He was planning to call Breslin's Divorce Attorney, Joseph Catino, to corroborate where some of Breslin's money had gone. However, the one person that R. J. Gleason was absolutely NOT planning to call to the stand was his client, John Breslin.

Gleason was well aware of the fact that Breslin had a right to testify if he so desired; a right that superseded any strategies he may have had in mind. For when it came right down to it, it was Breslin's life that was on the line, and if he insisted on testifying, then there was little Gleason could do, other than to try to talk him out of it...and hope for the best if he refused to listen to reason.

But from Breslin's wary standpoint, DA Lyons had presented much too much damaging evidence, and the only way he saw himself wriggling out of this mess of his own making was for him to tell his woebegone story to the best of his abilities...and the consequences be damned.

Yes, Breslin was a gambler, a risk taker and, some might say, a con man; and now, in his mind, he was going to have to pull off the con job of a lifetime if he was ever going to see the light of day again. And conversely, like any defense attorney worth his salt, Gleason was dead-set against Breslin attempting to tell his side of the story.

"I admit that the phone evidence is damaging and that you come across as a very suspicious character, but as I've told you countless times, it's not a crime to talk to someone on the phone, regardless of whether it's a pay phone, a cell phone, a work phone, or what have you," counseled Gleason.

"Yeah but they tracked down my every move...," countered Breslin, and as he spoke, Gleason interrupted him in mid-sentence and pointed a finger at him for emphasis as he excitedly added, "ah, but as I've also told you before, no one, I repeat _no one_ , not even me, knows for sure what was said on _any_ of those phone calls, a fact that I will surely highlight to the jurors."

Breslin was utterly tormented by this overwhelming roll of the dice which was staring him squarely in the face; a torment that might haunt him for the rest of his days; a roll of the dice that now rested solely in his lap.

Breslin's biggest fear was that he'd never be able to forgive himself if he didn't tell his side of the story, and then, for his troubles, he ended up being sent away to prison for life. But Gleason on the other hand, dreaded the very thought of his client having to match wits with DA Lyons and he told him as much.

"I'm telling you Johnny; your testimony can do nothing but hurt our case. DA Lyons is going to have your head spinning if she gets you up on the stand. She's going to be like a shark that smells blood. She's going to rip you to shreds, and I'm going to be helpless to defend you," reasoned Gleason, while at the same time Breslin's palms were soaked with sweat and his head was pounding like a drum as he attempted to make up his mind with the specter of the clock ominously clicking away in the background like a ticking time-bomb.

"What the hell's the difference? My head's already spinning...so that bitch Lyons can't make it much worse. I just don't know what to do R. J., and to top it all off I've had this intense throbbing in my temples all morning. I swear, it feels like my skull's gonna explode any second now," moaned Breslin, and as the reality of his situation began to sink in, he broke down into anguished sobs. But in spite of the tears, for his part, Gleason was undeterred.

R. J. Gleason had learned long ago how to improvise when things start to fall apart; he had learned long ago how to stay calm under pressure; and now, as they faced the moment of truth, his calmly improvised advice regarding his client's ailment was curious to say the least. The message may have been cryptic, and it took a while for the words to maturate in Breslin's head, but when the gestation period had passed, he seemed to understand fully the options which were being presented to him; for what Gleason slyly advised, amongst other things, was this; "oh really, a throbbing headache you say? An exploding skull you say? Well then...let's use it to your advantage."

Chapter 87 – His Own Worst Enemy

Friday morning June 20, 2008 – 11:30 AM

As the minutes wound down, marking the end of the morning break, D-Day had finally arrived for John Breslin, and after much internalized debate with himself, and even more externalized wrangling with his attorney R. J. Gleason, he was now at peace with his decision; a decision that ultimately rested in his hands the entire time anyway. And now as he and Gleason reentered the courtroom like a boxer and his manager dancing into the ring, all he had to do was to execute Gleason's hastily conceived master plan to the best of his abilities; a task which was, of course, easier said than done.

Breslin's heart was pounding almost as furiously as his head, but he still managed to stand up, on cue, along with everyone else in the courtroom, to Billy's command of "all rise...jurors entering", followed by the processional march of our staunch standard bearers into the room.

Despite the unearthly revelations that occurred the last time Newlan made eye-contact with Breslin, as he trudged past the defendant's table, he was tempted to try again.

Newlan had the stated goal in mind of providing the wretched defendant with the slightest bit of silent reassurance; a reassurance which came with the knowledge of discerning the fact that he had at least one vote in his favor. In the end, Newlan wisely kept his head down and stared straight ahead; although out of the corner of his eye he unintentionally caught a glimpse of Cam Miller's sadly contorted face studying him from the gallery, which made him feel even more conflicted than he already was.

Newlan was still getting settled in his seat, wondering just what the defense's strategy was going to be, when all of a sudden he felt a shockwave of bewilderment rush through his entire body, and in fact through the entire courtroom; a shockwave that would turn his life upside down; a shockwave from which he might never fully recover; a shockwave triggered by the sound of R. J. Gleason's voice announcing to the now 13 men and women who held his client's fate in their hands. "Your honor, the defense calls Mr. John Breslin to the stand."

Newlan was literally rocked to his core by the news that Breslin was about to testify; a revelation that he had incorrectly predicted would never happen in a million years. Luckily for him, he had a few moments to come to his senses, since it took at least that long for Judge Gershwin to restore order in the courtroom. The entire room was literally snapping and crackling and popping with pent-up energy, like a surge of electricity, and it was all initiated by Gleason's stunning surprise announcement.

After being sworn in, Breslin made a bull rush to the big stage and his hands were visibly shaking as he poured a cup of water from a pitcher that had been place on the witness stand for his use, leading Newlan to surmise, "Hmmm...maybe that water bottle really was shaking in his hand when Detective Curran confronted him in front of his mother's house on the day of the murder. But that doesn't excuse the fact that she didn't make note of it in her written report."

Newlan was further surprised by the timid, almost squeaky, nature of Breslin's voice. Although, under the circumstances, he could totally relate to Breslin's jitters and he wouldn't have blamed the crestfallen defendant in the least if he ended up committing the crime of delivering an uncontrollably petrified performance.

Breslin's vocal intonations were in fact so unnerving that it actually flustered him throughout the course of his testimony, from beginning to end, as if a wolf were howling at the moon every time he spoke.

"What do you expect? I'd be scared shitless too if I was up there in his shoes," thought Newlan as he took a deep breath and turned his attention squarely on one Mr. John Breslin.

Gleason, on the other hand, wasn't the slightest bit concerned about his client's squeamish demeanor. If anything, he figured that it might help Breslin's cause as he went about the task of humanizing his client by having him take a chronological look back at his life.

The jurors soon learned that Breslin was a high school athlete and a Dean's List student at Tafts University; they learned that Breslin's father was deceased and that he helped his mother pay the mortgage on her home; they learned that Breslin had worked at Tex-Ray Defense Systems for over 20 years, and that during that time he had received seven promotions, working his way up to a decent paying middle-management position; they learned of how Breslin met Tracy Stone at a lounge he frequented after his golf league matches; they learned of how Breslin counseled Tracy as a friend during her troubled relationships with Fred Miller and Peter Perry; they learned of how Breslin repeatedly asked Tracy out on a date and how his persistent finally paid off; they learned of his perfect wedding day and how he was so overjoyed with his bride Tracy that he cried tears of happiness; and finally they learned of the three beautiful children he fathered with Tracy.

Much of the information that Breslin revealed had been brought up at various points during the trial, but not at this level of detail, and certainly not with the positive spin that Gleason was putting on his softball-sized pitches. By all accounts, Gleason was doing a commendable job of steering his client's testimony in the right direction by tossing out leading question after leading question, right down the middle of the plate; and the tactic appeared to be paying dividends, at least in the minds of a couple of jurors.

This selective autobiographical approach to framing a defendant in a positive light was a common strategy used by defense attorneys around the world, and Gleason had no qualms about reverting to a well-documented list of tried-and-true techniques, no matter how transparent they might be; for the fact remained that these time-honored traditions never failed to at least induce some level of pity amongst the jurors, and so when Breslin began to tear up as he recalled the death of Tracy's mother, Gleason was quite pleased, while at the same time DA Lyons stewed in her own juices, anxiously awaiting her turn at the duplicitous Breslin.

Gleason had done just about all that was humanly possible to repair Breslin's reputation, and he was well aware of the fact that the moment for the next phase of his insurgency had arrived. Gleason always possessed an uncanny ability for being able to determine precisely when to cut the saccharine short and move on to the crux of the matter; and it was with this intention in mind that he forged ahead into the meat of his client John Breslin's testimony, however sad it might be.

Almost in midsentence, Gleason veered away from Breslin's blissful home life and he moved instead towards the circumstances which ultimately led to Tracy's divorce request; if Breslin was to be believed, he was the consummate father, doting over the kids, assisting them with their homework, and even bathing them before bedtime when they were youngsters. If Breslin was to be believed, he was a perfect husband, working two jobs to make ends meet. If Breslin was to be believed, he sacrificed dearly just so he could take his family on an annual summer vacation, all while keeping them neatly clothed and exceedingly well fed in their comfortable middle-class suburban home.

And so it was against this backdrop that Gleason maneuvered Breslin into payload position. It was against this backdrop that Gleason steered Breslin into revealing how he was "completely floored" when he found out that his loving wife Tracy wanted a divorce; he was completely floored when he found out that Tracy was seeing Fred Miller again after all these years; he was completely floored when he found out that Tracy's partying, her drug usage, her drinking, her God knows what else, had begun to spiral out of control.

Although Gleason was 100% opposed to the idea of Breslin testifying, he took full advantage of the few benefits that could be gained from such a strategy; one of which was the fact that he could direct his client to list, in open court, every little detail he had ever accumulated into his docket regarding Fred Miller, with very little chance of an objection by his passionate counterpart from the district attorney's office.

At Gleason's urgings, Breslin fully admitted that he hired a private investigator to check up on his wife and her new boyfriend, totally out of concern for his children of course; and he went on to explain how it was Tracy herself who had once painted a very dark picture of Fred Miller; a picture that included serious substance abuse problems.

But it was only after consulting with his private investigator did Breslin, and now the jurors, learn the full extent of Fred Miller's demons; years of drug use, and violent behavior, and numerous arrests warrants, culminating in a 2004 bust for possession of heroin and hypodermic needles with intent to distribute. In fact, the case was still pending when Tracy began seeing Fred again in 2005; and so in Gleason's humble opinion, anyone in their right mind should be able to understand why a loving father wouldn't want his precious children spending time in the company of such a "disturbed individual".

And to that end, Gleason felt it was only natural to mention the fact that Breslin had his divorce attorney include a clause in their divorce papers which stated that the children were not allowed in Fred Miller's company until at least after the divorce was finalized. Gleason's leading questions made it very clear that Tracy had agreed in principle to this clause, and Breslin made it even clearer that she then turned around and violated the agreement in every way imaginable.

Egged on by Gleason, Breslin's list of grievances against Fred Miller continued to mount like a pile of dirty laundry. And while the defendant and his high-priced attorney were going about the task of systematically dismantling the reputation of his deceased brother, Cam Miller seethed with a fury that was barely containable, like a dam that was about to be inundated by the force of a raging storm; and when he was done seething, he steamed like a tea kettle that was about to boil over.

After Breslin had laid Fred Miller asunder to the fullest extent permissible by law, Gleason gradually introduced the manner in which his client's relationship with Nancy O'Brien and Sammy Fox came to play in the case. The jurors heard how Breslin confided in Nancy O'Brien about his divorce, and how O'Brien concluded that it was "just a phase that Tracy was going through...just a mid-life crisis."

O'Brien made many analogies to her own experiences with her ex-husband, and she even confided to Breslin that her former boyfriend, Sammy Fox, had threatened to beat up her ex in retaliation for his abusive behavior.

Gleason permitted Breslin to admit to the fact that he was fully aware of Sammy Fox's background, including his prior murder conviction, and he also made no bones about the fact that he thought "Sammy was a standup guy who had put his past behind him" and that "Sammy was a reformed man who was trying to get his act together."

And so it was that one day, early in the month of October 2005, Nancy O'Brien just so happened to be on the phone with Sammy Fox when Breslin stepped into her office; and so it was that Breslin asked O'Brien if he could speak to Fox for a minute or two; and so it was that the two men met for lunch, and Breslin spilled his guts out to the fatherly ex-con about his pending divorce and the home wrecker who was ruining his life; and so it was that the two men hatched up a plan whereby Fox would confront Fred Miller and scare the life out of him in exchange for a paltry sum of one thousand dollars; and furthermore that fee came with a lifetime guarantee from Fox that "Fred Miller will never so much as show a hair of his sorry ass within a mile of your house for the rest of his life."

And so it was that after much deliberation and soul-searching, Breslin decided to take Sammy the Fox up on his offer, and he paid him the thousand dollar fee for his services to, as he put it, "engage Fred Miller...and if push came to shove, maybe beat the kid up."

But unfortunately for Breslin, Fox's knee replacement surgery could no longer be put off, so their plan had to be delayed for a while. Unfortunately for Breslin, during the months that Fox was out of commission, the situation with Fred Miller had escalated to the point where he was openly wishing that Miller would drop dead. On the other hand, Breslin made it perfectly clear that, while he did indeed speak to Nancy O'Brien on numerous occasions regarding his conversations with Sammy Fox, he never once told her that he had asked Fox to murder Fred Miller; "never in a million years" as he put it.

Gleason, who was attempting to tie up as many loose ends as possible, had Breslin sum up his version of the IRS check fiasco, and he acknowledged that he had his friend Charles "Charlie" Mercurio hold a wad of cash for him "so that Tracy's divorce lawyer couldn't get a hold of it."

Seeing as how there was no easy way to get around the mound of telecommunications company records, other than to claim that they were the actions of a desperate man, Gleason had Breslin admit to the clandestine phone calls; each and every one of them. What else could he do, the records were practically indisputable?

Gleason then asked Breslin to swear under oath that never in his life did he tell Tracy it would be bad for Fred Miller's health if he continued down the path of antagonizing him.

Breslin went on to confess that he had another meeting with Sammy Fox in November of 2005, just after the Thanksgiving Day debacle over his sister-in-law Beth's house, regarding his deteriorating relationship with his wife, and he recounted how Fox told him to "just be patient while I rehab my knee."

And while all of these riveting nuggets were being revealed, Newlan tried as best he could to make sense of what he was hearing. While all of these stomach-churning facts were being revealed, Newlan wondered where Breslin's testimony was leading to, and as he scribbled down random thoughts into his notepad, he could feel Breslin's life, as well as his own, dissolving before his very eyes.

While Newlan pondered the situation, Gleason guided Breslin along as he recounted in great detail the pivotal ten days in December of 2005 during which he and Tracy reconciled, made love to each other on numerous occasions, and spent the holidays together as a family. It was at this point, according to Breslin's testimony, that he asked Fox to give him his money back, and it was at this point that Fox became so enraged he threatened Breslin's life, and he refused to pay back even one stinking penny of the service charge.

And so it was, according to Breslin's testimony, that when he left for work on the morning of Friday January the 13th, 2006, he had no idea of the havoc that was about to be wreaked upon him by his so-called friend. And so it was, according to Breslin's testimony, that Sammy the Fox called him later that same morning and informed him that his problem had been taken care of, and that he wanted another two thousand bucks or else he'd be next. And so it was, according to Breslin's testimony, that he contacted his good friend Charles "Charlie" Mercurio and asked him to bring himself, along with the money he was holding for him, to his mother's house, and from there they drove off to 88 Bar and Grill in Andover where he stepped inside and handed Sammy the Fox two thousand dollars in cash, along with explicit instructions that he never wanted to see him again.

And so it was that at this point in the current proceedings, renowned Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason despondently announced, "No further questions your honor."

And so it was that at this point in the current proceedings, every single person in the entire courtroom sat in dumbfounded silence as they attempted to digest the almost incomprehensible testimony they had just witnessed.

Judge Gershwin, sensing the gravity of the situation, called for a long overdue lunch break. She had wanted to break earlier in the session but even she couldn't bring herself to stop the incendiary testimony in midstream.

Meanwhile, a perplexed Newlan thought to himself, "What the hell did Breslin just do?"

And furthermore, Newlan was in a total state of shocked disbelief as he wrote into his notepad:

Breslin pretty much just admitted to everything that I've been trying to convince myself was untrue for the past two weeks.

Chapter 88 -- Arachnophobia

Friday afternoon June 20, 2008 – 1:30 PM

While Frank Newlan and his fellow jurors may have been wearing a look of utter bewilderment on their faces as they stepped down from the jury box to begin their lunch break, Cam Miller was perhaps even more mystified than all of them combined...and then some. After all, much like the jurors, Cam would never have predicted in a million years that John Breslin would take the stand in his own defense. Cam was in fact so puzzled by Breslin's stark admissions that he found himself dubiously scratching his head in bewilderment as he settled down for lunch in the courtroom cafeteria. And furthermore, Cam was so dumbfounded by the latest developments in the trial that he had resorted to talking to himself as he picked at a garden salad and a greasy cheeseburger.

"I can't believe that this son of a bitch Breslin is throwing Sammy the Fox under the bus, like we can't see right through his transparent ploy. The long and the short of it is that Breslin's trying to pin Freddie's murder on Fox to save his own skin. Oh sure, he just wanted Sammy to beat Freddie up, and the foxy one decided to kill him instead, for no good reason. What a load of crap. Not to mention the fact that Gleason never so much as hinted at any of this during his opening statement. The bastard's gotta have some sort of trick up his sleeve. But what could it be?"

And coincidently enough, practically every sentiment that was running through Cam Miller's weary head was also echoing through the dense cranium of Frank Newlan. Baffled, befuddled and perplexed were but a few of the adjectives that could best be used to describe the reaction of both Cam Miller and Frank Newlan, not to mention almost every person in the entire courtroom who had just witnessed John Breslin's bizarre performance for that matter.

"But on second thought, Gleason would never have OK'd this cockamamie strategy, which leads me to believe that Breslin must be even dumber than he looks," speculated Cam, while at the same time he changed course in midstream and added a subtle twist to his conjecture. "Or maybe he realized that he was caught red-handed and he figures that his only chance of ever seeing the light of day again is to make one last attempt at fast-talking his way out of prison."

Fortunately for Cam, his parents had decided to skip the defense's counterattacks, and so they weren't present to share in his confused revulsion. Neither Mrs. nor Mr. Miller could stomach the thought of bearing witness to the hatchet job that they were positive Gleason was about to inflict upon their deceased son...and their intuition turned out to be spot-on accurate.

"It's bad enough that Freddie was assassinated by these thugs, but to have to hear his character assassinated as well, to have to hear this garbage, in open court no less, is almost enough to make me wanna puke," grumbled the senior Mr. Miller as he withdrew from the courthouse directly upon the prosecution's resting of its case.

Fred Miller's parents were without a doubt planning on returning to the courtroom for the reading of the verdict, but in the meantime, they would just assume sit it out on the sidelines; and concurrently, in the meantime, Cam sat at table in the far corner of the cafeteria, all by his lonesome, so that he might quietly reflect on the day's incomprehensible events. Even when Freddie's best friend and roommate, Robert Hurley, stopped by for a few words, Cam unflinchingly waved him away with a brush of the hand. And whilst on the surface Cam appeared to be perfectly calm, cool and collected as he nibbled on his burger, just below that periphery he burned with a rage so hot that he might have been capable of breathing fire from his mouth if he had put his mind to it.

With all of this turmoil roiling around in his head, one might suspect that Tracy Stone was the last person in the world that Cam Miller cared to see at the moment. But in reality, apparently Cam's unresolved, vacillating feelings towards Tracy were just the opposite; for upon catching a glimpse of his brother's old girlfriend entering the cafeteria, he motioned her over and offered her a seat at his table with as much conviction as he had just used to evict Robert Hurley from his personal air space.

As always, Stone was her usual ball of contradictions; one minute she was pleased that her ex-husband was getting his comeuppance...and the next minute she was distraught by the notion that she was helping to put the father of her children in prison for life; one minute she was riddled with guilt over her unintended role in the death of Fred Miller...and the next minute she was lost in Cam's eyes.

Sensing her pain as if it were his own, Cam tried his best to console Tracy. And yet, through her tears she still possessed the wherewithal to cast a cloudlike spell over his soul; and yet, through her tears she still possessed the ability to artfully mold him into a toy soldier; and yet, through her tears she still possessed the almighty power to send him off to battle; a battle in which he would surely be left scarred and licking his wounds; wounds from which he would undoubtedly succumb.

Yes, a war was waging deep within Cam Miller's heart, and as surely as the sun rises each and every morning, he would helplessly surrender to the beck-and-call of this murky, hourglass-stamped, spidery widow; a hairy, fang-toothed, eight-legged predator in substance, if not in actuality; a grieving, vengeful widow in spirit, if not in title. And yes, as surely as the darkness descends upon each and every one of us, each and every evening, he would inexorably fall prey to this inky-black arachnid masquerading as a woman; a woman who answers to the name of...Ms. Tracy Stone.

Chapter 89 – Astronomy (Life's too Short)

Friday afternoon June 20, 2008 – 1:30 PM

"Now _that_ was a shocker! I would have been willing to bet a million bucks that Breslin wasn't gonna testify. No way I would have thought that would happen," exclaimed Ron the banker back in the safety and comfort of the juror deliberation room.

"I never saw it coming either," seconded Mike the reticent car salesman, while at the same time the rest of his colleagues buzzed with excitement and consternation over Breslin's awkward performance.

"Yeah, that was a curveball for sure," agreed Newlan with a weak smile. And although outwardly he was keeping a stiff upper lip, deep inside he was all gloom-and-doom as he stared down at his turkey club sandwich and tried in vain to find some sort of a silver lining in Breslin's testimony.

However, the more Newlan pondered the details of Breslin's tale, the less sense it made. The entire premise of Breslin's testimony was absolutely indecipherable to him, so much so that he lost his appetite and left his lunch untouched as he attempted to sort it all out.

Just when Newlan had made up his mind that he was going to vote not guilty come hell or high water, Breslin had to go throw a wrench in his plans, and now he was coming to the stark realization that he might be forced to rethink the entire case; and what was even worse, in some strange way, he actually felt as if Breslin had betrayed him, as if a trusted friend had let him down just when he needed him most.

"Now I know how Charlie Mercurio must have felt," thought a stunned Newlan. And truth be told, he felt like a chump; he felt like a victim; he felt as if he had been violated. He had almost convinced himself that Breslin had nothing to do with the murder of Fred Miller, and now he was just plain mad at himself; he was fuming at himself over his own stupidity; he was furious at himself over his lack of common sense; in short, he felt like a gullible old fool.

The bitterness that was festering inside of Newlan during the course of the lunch hour bubbled over until he was almost in tears, and his colleagues, sensing that he was visibly shaken, tried their best to console him.

"What's wrong Frank?" wondered the usually reserved Natalie.

Under normal circumstances, Newlan would have responded favorably to even the slightest bit of attention from the alluring Natalie, but not today; no, today he just shook his head in sorrowful disgust and with a crackle in his voice he groused, "I just don't wanna be here."

Despite their many differences, Newlan's fellow jurors rallied around him and came to his aid like an Army unit tending to a wounded soldier. Yong, the pretty Korean juror who traditionally sat to Newlan's left, gently rubbed his shoulders and assured him that they were all in this together. The two elderly women in the jury, Patty and Annie both approached and kneeled by his side, offering words of solace. Patty even put an arm around Newlan and whispered in his ear that everything was going be alright.

Newlan, of course, had heard that line a lot more than once too often, and despite the genuine kindness that was being shown by his colleagues, he waved them all off with a plea that he just need some time alone.

As Newlan's melodramatic freefall was playing itself out, Billy came sauntering into the deliberation room to check up on their mental state, and despite Newlan's difficulties, (or perhaps because of them) Annie nervously insisted that Billy accompany her outside for her daily cigarette break; apparently her addiction came first, and at the moment a relaxing dose of mentholated tobacco was essential to her wellbeing.

Perhaps out of respect to Newlan's appeal for privacy, every single juror, with the exception of the wheelchair-bound Dan, joined in on Annie's rendezvous down to the outdoor garage for her stress-relieving nicotine fix. Newlan didn't mean it literally when he said that he needed to be alone, and he felt embarrassed and even a bit lonely that his fellow jurors were deserting him. On the contrary, being left physically alone was the last thing Newlan wanted at the moment, and he was grateful that Dan decided to stay behind and keep him company.

Although Dan's confinement to his wheelchair played a big part in his decision not to step outside with the rest of the jurors, it also occurred to him that maybe it would be a good idea to keep a watchful eye on the obviously distressed Newlan.

Dan valiantly attempted to pry Newlan's mind off the trial by resorting to frivolous small talk, and despite his moodiness, Newlan courteously answered each and every one of Dan's casual asides.

Amazingly enough, Dan's strategy was actually successful to some degree, and Newlan felt much obliged to his handicapped colleague. Dan's positive attitude got Newlan to wondering why the hell he was being such a drama queen when a guy like Dan, who dealt so courageously with his obvious hardships, was stoically taking the trial in stride.

"If it makes you feel any better, I don't really want to be here either," admitted Dan with a hint of an amicable smile.

"I guess that sentiment is probably unanimous," agreed Newlan, and Dan shrugged his shoulders as he added, "Just doing our civic duty I suppose."

From there, the conversation flowed along nicely, and as the others returned from their expedition, they were just in time to witness Newlan extend a hand towards Dan and sincerely offer his thanks for the pep-talk, and they all basked as one in the spirit of goodwill.

"Don't mention it," replied Dan as he beamed with a glow of contentment triggered by the realization that he had done his good deed for the day. But as the jurors anticipated their return engagement inside the courtroom, their concerns for Newlan didn't stop them from mocking Breslin's crocodile tears. Other than Annie and Newlan, the rest of the team appeared to be unanimous in their belief that Breslin was faking it; a belief that caused Newlan's disillusionment to come storming back just as quickly as it had departed, and he hated them all for their derisive attitudes.

Talking to no one in particular, Newlan chided them for their denigrating postures. "I don't know, maybe I'm crazy, but I don't think you can fake emotion like that. But then again maybe I'm wrong. Maybe he is a con man. But if he is, then he's one hell of an actor."

If truth be told, Newlan didn't really know what to believe anymore. Although his angst may have been temporarily diverted by the likeable Dan, his fretful indecision regarding Breslin's fate resurfaced with a vengeance just as Billy was leading the troops back into the courtroom for DA Lyons' cross-examination of the aforementioned con man of a defendant, and his fellow jurors' disparaging comments weren't helping matters either.

It was of little consolation, but Newlan was so consumed by the gravity of their pending verdict that his dilemma regarding Marianne Plante, and all the associated baggage that went along with it, seemed somewhat trivial compared to the quandary of deciding a man's fate. There was a full scale novella of a battle raging in Newlan's head, but even he, the self proclaimed psychic, didn't know how it would all turn out for John Breslin, or for that matter, how it would all turn out for the only woman he ever loved, not to mention his own battered soul.

Newlan was tempted to raise the white flag and give it all up, but just as he took his seat beside Natalie in the jury box, a sudden awakening hit him like a ton of brick; if Breslin's words were to be taken literally, Sammy Fox never actually admitted to killing Fred Miller.

"You're problem's been taken care of," paraphrased Newlan. "According to Breslin's testimony, that's all Sammy Fox ever uttered when he finally got in touch with him on the day of the murder. Could it be possible that someone else killed Miller and when Fox heard about it on the news, he tried to take advantage of the situation and extort more money out of Breslin?"

It seemed farfetched, even to Newlan, and with Judge Gershwin about to call the court to order again he didn't have time to fully study the equation, but it left him with plenty to think about over the weekend.

Regardless of Newlan's epiphany however, he was quickly snapped out of his musings by a Tasmanian devil who also went by the name of Assistant District Attorney, Elaina Lyons.

Lyons came charging out of the gates and she immediately went on an all-out offensive, as if she had been shot out of a cannon, and for more than two solid hours, she never let up once. For an appetizer, Lyons started Breslin off with her booming, outraged voice, and if anything, her vocal intonations only grew louder and more obnoxious (at least as far as Newlan was concerned) as she got warmed up and prepared to deliver the main course.

Lyons pounced on the shell-shocked Breslin from the get-go and she proceeded to bully and browbeat him every chance she got; and right off the bat, her first question was direct and to the point.

"Mr. Breslin isn't it true that you hated Fred Miller...you hated him with a passion?" insisted Lyons. And in turn, Breslin, who was wearing an unnatural, perplexed look about him, contemptibly answered his bitter rival with an emphatic negative.

"No, that not true at all. _Hate_ isn't even a word that's in my vocabulary," professed Breslin while at the same time he contorted his face into an expression which was akin to swallowing poison as he uttered the word "hate."

"Didn't you tell Nancy O'Brien that you hated Fred Miller?" demanded Lyons.

"No I didn't. Life's too short to be consumed by hate," taunted back Breslin as the courtroom audience fell into a stunned silence. Every person in attendance was rendered breathlessly aghast by the theatrics that they were witnessing, and suddenly you could hear the heel of Lyons' left shoe as with nervous impatience she tapped it repeatedly, like a motoring piston, on the Berber carpeted floor of the courtroom.

And although Breslin vehemently denied his loathing for Fred Miller, his facial contortions said otherwise; his grimace intimated that he despised Miller with the burning intensity of a raging river flowing with the red-hot, glowing basalt of an erupting mountaintop.

Breslin's contempt for Miller was apparent to just about everyone in the courtroom with the notable exception of one Mr. Frank Newlan, who chose to overlook the obvious; and in addition to his tendency for disregarding the imperfections in others, he was distracted by Breslin's use of the phrase "life's too short." Newlan had written a song with that exact same title a few years back, and of course, the injection of another subtle parable into the trial had him shaking his head and muttering his favorite catchphrase, "man, you can't make this shit up."

In addition to his typically introspective lyrics, Newlan felt that he had come up with a decent melody for the song, and if he were still rocking out in a band he might have even presented the tune to his band-mates for their feedback. In fact, he thought so highly of the ballad that he entered it into a songwriting contest which was being held by the reality TV singing competition, American Idol. But when the song wasn't chosen as a winning entry or even a finalist, he dismissingly rationalized the contest results as follows; "what the hell do they know anyway?"'

The pensive lyrics flashed uncontrollably across Newlan's mind as Breslin spoke his piece. But with extreme effort, he managed to put the words out of his head just as quickly as they had popped into it, lest he miss something crucial in this Herculean battle which was unfolding right before his very eyes.

"Mr. Breslin, you were well aware of the fact that Sammy Fox was a convicted murderer, and that he had just spent three years in prison on a weapons charge when you enlisted his services, didn't you?" sneered Lyons. But Breslin appeared to be confused by the question and he rubbed his forehead vigorously before replying in a curious fashion.

"I'm sorry Elaina could you repeat the question. I've got a headache...a bad headache," lamented Breslin, but Lyons' response was beyond unsympathetic; it was beyond livid; it was in fact bordering on reckless.

"Did you just call me by my first name?" roared Lyons as she played up the outrage for all it was worth. And for his part, Breslin appeared to be even more bewildered than he already was as he once again replied, "I said I have a headache...a bad headache."

Newlan vividly recalled the elderly Mrs. Breslin brazenly referring to Lyons by her first name when she took her turn on the stand. But at that point in the trial the savvy prosecutor knew better than to lash out at a frail senior citizen. Breslin himself however, would not be so lucky. Lyons urged Judge Gershwin to "reprimand the witness" just as Gleason had done on numerous occasions to some of her more hostile witnesses.

Judge Gershwin interrupted Breslin and patiently explained the decorum that she expected every person in her presence to follow.

"Mr. Breslin, in this courtroom we refer to everybody by their surnames, is that clear?"

"Yes your honor, I apologize. It's just that I have a headache...a bad headache," replied Breslin in a confessional tone; and then like a boxer who had been momentarily separated from her opponent by the referee, Lyons immediately danced back into the center of the ring.

"Mr. Breslin isn't it true that you made a conscious decision to pay a man, a man who had been convicted of murder no less, to take care of your problem, isn't that correct?" insisted Lyons, and Breslin continued to exude the appearance of a befuddled man as he glumly explained, "I just wanted Sammy to go talk to him...so that he would stay away from my kids."

"What, were you afraid to do it yourself?" mockingly teased Lyons as a look of disgust spread across her face.

"No, it's just that I wanted nothing to do with _him_. I'm sorry Ms. Lyons but I have a headache...a really bad headache." admitted Breslin with a sloping scowl on his face which more than rivaled Lyons exaggerated facial expressions.

"Yeah, you didn't want it to be tied to you, did you?" shot back Lyons in a tone that seemed to be mimicking a mobster movie. But Breslin simply shook his head and timidly answered, "No, that's not true."

"You wanted to get somebody else to do your dirty work for you, didn't you?" needled Lyons, which left Newlan with the distinct impression that she enjoyed taunting Breslin; it was as if she were a child at the zoo, baiting a ferocious grizzly bear by making funny faces and pounding on the glass enclosure which separated them from each other.

Lyons jumped haphazardly from inquiries regarding Tracy Stone, and Nancy O'Brien, and Charles Mercurio, and the well-documented clandestine phone calls, until she had come full circle, and from there she went right back to interrogating Breslin regarding his seemingly peculiar relationship with Sammy the Fox.

As Lyons' onslaught intensified, Breslin continued to become more subdued and discombobulated until it had reached the point where he appeared to be suffering from some strange form of post traumatic whiplash. Meanwhile, Newlan feared that Lyons might collapse out of sheer exhaustion if she kept up her torrid pace much longer. But of course, that didn't stop her from going full-tilt until the final bell.

Newlan had a hunch that although Lyons seemed to be throwing out all sorts of wild haymakers in Breslin's direction just to catch him off guard, she was actually following a carefully predefined strategy to get him to crack under the pressure of her assault, and ideally to get him to utter a few even more incriminating statements than he had already made of his own volition. But on the other hand, as odd as Breslin was behaving, Newlan never once felt that he was completely rattled by Lyons' staggering knockout-punch offensive.

A quizzical Lyons then asked Breslin flat-out, "so if your story is true Mr. Breslin, then why did you turn around and hand over an additional payment to Sammy Fox after Fred Miller was murdered?"

Breslin took a deep breath as he desperately attempted to convey his state of mind at the time.

"I was scared...and I just wanted him out of my life. I was confused. I was literally flabbergasted."

"You wanted who out of your life, Mr. Breslin...Sammy Fox or Fred Miller?" deviously wondered Lyons.

"Both of them," grunted Breslin, and at long last, after nearly two hours of bullheaded antagonism, Lyons spit out the obvious question; "so why didn't you go to the police?"

Not surprisingly Breslin's response was rather predictable.

"Like I said, I was scared," confessed Breslin, and then under his breath he mumbled loud enough for all to hear, "oh God do I have a headache...a viscous headache."

"Oh but you weren't too scared to do business with a murderer? You weren't too scared to associate with a gun smuggler...were you Mr. Breslin?" boomed Lyons as Breslin shook his head in denial.

Breslin momentarily paused again as he tried to somehow put his thoughts into words, but when he had finally composed himself enough to launch into a convoluted explanation, it only made matter worse.

"It's just that Sammy and Freddie were both from the same world, and I'm not from that world. They were both street-smart and involved with drugs and other illegal stuff, and I guess I just figured that Sammy would be able to communicate with him on the same level...a lot better than I could anyway."

Up until that moment, Cam Miller had been attentively viewing the scene from the gallery and industriously taking in every word of Breslin's bizarre performance just like everyone else in the audience. However, when Breslin equated his brother to a convicted murderer, something in him snapped. Something in him overheard the menacingly enchanting voice of Tracy Stone whispering mystical incantations in his ear. Something in him portended that a madman was about to escape from the prison gates of his mind. Something in him unleashed the primeval instincts that are buried somewhere deep within us all; primitive, ancient impulses to kill or be killed.

Something primordial lurking within the depths of Cam Miller's soul induced him to let out a bloodcurdling, guttural scream, and with one leap he was over the gallery divider like an Olympic high hurdler. With one leap, Cam Miller was over the only obstacle that separated him from Breslin; or so he thought. For unbeknownst to him, the trio of court officers who had been monitoring the courtroom like the Secret Service watches over a Presidential caravan, were all on red-alert from the moment that Breslin took to the stand.

It was court officer basic training 101; whenever a defendant in a polarizing case testifies, particularly in a murder case, the possibility always remains that things might get out of hand. And so it was that when Cam Miller embarked on his giant leap into no man's land, he was immediately intercepted and taken to the ground by Billy and Brandon; but not without a fight.

Perhaps it was the aftereffects of Tracy Stone's stimulating spell as it went rushing through his brain, or perhaps it was the extra dose of adrenaline that was coursing through his veins, but whatever the reason, Cam Miller's bull-rush into the sanctity of the courtroom pulpit left Billy and Brandon with the lasting impression that they were trying to contain the incredible hulk. Even the elderly Court Officer, Donny, rushed into action and made his presence felt by diving on top of the pile until his colleagues could subdue Cam Miller long enough to remove him from the courtroom.

The action took place literally within a few feet of the jury box and as one might imagine, the jurors were visibly shaken by the sudden violent outburst.

Newlan had an unobstructed view of the fisticuffs from his seat at the far end of the jury box and he distinctly discerned an unidentified object protruding from Cam Miller's belt. He distinctly discerned Miller reaching for the said object just as he was being gang-tackled and accosted by the well-trained court officers. And although he wasn't quite sure of what it was he saw, he could have sworn that the object tucked away in Miller's pants was a sawed-off piece of a broomstick wrapped up in duct tape.

And then, as if watching a game of tennis, Newlan turned his gaze back toward Breslin, and out of the corner of his eyes he observed the defendant rise and ball up his fists in a defensive stance; a stance which had become second nature to him after more than two years of rotting in jail with the dregs of society.

Breslin sat back down when it became clear that Cam Miller had no chance of escaping the grip of the bulky court officers, but his hands instinctively remained in the boxer's position. And when Miller was led out of the courtroom in handcuffs, kicking and screaming, Newlan took stock of the entire situation.

"All it takes is a momentary lapse of reason, and just like that, in a New York minute, a life is ruined," whispered Newlan into Natalie's ear, while at the same time she cradled his arm and held on for dear life.

Newlan could literally feel Natalie shaking and he could see the fear in her eyes as he calmly vowed, "It's OK Natalie...everything's gonna be alright"; even though by now, he wasn't so sure of anything anymore.

After the courtroom was finally brought back to order by Judge Gershwin (which was no small feat, considering the fact that Breslin's side of the gallery was arguing with Miller's family and friends like the Hatfield's and the McCoy's), renowned Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason naturally called for an immediate mistrial, while DA Lyons held her breath in anticipation.

For her part, Lyons was well aware of the implications of what had just occurred. She was well aware of the fact that Judge Gershwin was a no-nonsense type of judge, and she wouldn't have been shocked if the honorable magistrate had declared a mistrial on the spot.

Lyons was expecting the worst, and so she was pleasantly surprised when Judge Gershwin replied that she would take a few minutes to think about Gleason's request. Lyons would have been even happier if Judge Gershwin had dismissed the motion outright, but at the moment, even a temporary reprieve was better than nothing.

Judge Gershwin, on the other hand, had more pressing issues to attend to. She immediately had the stunned jurors removed from the courtroom, and she gave Donny strict orders not to leave their sight. He was also instructed to make sure that they didn't say a word to each other about what they had just witnessed, and she arranged for each of them to be brought into her chambers for a private discussion.

One by one, the jurors were marched into Judge Gershwin's office (for Newlan it was his second visit into her impressive suite) and one by one she asked each of them whether they felt that their impartiality was in any way affected by Cam Miller's outburst, and whether they felt in any way unable to continue to serve on the case.

Apparently the jurors were unanimous in their willingness to continue, which led to a heated sidebar between Gleason and Judge Gershwin when the decision was announced out in open court.

Newlan was tempted to take advantage of this unexpected opportunity to possibly get his butt removed from the case, but once again he couldn't quite bring himself to look away from the train wreck that the trial had turned his life into.

For that matter, Newlan was also tempted to inform Judge Gershwin of the contraband he suspected that Cam Miller was concealing in his pants. But in the end, he wasn't sure just what it was that he had spotted hidden in Miller's midsection, and he assumed that the police would find the object when they searched Miller anyway.

Before proceeding, Judge Gershwin went out her way to heap effusive praise on the weary jurors, while at the say time she warned the audience that she wouldn't tolerate any form of demonstrative outbursts, not even a sneeze or a cough.

And despite the hellacious commotion, when the bell rang to begin the next round, DA Lyons proceeded on with her tenacious attack as if nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred.

Lyons' queries were becoming increasingly longer and multi-faceted, and Breslin in turn was becoming increasingly more punch-drunk; and Gleason had finally had enough when Lyons angrily asked, "during the actual execution of the crime...during the actual execution of Fred Miller...or for lack of a better word, during the assassination of Fred Miller...while Fred Miller's lifeblood seeped out of his lifeless body...you had the audacity to say that you were trying to capture a squirrel in your mother's basement. Isn't that what you told this jury?"

By now, Breslin was displaying the withdrawn, empty look of a lunatic in an insane asylum as he pleaded for a recount.

"I'm sorry, can you repeat the question? I'm having trouble understanding the questions, and I have a headache...a bad headache."

This volley prompted Gleason to timidly complain, "Your honor, the questions are confusing." And this time Judge Gershwin actually seemed to agree with him.

"Ms. Lyons, if you would, could you please make your questions more succinct and to the point, and let's try to wrap this up soon if you can," requested the ever-patient judge.

Lyons responded by throwing her hands up in the air, and with a repulsed look on her face she grumbled, "I've had enough of his lies...no further questions your honor."

And while she was instantaneously weighing the merits of whether or not to continue the attack, Lyons concluded that she had rattled Breslin badly enough to effectively use his words against him in her closing statement, and in the end that was all she was really trying to accomplish in the first place. In fact, not only did Lyons fulfill her objective, but if an imaginary referee had been officiating the match, the reigning champion, DA Elaina Lyons, would have clearly scored a technical knockout of her opponent; an opponent who was clearly at her mercy; an opponent whose corner should have clearly thrown in the white flag long before the fight even began.

At this point, the overwhelmed jurors were wondering what the heck was going to happen next, and their question was promptly answered by Gleason, whose voice cracked as he meekly announced, "your honor, the defense rests."

And there you have it, just like that, after two years of hard work and extensive preparation, after two years of building up his house of cards, Gleason could feel it all come crumbling down on top of him like one big pile of crap; for surely his case had been fabricated on a foundation...that was never...built to last.

By now it was almost five o'clock, but before the jurors were dismissed for the weekend Judge Gershwin endeavored to inform them of their itinerary for Monday morning.

"We will begin the session by hearing the closing statements. First we will hear the arguments for the defense, and then the prosecution will present its case. After that I will present you with my instructions, and then we will select the alternate. In this trial, as the jury is currently constituted, we will have only one alternate. And at that point I will hand the case over to you for your deliberations," explained Judge Gershwin with a pleasant smile, and then she proceeded to wish the jurors a wonderful weekend, but of course not before dispensing with the obligatory reminder that they not discuss the case with anyone, not even amongst themselves.

As the jurors impatiently waited to be escorted down to their cars, more than a few of them commented on what they believed to be Breslin's diminished mental capacity.

"He looked 'out of it' all afternoon," observed Jane.

"Yeah, he was definitely spaced out," added Ron.

"It was probably due to a lack of sleep. I'm sure Mr. Breslin must have been worrying about his testimony all night, and plus, I imagine that it must be difficult to get proper rest in a jail cell," surmised the naive Patty.

"I bet they keep the prisoners sedated on all kinds of meds, because he was doped up for sure," insisted Mike.

And all the while, Newlan kept his big mouth shut. Although, he had to admit that something sure didn't seem right about Breslin, and he wondered whether there could have been any truth to Mike's insinuation that drugs were somehow involved.

After a fifteen minute delay, Billy led the caravan down to their parking garage escape hatch; but just as the jurors were about to make their getaway for the exits he shouted, "oh and by the way, don't forget to bring plenty of reading material on Monday, because whichever one of you gets selected as the alternate is going to be sitting around alone in an empty room all day."

And with that, the jurors made a mad dash to their cars like kids shuffling off from school at the start of a carefree summer vacation. However, as Newlan slowly made his way down the ramp of the garage he was still totally fixated on Breslin's inconceivable saga, and how it didn't jibe with Gleason's opening statement whatsoever.

On the traffic-filled drive home, Newlan lit up a joint in a vain attempt to calm his nerves as Blue Oyster Cult's magical masterpiece "Astronomy" rang out from his car's stereo speakers...and he let the words envelop him -- words which conjured up visions of the hellish randomness that is life itself, along with the hopeless battle that we all wage against the relentless passage of time -- as he eased on down the road.

...

Somewhere between point A and point B on Newlan's homeward-bound journey, as he medicated his soul with the twin tranquilizers of marijuana and music, as he soared through the sky as high as a kite and listened to BOC's chilling tale of otherworldly clairvoyance, he imagined that somehow above the clouds, somewhere beyond the stars, beyond the moon, beyond the sun, all the planets in the universe were about to align in a perfect formation, for the sole purpose of building a monument in his honor. And as he sat idling motionless in the rush hour traffic, he patiently anticipated and cherished the very thought of this most deserved memorial rising from the charred remains of his past.

Or perhaps, maybe, just maybe, what Newlan's murky, sentient mind was really channeling into...was the vision of a gravestone...bearing his name.

Chapter 90 – Anyone Else Would Have Done the Same Thing

Friday evening June 20, 2008 – 5:20 PM

Cam Miller was utterly dejected and totally disgusted with himself as he paced back and forth across the length of a specially equipped holding area deep in the bowels of the Middlesex Superior Courthouse, no better than a caged animal. And ironically, just around the corner from where Cam was imprisoned, another holding area held the pitiful form of his nemesis, John Breslin.

Cam's unfortunate lapse of judgment left him feeling anxiously confused as to the nature of his uncontrollable actions. He was perplexed by his lack of levelheadedness, and on top of that, his sudden leap into the fray left him feeling frightfully aghast.

For weeks on end now, Cam had been fancifully plotting his revenge against John Breslin, and during that time he never once failed to experience a tingling sensation, a prickling release of tension, a titillating, frenzied, almost sexual eruption, whenever one of these maniacal scenarios played out in his mind. However, when push came to shove, he even surprised himself when he actually attempted to carry out the foolhardy mission, and with such ferocity to boot.

As the trial rapidly approached, there was no denying the fact that Cam Miller's dark side was gaining the upper hand. But now that the government's case seemed to be falling into place, he had strived to make peace with his demons; he had strived to satisfy his lust for revenge by devouring the intoxicating elixir of satisfaction; a brew which was concocted with the foreseeing knowledge that Breslin would soon be sentenced to rot in prison for the rest of his life. Somewhere along the way however, fate had intervened; fate in the form of a mystical voice which called to him in the dead of night; fate in the form of a surreptitious voice which provided him with that little extra impetus that was necessary for him to do what he had wanted to do all along; fate in the enigmatic form of Ms. Tracy Stone's hypnotic voice.

Cam couldn't even begin to comprehend the dark forces that were at work on his behalf. But as he ambled about the holding area for what seemed like an eternity, he anguished fretfully over what was going to happen to him, and at some point, he became aware of the fact that he had become separated from his homemade wooden stake. He wasn't the least bit surprised that the weapon had been confiscated. But what _was_ puzzling to him was the fact that he had no recollection of the dagger being taken away. The only explanation he could come up with, farfetched as it might be, was that perhaps the sorcerous voice in his head somehow had a hand in the paling rod's self-combustion.

Of course what really happened to the former broomstick was a lot less shadowy, although nonetheless shady...and it involved our lovable, but grumpy, Court Officer, William "Billy" Brady.

During the courtroom fracas, Billy somehow managed to get his arms around Cam's waist, and when he did, his hands, by chance, happened to paw at a peculiar foreign object secured to the rabble-rouser's belt. And when the trio of court officers brusquely hustled Cam out of the courtroom, Billy somehow managed to slip the stake from the firebrand's waistband and into his own belt-loop while his colleagues remained none the wiser. And so with a spry sleight of hands, Billy somehow managed to secure the hidden contraband into his locker where it sat undetected for the rest of the day.

Meanwhile back in the holding area, a tearful Cam Miller hung his head down low as he rued his disgraceful fall from grace, when who should step into the secured cubbyhole but none other than Billy, and in his thick Boston accent he mischievously asked, "Looking for something?"

When Cam didn't immediately reply, Billy slowly pulled back his jacket, revealing the wooden stake which was now implausibly secured to the street-smart court officer's belt like a dagger-shaped billy-club.

Cam was speechless and he gazed up sheepishly at Billy while a mixture of sweat and tears rolled down his face.

"What the hell were you thinking?" continued Billy in an angry, yet understanding, tone.

"That's the problem...I don't know what I was thinking. Of course I hate the bastard, but I thought I had my emotions under control," confessed a suddenly magnetized Cam.

"Well you almost caused the DA's office to forfeit the trial," lectured back Billy, while at the same time Cam's eyes bulged out of their sockets, and he had a dazed look about him as he rambled out an admission.

"But then something kicked in. I was enraged. It was as if there was a voice in my head telling me what to do...telling me to attack like a mad dog...telling me to bite his head off...telling me to shank him...telling me to plunge that stake into his heart," divulged Cam as a confounded Billy eerily heeded the jailbird's confession.

After a moment of contemplation, Cam added, "Come to think of it, there was definitely a voice, clear as a bell...and a woman's voice at that,"

Not knowing what else to do, Billy peered into Cam Miller's dilated pupils...but when a blank, vacant stare was all he observed staring back at him, he violently shook and smacked the bedeviled prisoner like a rag doll in a desperate attempt to knock some sense into him.

"For God's sake motherfucker, snap out of it. I know this trial has gotta be hard on you and your family, but you're gonna make yourself crazy if you don't stop dwelling on the past. What's done is done and it's time to move on," berated Billy, and amazingly enough, his aggressive actions somehow reeled Cam's sanity back from out of whatever possessed fishing hole it happened to be hiding in; his sobering slap in the face somehow exorcised the evil spirits which had overtaken Cam's soul; his enlightening conk on the head somehow expelled the monsters which had waylaid Cam's heart. But alas, as luck would have it, the sudden dose of reality only served to further heighten Cam's despair, not help it.

Fortunately for Cam however, Billy's empathy for him was fortified just by the act of witnessing his agonized reaction, and so he cut him a break by way of a pep-talk and a second chance.

"Look, no one else knows anything about this," confided Billy as he pointed towards the wooden object which was protruding from his belt. "And I'm sure as hell not about to tell anyone, so here's the deal. I talked your situation over with Judge Gershwin...and the DA's Office...and the local cops; you're gonna be charged with disorderly conduct, which is a misdemeanor, so in all likelihood, your case is gonna end up being continued without a finding; which means if you stay out of trouble for six months the whole thing will be dropped from your record, swept under the table like it never happened. But the bad news is, since its late Friday afternoon, you may be stuck in the hoosegow for the weekend if the cops can't a get a hold of a bail bondsman."

Naturally, Cam was distraught over the prospects of spending the weekend in jail, but he was also heartened by his good fortune, for he knew full well that the outcome of his outburst could have been much worse, and he practically kissed Billy's feet in thanks

Of course regardless of thanks, Billy was still bound by his duty, and so he was obliged to handcuff the weeping Cam Miller before passing him along for processing.

As Billy walked the crestfallen Cam out to a waiting squad car which would transport him to the Woburn Police station, he spelled out the law of the land, but at the same time he jokingly attempted to reassure the petrified detainee that everything was going to be alright.

"They're gonna take you down to the station...and then they'll book you and place you in a cell until you can get yourself bailed out. But hey, look on the bright side, they're gonna feed you, and you get a vacation from the wife and kids for a couple of days. But seriously Miller, don't worry about a thing, I know a few of the guys on the Woburn Police force, and like I said, I already talked to them about your grand arrival. They're gonna take good care of you. They got no beef with you. As a matter of fact they don't blame you for what you did. Do you hear what I'm saying to you Miller, they sympathize with you? After all, the man hired someone to kill your brother, and hey, anyone else...would've done the same thing."

...

As the squad car carrying Cam Miller drove off with its blue lights flashing and its sirens wailing, Billy's cell phone rang and wouldn't you know it, on the other end of the line was none other than Sammy Fox's associate, Tommy Doyle.

Doyle wanted some answers, and Billy didn't disappoint. However, as he hung up the phone, a pang of guilt stabbed at his gut like a sharp poke in the ribs from a high voltage cattle prodder. But in the end, he stuffed his conscience back into that same empty hole which we all make use of from time to time, and he absentmindedly shrugged his shoulders as he muttered to himself, "Hey, anyone else...would've done the same thing."

Chapter 91 – Death by a Thousand Cuts

Friday evening June 20, 2008 – 5:45 PM

After surviving another stormy day spent navigating the turbulent winds of the John Breslin murder trial, Frank Newlan somehow managed to focus his hallucinogen-ravaged mind long enough to maneuver his red Mercury from the courthouse parking garage in Woburn Massachusetts all the way back to his condo parking garage in Medford.

Newlan was shaking all over as he dragged himself out of his car; a victim of a malaise that Doctor Clay often referred to as "general anxiety". But regardless of nomenclature, it was clear that he was even edgier than usual these days and his irrational fear of closed-in spaces wasn't helping matters either.

Newlan felt as if he was dragging the weight of the world on his shoulders as he trudged his way up towards the lobby and approached the elevator just as the shiny metal door was in the process of closing. It took a fair bit of agility, but he successfully slapped an open hand against the slot just in the nick of time, which prompted the automated triggering mechanism to slide open the door...and, as luck would have it, who should happen to be standing inside the cabin of the elevator, staring back at him in disgust, but none other than Mr. Saeed Kahn.

After heedfully considering John Breslin's ill-conceived attempts at talking his way out of his murderous troubles for the past five hours, Kahn was probably the last person in the world that Newlan wanted to see at the moment, and he could almost feel the tyrannical concierge's beady black eyes burning a hole in him as the elevator made its way up to the sixth floor, seemingly in slow-motion as far as Newlan was concerned.

Neither of the men said so much as a word, and to be on the safe side, Newlan stared uncomfortably at his feet for good measures. But just before the elevator came to a stop, Newlan had a change of heart and he decided to break the silence in the form of a semi-apology.

"Look Saeed, I'm sorry I that I reported you to the police. It's just that I've been under a lot of stress lately, and what with 9/11, I panicked when I saw that truck parked outside of the garage so early on a Sunday morning," explained Newlan, but Kahn was unmoved by Newlan's apology. And furthermore he squinted his eyes in dubious doubt as he replied, "Mr. Frank, it may surprise you to know that in my country we don't blow up buildings which are occupied by civilians."

Newlan took Kahn's declaration under advisement, but as the rivals exited the elevator, they continued their solemn conversation out in the hallway, while at the same time Newlan had an enlightening revelation.

"That's a bunch of bullshit. Those people over there in that corner of the world are blowing each other up left-and-right, day in and day out," silently reflected Newlan, and then suddenly his enlightenment dissolved into something closer to distrust as he blurted out, "what do you mean 'we', so you admit that you were up to something?"

"I didn't say _that_ , Mr. Frank. Once again you misrepresent my words. Perhaps a language barrier exists between us," countered Kahn in accented, yet perfectly spoken, English.

"Oh I understand you just fine," assured Newlan, and even though he was seething inside, he did his best to remain calm on the outside. "I understand that I'm trying to apologize, and you insist on being hostile. But if you wanna hold a grudge, then the hell with you."

And although he too was bubbling with anger, Kahn was just as calm in his reply.

"Mr. Frank, as you may know, I am, as of recently, an American citizen, and as such, I feel that I am well within my permitted freedom and liberty to tell _you_ to go to hell, and perhaps one day I will personally send you off on your journey."

"I can't believe the gall of this bastard," grunted Newlan, and suddenly the pent-up frustration which had flooded into every inlet of his circulatory system, which had swept through every corner of his life, spilled over and erupted in a blaze of fury.

"Are you threatening me, you son of a bitch?" roared Newlan as the madman within his soul was unleashed. He was on the verge of coming to blows with his adversarial neighbor, and he cared not of the consequences. However, little did he know just how much danger he was in; little did he know just how much fire he was playing with; little did he know just how close he was to getting himself blown to hell right then and there.

Little did Newlan know it, but Saeed Kahn was fully locked and loaded, and what's more, his trigger finger was burning a hole in his pocket. But luckily, before anything tragic occurred, their elderly neighbor, Harold Burns, who just so happened to be a retired captain of the Medford Police Department, came storming out of his unit, threatening to sic the cops on the both of them if they did stop their foolishness.

Thankfully, with the aid of Captain Burns, cooler heads prevailed; but not before Kahn got in one last parting shot; a direct hit aimed squarely at Newlan's frayed nerves.

"Mr. Frank, in my country we are always on our guard...and I sincerely suggest that you do the same," warned Kahn, and just like that, Newlan seized up like an overheated engine.

Newlan cast a sideward glance in Burns' direction, in hopes that the ex-cop might have recognized what he clearly perceived to be a not-so-subtle threat. However, when Burns remained neutral, Newlan decided to let it go, but not before assuring Kahn that he fully intended to keep an eye on him as well.

Newlan fumbled for his keys while mumbling his pronouncement under his breath.

"I learned a valuable lesson here today. Nine times out of ten, my gut feelings are totally accurate, and that motherfucker's a terrorist if there ever was one."

Not to be outdone, Kahn menacingly stared Newlan down until he finally managed to unlock the door and make a hasty retreat behind the secured walls of his apartment.

Newlan was so riled-up that he could barely contain his anger, and he futilely struggled to release his aggression by jabbing at his leather sofa as if it were a punching bag.

The incident left Newlan's stomach tied in knots and it spoiled his appetite to boot. He hardly knew what to do with himself, and his ultimate solution was to pour a few shots of whiskey and lean his head back on the sofa in a desperate attempt to slow down his racing mind.

Newlan squeezed his burning eyes shut, and as he sipped down the fiery liquid, the enormity of the last few weeks began to sink in again, and in so doing, it reduced him to a blubbering mess of a man.

Newlan fought back tears as he reflected on his fading life. If nothing else, the trials and tribulations of Fred Miller had put him in touch with his own mortality; how quickly the years seemed to be flying by; how it could all end so fast, figuratively in the snap of a finger, literally in the flash of a muzzled shotgun; so many lazy days which could have been spent in the arms of Marianne Plante; so much life to be reclaimed; so many years already lost.

But thankfully for Newlan, at times like this, when his yearning dreams seemed as if they would go forever unfulfilled, his trusty old guitar always came to the rescue; thankfully for Newlan, at times like this, his rusty old guitar always came to his aid; thankfully for Newlan, at times like this, his battered old guitar never seemed to fail him; for it was precisely at times like this, when all hope appeared to have forsaken him, that he could pick up his beat-up old six-string and get lost in his own little world, singing to his heart's content, strumming and picking until the hurt went away.

Newlan dabbed at the corner of his eyes with a tear-stained piece of tissue paper, while at the same time he pulled the dusty old guitar from its stand, which he conveniently kept next to the sofa because, as he sagely put it, "you never know when a sudden burst of inspiration might hit me."

John Breslin's assertion that life was too short for hatred had been lingering in Newlan's head all day, and now as he strummed a simple A-Em-D-A chord progression, he sang the following words softly to himself:

LIFE'S TOO SHORT (words and music by Frank Newlan)

Gazing at the lights of the city

Drifting into fantasy

Buildings scrape against the sky

Aint it time for you and I...

To put the past behind us

Break those chains that bind us

We can't go back to where we were

But we can start all over again

So hold the fort

Because I can't go on without you

Life's too short

Give me one more chance to say how much I love you

The tears we cried

It's water under the bridge

I'm still by your side

So come in off that ledge

We both were wrong

And no one wins that fight

If life's a song

Then it's time we got it right

So call in the cavalry

' _Cause my heart's about to break_

Send in reinforcements

To help me kill this ache

... _and hold the fort_

Because I can't go on without you

Life's too short

Give me one more chance to say how much I love you

The shield you wear

Never lets in the sun

You've had it tough

But you're not the only one

Let down your guard

And let me see you smile

Climb on my back

And we'll walk that final mile

So hold the fort

Because I can't go on without you

Life's too short

Give me one more chance to say how much I love you

Gazing at the lights of the city

Drifting into fantasy

Buildings scrape against the sky

Making me so high...

Newlan banged on that old guitar of his until the steel strings cut into his fingers and his arthritic hands were too sore to play anymore, at which point he laid her body down for a little while...and when he was sufficiently refreshed, he picked her back up again and played some more; and before he knew what hit him, the grandfather clock accentuating his dining room had struck midnight, which was his chiming, singsong cue to call it a night.

Not surprisingly, Newlan's sleep was troubled by the seemingly unshakable, unsolvable problems of his waking life, and as such, his dream world was filled with unimaginable horrors; a nightmare of Biblical proportions, even for Newlan's vivid imagination.

Newlan dreamed that he and his kindred spirit Fred Miller were dragged, naked and screaming, into a makeshift courtroom to stand trial before a masked tribunal armed with machine guns. Newlan dreamed that their hands and feet were bound and that they were forced to bow before a bloodstained altar as the masked men chanted their gibberish in some foreign tongue. After the chanting had subsided, the leader of the tribunal announced that the charge was adultery, and furthermore they were both deemed guilty; no trial needed; due process waived due to overwhelming evidence against the both of them.

And for their sins, Fred Miller and Frank Newlan were sentenced to the ultimate of capital punishments; condemned to death by means of extreme atrocity; execution by decapitation; immediately; without further delay; no appeals necessary; no clemency warranted.

The masked men seized the struggling Fred Miller and placed him onto an ornate chair as a scribe filmed the event for posterity. Miller's pleas for mercy were ignored as the foul-smelling leader slinked up from behind him and grabbed him by the head of his hair, exposing his fleshy neck. Miller gasped as the cold steel of a machete burned his neck, and then with one swift flick of the wrists, his severed head was lifted high up off the ground by the brutal killer.

The masked men chanted and danced and paraded the detached skull around the room with a maniacal glee which was almost inhuman in its nature. Newlan's eyes were practically bulging out of their sockets in revulsion as the masked men appeared to be performing a skit for his benefit.

Newlan was desperately trying to wake himself up from this most ghastly of nightmares when the masked men slowly removed their hoods and revealed themselves; yes, the unveiling of the masks revealed his judge, his jury and his executioners; yes, the unveiling of the masks revealed Mr. Saeed Kahn and Mr. John Breslin; yes, the unveiling of the masks revealed the image he purported to be that of Sammy the Fox, or perhaps it was Tom Willis; and finally the unveiling of the masks revealed the elliptically-shaped head of that sullen man of mystery; that ghostly wraith of a man who had been haunting his dreams almost since the day he was born.

There they all were, every one of Newlan's enemies, real and imagined, standing triumphantly before him, hysterically chanting some form of voodoo as they took turns clutching Fred Miller's cranial remains and dangling the bony cartilage over a smoke-filled urn until the skull demonically came to life; and in the process, Fred Miller's reawakened corpse proclaimed the words that sealed Newlan's fate.

After the ceremony had been acted out to his satisfaction, Saeed Kahn pressed Fred Miller's severed skull up close against Newlan's face; so close that he could smell the blood on Miller's breath; so close that he could feel the spittle of Miller's bloody saliva moistening his face; so close that he could see the terror in Miller's bloodshot eyes; so close that, from now 'til eternity, he would forever hear Miller's bloodthirsty words of gloom and doom, loud and clear, as they blasted through his ears; "YOU'RE NEXT NEWLAN."

Chapter 92 – Reason for Hope?

Saturday morning June 21, 2008 – 8:00 AM

Sammy the Fox was no better than a rabid raccoon as he climbed the walls of his cell, ready to pounce on the first unfortunate creature that happened to cross his path and exhibit the least sign of weakness. Fox had heard through the grapevine that the dastardly DA's office had somehow managed to persuade his own daughter to turn government's witness against him, and on top of that, he was also well aware of John Breslin's attempts to dump the murder of Fred Miller squarely on his lap...and he wasn't at all pleased about either situation.

Fox's cellmate, a recovering drug addict, was sprawled out on the lower bunk perusing the morning newspaper, which prominently featured the trials of the three horrible husbands, when he made the near fatal mistake of inadvertently taunting the hardened war veteran.

"Hey Sammy, it looks like this dude Breslin is selling you down the river," drawled the detoxing junkie, and that was all Fox needed to hear. The poor cokehead never knew what hit him. Fox wrapped his meaty hands around the strung-out crack dealer's neck and choked him for all he was worth.

"Shut the fuck up you motherfucker. I don't need no comments from the peanut gallery. I know what Breslin's up to and I'm gonna kill him. You understand me? I'm gonna kill him. I'm...gonna...fuckin'...kill...him."

With one swift motion, Fox lifted his roommate off the bunk and flung him to the ground where he collapsed in a heap, gasping for air. Fox towered over his fallen tormenter, like a marauding beast going in for the kill, but luckily for the dazed druggie, a prison guard fortuitously came to his rescue before the angry hunter could lay claim to another man's life.

"Come on Sammy, let's go, you're attorney's waiting for you in the conference room," announced the guard as he led Fox into the closet-sized meeting area which held his court-appointed attorney, Gene McCarthy.

McCarthy, who had been dealing with his own set of health issues these days, was feeling rather sickly at the moment, and Fox's reaction to his arrival wasn't helping his condition one iota.

Fox's face was crimson with rage and although he didn't physically attack McCarthy as he had done to his annoying cellmate, he verbally assaulted him with just as much, if not more, vigor.

"What the hell did those motherfuckers do to my daughter? You don't believe that shit, do you? Do you really think I'm gonna be drivin' around town with a fuckin' gun in the back seat of my car, while I have my teenage daughter with me no less? It's a bunch of bullshit. And if you dare to tell me that we're gonna let them pull this shit at my trial, then I'll claw your fuckin' eyes out right now, you understand me?" roared Fox as McCarthy hunched up his shoulders in a cowering sign of surrender.

McCarthy was as white as a ghost after Fox's latest lambasting, and although he was scared to death of his client, the funny thing was that he was actually beginning to believe him.

"Now calm down Sammy. The truth is, as soon as I heard the news, I thought the same thing. Why would _anybody_ ride around with a gun in the back seat of their car, in plain view, where anyone could see it? Especially when you take into account that you were already on parole for gun charges, it made no sense to me from the get go," assured McCarthy.

"Well then what the hell are we gonna do about it?" bellowed Fox as spit flew from his mouth in every direction. And in response, McCarthy calmly wiped the misty saliva off his glasses as he mapped out his client's strategy.

"First of all, when we get to trial, I will make every attempt to suppress your daughter's testimony, and if that fails, I will ask that we have her called to the witness stand. I have to warn you right here and now that it could be a very sticky situation for you to have to witness, but there's just no way that we're going to allow her testimony to go unchallenged by way of a stipulation," explained McCarthy.

"They're putting my own daughter against me...my own flesh and blood. What am I gonna do, Gene? What the fuck am I gonna do?" pleaded Fox; and with that tortured appeal, he proceeded to breakdown and cry like a baby.

In the two years that McCarthy had been representing the tough-as-nails Fox, this was the first time he had ever seen him reduced to tears. Bearing witness to his client in such a sorry state of emotional turmoil seemed almost unnatural to McCarthy, and yet it also helped him to realize that under his gruff exterior, the legendary Sammy the Fox was human after all.

"We're going to fight it, that's what we're going to do," answered McCarthy with an air of confidence in his voice.

"And what about Breslin, what kind of crap is he trying to pull? I never did half the shit he's accusing me of," moaned Fox in between sniffles.

"Well Sammy...when people are desperate, you just never know what they'll resort to," sighed McCarthy who was suddenly reminded of the reason he was paying Fox this visit in the first place.

"Sammy, what I really want to discuss with you is the possibility of another continuance. Ideally, I'd like to delay your trial for another six months or maybe even a year if I can get away with it. You see, the more time that passes between your trial and Breslin's trial, the better it is for us," reasoned McCarthy, but to the irrational Sammy the Fox, such talk was utter nonsense.

"Another year? For fuck's sake Gene, I'm going crazy in this place. I want my day in court as soon as possible," demanded Fox.

"Let me remind you Sammy that another year in jail is a lot less time than spending the rest of your life in a maximum security prison," retorted McCarthy, and that sobering dose of reality got Fox's attention like a bucket of cold water being poured over his head.

"Alright Geno, you're the boss, whatever you say," whined Fox.

"Sammy, I must also inform you that a few of your associates dropped by my office last night. It seems that they were able to obtain some inside information regarding the Breslin trial. Now I don't know how they managed to get a hold of such details, and I don't want to know. As a matter of fact, I find it rather disturbing. But nonetheless, their contact could very well prove to be quite helpful to our cause. Apparently they were made privy to the fact that one of the Breslin juror's is skeptical about some of the evidence, such as the inference that the red car parked at the scene of the murder was your vehicle. And this same juror is convinced that your knee surgery made it damn near impossible for you to commit the crime. And this same juror finds it implausible that you would attempt to contact Breslin's office immediately after the murder, if you were the person who pulled the trigger. And of course, these are all issues that we have discussed many times already as potential weak links in the government's case," confided McCarthy.

The tidings which McCarthy was rebroadcasting to him lifted Fox's spirits immensely, and for the first time in many moons, he actually allowed himself to believe that he just might beat this rap.

Fox was proud of his Northtown boys on the outside for doing whatever they could to assist his campaign, even if it meant recruiting the services of a good for nothing court officer like William "Billy" Brady. Of course there _was_ one minor detail which tempered Sammy the Fox's optimism, and it was an obvious detail at that.

"Well Geno, as helpful as this information is, there's just one tiny problem, and I see no way around it" muttered Fox.

"And what's that?" wondered McCarthy.

"That motherfucker isn't gonna be on our jury," growled Fox.

"This is true, but it always helps to see things from a different perspective...from the eyes of a juror, so to speak. And now that we are aware of these perceived weaknesses in the government's case, straight from the horse's mouth so to speak, we can use this juror's insights to help us fine-tune our case. And remember Sammy, there are bound to be other jurors out there who might doubt the validity of some of the evidence, just as this juror seems to be doing," contended McCarthy as he pointed out at the slit of a window in the conference room down towards the free world below them for emphasis.

...

And so as Sammy the Fox discussed the merits of his case in confidence with his court-appointed Defense Attorney Gene McCarthy, somewhere just a few miles to their north, the man who had given them reason for hope was simply trying to muster enough strength to wake up...and face another day.

### Chapter 93 – A Visit to the Cemetery (Whispers in the Wind)

Saturday morning June 21, 2008 – 8:45 AM

Just when the proverbial walls were once again caving in around the fringes of Frank Newlan's frightening fantasy world, just when the cold sting of a venomous metal blade was about to make contact with his throat, just when all hope seemed lost, he was somehow able to wriggle his way out of his latest unspeakable nightmare; he was somehow able to escape from his latest mind-infiltrating ordeal; he was somehow able to break free from his latest brain-hijacking seizure; this time with the assistance of yet another telephone ringing in his ear.

Aided by the jarring cacophony of sound, Newlan somehow managed to scream himself out of his semi-paralysis just as the sword of Saeed Kahn was about to come crashing down on his neck. But regardless of this saving grace, he was much too groggy to pick up the phone, so he just lie there sprawled-out and prone on his bed and let the call kick into his answering machine.

"Hi, this is Frank, I can't come to the phone right now but please leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible."

Newlan vigorously rubbed his eyes while the greeting played through, and sure enough, the gruesome sight of Fred Miller's decapitated head still lingered in his peripheral field of sightless vision, somewhere just behind the sockets of his optic nerves. The vivid, almost lifelike, image prompted him to contemplate the very real possibility that maybe, just maybe, he truly might be next; maybe, just maybe, someone upstairs was trying to tell him something; maybe, just maybe, like Fred Miller before him, he was destined to meet a violent fate; maybe, just maybe, his ultimate dissolution might indeed come courtesy of Saeed Kahn's trembling hands.

But as luck would have it, for better or for worse, the lush voice of Marianne Plante whispering into Newlan's answering machine snapped him out of his morning haze, and it allowed him to temporarily leave behind for another day the grisly notion that he was doomed to die an agonizing death at the feet of Saeed Kahn.

"Frankie, its Marianne, please, please call me back as soon as you can..." implored Plante, but Newlan picked up before she even finished her pleading message.

"Hello," mumbled a parched Newlan.

"Good morning Frankie. You sound like you're half asleep, and I'm so sorry if I woke you, but I _really_ need to talk to you," justified Plante.

"No problem. It's just that I haven't had my coffee yet, and you know that I'm like a grumpy old dog without my caffeine fix. So what's going on?" replied a dazed Newlan in a lighthearted tone.

"Oh Frankie, I feel like I'm falling apart. Tommy's still in jail. The girls are miserable. My parents are treating me like I'm ten years old, and I just don't know what to do with myself anymore," confessed Plante as she sobbed softly into the receiver.

For the most part, Newlan was overcome by a genuine sense of empathy for his old friend and lover, but a small part of him had all but determined that she had brought her problems on herself; a small part of him had decided that she was lost in a state of denial over her failed marriage; a small a part of him chose to believe that if she had stayed with him, they could have had a happy life together.

Newlan was beginning to wonder whether it was too late for them to ever have the type of enduring relationship he had always dreamed about, but he didn't dare reveal his reservations to Plante in her time of crisis; and although he did consider coming clean with a long overdue "I told you so", he went with a subtler rejoinder instead.

"You know that I'm always here for you Marianne, and I'm more than willing to help out in any way that I can, but I have to admit that I'm feeling kinda helpless right about now. I don't know quite how to put it into words, but I guess I just feel like there's not much I can do for you until you figure out what it is that _you_ really want," offered up Newlan after a moment's hesitation.

Perhaps Newlan was silent for a few seconds too long, or perhaps the tone of his voice betrayed his emotions, or perhaps his less than ringing endorsement triggered Plante's woman's intuition, but whatever the reason, she picked up on his doubting apprehensions.

"What's wrong Frankie? You sound so distant, so cold. Are you mad at me or something?" wondered Plante as her sobbing intensified.

"No, not all," assured Newlan. "It's just that I can't seem to get past the fact that you're a married woman. And after what I've been through lately, I guess I can't help but feel as if maybe we should slow things down a bit...and if we're meant to be together...then I'm sure it will all work out somehow."

"So what are you saying? Are you afraid of Tommy?" demanded Plante in a skeptical tone.

"Well yeah...I just said as much, didn't I? But truthfully, it's not so much that I'm afraid of him. I think it's got a lot more to do with the fact that maybe I might have a guilty conscience," admitted Newlan.

"Don't worry about him. The new domestic violence laws that got passed last year are really strict, so like I told you already, he could be in jail for quite a while," clarified Plante with a nervous chuckle.

"Well, have you talked to a divorce lawyer yet?" pried Newlan.

"No, but I was planning to soon," conceded Plante.

"Well then, what are you waiting for?" added Newlan in an aggressive manner.

"Frankie why are you being so cruel to me?" cried Plante as her tears intensified again.

"I am not being cruel. I just wanna do this the right way," insisted Newlan.

"I don't care about the right way anymore Frankie. I just wanna be with you. I need you to hold me so bad that it hurts," pleaded Plante as her sobs built up to an as of yet unreached crescendo.

"Don't misunderstand me Marianne, I love you, and I would love for us to be together, but for the time being, my gut is telling me that, in the long run, it would be best for us to keep our distance until you get your life straightened out," countered Newlan, and through her many tears, Plante reluctantly agreed.

"I guess your right Frankie...as always. Maybe I need to spend some quiet time alone so that I can find myself. But the problem is that I just don't know if I can make it on my own much longer."

"Trust me Marianne, everything's gonna be alright," bravely contended Newlan, even though, deep down inside his doubts nagged him like an irritating itch in the small of his back.

Plante didn't reply immediately, but after a series of deep breaths, she got up the nerve to go through with yet another vitally important announcement.

"Oh Frankie, I'm so sorry, but I haven't been totally honest with you. There's something else that I have to tell you...something important, something that may involve you. But you have to promise me that you won't get upset."

"I promise," agreed Newlan halfheartedly. He was expecting some sort of half-baked confession from Plante, testifying her undying love for him; testifying that she should would never let him go, ever again; testifying that she would make it her lifelong ambition to keep him happy; so you can imagine his surprise when she apprehensively declared, "Frankie...I think I'm pregnant."

As one might suspect, Newlan's reaction was that of stunned silence, and as one might equally suspect, Plante was an emotional train-wreck. But nevertheless, when Newlan finally managed to spit a few words out of his mouth, all he could think to say was, "so are you telling me that I'm the father?"

"I'm saying that I don't know who the father is. But I do know that we had sex seven days ago, and it's been even longer since Tommy and I were intimate, so long ago that I can barely remember. But anyway, I scheduled a doctor's appointment for Wednesday, so hopefully I'll know more after that," anxiously explained Plante.

"Couldn't you get one of those home pregnancy tests?" wondered an uneducated Newlan.

"Those things don't work, and besides, I already have two kids, so I kind of think I know what it feels like," gushed Plante.

"Well, based on your mood swings, I'd guess that you're pregnant," predicted Newlan in a joking manner, just before his somber side kicked in again. "But seriously Marianne, I need a few days to sleep on this. Just let me get through my jury duty, and then we'll sit down and figure out what to do."

"What the hell is wrong with you Frankie? This is serious. Don't you understand what I'm saying? This could change your life. What do you mean you need to sleep on it? You can't just keep running away from your problems," angrily contended Plante, oblivious to the fact that she was doing a fine job of avoiding her own thorny issues.

"I just need a few days to get my head together, and in the meantime, you can go get checked out by your doctor so we know for sure what we're dealing with here," rationalized Newlan.

"Are you listening to yourself Frankie? This isn't something you deal with like a toothache," replied Plante with a touch of outrage ringing in her voice.

"I'm sorry Marianne, poor choice of words on my part. It's just that I'm totally unprepared to deal...I mean, to cope with this right now. Just give me a few days and I promise I'll be there for you," insisted Newlan, but it was obvious that he and Plante weren't seeing eye-to-eye at the moment.

"Sure, leave me on my own. I thought you were different Frankie, but you're just like every other guy in my life who has ever let me down," wailed Plante, her mood swings fully in motion, just as Newlan had intimated.

"Now wait a minute Marianne. I never asked for this..." began Newlan, but before he could spit out another syllable, Plante cut him off and screamed her goodbye.

"Well then good for you. Who needs you anyway? I'll figure this out on my own," boldly declared Plante, and with that, she slammed down the phone in Newlan's face, leaving him staring at the receiver in a state of utter disbelief.

Newlan didn't quite know how to handle such a momentous, life-altering situation, so he went with the only solution that had ever worked in the past; he grabbed a CD from his music room and some weed from his stash, and he took to the road, embarking on drive to nowhere in an futile effort to clear his mind.

As Newlan foraged through his CD closet, he decided to begin at the letter "Z" and work his way backwards in search of the perfect selection. However, before he even made it to the letter "Y", "The Best of Warren Zevon" caught his eye.

With CD in hand, Newlan raced through the lobby and down to his beat-up old automobile. He was so distracted that he didn't even notice whether Saeed Kahn was at the front desk or not, and at the moment he didn't give a damn either way.

Newlan popped in the disc, pushed the random button and fired up a joint as he gunned the engine of his red Mercury and pointed its nose towards Main Street. And sure enough, after what he had endured for the past two and a half weeks, it was fitting that the first song to come blasting out of the speakers was the appropriately titled "Lawyers, Guns and Money."

Newlan could only shake his head and mutter, "man, you can't make this shit up," but that didn't stop him from pumping his fist in defiant glee as he shouted, "damned straight Warren, the crap sure as heck has hit the fuckin' fan."

The next tune, "Poor Poor Pitiful Me" was also appropriate for Newlan's current state of affairs and it left our poor protagonist feeling downright sorry for his own pitiful self. If he had been in some lonely bar with this song wailing from the juke box, he may have resorted to crying in his beer, but in the privacy of his car, he sang along in his off-key voice as he desperately attempted to make some sense out what was going on in his life; why wouldn't the world just let him be when all he ever really wanted was to be left alone?

For some reason, as Newlan tooled aimlessly about the perimeter of the Medford city limits, he became fixated on Fred Miller's untimely demise; he became fixated on how Fred Miller's hardscrabble, tormented life had been laid to waste; he became fixated on how Fred Miller's destitute, ravaged soul had fallen by the wayside.

Miller's philosophical tome of a letter addressed to Tracy Stone was now ingrained in Newlan's mind, and as he manically steered his car around a series of hidden bends, he found himself repeating the words of one particular sentence, over and over and over again.

"We all make choices in life...choices that we have to live with until the day we die...you've made your choices and I've made mine."

Of course, as the words came to life in Newlan's brain, it didn't take long before he made the connection, the very strong connection, to the choices that he and Marianne Plante had been making all these years, and continued to make right up to this very day.

Newlan's pensive mood was further heightened by Zevon's achingly beautiful ballad, "Accidently Like a Martyr", and he grimaced as the song's message about hardening your heart to deal with the pain of lost love delivered an unbearable twang of grief to the forefront of his swirling mind.

"Accidently like a martyr, that's me for sure," agreed Newlan, and suddenly he became acutely aware of his own quandary.

"What the hell did I just do?" murmured Newlan, and then he promptly went on to answer his own question; "I just turned away the only woman I ever loved."

The contradictory nature embedded in Newlan's logic, a hypothesis which stated that he loved Plante so deeply that he was compelled to let her go, left him sobbing uncontrollably; apparently the raw emotions being triggered by his unsettling predicament were just too strong to be contained.

Newlan suddenly found his red Mercury Mystique motoring itself toward the outskirts of town; towards the edge of darkness; towards the center of light; towards the Oak Grove Cemetery to be exact. At a desperate time such this, Newlan understood exactly where he needed to be; he needed to be by the side of the only woman he loved more than Marianne Plante; he needed to be near his dear mother.

Newlan parked on a quiet side street and he slowly strolled down a gorgeous, lilac-filled path which led to his parents' tombstone, and when he finally arrived at his destination, he solemnly knelt down by their grave and softly asked for guidance. Oh how he missed them both. Oh how he wished they were still alive. Oh how he prayed that they might somehow answer his plea for help.

Newlan's father was the strong, silent type who taught him never to show his emotions, while at the same time, in his weepy eyes, he considered his mother to be an angel who sacrificed her very life for him. And as such, when Newlan's father died, he kept his composure, just as daddy would have wanted him to do. But conversely, when his mother passed away, he was inconsolable; and now that he had arrived at this uncertain crossroad in his life, he missed her more than he could have ever imagined was humanly possible.

Just like John Breslin and every momma's boy before him, Newlan seemed to gain a burning inner strength simply from being physically close to his mother; a fire that even death couldn't extinguish.

Newlan closed his eyes tightly shut and then with all the existential force that he could muster, he attempted to channel his mother's spirit...and after an extended period of concentration which literally left him exhausted, he could have sworn that he caught wind of a voice whispering in the breeze, imploring him to "let her go...let her go."

Newlan eyes popped open at the first sound of the mysterious zephyr and he looked around in every direction. All was quiet and not a soul was in sight. Who or what could it have been, speaking out to him like a warm breath of summertime air? And just who was it exactly that he was being beguiled to let go? Was it his dear mother, may she rest in peace? Was the voice instructing him to save his love for the living? Or perhaps it was a sign from above, telling him that he must bid Marianne Plante a final farewell, once and for all, for his own sake, so that he might go on with his own life.

It had taken almost 50 years of life experience, but a valuable lesson learned was finally sinking into Newlan's thick skull; he was finally coming to grips with the painful laws of nature; he was finally adhering to the tenets of philosophers throughout the ages...he was finally learning how to let go. As hard as it may have been, he had finally reached the inevitable conclusion that the time had come to move on with his life.

And yet, as Newlan departed the cemetery, a distant memory, hidden somewhere deep within his heart, pulled him like a magnet towards the grave of his childhood friend, Karen McDermott, who had been killed in a car accident almost twenty years to the day.

In the past, whenever Newlan dropped by the cemetery to visit his parents, he always made a point of stopping by McDermott's tombstone as well, and even now, after all these years, he still grieved for her like she had just died yesterday; even now, when he had finally decided to let go of ancient antiquity forever, he still grieved for the days when they were just wide-eyed kids; he still grieved for the days when the world was their oyster; he still grieved for the days when they stumbled their way through life and love, never learning from their mistakes.

And now, in the present, standing by Karen McDermott's granite memorial, Newlan reflected back on how her death had taught him a gut-wrenching lesson or two regarding the loss of innocence; he reflected back on how his friends all thought that they were immortal, infallible, invincible; he reflected back on how he cried his eyes out on that fateful morning, twenty years in arrears, when his best friend Bruce Reardon called him up and in a sedate voice simply said, "Karen McDermott's dead."

As Newlan puttered away from the cemetery with the ominous Warren Zevon song "I'll Sleep When I'm Dead" fluttering in his ears, something profoundly sorrowful suddenly hit him, and it hit him hard; if he couldn't let Karen McDermott go, even after she had been dead for twenty years, then how the hell was he possibly ever going to let Marianne Plante go and never look back; how was he possibly ever going to leave the days of yore behind him; how was he possibly ever going to come to terms with the thought of moving forward without his one true love...for the rest of his waking hours...here on this wretched planet Earth?

Chapter 94 – Juror Number 8

Saturday afternoon June 21, 2008 – 1:32 PM

Renowned Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason was strapped into the mahogany desk at his cushy uptown Boston office, settled in for the long haul, and as he got down to the unenviable business of composing a closing statement for his client, John Breslin, he stopped for a moment, lost in deep thought.

Gleason stared unfocusedly at the blank piece of paper that was sitting on his desk, and as he wracked his brain for what seemed like hours, he was suddenly reminded of an old saying; "you can't make chicken salad out of chicken shit."

Gleason was well aware of the fact that the task at hand was daunting to say the least. A lesser attorney might have even found the assignment to be insurmountable, but not R. J. Gleason. No, old R. J. had never quit on a client before, and he wasn't about to start now.

However, Gleason wasn't foolish enough to believe that he could magically pull an acquittal out of his bag like rabbit from a hat; no, the most he could hope for was a hung jury. And it was with that intention in mind that he proceeded to craft his latest in a long line of concession speeches; a concession speech skillfully mixed with a pinch of subtle insinuation and enough biting innuendo with which to give a swayable juror or two some pause for concern.

Years of experience had taught Gleason that the majority of the jurors had already made up their minds to convict his client. But his plan was to focus on the few who might still be sympathetic to his cause, starting with the fellow with the long stringy hair who seemed to be quite captivated by the way he had grilled some of the more hostile witnesses until their blood boiled over like a well-done burger on a charbroiled flame.

Gleason's strategy was akin to a liberal democratic presidential candidate going after the blue States while conceding the big red southern States to his conservative republican opponent; and in his eyes, the man we know to be Frank Newlan was a blue State with a capital "B".

Gleason observed Newlan, judiciously taking notes, day in and day out, while most of his colleagues appeared to be bored or otherwise disinterested, and he was determined to figure out a way to use this particular juror's obsessive nature to his advantage.

Over the years, Gleason had picked the brains of many a brilliant psychiatrist, with the expressed goal of honing his juror selection skills, and something he learned long ago about the fine art of human behavioral analysis clearly told him that Newlan was an open-minded individual who wasn't afraid to wade against the flow of popular opinion.

It goes without saying that Gleason took his job quite seriously, and he knew full well that the single biggest factor left in determining Breslin's fate might very well be his oratory skills. But on the other hand, for the life of him, he couldn't come up with a cohesive storyline which might catch the attention of this lone fractious delegate, who, according to his Juror Questionnaire, had been "arrested for drinking in public 28 years ago but was found innocent."

Just last year Gleason has been named as one of the five best criminal defense attorneys in all of Massachusetts by Boston magazine, and he had also received the highest rating for ability and integrity by a nationally respected legal directory. In 2004 and 2005, he was selected by his peers as one of the top 100 lawyers in the entire State of Massachusetts; a State in which 42,000 attorneys are members of the Bar. And beyond all that, he was a contributing author to countless books, treatises, and various other publications, devoted solely to the defense of those who had been accused of criminal wrongdoing. But alas, none of those many honors meant a damned thing to him at the moment; none of those laurels were worth resting on right about now; none of those accolades were of any help to him whatsoever as he attempted to draft this all important closing statement.

The clock on the wall was slowly ticking away, and when 5 PM came and went without so much as a hint of progress, Gleason decided to call it a night. He figured that he'd hit the sack by 10 o'clock and get himself off to a fresh start first thing in the morning.

Gleason found that sometimes the best way to solve a puzzle was to straggle home early and sleep on it; and more often than not, the solution would pop into his head while he was lying on his firm, comfy mattress in the middle of the night, or perhaps while he was taking his morning shower. And yet on the long drive home, well before he ever crawled into bed, all he seemed to be able to fixate his mind on was one thing and one thing only; juror number 8.

Chapter 95 – Symbolic Coincidences or Psychic Revelations?

Saturday evening June 21, 2008 – 9:30 PM

Frank Newlan's spur of the moment visit to the Oak Grove Cemetery had the unintended effect of releasing the inherent wanderlust which had been woven into the texture of his genetic constitution ever since the day he was born, and as such he spent the remainder of the day on the move, drifting about like a vagabond in search of a place to lay his hat for the night; anything to keep him from moping around his condo, alone and depressed. For starters, he chowed down for lunch at his favorite diner, and from there he stopped by his sister Rose's house for an unannounced visit, and then he popped in on his best friend Bruce Reardon for a rambling, soul-searching, marijuana-laced powwow. And when that bit of rudderless sailing didn't kill his urge to roam, (or even the rest of afternoon for that matter) he decided to do some window shopping, obsessively meandering up and down the aisles of his local mall's many department stores until he had walked a country mile.

By the time Newlan finally made his way back home, darkness had crept in, and luckily for him, the nighttime concierge, Charlie, was on duty, so for a change he wouldn't be forced to deal with another Saeed Kahn close encounter of the worst kind.

But on the flipside of his luck meter, even after a full day of roving around from town to town, up and down the highway, like a minstrel in traveling show, Newlan still didn't know quite what to do with himself, and as a result he was climbing the walls of his condo like a wrestler in a steel cage death match, partly out of boredom and partly out of an all-encompassing sense of despair which just wouldn't let him be.

Newlan was inclined to put himself straight to bed, but what with all of the crazy dreams he had been brewing up lately, he wisely decided against it. And in his loneliness, he was even tempted to give Marianne Plante a call and go crawling to her on his hands and knees, begging for forgiveness; maybe even spend the night with her. But as much as he desperately desired to feel the warmth of Plante's body again, something told him that it was a bad idea; something told him the she was too hot to handle at the moment; something told him that it was a relationship whose apex had yet to come into focus.

Newlan even contemplated inviting his on-again, off-again girlfriend Janis Barry over to keep him company for a while. But alas, in the long run, he decided that perhaps he was better off alone for the time being; he decided that perhaps the only cure for what ailed him at the moment was to wallow in his solitude, uninterrupted for the course of the evening; he decided that perhaps he would be best served to make like a reclusive hermit for the rest of the weekend, or maybe even for the rest of his miserable life.

With nothing better to do, Newlan found himself sitting at his desk, aimlessly surfing the internet, just as he had done so many times before on dull lonely nights such as this. And with Marianne Plante latched onto his brain like a titanium manacle, he punched up Google and entered a search on the topic of pregnancy...and sure enough, he was instantly rewarded with a couple of very interesting factoids to say the least. First of all, the chances of a woman delivering a child in her mid to upper 40's were slim, and furthermore, it could even present a possible danger to the mother. Second of all, it was highly unlikely, although not totally impossible, for a woman to detect a pregnancy seven days after engaging in sexual intercourse.

Newlan dug up countless facts pertaining to ovulation, and periods, and menopause, and hot flashes, and hormone replacement therapy, until it reached the point where he was beginning to feel a bit squeamish. But in the end, he dutifully arrived upon the surefire conclusion that the odds of him impregnating Marianne Plante during their lustful reunion were about as low as the odds of John Breslin beating his murder rap.

Of course, on the other hand, Newlan realized full well that there was still the slimmest of chances he could be wrong. He realized full well that he could belong to that lucky one percent of all couples who have a miracle baby later in life. He realized full well that he might be dealing with a power that was beyond his control to manipulate. However, all in all, the more he thought about it, the more he convinced himself that Plante couldn't possibly be pregnant, at least not by him anyway.

"She always _was_ needy and clingy. I wonder if she made up this story on purpose, just to make sure she has me wrapped up tight," contemplated Newlan, and as he mulled the situation over, he came to his final sequitur; "Son of a bitch, I think I've been Punk'd!"

And yet, despite his wavering self-assurances, Newlan still spent the night brooding endlessly over the possibility that he was about to become a father. Was he too old to raise a child? Did he still have the energy to endure all those middle of the night crying and feeding sessions, not to mention the diaper changes? Could he find it in his heart to take on the role of surrogate parent to Plante's daughters? Could he handle the concept of an instant family? Could he deal with the trauma of his life being turned upside down?

Newlan didn't have answers to any these weighty questions, not even the slightest clue, and so to prevent himself from losing his mind, he turned his attention to the other giant thorn in his side; namely the John Breslin murder trial. Granted, his choice of topics proved to be a very poor excuse for a defense mechanism, but he just couldn't resist the temptation to Google up the names of the lovable cast of characters who he had come to know so well over the past few weeks, and as he suspected, the powerful search engine returned more information than he could possibly digest in one sitting.

Newlan randomly clicked open a handful of articles pertaining to the case, but none of the condensed reports could come close to matching the information that he had stored in his own file cabinet of a brain; a cranial cavity which had become a vault where every second of the trial had been captured in digital freeze-frame, never to be forgotten.

The archived news stories _did_ however include a section which was unique to the internet; a section which Newlan found quite fascinating; that section of course being the reader commentaries which are tacked on to the bottom of just about every news-related website these days; commentaries both for and against Breslin.

Newlan never quite understood the fascination that so many people have when it came to expressing their viewpoints in these open forums. But conversely it was easy to see how one could become rather brave with their opinions when you consider the fact that the authors were wrapped behind the cloak of anonymity, without any fear of retribution. Nevertheless, he perused the incendiary commentaries with great interest; a sampling of which follows:

" _Breslin is a coward!!!!"_

" _Fred Miller certainly did love everybody...everybody else's wife that is. SCUMBAG!"_

" _Breslin deserves to stay behind bars for the rest of his life, along with his accomplice."_

" _I will never understand how Nancy O'Brien walks away from this as if nothing ever happened. All three of them should have been charged."  
_

" _What a parade of shady, twisted, selfish, and immature lowlifes...and EACH of them had a part in taking Fred's life."_

" _The motto of this story: thou shall not covet thy neighbor's wife or thou shall find yourself dead."_

" _Breslin should be sent straight to the electric chair...I say fry them all!!"_

" _What about Tracy?? They should lock her up too. She's the true cause of this mess. I know her type...WHORE!"_

" _Every woman is entitled to happiness. It's not Tracy's fault that her husband couldn't accept the fact that their marriage was over."_

" _I say if a woman is married, don't sleep with her...karma in action here!"_

" _Regardless of what Tracy and Fred did behind closed doors, he didn't deserve to be murdered this way."_

There were literally page upon page of similarly like-minded remarks, stashed away forever in the depths of cyberspace, but I suspect that by now you, the dear reader, gets the picture loud and clear, or at minimum, at least Frank Newlan got the idea; and what's more, some of the barbs were hitting a tad too close to home in the wake of his recent flirtations with the irresistible Marianne Plante.

Newlan had had just about enough of the rampant cynicism, and he had finally decided to shut down his computer and call it a night, when out of the corner of his eye he caught wind of a URL on the Google search results page entitled: www.fredmiller4ever.com.

"What's this?" wondered Newlan as his instinctively clicked on the link; and sure enough, he had stumbled upon Cam Miller's loving memorial to his deceased brother.

With the dam broken wide open, Newlan went on to devour every morsel of information he could find on the "shrine" masquerading as a website, from the printed eulogy, to the almost daily trial update blogs; and from there he skimmed through every one of the guestbook entries. And then, last but not least, he forged ahead to the photo album page where a colorful montage of Fred Miller's life, from his early childhood almost up to the day he died, awaited him.

Newlan admired the images of Fred's motorcycle for an extended period of time, and he closely studied the photo of the prison cell that Cam Miller predicted would soon be John Breslin's future home.

With the photographic negatives burning in his mind, Newlan reflected on Cam's outburst in court, and it all made sense to him now; it all seemed so inevitable, now that he had been made privy to Cam's inner-most thoughts and fears regarding the trial; so much so that he could almost feel Cam's anger bubbling up from the words in his blog entries.

On the plus side, Cam's love for his brother also came through loud and clear in his eloquent words. And furthermore, through words and images, Newlan clearly recognized that the Miller brothers possessed a passion for music; a passion that he very much shared with them. Not only that, but they seemed to favor many of the same bands, particularly their shared fanatical obsession of the Grateful Dead.

Cam's website proudly boasted of the fact that Fred had attended over 90 Grateful Dead concerts, all of which surely caught Newlan's undivided attention and then some.

"Wow, he's got me beat, that's for sure. But more importantly, this cements the fact that Fred and I definitely have a lot common. Man, you can't make this shit up," marveled Newlan as he recalled his dream episode on the bus ride to the Newton garage where Fred Miller met his maker; a dream which included Miller's wraith, partying hard at a Grateful Dead concert. And what spooked Newlan the most was the fact that this dreamy vision came to him before he ever had even the slightest inkling of who the hell Fred Miller was.

Newlan pulled up a series of photos depicting Fred Miller's concert ticket stubs, neatly arranged and itemized in just the same manner which he himself stored his own mementos. And when he came across an image of a grinning Cam and Fred during happier times, locked arm-in-arm, standing in the balcony of the old Boston Garden, moments before the start of a Dead concert, he was utterly astonished by how uncannily spooky their colliding worlds had become. However, he had no idea just how taken aback he was about to be.

"Well you know what they say, there's nothing like a Grateful Dead concert!" saluted Newlan as he scrutinized the picture's every detail.

Newlan drew himself towards his laptop in an attempt to examine the photo more closely, when all of a sudden a macabre apprehension overwhelmed him and practically took his breath away. All of a sudden, he grew weak at the knees, and if he hadn't already been sitting down, the digital representation lighting up his computer screen may have induced him to collapse on the spot; for staring back at him from the shadows of this random image, burned into the hard drive of some internet server thousands of miles away, was a sight that bordered on the unreal; for staring up at him from the background of this random bitmap, whose only connection to him was the unfortunate murder trial which had taken over his life, was an image which stretched the boundaries of implausibility to its limits.

All of a sudden, the room was spinning out of control and the color had completely gone out of Newlan's face, leaving his already pale cheeks as white as a bed sheet. It was as if he had just seen a ghost, and as it turned out, the exact nature of what he had observed in Cam Miller's faded photograph was phantasmal beyond anything his vivid imagination could have ever conjured up.

Exactly what Frank Newlan discerned in the background of the Miller brother's Grateful Dead concert experience photograph was none other than himself, standing alongside his friend Bruce Reardon and the now deceased Karen McDermott.

Newlan was startled beyond belief. "How can this be?" he gasped. Not knowing what to make of the situation, he pasted a link of the image into an email and sent it off to Reardon, and as soon as he hit the "Send" button, he headed straight for the phone and dialed up his old pal.

Reardon was half asleep and totally disoriented (not to mention annoyed) by the pushiness and panic in Newlan's voice.

"Bruce, log on to your computer right now, please," pleaded Newlan.

"What's this all about Frankie? I was just getting ready to crash. Can't it wait until the morning?" griped Reardon.

"No, now, please. It's urgent dude. I swear, I'm losing my fuckin' mind," cursed Newlan.

"Alright already, calm down Frankie. Jeez...and don't worry, you lost your fuckin' mind a long time ago," joked Reardon only to be chastised by the now irritable Newlan.

It took a few minutes of fumbling around at his computer, but Reardon finally managed to open up his email inbox and punch up the image. After a brief inspection, he had to admit that the photo was definitely eerie. But regardless, he wasn't buying into all of the otherworldly connotations that Newlan was spewing out at him nonstop.

"Don't you understand what this means, dude?" implored Newlan.

"No, what does it mean?" replied Reardon as he yawned in disinterest.

Of course, Reardon's indifference lasted only as long as it took for him to ascertain the terrified tone of Newlan's stammered response, at which point he was frozen on the spot along with his best friend; frozen in a shared terror which words alone could never do justice to.

"It's symbolic," explained Newlan in a possessed tone. "It's like the Ace of Spades. It means that something bad is gonna happen. It means, it means, it means...it means that I'm a dead man."

Chapter 96 – The Master's Edict

Sunday morning June 22, 2008 – 9:30 AM

Saeed Kahn's prone torso leaned forward on the floor of the master's office, and as he anxiously awaited the commencement of what he expected was going to be a rather severe tongue-lashing, his entire body trembled with dreaded fright. Kahn had been made keenly aware of the fact that he had fallen into disfavor with his clergy, and he had hoped to make an unnoticed departure immediately upon completion of their Sunday services, but alas, the master caught sight of him just as he was headed for the exits.

Without a moment's hesitation, the master proceeded to escort Kahn back into his chamber for a hastily arranged private consultation regarding his student's reckless actions of late, and 30 minutes later, here they both sat, motionless and lost in thought.

As the scent of incense wafted across the room, it appeared to the naked eye that the meditative guru was totally unaware of Kahn's presence. It was as if the master's holy vessel was sailing through space and time, oblivious of his surrounding; and if the truth be told, the master truly _was_ skirting along some sort of astral plane, merely present in physical form alone. And yet, regardless of outward appearances, the sage tutor's unintended cold-shoulder treatment had a chilling effect on his erstwhile protégé nonetheless.

Yes, as difficult as it is to comprehend, the master's spirit had indeed temporarily abandoned his Earthly vessel for parts unknown, guided only by the power of prayer, leaving Kahn alone to contemplate what it was exactly that he had done this time to incur the cerebral governor's wrath; although, he was reasonably sure that the matter once again revolved entirely around his bothersome neighbor, Mr. Frank Newlan.

Just before the master descended back into human form, he hovered over Kahn, searching his soul for a shred of sanctity. But unfortunately for Kahn, the master found very little purity in his heart. However, he did manage to uncover one redeeming quality in his wayward student, and it was a holy quality at that; a willingness to die for the cause. And furthermore, it was a quality that would surely be exploited at a time of their supreme leader's well-planned choosing. But for the time being, the master's formidable challenge was to reign in his rebellious follower; for now that his stellar sojourn had been realized, he knew exactly what Kahn's indiscretions were and the dangers that they posed to their organization.

And with the recognition of Kahn's weaknesses revealed, the master's faraway eyes slowly came to life as he began to speak in his typical measured tone.

"So my prince, tell me about this acquaintance of yours who torments you so," chanted the master as Kahn stiffened while a crippling fear invaded his heart. He was startled by the master's sudden return to form, and on top of that, he felt violated by his captain's skillful invasion into his hidden thoughts.

"Oh wise leader, as always, you perceive what troubles my soul," exalted Kahn; although deep inside, he nervously wondered just how it was that the master was able to read him like a book.

"My son, you have not followed my clearly communicated instructions that you should do everything in your power to regain this heathen's trust, have you?" scolded the master, and his gaze practically burned a hole right through Kahn's forehead.

For a split second, Kahn contemplated telling an untruth, but he could almost feel the master's fingers prying into his mind like a computer program searching through a hard drive for a confidential credit card number.

"I have tried, believe me dear master, oh how I've tried...but he tests my patience, this dog of a man. He irritates my soul with actions which in our world would surely be punishable by death. Time after time, he provokes me...and sadly I must confess, oh wise master, that I am weak," conceded Kahn.

"And what form of weakness is it that you speak of, my scholar?" prodded the master, even though he was already well aware of the answer.

"My weakness is my fervor, dear master. For instead of regaining his trust, it is I who seeks vengeance. It is I who seeks to destroy this evil before it gains strength. It is I who seeks to take the matter into my own hands," testified Kahn.

The master sighed deeply, and he took his soldier's shortcomings into account, but nothing could quell the fury from rising up through his powerful persona. The master stood up from his throne, and as his towering form cast a shadow over the prostrate Kahn, he chided, "YOU SEEK TO BE A FOOL."

The master's anger sent Kahn scurrying to his knees in a futile attempt to appease his magisterial superior. Kahn bowed down and repeatedly kissed the master's feet as his cowering frame shook with reverence, and he didn't dare to utter even a single word.

"The time will come when this foul-smelling roach of a man is stamped-out like a cigarette on the heel of a shoe," predicted the master as Kahn whimpered in awe.

The master talon-like hands clawed at Kahn's ceremonial robe and lifted him so that their eyes met as he spoke.

"But in the meantime, you will do the bidding of our order, IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?" mandated the master.

"Yes, yes my humble philosopher, I seek only to do the work of the Almighty," obediently replied Kahn. And with his work done, the master pointed his student towards the door as he ordered his exit.

"Very well then, off you go," commanded the master, and for a fraction of a second he was quite pleased with the results of his assertive labor. But then again, as Saeed Kahn turned to depart the holy chamber, the master locked in on a final thought which was escaping from the crown of his confederate's mind like steam rising up on a desert highway; a thought which indicated that he had not completely reigned in his soldier's willpower, a thought which indicated that he had not completely broken his stallion's spirit; a thought which appeared to be more of a foreboding than an accomplishment; a thought which emphatically forewarned of his intentions; a thought which clearly stated, "Mr. Frank's a dead man."

Chapter 97 – Not Dead Yet

Sunday morning June 22, 2008 – 9:45 AM

After spending the whole of his Saturday chasing down shadowy things that go bump in the night, Newlan awoke Sunday morning trapped in the throes of a major funk. However, he was hell-bent on doing something about it for a change, and so by the time he retrieved the Sunday newspaper and had his caffeine fix, he was almost fully recovered from the reoccurring dream that had gnawed on his brain all night long, like a wolverine caught in a trap, chewing off its own leg. But nevertheless, despite his best efforts, the remnants of his eerie visions were still playing games with his mind, well past the usual cease-and-desist point of his day.

Newlan couldn't recall the exact nature of his nightmare, other than the fact that the mysterious remnants of the man with the football-shaped head who had been haunting his dreams, off and on, since as far back as he could remember, was following his every move, like a ghostly apparition, while the words "you're next Newlan" echoed from the heavens, But regardless of his memory lapse, one thing was clear, one thing was certain; one thing was beyond debate; he rose from his bed covered in sweat, with his heart pounding out of his chest...and the icy blood pumping through his veins hadn't slowed down much, if at all, since then.

And piled on top of his debilitating, brain-chilling nightmare, Newlan was still reeling from the "Fred Miller at a Grateful Dead concert" photo which he discovered on the internet website maintained by Fred's brother Cam; a photo that featured none other than himself and his friends frolicking in their seats a few rows behind the Miller brothers. The fact that the image was grainy and the background was blurry didn't dissuade Newlan in the least; and although by all accounts it actually was his face in the photo, in the end, whether it was him or not was of little importance, for he believed it to be so, and in his obstinate mind that's all that really mattered.

"What are the odds of us being captured in that snapshot?" muttered Newlan as he paced around his condo and contemplated the algebraic calculation in his head.

"Sure we went to our share of Dead concerts, and so did Fred Miller, but for someone take his picture, with us standing in the background, and then to have it show up in the internet 20 years later while I'm a juror on the trial of one of his alleged murderers...what are the fuckin' odds?" repeated Newlan half out loud to himself.

"I guess they're about the same odds as Marianne Plante being pregnant with my love child, so maybe I am gonna be a father after all. Who the hell knows?" groused Newlan in a defeatist tone. Although, the truth was that he still couldn't begin to fathom the upheaval his life would be facing if it turned out that Plante really was pregnant with his roving seed. The fact that she was currently married to a violently jealous husband, and the fact the he was pretty much set in his ways by this stage of his life, left him torn with guilt and indecision over whether he should be rooting for a pregnancy, or whether he'd be happier to find out that it was all just a bad dream.

Newlan managed to calm down his nerves a tad by reminding himself that, for the time being, there was nothing much he could do about his predicament but wait it out.

"First things first, let's get through this trial," whispered Newlan in a pep-talk to himself as he switched on the stereo to the Sunday Morning Blues program and sat down to his newspaper.

Right off the bat, the Muddy Waters song "Champagne and Reefer" came crackling out of Newlan's surround-sound speakers, which gave him the bright idea that maybe a good stiff drink might hit the spot; and although he was pretty sure that he didn't have any champagne on hand, he checked his wine rack anyway.

"Oh well, desperate times call for desperate measures," announced Newlan to himself as he examined his tired, bloodshot eyes in the oversized dining room mirror.

Newlan filled up an extra large tumbler with ice cubes and then poured in as much vodka as the glass could hold, along with a splash of orange juice for color. He then took a sip to determine whether the concoction was mixed to his liking, and obviously, the drink was more than strong enough. But it was all for the better as far as he was concerned.

"Ah, what more could you want? The Sunday newspaper, some goodtime blues music, a refreshing cocktail...and a few hits off of a joint for good measure?" rhetorically wondered Newlan, while at the same time the commencement of his Sunday morning ritual wistfully reminded him of how desperate he was to get back to his regular routine.

Now that the trial and the Plante situation were both coming to a head, albeit rather painfully, Newlan was hoping that maybe someday soon he might finally get some semblance of normalcy back into his life. Of course, he realized full well that he still had a few gruelingly uncertain days ahead of him before he could even begin to think about relaxing his weary soul.

"You know what they say, it's always darkest just before the dawn," whispered Newlan as he took a healthy swig from the vodka and OJ cocktail and simultaneously opened up the newspaper to page one. He was fully expecting the usual depressing news of the day, but what he wasn't expecting to find splattered across the front page was a full length feature devoted to the "three horrible hubbys" as each of their trials came barreling down the homestretch.

"Damn it, I can't get away from this crap, not even for a fuckin' minute," cursed Newlan, but of course he perused the article anyway. At this point in the proceedings, he was drawn to any and all information related to the trial like a moth to a flame, and a half-page photo of John Breslin constrained by handcuffs juxtaposed next to a smiling Fred Miller caught his attention big-time. Miller's eyes looked so alive that it spooked him to his core, and it got him to thinking how, in an alternate universe, he could have seen himself becoming friends with both Fred Miller _and_ John Breslin.

Newlan's musings also got him to thinking about his own real-life buddies and how they were true friends forever, so naturally it didn't take long before the sentimental old fool hidden in his heart began getting misty-eyed, and he scolded himself for his weakness.

"I better stop this crap before I make a blubbering fool of myself," mumbled Newlan. But regardless of his faltering emotions, he couldn't help but to hark back on his rock & roll nights, what with the blues moaning in the background and the vodka coursing through his bloodstream and soaking into his brain (not to mention his liver) like an absorbent sponge.

Newlan's watery memory reminisced precisely back to the day that the late, great Muddy Waters passed on to the other side; the last day of April 1983 to be exact. He had discovered the blues at a young age, and as far as he was concerned Muddy Waters was the greatest of them all. As it turned out, Newlan and the boys were scheduled to play a gig at Dino's Bar and Grill on the very night that Muddy died, and so he convinced his band-mates that they should do a set in the fallen blues-man's honor. Most of their songs were blues-based anyway, so the variation to their set list wasn't much of a stretch, and they ended the night with an extended version of the blue classic "The Same Thing" which featured a scorching, bent-note solo by Newlan who was boogying his ass off in tribute to his departed hero.

Newlan sparked up a joint and as he looked back yearningly on those fanciful times, he cited the words to "The Same Thing" as being timelessly relevant; and furthermore, in his mind, the pointed lyrics were a fitting frame of reference to his unreal present state of affairs. The song told the age-old story of jealously, of angry possessive men invariably going to battle over a sensual damsel in distress, and as the tune bounced around in his head, the plight of one Mr. John Breslin most certainly came to his mind.

"Since the beginning of time, in species both big and small, the dominant male has had to fight off challenger after hulking challenger just to keep the prized female in his possession a little bit longer. It's survival of the fittest to say the least. As a matter of fact, every war that's ever been fought could probably be traced back to the same thing, namely a dispute over a woman," Newlan rhapsodized as the history buff in him rose to the surface.

Newlan drained down his biting vodka drink in record time, and just like that, suddenly he felt totally worn out. To remedy the situation, he decided to rest his eyes for a few minutes, but before he knew it, he was out like a light; knocked out cold; dead to the world.

Of course, although Newlan's body may have been dead to the world, his mind was still working overtime; his mind was still playing its usual tricks on him; his mind had placed him at a Grateful Dead concert in the company of his new best friends, none other than Fred Miller and John Breslin.

But oddly enough, as the Dead counted off one of their many brooding tunes, Newlan and his pals suddenly found their bodies transported onto the stage, each of them strapped to their very own curvaceous electric guitar, hunkered down in a semi-circle around an overhead microphone.

At the count of four, the drums laid down a slower-than-slow beat, and just like that, the boys were capably stepping in for the Dead; just like that, they were gunslingers of another kind; just like that, they were enthusiastically belting out a tune for a packed house of worshipping deadheads.

Newlan peeked over at his band-mates, looking for a cue, but when none was forthcoming, he decided to go for a solo himself.

Newlan was thoroughly enjoying one of his dreams for a change, and being the former musician that he was, he competently jumped back into the rhythm of the song at the conclusion of his noodling lead guitar improvisations.

By now Newlan and Fred Miller were playing and singing their hearts out while at the same time a sedate John Breslin watched on curiously from the backdrop of the stage. And when he finally decided to step up to the microphone, he was no longer smiling; on the contrary, he was wearing a look to kill and he took a few liberties with what to him sounded like a strangely familiar song as in his squeaky clean voice he warbled out a line about shooting down his rivals with a shotgun blast.

God only knows where in the dark recesses of Newlan's brain his vivid imagination came from, but in any event, just as Breslin uttered the word "shotgun", his guitar suddenly transformed itself into a rifle; a shotgun which was pointed directly at Fred Miller; a rifle which exploded and blew the living daylights out of the wife-stealing son of a bitch; a shotgun which then turned into a cannon as it angled itself towards Newlan.

With his fun-loving dream turned upside down into a nightmare, Newlan's faculties tingled with a heightened sense of alarm, and as such, he clearly saw the lit fuse of the cannon taunting him like a hissing stick of dynamite; he clearly beheld the cigarette lighter affixed to Breslin's trembling hand; he clearly discerned Breslin's voice singing out the now familiar refrain, "you're next Newlan"; and last but not least, he clearly felt the cannonball make contact with his body and launch him into the middle of next week where he toppled helplessly to the Earth with a sickening thud; except this time there would be no phone calls to break his landing; except this time there would be no ringing alarm clocks to shock him out of his trance; except this time there would be no one by his side...to break his fall.

Of course as we might suspect, despite the bone-crunching, crash-landed ending of his nightmare, Newlan wasn't dead yet; dying perhaps, yes...but no, not quite dead...not quite yet anyway.

Chapter 98 – Juror Number 8 (An Alternate Take)

Sunday morning June 22, 2008 – 11:30 AM

Although renowned Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason may have had a sleepless night as he wrestled with the construction of his closing statement, DA Elaina Lyons was having no such problems.

Lyons had already crammed more activities into her early morning hours than most people do in an entire day. She had already attended church services, jogged a few miles, read the Sunday paper, cooked herself a hearty breakfast, and got caught up on various administrative duties, and now at last she was in the proper frame of mind to sit down at her desk and tidy up the final draft of the closing arguments in the case which pitted her and the Commonwealth of Massachusetts vs. Mr. John Breslin.

"Just lay out the facts," was Lyons' motto, even though, over the years, she had been known to occasionally embellish those said facts with the best of them. Breslin's decision to testify had come as a shock to Lyons, just like it did to everyone in the courtroom, just like it did to anyone who had even a speck of interest in the case. And opportunely enough for her, the defendant's ill-considered decision was the very break she needed to seal his fate like an airtight drum, devoid of any possible weak-spots, defects, or slow leaks.

Lyons planned to use Breslin's own words against him, much like a tape-recorded confession. She planned to twist Breslin's story into a distorted knot and use his very words to her advantage; and regrettably for Breslin, she possessed the very capable wherewithal to make it all happen.

Unlike the opening statements, Lyons would have the last word this time around, and she carefully weighed out her options like a basketball coach drawing up a buzzer-beating play; for although things were looking good, she was well aware of the fact that she still had a few important decisions to make; a few sticky facts to skate around; a few inconsistent statements to sweep under the rug. But in the grand scheme of things, none of these unresolved determinations caused her very much consternation, because much like Gleason, she had decades of experience to hang her hat on as well.

To be more precise, Lyons still had to decide whether, and how much, to mention the other two key witnesses in the case; namely Tracy Stone and Nancy O'Brien. Surely Gleason would highlight their shaky performances, much to her dismay. But the more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that the best approach was to focus solely on the payload of incriminating information that the two women had provided, and simply not mention any of their inconsistencies, not a word. Of course, this strategy was subject to change, depending on the direction of Gleason's slings and arrows.

Through the course of her career, Lyons had seen it all, so she was astute and experienced enough to come to the table well prepared for anything that the defense might hurl her way; she had prosecuted violent armed robbers, perverted child abusers and cold-blooded murderers, and she treated each and every one of them with the same all-consuming distain...and you could bank on the fact that John Breslin's treatment would be no different.

One delusional defendant even had the audacity to sue Lyons for disseminating information which he claimed should not have been made public under the Criminal Offender Records Information Act, when all she did was mention his prior convictions in open court. She couldn't help it that a contingent of reporters just so happened to be present at the hearing and decided to print the derogatory information. Naturally, the suit had no merits and was quickly dismissed out of hand by the first no-nonsense judge that heard the case.

Lyons was so well respected by her peers that she had won more than her fair share of honors, including the Massachusetts Bar Association award for Prosecutor of the Year in 2005; an annual award given to a State or Federal prosecutor whose commitment to justice is particularly praiseworthy. All of which spelled bad news for John Breslin.

But despite her furor for justice, Lyons was also realistic enough to know that her office had an obligation to prove their cases beyond a reasonable doubt, and on a rare occasion she was known to decline to prosecute a case if the evidence was particularly weak.

As a matter of fact, when Lyons initially reviewed the documents in the Breslin case, she was somewhat skeptical as to whether there was enough evidence to convict; strictly circumstantial evidence to boot. And although she was troubled by the lack of physical evidence, over time she became convinced that the events had unfolded just as the lead investigator in the case, Detective Donavan, had laid them out.

And now that the moment of truth was fast approaching, Lyons was dead-set on hammering the final nail into Breslin's coffin. She was extremely confident that her goal was within reach...but alas, there _was_ one blind spot in the rearview mirror which troubled her; and that was the matter of the lone juror who seemed to glare at her with contempt every time she looked his way; the lone juror who had worried her from Day One; the lone juror who could easily sabotage her plans for justice in a heartbeat, like a well placed monkey-wrench being inserted into a finely tuned machine.

Lyons was convinced that a majority of the jurors had already made the decision to convict Breslin. And even though a couple of jurors may have remained on the fence, she hoped in good faith that a healthy dose of peer pressure would motivate these stragglers to conform and come to a unanimous decision of guilty. However, as was the case in just about every trial she had ever prosecuted, there was always that one juror she wasn't so sure about.

Although Lyons won well over ninety percent of her cases, she was still known to be a sore loser...and she was also known to secretly investigate jurors who appeared to be derelict in their duties; jurors who didn't see things clearly, the way she did; jurors who held a soft spot in their hearts for ruthless criminals; liberal jurors who believed that the solution was always treatment, counseling and more treatment. "Just unlock the prison doors and let all the degenerates roam free" she was known to mockingly say.

In Lyons' opinion, jurors with such a cavalier attitude, jurors who didn't take their jobs as seriously as they should, undermined the entire system of justice, and if she had it her way, these imbeciles would be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. And with that corollary in mind, Lyons spent the rest of her morning and well into the afternoon fixated on the one perceived weakness in her case, the one perceived flaw in her master plan, the one perceived thorn in her side.

And as the minutes slowly ticked away and her Sunday afternoon lazily transformed into Monday morning, Lyons' confidence level gradually decreased by a sliver or two; gradually her swirling thought process presented her with one variation after another regarding the one unanswered question which was still left for her to grapple through; how exactly was she going to deal with the haunting spectre of...juror number 8?

Chapter 99 – Closing Arguments & Crosses to Bear

Monday morning June 23, 2008 – 7:30 AM

The remainder of Frank Newlan's lazy Sunday sojourn went by like a blur; napping, scouring the internet in an attempt to uncover as much information as he could find pertaining to the John Breslin murder case, smoking pot, drinking vodka and napping some more.

Newlan survived Breslin's nightmarish cannonball attack and his subsequent plummeting freefall through space and time by moaning himself awake; by rousing himself into consciousness; by willing himself alive. But just the same, the pain was so real that his entire body ached for hours afterwards, so much so that he was having trouble breathing...but life went on, and so did he.

And as if Newlan's never-ending, all-consuming nightmare episodes weren't bad enough, the lingering effects of the soon-to-be-concluded Breslin trial had left him feeling literally and figuratively disgusted with the state of the world, almost to the point where he was losing faith in the human race. But regardless of his despairing attitude, he was more determined than ever to see the case through to its ultimate and inevitable conclusion.

If Newlan had somehow known that his nonconformist attitude was on the minds of both renowned Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason and DA Lyons (not to mention the fact that at some point or another in recent days, his nemesis Saeed Kahn, as well as the vengeance-minded Tom Willis, Marianne Plante, Tracy Stone, Cam Miller, and even Sammy the Fox all had their wayward thoughts set on him), he may not have been able to summons up the strength to crawl out of bed on this pivotal day of reckoning for John Breslin.

But be that as it may, Newlan rose to the occasion like the trooper that he was, and now that he was wide awake he was anxious to get the show on the road. More than anything else, his pent-up zeal was due to the fact that he was thankful the trial was finally coming to a merciful end, and it showed in his skittish intensity level.

Newlan desperately tried to relax for close to an hour after breakfast, but when his every attempt failed, he propped himself up and as if by rote, he got on with the mundane, ritualistic routines which had come to define his life; the daily prerequisite tasks which he found necessary to complete before facing yet another tricky day out there in that cold, cruel world; out there in the midst of that great wide open; out there in the depths of that great abyss; out there in the swirling winds of that great unknown.

Among other things, Newlan made sure to roll a couple of joints for the ride to the courthouse. However, just as he was about to order up the elevator with a press of the Down button, he remembered what Billy had said about bringing along a book or two to keep themselves occupied in the event that they were selected as the alternate, so he made a quick u-turn and headed back to his extra bedroom, which also doubled as a well-organized storage area that housed his various forms of entertainment, books included.

Seeing as how the jury was down to only one alternate, Newlan wasn't holding out much hope of being the "chosen one", but in a blind-faith attempt at conjuring up some good karma, he searched for a book anyway. After a hasty review, he pulled out the first oversized hardcover volume that caught his eye on the top shelf of his bookcase; an anthology of the comedian George Carlin's collected works entitled "3 X Carlin". And while he was at it, he also decided to pick out an extra CD for the ride as well. Once again, he wasn't in any mood to scour his entire CD collection, so he stopped short at the letter "A" and picked out an Allman Brothers CD...and thus, with his literary and musical choices out of the way, he was ready to hit the road.

Saeed Kahn was busy checking in a visitor at the front desk, which allowed Newlan to slink past the churlish doorman unnoticed for a change. For some reason, the mere sight of Kahn prompted Newlan to resume his deep reflection into the depressing condition of this crazy, messed-up world in which we live; and furthermore, his brooding mind lingered on the chilling notion that the simple act of just stepping foot out of the safe and cozy confines of his condo was becoming more and more dangerous in these lunatic-fringed modern times.

"But we gotta live our lives...so what are you gonna do?" mumbled Newlan with a defeatist sigh as he pulled out of the condo parking lot.

Of course, no one else was present in Newlan's red Mercury Mystique as he talked the situation over with the man in the mirror; but that never stopped him before, and he seemed to be agreeing with Gregg Allman as the "Midnight Rider" within him vowed to never surrender to anybody or anything for as long as he lived.

By the time Newlan arrived at the courthouse, he was a bundle of nerves and he could sense the anxiety brewing in his fellow jurors as one by one made their way into the waiting room. And by the time they got upstairs to their 6th floor deliberation room, they were unanimously eager to get through the closing arguments so that they could finally begin their debate, and in the process, get on with their lives.

"Yeah but that's when the _real_ arguments are gonna break out," muttered Newlan, loud enough for everyone to hear. Fortunately for Newlan, his colleagues were so preoccupied with their own thoughts that no one seemed to pay him much mind, which was probably just as well for the sake of all involved.

Every one of the jurors had heeded Billy's words, and they each brought along enough reading material to practically fill a wing of the Boston Public Library, just in case they happened to be the lucky winner to draw the odd straw off the case. Newlan, in fact, had already buried his head in his book, the entertaining George Carlin anthology, and he was enjoying a few laughs for himself while they all waited impatiently to be hauled into the courtroom one more time. The book, which contained a wide assortment of crazy observations and musings, courtesy of the zany comic, was an ideal selection of reading material for the situation that Newlan found himself in; and sure enough, Carlin's endless rants about the sorry state of the world actually managed to coax a spontaneous smile onto Newlan's face, which was quite an accomplishment considering the nerve-wracking circumstances that he was facing.

But as it turned out, Newlan's lighthearted mood wouldn't last very long, and strangely enough, on this occasion it had nothing whatsoever to do with the trial.

"That's too bad about Carlin," lamented Ron the banker upon observing the title of Newlan's book.

"What do you mean?" wondered Newlan. He was puzzled by Ron's seemingly disparaging comment, and although he thought that he had a pretty good idea of what direction the amiable banker was headed in with his analysis, as it turned out, he couldn't have been more wrong.

Newlan realized that many people, especially the conservative types, considered Carlin's humor to be offensive, so he was half-expecting some of his colleagues to give him a hard time about his taste in authors. But if it was anyone, he figured it would be his outspoken friend Jane, not the affable Ron.

Newlan was waiting with baited breath for Ron to make some sort of wise-assed remark about Carlin's subversive attitude, or something of that nature, so you can imagine his surprise when Ron replied, "didn't you hear? He died last night...heart failure."

The little color that Newlan had left in his cheeks all but disappeared at the news of Carlin's demise. It wasn't so much Carlin's death that disturbed Newlan; after all, the grumpy comic was getting up there in age, and he wasn't the picture of health to begin with. But when the surprise announcement was lumped into the equation, along with all of the other strange occurrences of the past few weeks, it left him reeling for the umpteenth time since the start of the trial, and he just couldn't seem to shake the nagging, sinking feeling that's something bad was going to happen to him any minute now.

"I swear to God I didn't know he died. I just grabbed this book off my bookshelf because I figured it would make for some easy reading," rasped a stunned Newlan, and once again his colleagues were split over whether they believed him or not. But those who did believe him were becoming more than a little spooked-out over his serendipitous penchant for the dramatic.

Was it all just another in a long line of strange coincidences for the unlucky Newlan? Perhaps, but from his psychic perspective, it was yet another ominous sign of things to come. Although, exactly what it all meant, he couldn't quite say, other than to grumble his famous last words, "man, you can't make this shit up."

Either way, there wasn't much that Newlan or any of his fellow jurors could do about his latest phenomenally charged flare-up, other than to stay calm and try not expend too much energy; precious energy which would surely be in short supply by the end of the day.

Newlan said his share of silent prayers, but eventually he returned his attention back to Carlin's book, which, given the latest turn of events, had become a bizarre tribute to his favorite comedian. He was so shook up by the news of Carlin's death that he absorbed himself within the pages of the comedic author's satirized take on the fall of the American Empire, and when he indiscriminately looked up at the clock on the wall, he was surprised to find that it was already after 10 AM.

"What the hell's taking them so long?" growled Newlan, more to himself than to anyone else.

"That's what I'd like to know too," replied the attractive magazine editor, Natalie...and leave it to Newlan, to come up with a plausible, if unlikely, answer.

"Maybe the two sides are trying to strike up a plea bargain deal."

Perhaps it was wishful thinking on Newlan's part, but when the delay stretched on, he became so worked-up over the prospects of not having to go through with the deliberations that he sent off another prayer up to the Heavens in hopes of somehow magically nudging his hypothesis into fruition.

And when Billy popped in to check up on the jurors, Newlan ran his theory by the edgy court officer...and much to his surprise, Billy didn't outright dismiss it. On the contrary, he slyly replied, "you just might have something there. As I told you many times before, expect the unexpected."

Newlan was practically giddy with joy as he expounded on his premise to anyone and everyone who was willing to hear him out. But alas, although his supposition may have had some truth to it, in the end, it wasn't meant to be, and just before 11 o'clock, Billy rounded them up and escorted them into the courtroom with the now familiar chant of "all rise...jurors entering" echoing across the haloed halls of justice.

Judge Gershwin repeated the agenda that she had laid out on Friday evening and then she proceeded on at great lengths to praise the "remarkable jurors". Additionally, after getting the preliminaries out of the way, the gracious judge offered the jurors her trademark warm smile before introducing Gleason as if he were an actor in a play.

"And without further ado, I present Mr. R. J. Gleason."

For the next hour or so, Gleason went on to make an impassioned plea on behalf of his client; a plea drenched with so much emotion that it was almost painful to behold. He insisted that John Breslin was not the man that he was being portrayed to be by the prosecution. He insisted that the Breslin was a family man who loved his children dearly. He insisted that Breslin was a man of compassion, witnessed by the way he cared for his elderly mother in her time of need. And of course, he insisted that Breslin was no murderer, not by a long shot.

"Now let's contrast Mr. Breslin's family values with that of his wife Tracy," suggested Gleason. "You saw her on the stand for yourself just like I said you would...and so at this time I ask you to come to your own conclusions...was this a family woman?"

Gleason slowly approached the jury box as he spoke, and with a solemn expression etched upon his face, he looked Newlan squarely in the eyes in a striking attempt to make some sort of unspoken connection with the seemingly malleable juror number 8. Of course it didn't take long for Newlan to glean what was going on, and in response to the intense defense attorney's probing glance, he lowered his gaze and stared uncomfortably down at the floor. However, despite his discomfort, Newlan was still listening intently and taking detailed notes all the while.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I'm not here to disparage anyone. That is not my intent at all. But I am merely attempting to point out the facts as we have heard them in this courtroom. Clearly, Tracy Breslin and Fred Miller had their share of problems, emotional problems, but more importantly, substance abuse problems. DA Lyons might want you to believe that it wasn't about the kids, but again, let's look at the facts. Just about every argument that John Breslin and his wife Tracy ever had regarding Fred Miller stemmed from the fact that he simply did not want his children hanging around someone who had a serious drug problem, plain and simple."

"And what are we to make of the words that Tracy attributed to her husband, 'if Fred doesn't stop seeing you, it won't be good for his health'?" rhetorically asked Gleason.

"Did Mr. Breslin _really_ utter these words...in front of his own children no less? Think about it. Or perhaps Tracy told the police what she thought they wanted to hear. Perhaps her desire to avenge Fred Miller's death, coupled with her belief that her husband was somehow involved in the murder of the so-called 'love of her life', led her to distort her story, to add things, to omit things," reasoned Gleason.

"And then we have Ms. Nancy O'Brien," continued Gleason in a mocking tone. "Ms. O'Brien, who goes from the one extreme of knowing nothing whatsoever regarding any incriminating statements made by Mr. Breslin...and then one day, all of a sudden, she conveniently becomes a treasure trove of information for the detectives."

As Gleason expounded upon Nancy O'Brien's change of direction, he contorted his face into an incredulous expression which rivaled any performance DA Lyons had put forth thus far; it was, hands down, his best acting job to date.

"You saw Ms. O'Brien alter her testimony countless times, just like I said you would. You heard of the details contained, or should I say, not contained, in her notebook. 22 pages of notes...22 pages supposedly describing everything she knew about the case...22 pages of notes which didn't contain one iota of incriminating evidence against Mr. Breslin. And yet a few days later, after the police got through with her, after the police granted her immunity, after the police intimidated her, after the police threatened that she could go to jail for her lack of cooperation, Ms. O'Brien suddenly recalls complete conversations, complete passages, word for word, implicating Mr. Breslin and Mr. Fox in this crime."

"What are we to believe?" wondered Gleason as he once again attempted to make eye-contact with Newlan.

"Can we believe a word, even a single word, that Ms. O'Brien uttered on that witness stand?" asked Gleason as he pointed towards the empty witness box for effect before continuing.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I humbly submit to you that we cannot rely on the veracity of Ms. O'Brien's testimony. I humbly request that you consider impeaching her entire testimony. I humbly request that you strike out every word that she uttered in this courtroom," pleaded Gleason in a tone that sounded more like a demand than a request.

Gleason continued to harp away at O'Brien's deceptively irresponsible testimony until his assertions were ingrained in the jurors' minds, before finally moving on.

"And what are we to make of the money trail that DA Lyons attempted to establish?" asked Gleason who then softly added, "unsuccessfully in my opinion."

"Mr. Breslin testified to the fact that he paid Sammy Fox a thousand dollar fee for his services...to threaten Mr. Miller and nothing more. Mr. Breslin testified that Sammy Fox extorted two thousand dollars from him on the weekend of the murder," admitted Gleason.

"But where is the evidence that Mr. Breslin paid Sammy Fox ten thousand dollars?" wondered Gleason.

"Mr. Breslin testified that he took a portion of the money that Charlie Mercurio was holding for him, just before Christmas of 2005, so that he could purchase gifts for his children...once again, his children," pointed out Gleason.

"Sounds plausible to me," contended Gleason with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Now let's review the senior Mrs. Breslin's testimony. Was she lying to aid her son as DA Lyons intimated? Or perhaps there's an explanation for the, as of then, uncirculated hundred dollar bill which somehow ended up in the money envelope that Mrs. Breslin was holding for her son," continued Gleason.

"Money that Mrs. Breslin's attorney, Maria Durran, insists she examined and scrutinized in great detail, just before the resumption of Mrs. Breslin's testimony. But unfortunately, due to the last minute calling-into-play of Mrs. Breslin's lockbox, Ms. Durran wasn't afforded a chance to photocopy the bills before they were submitted into evidence, and thus she was not allowed to testify for the defense. However, ladies and gentlemen, if Ms. Durran's story is to be believed, then the implications are clear that, somehow, someway, the money in that envelope was tampered with," speculated Gleason.

"But for the sake of argument, let's assume that Ms. Durran mistakenly overlooked the hundred dollar bill in question when she reviewed the wad of cash. Is it not possible that perhaps Mrs. Breslin herself borrowed a hundred dollar bill from the stash, and that later she reimbursed the money back into the envelope with a bill that was printed in 2006? Is it not possible for a frail woman in her 80's to suffer from a fit of forgetfulness and as a result, have no recollection of ever borrowing the money?" surmised Gleason. He was trying his damnedest to explain away as much of the damaging evidence as he possibly could, but unfortunately for his client, most of the jurors weren't buying into his improbable theories.

"Moving on to the phone records, which are clearly indisputable, you'll get no arguments from me in that regard...but I ask you, is there any scientific way to determine the exact nature of the conversations that took place during even one of those phone calls? Of course not...and yet they provide the foundation for the government's entire case."

"Was Mr. Breslin acting in a secretive manner? Of course he was, he admitted as much. But why did he go to Sammy Fox in the first place, you might ask? Why didn't he just take his case to the courts and let a judge handle it? After all, Tracy violated the terms of their separation by being in the company of Mr. Miller while their children were present."

"Well, perhaps it was because he had already unsuccessfully tried that approach on more than one occasion. Perhaps he was becoming frustrated because he wasn't getting anywhere with these unenforced court orders. Perhaps, after much consternation, he decided to recruit someone of Mr. Miller's own ilk, someone in Mr. Miller's own league if you will, to deal with him. Perhaps it was cheaper to hire 'Mr. Tough guy' Sammy the Fox to go and talk some sense into Mr. Miller, rather than paying his divorce lawyer a substantial sum of money for another futile attempt at a restraining order. If I said it once I'll say it a million times, all John Breslin ever wanted was for Fred Miller to stay away from his children. Once again, I remind you that it comes back to the children."

"And what about Mr. Fox...did he actually kill Fred Miller? Perhaps he did, but I submit to you that the evidence pointing to his guilt is rather shaky...from the bungled testimony regarding the misidentified red car, to the lack of physical evidence, to the enemies Fred Miller made over the years, not to mention the major knee surgery which greatly impeded Mr. Fox's mobility, it's all very shaky indeed," contended Gleason.

"And when you add the sloppy police work into the equation...remember not a single fingerprint was ever found on Mr. Miller's car, even though we heard from multiple witnesses who stated that they made bare-handed contact with the vehicle...there is even more reason to question the facts regarding Mr. Fox's role in this crime," reasoned Gleason.

"On top of that, let's consider the evidence that was found by the detectives in Mr. Fox's automobile....evidence that appears, at first glance, to be sneakily suspicious; washcloths, stocking caps and the like. But when you put this evidence into proper prospective, when you considered that these items were discovered months after the crime, then the shining emerald loses much of its glitter. Think about it. If Mr. Fox had used these items in the commission of a crime, don't you think he would have disposed of them immediately? And what are we to make of the stipulation by Mr. Fox's teenage daughter, a submission where she stated that they were out for a joyride a month after the murder while a gun sat conspicuously in the back seat of his car? Again, think about it...a street smart ex-con, recently released from prison on gun charges, riding around town with a gun haphazardly placed in the back seat of his car, in plain view for all to see. Preposterous!" exclaimed Gleason in a tone that clearly hinted at some sort of police impropriety.

"Then we have Detective Curran...you heard her embellishing her testimony. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this is the same Detective Curran who somehow extricated all of this perfectly-fitting, incriminating information out of Nancy O'Brien and Melanie Fox. Too perfect it was, I might add. Makes you wonder about the hard-handed methods that may have been used to procure those confessions, doesn't it?" slyly asked Gleason.

"And finally, we heard evidence that Sammy the Fox attempted called John Breslin at his office on the day of the murder...and so, according to DA Lyons, if you put two and two together, it's obvious that Fox must have killed Fred Miller, right? However, I submit to you that perhaps there is another explanation. Perhaps Mr. Fox heard about the murder of Fred Miller on the news that morning, and so he immediately put in a call to Mr. Breslin at his office to find out what was going on. Think about it. If they had hatched this plan, what possible reason would he have had to make an incriminating phone call to his knowing accomplice, a mere couple of hours after the completion of the crime? A phone call that he knew might be traced back to him," growled Gleason. But then, just as dramatically, he reverted from his high-pitched, angry voice back to his soft, measured cadence.

"One reason, ladies and gentleman, might be that the street-smart Sammy the Fox saw a lucrative opportunity for himself in Fred Miller's downfall. He saw dollar signs ringing in his head. He saw an opportunity to extort more than a few bucks from John Breslin, who admittedly was not the least bit street-smart," hypothesized Gleason.

And after hammering away at the evidence until he was almost out of breath, Gleason wrapped things up by calmly coming around full-circle.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, in my opening statement I informed you that I would remind you of the oath you took...an oath in which you swore to serve as impartial jurors...an oath in which you swore that you would consider Mr. Breslin to be innocent unless and until he was proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt...an oath in which you swore to consider all of the evidence, not just some of it...all of the facts, not just the self-serving details that DA Lyons is sure to present to you in her closing statement...and when you examine the facts as I have just laid them out for you, I respectfully ask that you come to the only conclusion possible based on _all_ of the evidence...and that is a vote of not guilty on each and every charge against him."

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I'd also like to take this time to thank you for your dedication, and for the attentiveness which you have shown throughout the course of this entire trial. For without fine people like you, people who are willing to make a sacrifice to ensure that every citizen in this great Commonwealth of ours has the right to a trial by a jury of their peers, we would not be able to maintain this remarkable system of justice which makes our country so unique."

Gleason then slowly strolled back to the defense table, but not before attempting to make eye-contact with Newlan one last time.

Sensing that the jurors were fatigued to the point of exhaustion, Judge Gershwin immediately called for an extended lunch break, while back in the deliberation room, the juror's were in fact, quite subdued as they picked away at their meals.

Newlan took a couple of nibbles out of his sandwich before deciding to lower his eyelids and zone-out for a while in an attempt to measure the weight of what he considered to be some very compelling arguments by Gleason (the creepy eye-contact notwithstanding).

And although the jurors were allowed to take an extra-long lunch break, before they knew what hit them they were back inside the courtroom listening intently as Assistant District Attorney, Elaina Lyons launched into her closing statement.

Lyons first took a moment to second Gleason's sentiments regarding the commitment that the jurors had made, despite knowing full well that they would be forced to endure many obvious inconveniences to their work and family lives. But from there she immediately kicked it into overdrive, lambasting John Breslin for a solid hour and a half; and in the process, she disputed every claim that Gleason had thrown out for the jurors consideration. In fact, she could barely contain the contempt she felt for Breslin as she labeled him a coward and a liar amongst other things.

"It was never about the children," contended Lyons. "No, it was always about the fact that John Breslin's ego couldn't come to terms with the notion that his marriage was over, that has wife had found another man. Jealousy, pure and simple, that's what led to this deadly consequence."

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we all have our issues, demons if you will, in life," admitted Lyons, which triggered an "I'll drink to that" salute in Newlan's mind.

"But anyone who possesses even a shred of common sense, anyone who sat through Tracy Stone's tearfully emotional testimony, would be compelled to come to the conclusion that Tracy Stone's substance abuse problems were in no way, shape, or form, related to the accusations that have been brought up against her husband. Do you really think that she would accuse her husband, the father of her children, of being a murderer for no good reason?" incredulously asked Lyons.

"As hard as it was to do, Tracy merely told the truth. And the truth was...that in a fit of frustration, John Breslin uttered a threat on Fred Miller's life. However, if Tracy was naïve about anything, it was the fact that she never thought her husband would actually make good on his threats. Despite his controlling, manipulative behavior, never in a million years would she have thought him capable of such a sinister deed."

"And then we have the courageous Nancy O'Brien...yes that's right, courageous. Think about it...automobiles driven by intimidating thugs following her around...stalking her every move...bullying phone threats in the middle of the night, as well as other coercive mind games meant to harass her into keeping quiet. Of course she was afraid...afraid for her children...afraid for their safety...afraid for their lives. Of course she was reluctant to get involved. But never once did she lie. So maybe she was a bit measured in her initial response to the police, but to say that she deliberately embellished her story on behalf of the detectives, just to protect her own skin is insulting. It's insulting to Nancy O'Brien. It's insulting to the fine detectives who worked on this case. And frankly, it's insulting to me."

"And as far as the elderly Mrs. Breslin is concerned, what I observed on the stand was a loving mother who was willing to do anything possible to protect her son...and who among us can find fault with that?" argued Lyons in coy attempt to place skepticism on Mrs. Breslin's testimony without openly criticizing a respectable senior citizen.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, with all due respect to Mr. Gleason, I find it reprehensible that he would dare suggest that our fine detectives were somehow anything other than diligent, hardworking seekers of the truth. The evidence was there, ladies and gentlemen, and they just followed the trail to the best of their abilities...a trail that led them to John Breslin and Sammy Fox...a trail that unmistakably led them to Mr. Fox's red Ford Taurus and placed his automobile at the scene of the crime...a trail that placed Mr. Fox driving through Newton, his cell phone bouncing off of the very tower on top of the office building where Fred Miller worked...a trail of phone calls that were like footprints, marking their every move...and as Mr. Breslin admitted to Nancy O'Brien when he felt the walls closing in all around him, 'they figured it out'...those were his exact words, and fitting words they were, because that's what these remarkable detectives do in cases such as this...they figure it out."

Like her assistant, Paul Gentili, before her, Lyons obsessed much too long on the reams of phone records until it got to the point where she was losing the jurors attention; none more so than Frank Newlan who was impatiently huffing and puffing and folding his arms in a sign of aggravation and protest.

Out of the corner of her eye, Lyons caught wind of Newlan's remonstrations and it didn't surprise her in the least, seeing as how she had concerns about juror number 8 all along. However, when she detected many of the other jurors beginning to fidget in their seats, she realized that she had made her point regarding the overwhelming implications of the phone evidence, and now it was time to cut to the chase.

And so at long last, with the use of visual effects, namely a crime scene photo of the lifeless and bloodied Fred Miller, slumped over at the wheel of his car, Lyons went in for the kill.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the fact of the matter remains that John Breslin admittedly turned to a convicted murderer, a man recently released from prison on a serious weapons charge, to eliminate the person he believed to be responsible for all his problems. Mr. Breslin was the one person with a motive to want Fred Miller dead, and regardless of the exact details of what happened on that cold January morning back in 2006, the fact remains that Fred Miller most certainly would still be alive today if it weren't for the vengeful, cowardly actions of THAT MAN, John Breslin," exclaimed Lyons as she pointed angrily towards Breslin, just as she had done in her opening statement. And just as _he_ had done throughout the trial, Breslin impassively stared straight ahead at some unidentified hypnotic medium that only he could see.

Lyons swiftly concluded her summations, and when she reached what in her mind was the decisive salvo, she slipped the photo of Fred Miller clad in a tuxedo, taken at his brother's wedding, onto the overhead projector in place of the gory murder scene image.

"In conclusion, I respectfully request that you find the defendant guilty of conspiracy to commit murder, and guilty of murder in the first degree," pleaded Lyons, while at the same time the brilliant tactic of displaying Cam Miller's wedding day photograph ensured that the final vision on the jurors' minds before they began their deliberations was the lasting image of a smiling Fred Miller in happier times, with his arm wrapped around his younger brother.

The contrasting photos were a deliberate and highly effective strategy (based on Jane's tearful reaction anyway) to tug on the jurors' heartstrings, and Newlan for one, expected nothing less from the wily district attorney.

By now the jurors truly were exhausted, and the perceptive Judge Gershwin called for another recess which was used primarily as a bathroom break and nothing more. During the brief respite, not one juror said a word about the widely disparate closing statements. Surely they were all well aware of the fact that they would soon be discussing the merits of the case for real in a matter of hours, so they each silently decided that there was no point in prematurely tipping their hands.

After the recess, the jurors were forced to endure Judge Gershwin's rather lengthy technical instructions regarding the nuances of conspiracy and the subtle distinctions between the varying degrees of murder. The judge had Newlan's rapt attention as she discussed the more human elements of circumstantial evidence such as shaky witnesses, immunity, gorgy photographs and the like, but when she proceeded to break down the elements of the specific charges against Breslin, it all got a little bit too "legalese" for him and his mind began to wander.

Judge Gershwin smiled warmly at the inundated jurors as she continued to bombard them with an overflowing river of legal minutia.

"I am going to provide you with some general instructions, some case-specific information, and a few suggestions as to how you might go about your deliberations."

"You should carefully review all of the evidence, and by 'all of the evidence' I mean the testimonial evidence, the physical evidence, and the documentary evidence, and you should make your decision based on the totality of that said evidence, or the lack thereof."

"You may make inferences to evidence which is considered to be circumstantial...that is to say, indirect observations and experiences presented by the witnesses which support facts that the attorneys were attempting to prove. But you should take care to consider such evidence within the context of the bigger picture framed by the overall case details."

"A guilty verdict may not be rendered based solely on presumptions and suspicions...and if, during your deliberations, you find that the evidence does not venture beyond this stage then you must consider the possibility that guilt has not been proven beyond a reasonable doubt."

"When pondering a witness's testimony, you may believe all, some, or none of that particular witness's testimony. Details such as demeanor, motive, and intent, or lack of intent, may also be considered when determining the believability of a particular witness."

"You should view the testimony of an individual who has been granted immunity with greater scrutiny...and furthermore you may consider impeaching _any_ witness's testimony if you find that that person's statements were inconsistent with prior utterances that he or she may have made."

"Witness testimony regarding alleged statements made by the defendant must be proved beyond a reasonable doubt before you consider such declarations as evidence. You may consider a person's age, physical limitations, mental abilities and biases when determining the accuracy of statements attributed to the defendant."

"Statements attributed to Samuel Fox may also be considered, but again, only in instances where other evidence backs up those statements."

"False statements and/or concealed evidence may be considered, but we must not draw inferences without additional evidence that substantiates the false statements."

"Photographs may be considered, but only if the image in the snapshot backs up specific statements, or if the photo is intended as evidence in its own right. However, photos of the victim, particularly after-death photos, should not affect your deliberations, and as difficult as it may be, pity should not be a consideration in your verdict."

At this point in her summation, Judge Gershwin switched gears again and turned her attention towards the technical aspects of a conspiracy verdict. The learned judge spent an extended period of time focusing in on areas such as joint ventures, accessories before and/or after the committal of a crime, shared mental states, agreement and knowledge, as well as withdrawal from a joint venture.

Judge Gershwin then moved on to detail the finer points of a first degree murder charge, such as premeditation, malice, and the unlawfulness with which the killing was carried out. She then explained how a defendant could still be found guilty of second degree murder in cases where only some of the above elements were proved beyond a reasonable doubt. She even left open the possibility of a sentence of involuntary manslaughter, which she described as "the unlawful death of a victim, due to wanton, reckless conduct, which the defendant should have reasonably known posed a danger to human life".

And finally, after what seemed like forever-and-a-day to Newlan, Judge Gershwin was ready to turn the case over to the jurors, but not before heaping a profuse dose of praise on them one last time, just as the attorneys before her had done.

Before deliberations could begin however, the task of choosing the one remaining alternate juror seat still needed to be taken care of, and Judge Gershwin went on to describe how a seat number would be randomly drawn out of an elegant wooden box located on the desk of Assistant Clerk, Dan Dente.

For some reason, Newlan found the production, complete with the fancy mahogany box, to be rather amusing; so much so that he leaned over and whispered to Natalie, "What the hell is this, a freaking bingo game?"

However, Newlan's amusement didn't dissuade him from secretly praying "pick me, pick me, oh dear God please pick me"...and amazingly enough, for once in his life, his prayers were answered.

Newlan pretty much fell into a state of shock when Dente announced that "juror number 8 has been selected as the alternate". Of course he wasn't nearly as shocked as Gleason, whose face turned a whiter shade of pale, almost matching his ivory-colored beard, while at the same time, from all corners of the courtroom, a wide smile could clearly be seen forming like sunrise on the face of DA Lyons.

Newlan himself was oblivious to the contrasting machinations of the lawyers, and as Billy directed him to a seat which was placed directly in front of the jury box, he breathed a huge sigh of relief.

For the sake of thoroughness, Judge Gershwin explained Newlan's role to the assembled throng in the gallery just so that there would be no misunderstanding as to his duties for the remainder of the proceedings.

"Juror number 8 will not be taking part in the deliberations, but his services are very much appreciated, and he might still be needed in the event of an illness or an emergency involving any of the twelve participating jurors."

Judge Gershwin had one last chore to attend to, and that was to choose a jury foreperson. Seemingly without much thought, she promptly decided on Stan, the software sales representative in seat number 14. And although the selection of Stan appeared to have been rather haphazard, the reality of the situation was that the cognitive judge had been contemplating the decision for quite some time now.

Luckily for the ever-anxious Newlan, he never became privy to the fact that, had he not been selected as the alternate, Judge Gershwin had him pegged as the foreperson based on his attentiveness and non-stop note-taking, despite a not-so-ringing endorsement from Billy.

By now it was late afternoon, and Judge Gershwin offered the jurors the option of either beginning deliberations immediately or waiting until morning...and in what was surely not a sign of things to come, the jurors unanimously favor the latter option, so the honorable judge kindly dismissed them for the day.

Judge Gershwin went on to inform the jurors that they should report to court tomorrow at the customary hour of 8:45 AM, at which time they would be brought into the courtroom to officially start the day before beginning their deliberations. As usual she also instructed them not to discuss the case with each other, or with anyone else for that matter, until she directed them to do so, and as always, she bid them a safe trip home.

...

Newlan found himself puttering along in stunned state of disbelief for the entire trip back to his condo. Apparently he was unable to fully comprehend his good fortune, and furthermore, this favorable luck of the draw affected him in a strangely unexpected way. For believe it or not, after all he had been through, after all of his dreaded misgivings, part of him, perhaps a very small part, but a distinct part nonetheless, was disappointed with his selection as the alternate juror. All of a sudden, part of him wanted to be present in that deliberation room when the decision was being made, if for no other reason than to ensure that Breslin got a fair shake. Part of him wanted to partake in this flawed system that we call justice. Part of him wanted to civilly discuss the many unanswered questions in the case which had been troubling him for the past three weeks, while at the same time another part of him could feel his insides being ripped apart at the seams.

Newlan's conflicted reaction to the day's events caught him totally by surprise and he was desperate to turn off his mind, so as a defense mechanism he switched on the CD player and cranked it up for all it was worth. Gregg Allman's soothing, gravelly voice singing "It's Not My Cross to Bear" seemed to somehow help ease his burden, and he found himself whispering along as his final resolution came into focus.

"Damn right, it's not my cross to bear. I'm washing my hands of this wretched affair," muttered a revived Newlan. "I never wanted any part of this mess in the first place."

And yet Newlan's anguished resolve, which was being validated by Gregg Allman's soulful singing, still couldn't prevent a single tear from rolling down his cheek...as he made the last turn home.

### Chapter 100 – Buns in the Oven

Monday evening June 23, 2008 – 5:30 PM

Marianne Plante was becoming a basket-case right before her very own two eyes, and as she toiled over the gas stove in her luxurious kitchen, sautéing chicken breasts on the range while a batch of chocolate chip cookies baked in the oven, an overwhelming sense of despair was simultaneously bubbling up from within her like a pot of boiling hot water.

Plante was doing everything in her power to keep her mind occupied for fear that she might otherwise fall apart at the seams; for fear that she might do something she would later regret; for fear that she might stick her head in the oven and set the gas on high.

Although Plante was never really too fond of cooking, it turned out that preparing dinner for her daughters was somehow beguilingly assisting her as she attempted to keep her sanity intact.

Entrancingly, as Plante seared the pink meat, she suddenly felt something warm simmering deep inside of her; incredibly, as she checked on the slowly rising batch of cookies, she suddenly felt something tender growing deep within her womb; stunningly, as she turned up the blue-hot flames of the burner, she suddenly felt something radiant glowing through her entire body, from top to bottom, inside and out.

And while their magical meal sizzled on the frying pan, Plante peeked in on the girls as they stretched out on the floor of the living room, enraptured by the latest Disney Channel preteen heartthrob. Surprisingly enough, she was practically taken aback by their carefree laughter, all of which caught her very much off guard.

"Oh to be young and innocent again," whispered Plante as she swallowed down hard and fought to maintain her composure.

Never in a million years could Plante have imagined a scenario which would have found her so miserable at this stage of her life...and yet her she was, a nervous wreck, what with her short-fused husband tossed into jail, and what with the leading man on her short list of replacements behaving rather standoffishly, even though he might very well be the father of her miracle child; no wonder she was in such bad shape, languishing her life away.

In the past few days Plante had become totally engrossed by an old photograph that she had dug up of herself and Newlan when they were just a couple of love-struck teenagers; two immature adolescents absolutely brimming with desire for each other, encapsulated for all time, standing arm-in-arm, as happy-go-lucky as can be. But what really struck her like a two-by-four across the back of the head was the smiles on their faces, and even more so, the spark in their eyes; a spark which was positively smoldering with passion in every direction.

As Plante looked back on her relationship with Newlan, she wondered why, and when, and how, it all had gone so wrong. Sure, they were young and stupid and headstrong, but why couldn't they have seen that they were meant for each other right from the very beginning? What possible reason could they have had for ever drifting apart? But alas, as Tracy Stone and Fred Miller, and countless other couples before them have discovered, life doesn't always come neatly delivered in a tidy little package that stays wrapped up and secured forever.

No, for Marianne Plante, life was nothing if not complicated, and yet deep inside she couldn't blame Newlan for his reluctance to take her back with open arms, any more than Tracy Stone could blame Fred Miller for his impatience with her.

"After all, I barged back into his life out of nowhere...and this isn't the first time that I turned the poor guy's world upside down...no wonder he's acting like he doesn't know what hit him," reasoned Plante. And yet, her perceptive understanding of the sticky situation didn't stop her from aching for his touch. And yet, her adept calculation of the lonely equation didn't stop her from crying herself to sleep at night. And yet, her adroit insight into her troubling plight didn't stop her from praying for a happy ending; an ending which included herself and Frank Newlan, side-by-side, together forever, just like the indelible image that she had captured in the photographic memory of her crystallized mind, as well as in the faded snapshot that she held in her hands.

"But first things first," Plante reminded herself as she tended to the task of setting the dinner table. "First, I have to come to terms with saying goodbye to Tommy...the father of my beautiful daughters...the man I fell in love with so long ago...the man who hurt me so badly...the man who destroyed our perfect lives...the man who would dare to point a gun at the mother of his children."

Plante's anger competed with her pain to a dead heat, leaving little room for self-pity, but the emptiness which was growing in her soul was another matter; for despite the flickering rays of encouragement which galvanized her from time to time, the hole in her heart was rapidly expanding to the point where it might never be filled again, be it by Frank Newlan, or for that matter, by any other man.

But nevertheless, in spite of her conflicted pangs of faith and doubt, as Plante put the finishing touches on their dinner, she felt something stirring inside her own oven, perhaps wishful thinking, perhaps buns-a-baking. And yet, witlessly she still wondered what the future held in store for her. Sadly, for one of the few times in her life, she didn't have a clue, not even a tiny inkling, not even a sliver of an idea, as to what direction her life was heading in.

And furthermore, as Plante carefully removed the piping hot cookies from the oven, she came to a sudden realization that the world, full of hope and wonder though it might be, can also be a sad and lonely place...and as both she and Newlan were discovering more and more with each passing day, it can also be...a very dangerous place...as well.

### Chapter 101 – Temptations (People Everywhere)

Monday evening June 23, 2008 – 6:30 PM

By the time Newlan straggled home from the courthouse and digested a hastily prepared meal, he had come to terms with the fact that, through no fault of his own, he had been relieved of his duties in the John Breslin murder trial; he had resigned himself to the fact that John Breslin's fate was out of his hands; he had made peace with the fact that he wasn't going to be present in the deliberation room when John Breslin's destiny was decided. But the more important outcome of the day, as far as he was concerned, was the fortuitous fact that since the verdict was now out of his control, it wouldn't be lingering, like a dead weight, on his conscience for the rest of his life. Although a small part of him was still torn over the exclusion, and how it was decreed in such an arbitrary fashion no less, he had finally come to his senses, and as such, he thanked the lucky stars above that the roulette wheel spun his way for a change.

After dinner, Newlan hunkered down at his laptop and attempted to put a dent into his overflowing inbox of backlogged emails, most of which were work-related correspondences that he had been purposely neglecting for days on end now due to a lack of focus brought on by his many personal issues. In any event, from the looks of things, if he didn't get back on the job soon, his manager, Jason Young, was going to have a nervous breakdown any day now.

While he was at it, Newlan sifted through his junk mail folder and he was amused to find out that he had just won ten million dollars in a British lottery; not to mention the exiled African prince who was willing to share a secret 35 million dollar inheritance with him if he would only send the valiant expatriate a couple of thousand dollars in processing fees.

Newlan shook his head in amazement as he let out a healthy chortle; he couldn't believe that there were really people out there in cyberspace who were gullible enough to fall for these obvious scams. But on the other hand, in a twisted way that only he could fathom, he considered these phony emails to constitute a well-timed omen that his luck was about to change for the better.

You see, Newlan firmly believed that his world revolved around a series of steadily churning cycles, oscillating pulses of karma if you will, astrological movements which affected his fortunes, much like a werewolf is affected by a full moon, and that just when the gears of this invisible pendulum were trending towards an upswing, that's when, inevitably, something bad was bound to happen. But conversely, just when the uncontrollable events in his life reached rock-bottom, and they always did, good fortune invariably seemed to find him in the nick of time.

Poor Newlan's soothsaying beliefs were based on a lifetime's worth of topsy-turvy experiences, which was all the more reason why he should have known better than to hedge his bets on this worthless bit of fool's gold wrapped up in a crackpot philosopher's thesis.

In any case, as Newlan pondered the fickle hands of fate, he couldn't resist the temptation of retrieving the latest news regarding the John Breslin murder trial, fresh off the internet presses. However, just as he punched up his favorite news site, boston.com, the telephone rang, and on the other end of the line was none other than his lifelong friend, Bruce Reardon, with a tempting proposition dangling before him like a hypnotizing orb of shining gold.

"Hey Frankie, guess what...I just scored two primo tickets for the Steely Dan concert, free of charge, you wanna go?"

Newlan was a huge fan of the arcane jazz rockers, so naturally he jumped at the chance to attend the show. And furthermore, he considered the generous offer to be another positive signal that his cyclical theory was about to swing into full motion.

By all rights, Reardon should have been taking his wife to the concert, but he was always looking for an excuse to escape for a night out on the town without the old ball-and-chain in tow, and as such, cheering up a childhood friend who was going through some hard times lately seemed to fit the bill, seeing as how his wife gave in without too much of an argument.

"Sure, I'd love to go...when is it?" wondered Newlan.

"It's tonight you dipshit, at the Boston Pavilion...I'll be over your place in a half hour," replied Reardon as a puzzled Newlan scratched his head in bewilderment. Newlan was totally sapped of energy, right down to his very core, and he was just about to retreat onto his black leather sofa for a quiet night spent watching the Red Sox play an interleague game versus the Arizona Diamondbacks, so Reardon's response caught him off guard to say the least.

"Tonight...what do you mean tonight? Where'd you get the tickets on such short notice?" stammered the regimented Newlan.

"I just won them on the radio, can you believe it? Now enough with your questions, we still gotta pick up the tickets at the will call window. Like I said, I'll be by your condo within a half hour so get your ass ready boy," ordered Reardon.

And so within the hour, Newlan and his buddy Bruce Reardon found themselves wandering around the concourse of the Boston Pavilion toting a large cup of beer in each hand. Whenever they attended a concert or a sporting event they always made it a practice of buying two beers each, for each and every trek to the refreshment stand, simply as a means of avoiding the chore of having to endure a few extra long trips through the endless concessions lines. And as it turned out, this two-fisted drinking solution to the backed-up beer line obstacle was actually quite a necessity when it came to quenching their overwhelming thirst on this hot and humid summer evening. Of course, their need for liquid hydration went beyond the oppressive weather, and their muck-mouth syndrome wasn't too surprising when you consider the fact that they had just smoked four bowls of reefer, which left their throats feeling as parched as the Sahara desert.

The Boston Pavilion was a modern, tented structure which was crammed right smack-dab in the middle of the downtown waterfront; and as an added bonus, the urban location came with a beautiful backdrop of the historic, tea-partying Boston Harbor, as well as a close-up, panoramic view of the Boston skyline off in the distance. It was the perfect setting for a concert venue, and as the old pals made their way to their seats, they were thrilled to be out on the town, surrounded by gorgeous women, all the while looking forward to an intoxicating night of live music from a top notch band.

What with his many employment and financial obligations hindering his entertainment path, Newlan didn't attend as many concerts as he once did, and so in a warm and fuzzy, déjà vu sort of way, he felt as if he were reliving his long lost youth; those were, without question, the best days of their lives; those carefree summer nights when the entire gang would get together for just about every concert act that made its way through town. But alas, now-a-days, he was lucky if he made it to a couple of shows a year.

For some reason, Newlan instinctively glanced around once or twice and took a deep breath of the salty ocean air as he soaked in the atmosphere. All of a sudden, he was overcome by a surreal feeling that the days of his life were growing shorter, and something unearthly, whispering in his ears like the cawing of sea gulls echoing in the summer breeze, told him that he should hold on to moments like this and cherish them; hold on and relish them for all they were worth, because absolutely nothing in this life is guaranteed, not even a single day.

But despite this melancholic aside, Newlan was having a great time for himself just sitting there, stretched out at his seat, comfortably numb, an anonymous face in the crowd, eagerly waiting for the show to begin. And while he and Reardon kicked back in anticipation of a memorable evening, they killed the time by chatting about everything and nothing, all at the same time.

Amazingly enough, for the first time in days, Newlan wasn't obsessing in the least over the John Breslin murder trial, or the Marianne Plante saga for that matter. Perhaps it was the fact that he had been designated an alternate juror, or perhaps it was his realization that from now on he should make a concerted effort not to worry about things which were beyond his control, or perhaps it was merely the fact that he found himself nestled in the perfect surroundings with which to put his mind at ease; for there was nothing he enjoyed more than a good rock & roll concert. But whatever the reason, there was no denying his new lease on life.

Unfortunately for Newlan however, his temporary escape from reality didn't last very long. Unfortunately for Newlan however, Reardon couldn't resist inundating him with his own farfetched theories regarding the Breslin trial. Unfortunately for Newlan however, Reardon couldn't resist badgering him with vulgarly suggestive questions about what was going on with him and his high school sweetheart Marianne Plante.

The last thing Newlan wanted to do at the moment was to discuss the trial, so he brushed off Reardon's inquiries with a forceful "dude, I don't wanna talk about it."

And as far as Marianne Plante went, Newlan wasn't about to mention the fact that she might be pregnant, and he didn't dare broach the angry telephone confrontation he and Tom Willis had engaged in; for if the overprotective, hotheaded Reardon ever found out that Willis had threatened his best friend's life, he might have went berserk right then and there on the spot, and Newlan didn't want to chance doing anything that would spoil the positive vibe of the evening.

But regardless of what the future held in store for Newlan, with this third-degree round of interrogating questions behind him, he and Reardon were officially in concert mode and their prerequisite buzz was now fully ignited thanks to the six beers they had each washed down in the last hour or so. Newlan was determined not to let anything bring him down tonight, and Reardon routinely never let anything get him down, so by all accounts, they were ready for some rock & roll.

The beers and the reefer had vaulted Newlan into a philosophical mood, and so he waxed on poetically about the existence of God, and of fate, and of the lust for life in general. In a span of ten minutes, he haphazardly threw out his cockamamie hypotheses regarding religion, and love, and unfaithfulness, and how the whole world was fighting about the same thing, namely trying to score a piece of ass, while at the same time Reardon did his best to follow along, despite his glazy-eyed state of contentment. When the moment struck him, usually aided by healthy dose of marijuana, Newlan was known to uncharacteristically ramble on and on, and apparently this was one of those moments.

"Its primal instincts dude...we weren't meant to be faithful. It goes back to the days of the caveman...dragging the cavewoman around by the hair into his cave. And God forbid if some other cave-dude tries to score with his babe...because that's when the clubs come out and someone gets conked over the head. Dude, when it comes right down to it, nothing's changed in the last million years. When it comes right down to it, women are at the root of all evil. Money, and crime, and war, and guns, it all comes down to showing off for some hot babe. It all comes down to some motherfucker who stole some other dude's woman. It all comes down to a contest over who can fuck the most bitches, regardless of whether they're married or not, without getting caught and killed in the process."

Newlan's rant might still be going on unabated if Reardon didn't put a stop to it by coarsely stating his objections as follows; "Frankie, its life...shit happens, now shut the fuck up."

Newlan burst into a stoned fit of laughter as he contemplated Reardon's rather unsubtle request, and at just about that same moment, the houselights dimmed, the crowd rose for the obligatory standing ovation, and onto the stage stepped the two founding members of Steely Dan, Walter Becker and Donald Fagen, illuminated by an overhead spotlight.

From the very first note of the opening song "The Royal Scam", Newlan was transfixed, and for the first time in weeks he felt as if he might truly be able to relax, if only for a few hours. And in response to the blaring amplifiers ringing in his head with words which warn that everything is not always as it appears to be, he closed his eyes as he let the regal tune take control...of his very soul.

...

While Frank Newlan found himself entranced in a wall of sound, somewhere miles away, Tracy Stone was busy conjuring up a charm of her own; a potent concoction brewed especially for one Mr. Cameron "Cam" Miller.

Tracy had sent her children off to stay with their auntie Beth, ostensibly so that she might spend some quiet time alone as she pondered the fate of her ex-husband. But being alone was the last thing Tracy desired on this momentous evening. Using her womanly powers of persuasion, Tracy had no problem once again coaxing Cam Miller past the gates of her humble abode, supposedly to assist her in her time of need; ah but Tracy Stone's needs were many.

Cam had been locked up in jail all weekend, and unbeknownst to him, Tracy was eager to reward him for his valiant efforts at the courthouse, unsuccessful though they may have been.

After all the suffering he and his family had gone through, Cam wasn't sure why he was even giving Tracy Stone the time of day. And yet here he was, irresistibly drawn to her, as if she held some sort of magical power over him; a magical power which proved to be a bit too much for him to handle, because from the moment he stepped through the front door and into Tracy's waiting arms, he was spellbound; from the moment she went about whispering a wordless incantation into his ear, he was putty in her hands.

With catlike agility, Tracy snapped into Cam's line of vision and, through penetrating eye-contact alone, she forged a narcotic connection with his stimulated sensory glands. Before he knew what hit him, Cam found himself wrapped up tightly in Tracy's embrace, snared like a fly on a lizard's tongue. And now that she had her prey immobilized, without a second thought, without a moment of hesitation, Tracy took Cam by the hand and led him up the staircase towards her sultry boudoir. Cam hesitated by the doorway, for despite his mesmerized condition, he sensed danger ahead, and his face was knotted in a cloak of fear. But Tracy wasn't about to take no for an answer, and she gently lured him over the threshold with her tantalizing enticements.

"Come with me my dear Cam, for I want to introduce you to my tarantula with its hairy legs. I want to introduce you to my scorpion with its poisonous stinger. I want to introduce you to my black widow with its silky web. I want to introduce you to my Venus fly trap with its vice-like grip. I want to show how they capture their prey...how they engulf their victims...how they eat them alive," purred Tracy as she turned out the lights.

And as the door slowly closed shut behind them, the only visible illumination in the darkened bedroom, a bedroom which Tracy once shared with one of the accused murderers of Cam's brother, was the fluorescent glow...of an hourglass-shaped clock on the wall.

...

Meanwhile, many miles removed from Tracy Stone's sensuous sleeping chamber, many miles further still from Frank Newlan's cathartic concert experience, seduction took another form on this enchanted evening; for in a seemingly empty, unmarked cruiser sitting behind the Newton Police station, two giggling heads suddenly popped up into view, flirtatiously swigging from a bottle of champagne.

The duel silhouettes unsteadily exited the vehicle and stumbled into the office of Newton Police Detective Carolyn Curran, where they locked the door securely behind themselves. Interestingly enough, the two shadows in the darkness were none other than the aforementioned Ms. Curran and her counterpart from the Massachusetts State Police, Detective William Donavan; both very drunk with boozy desire...and both very married.

...

Dear reader, what goes on behind closed doors we cannot say, and furthermore, who are we to judge. Perhaps the detectives were merely blowing off some steam, prematurely celebrating the demise of John Breslin; perhaps they were burning the midnight oil, ensuring that no stone was left unturned in the case; or perhaps Frank Newlan's theory was being borne out in spades; perhaps Newlan's theory was being proven in ways that he could never have imagined. But then again maybe he could, for Newlan had reached a stage in his life where nothing very much surprised him anymore.

Suffice it to say, our story alone includes more than enough empirical data to support Newlan's theory, his own actions included.

Suffice it to say that everyday throughout the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, throughout the United States of America, and for that matter, throughout the entire world, people everywhere are giving in to temptation; people everywhere are giving in to forbidden love. And sadly, as we have found out so disastrously, sometimes these weaknesses lead to deadly consequences.

People everywhere, since the dawn of time, have been tempted by fits of sizzling passion; people everywhere, since the coming of Adam and Eve, have been seduced by fits of wanton lust; people everywhere, temporarily crazed by the powers of Satan; people everywhere, temporarily overtaken by the powers of Jezebel.

People everywhere, breaking the 10 commandments; thou shall not commit adultery; thou shall not covet thy neighbor's wife. People everywhere; people like Tracy Stone and Fred Miller and Marianne Plante and Tom Willis and Carolyn Curran and William Donavan.

People everywhere...people just like...the one and only...Mr. Frankie Newlan.

Chapter 102 – Repressed Memories

Monday evening June 23, 2008 – 10:15 PM

Perhaps it was too little, too late, but somehow Cam Miller ultimately managed to fight off whatever hex it was that was holding him under Tracy Stone's power...and with a shred of his dignity still intact, he departed abruptly from her abode, leaving her bitterly disillusioned and feeling very much alone in the gloomy darkness of her incandescent bedroom; for despite her many charms, the multitude of men in Tracy's life had always ended up treating her like a second-class citizen, and at the moment, she felt as if Cam Miller was no different than the rest of them.

For the most part, Cam Miller was your basic family-oriented man; a man who wanted nothing more than to live out his life in the company of his loving wife and children. But alas, just like people everywhere, he was subject to the same range of human emotions which separates man from beast; from true love, all the way down to passionate hatred. Just like people everywhere, he was susceptible to the same enticements of the human spirit which will forever haunt mankind; from the lure of the forbidden, all the way down to the turpitudes of malevolence.

Much like Frank Newlan, the trials and tribulations of life in the 21st century occasionally left Cam caught up in a headshaking state of disbelief, wistfully wondering who was truly winning the battle of good versus evil, because everywhere he looked, it seemed as if the devil was gaining the upper hand. And to make matters worse, oftentimes it was difficult to even distinguish the good guys from the bad guys, let alone the winners from the losers.

Tracy Stone, on the other hand, had _always_ been unsure, from Day One, of exactly what or where her place in this world was meant to be. She only knew that she possessed a passion for love deep within her heart; real love, true love, unconditional love, the kind of love that she heaped endlessly upon her pets.

Like the rest of us, all Tracy Stone ever really wanted out of life was love-everlasting. However, her dilemmas routinely revolved around the seductive ways in which she went about seeking out her goals. You see, Tracy's quandaries boiled down to the fact that she would do absolutely anything in her power to get herself noticed, and she had no qualms about using her God-given gifts to obtain what she desired. And furthermore, she made no apologies for the temptations that the fruits of her luscious body presented to the common man.

"After all, any woman in my position would do the same thing," Tracy often asserted. But now, in a rare moment of clarity, she realized that perhaps, just as Marianne Plante had recently concluded, she needed to make it on her own before she could totally give herself over to another man.

The hopelessness of it all wasn't lost on Tracy as she put herself to bed and cried herself to sleep; a sleep which was filled with troubled dreams twisted together into a collage of glowing shadows; a sleep which was filled with anxious fears for her future; a sleep which was filled with repressed memories from her past, unlocked and set free to haunt her for all times. A sleep which was filled with dreams of John Breslin holed up in a prison cell for the rest of his life, climbing the suffocating walls of his cage, like an enraged gorilla, in a desperate attempt to escape his fate. And even though, in her vibrant dream-state, Tracy's ex-husband was the spitting image of their son JJ, he was unrecognizable to her; he was no one she had ever known. But how could this be? How could this stranger have been masquerading as her husband for all those years, and what was she to do now that he was as good as gone, never to be seen again?

As Tracy pondered this perplexing riddle, her visions shifted suddenly from the man she never really knew, to the man she knew all too well; the man who was destined to be taken from her grasp, like a thief in the night who snatches away a purse from an unsuspecting senior citizen. Yes, just as she had done countless times before, Tracy dreamed yearningly of her high school sweetheart, the self-professed love of her life, Fred Miller.

From somewhere buried deep in the back of her subconscious mind, Tracy conjured up the night of January 12th, 2006, and she recalled with stunning clarity a reflection of Fred and herself merrily enjoying a cocktail at their favorite hangout, the rustic Wayward Inn. However, this wasn't one of those make-believe dream filled with heroes and villains who battle to the death over a damsel in distress. No, this was a faithful reenactment of a particular day, mixed in with a lifetime worth of days; this was a vivid reminder of Fred Miller's last night here in the land of the living, right down to the subtlest detail; it was as if Tracy were put under a spell of her own hypnotic powers, which in some ways, made this a dream that was worse than her worst nightmares.

Neither of them could have possibly known that this was to be Fred's final evening on this woe begotten planet Earth, even though, if truth be told, during the carefree months of his reunion with Tracy, Fred suffered from many a premonition; conflicting signs of miracles and forebodings; telling signs that his world was about to change soon; perhaps not the sudden metamorphosis into the afterlife which came to pass, but dramatic changes nonetheless; maybe even marriage and children...and to the other extreme, maybe even death and destruction; or more likely, a stewing combination of pain and suffering and happiness all mixed into one simmering pot, just like people everywhere endured.

"Now that you're back in my life Tracy, I'm ready to take on the world," affirmed Fred's positive side as he peered deeply into Tracy's eyes and bestowed an even deeper kiss upon her gaping mouth.

Tracy could sense an excitement in Fred's voice that she had never heard before; she could sense his passion for life being renewed merely by her presence; she could sense his longing desire for her and it sent a throbbing sensation rushing through her loins like an intravenous drug dripping out of control.

"I'm telling you Tracy, I haven't felt this upbeat in a long, long time...pretty much since we first met...before I let you get away that is...and I'm not gonna let that happen again, I guarantee it" insisted Fred, all of which left Tracy speechless.

"I know I've had my share of problems...and we both know I've been supplementing my income by selling dope...we both know I've been trying to maintain a certain lifestyle. But I've finally realized that it's all an illusion...and I'm ready now...ready to turn over a new leaf, even if it kills me," vowed a determined Fred.

However, despite Fred Miller's optimism, his buoyant mood changed on a dime and suddenly he blurted out a vulnerable confession as his final hours ticked away.

"Tracy I'm scared."

"Scared of what?" wondered a perplexed Tracy.

"Scared that I'm not gonna get to accomplish all of the things that I want to do with my life...scare that I'm not gonna be around to fulfill all of these dreams running through my head that I wanna turn into reality," admitted Fred as he stared down pensively into his half-empty drink.

"You, scared? Come on, I didn't think anything could scare you," mocked Tracy.

"You know what could scare me? Well I'll tell you what could scare me. What could scare me is the thought of your sweet little daughter, leaving a message on my answering machine, telling me that she hopes I end up dead. What kind of world are we living in where an innocent kid could have those kinds of thoughts running through her head?" wondered Fred in a confessional tone.

"Come on Freddie, you know her father put her up to that, and as I told you a million times already, I'll take care of him," countered Tracy.

"It's too late for that," replied Fred rather forcefully.

"Too late...what do you mean it's too late?" demanded Tracy.

"It's too late because I already talked to him, man-to-man. We had it out...and let's just say we understand each other better now," disclosed a steely-eyed Fred.

Tracy was in no mood to fixate on her brutish husband, so in a distracting counterattack, she snuggled her head onto Fred's shoulder and tickled him in a way that never failed to make him melt.

"So are you're really gonna change your ways for me? No more carousing with your friends? No more dealing drugs?" cooed Tracy in a teasing tone, and without hesitation, Fred raised his hand as if he were about to take the witness stand, and he reiterated the truth as he saw it.

"I'm telling you right now, I swear to God, that part of my life will soon be over...but it's gonna take some time. I'm dealing with some pretty dangerous people here. I still owe them quite a bit of cash...and they're starting to get impatient. It's not like I can just get up and walk away from it all and never look back. No, until I pay off my debts, those dudes own my soul. I'm telling you Tracy, you don't welch out on these guys. Not unless you wanna end up with a bullet hole in your head..."

And as the comatose recollection of Fred's ominous revelations drifted into her consciousness, concluding with the words, "Not unless you wanna end up with a bullet hole in your head..." Tracy rose up from this dreamily realistic reproduction of her painful past, entangled in the throes of a dreadful panic, shouting and screaming at the top of her lungs.

"No...no...no...oh dear God no...oh dear God please, help me...oh dear God, what have I done...what have I done?"

But unfortunately for Tracy Stone, in the calm, quiet loneliness of her empty home, no one was there to answer her desperate cries for assistance; no one was there to hear her anguished pleas regarding the veracity of her actions; no one was there to even hold her trembling hand. Sadly, in her time of dying, not a wing or a prayer was there to lift Tracy up off the ground; in her time of need, not a soul was there to save her...from herself.

Chapter 103 – A Stroke of Pride

Monday evening June 23, 2008 – 11:55 PM

John Breslin was an agitated bundle of nerves as he laid stretched out in his cell at the Middlesex County Jail in Cambridge Massachusetts and pondered his future.

Breslin knew full well that the moment of truth had finally arrived, and that the only thing standing between him and a life sentence in prison was the vote of the twelve faceless citizens who were set to decide his fate, first thing in the morning. He knew full well that the only thing standing between him and a lifetime of despair was the vote of the twelve anonymous strangers who had been plucked out of the sky by a computer program, arbitrarily chosen from the ranks of the nearby cities and towns and brought together by a series of cosmic forces which were beyond their power to control. Or to be more succinct, he knew full well that the only thing standing between him and a figurative death sentence was a random jury of his peers...and the suspense of it all was killing him inside.

Compounding Breslin's predicament was a throbbing headache which had been pounding in his skull, unabated, ever since the day he testified before the aforementioned jurors. And now this puissant neuralgia, a vexation which was vibrating through his temples like an earthquake, had reached a climatic crescendo which left him literally on the verge of being incapacitated.

But Breslin was a man on a mission, and even this whopper of a migraine wasn't going to keep him from completing the long overdue task of writing a sincere letter to each of his children. For regardless of the exact nature of what was to unfold in the morning, he had pretty much resigned himself to the fact that he was going to be incarcerated for a long, long time, and he was at long last coming to terms with the concept that there would be no miracle ending to his story. Realistically, the most he could hope for was a hung jury, and even then, he'd be stuck in jail for another year until a retrial could be scheduled, so he figured that he'd better send his love to his kids before they forgot about him completely.

And so now, here in his darkest hour, Breslin resolved that it was high time he let his feelings show, once and for all; he decided that it was high time he channel his flickering emotions and feed on the pain for the purpose of sending out a heartfelt note to each of his dear children; his dear children who were his only reason for hope; his dear children who he would do anything for, even if it meant taking another man's life to protect them; even if it meant wasting away in prison for the rest of his own sorry life.

Breslin had been desperately trying to pen the three conciliatory missives since early evening, but the narrative which was hidden somewhere deep within his heart refused to come forward. By his nature, he had always been a man of few words, but as the night wore on and as his headache intensified, he seemed to gain a sense of urgency, as if his life depended on the release of his inner most feelings; as if by exorcising this poignant pathos from his brain, he might somehow relieve the tension that was damming up his body like one enormous lump in the throat.

And then finally, just before midnight, the rambling words began to trickle off his pen; it was as if someone had untapped the spigot to his heart, and just like that, his long buried feelings began pouring out of his soul like a raging river being fed by an avalanche of icy snow sliding down from a melting mountaintop.

Without ever explicitly admitting guilt, to his son JJ, Breslin wrote:

JJ my brave son, you're the man of the house now, and I need you to be strong and to take care of your little brother and sister. I need you to be tough. And remember what I told you: never be ashamed of anything, and never let anyone push you around. And if your classmates ever tease you because your old man's in jail, then you punch them in the nose, just like I taught you. Because no matter what happens in life, you have to always fight for the things you believe in, just like I fought for you. If I'm guilty of anything JJ, it's that I loved you kids so much that I was willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for you, and that will never be a crime in my eyes. And that's why I have no regrets. Any real man who found himself in my shoes would have done the same thing. And so whatever you do, please never forget the values that I've tried to hand down to you...the same values that were instilled in me. Whatever you do, please don't ever forget where you came from...and be proud that you're a Breslin.

To his daughter Rebecca he wrote:

Darling Rebecca, you are the most beautiful little angel ever to walk on the face of this Earth. And although words could never express my feelings, you need to know that I love you more than anything in this entire world. And please remember that, no matter how many years go by, no matter how many men come along and try to steal your heart, you will always be daddy's little girl. And whatever you do, don't ever fret your pretty little self worrying about me. I'm a tough old son of a gun, and as long as you promise me that you'll be OK, then I'm sure that I'll be able to face whatever comes my way with a smile.

To his youngest son Kevin he wrote:

Kevin, my little trooper, I know that you are going to grow up to be a success at whatever you decide do with your life, and I know that you are going to make your daddy very proud. You were always the most talented member of the family; the best athlete, the smartest student, a naturally gifted musician, and a little joker to boot. Keep swinging for the fences my son and keep striving for greatness. God only knows how much you must hurt right now, but my hope is that someday when you are a little bit older, you'll understand the sacrifices that your daddy made for you. No matter what anyone says about me, don't believe a word of it. Your friends would be lucky to have a father who cares about them as much as I care for you. And please never, ever, forget how much daddy loves you.

Although hastily written, the concisely-worded dispatches were undeniably dripping with emotion, and the more that Breslin absorbed himself in his task, the more choked up he became. And try as he might to hold back the weeping, soon enough a torrent of tears came gushing down his face, just like the sentences that sprung from his soul like an untapped reservoir of sentimentality.

But strangely enough, although Breslin was aware of the fact that he was welling up inside, an awareness which was mainly due to the fact that the droplets of salty liquid were causing his stinging eyes to go blurry, he couldn't feel the tears rolling off his cheeks. Strangely enough, although he was aware of a tingling in his extremities, he couldn't feel the left side of his body, and as he attempted to get up off of his bunk to stretch his limbs, he collapsed onto the floor.

Initially, Breslin assumed that his leg had fallen asleep because of the awkward position he was lying in as he poured his heart out. But when he was unable to stand up, when he was unable to speak normally, when he was unable to see clearly out of his left eye, he knew for sure that something was terribly wrong.

By the time that Breslin came to this fearful cognition of his plight, his cellmate had been awoken by the sounds of a groaning plea for help, drifting from the floor of their cell, and once he realized what was happening, he began screaming for assistance.

Within minutes, Breslin's cell was a flurry of activity; a flurry of guards and EMTs and stretchers and IV lines and waiting ambulances. Within minutes, Breslin was being rushed to the nearest hospital, strapped to a gurney. Within minutes, Breslin was surrounded by a team of doctors who were desperately trying to revive him, regardless of whether he was a murder suspect, or a victim of violence, or a victim of circumstance. Within minutes, John Breslin went from being a man who was fighting for his freedom, to a man who was fighting...for his life.

And, unfortunately for Breslin, as it turned out, when the sun rose in the morning and a jury of his peers gathered to deliberate his case, he would be unavailable to witness his own demise; he would be unavailable to attend his own execution. And furthermore, with his damaged brain rendering him virtually unconscious for the next 24 hours, he would be unavailable, in body or spirit, to even so much as pray...for his ultimate redemption.

Chapter 104 – A Sudden Change of Plans

Tuesday morning June 24, 2008 – 6:05 AM

Frank Newlan woke up slightly hung-over after his rock & roll night out on the town. But apart from a minor headache, for the most part, he was otherwise none the worse for wear; except, that is, perhaps for the ringing in his ears, which was brought on by the deafeningly loud music taken in at point-blank range.

The tinnitus buzzing through Newlan's head might have caused a less experienced concertgoer to seek medical attention, but since he had once performed in a rock band of his own, he was well aware of the fact that the lingering whir, rattling-and-humming in his temples like a vibrating toy, was merely a temporary droning sensation which would subside over time; within the next 24 hours to be exact; fatefully enough, to be replaced by a far more earth-shattering series of reverberations.

But for the time being however, despite the customary concert night aftereffects, Newlan actually enjoyed a few hours of uninterrupted sleep for a change, and for the first time in weeks he was pleased to report that he wasn't haunted by one of his hellish nightmares.

As far the superstitious Newlan was concerned these positive factoids were all good omens which portended to an uptick in his cyclical pendulum. And as such, he was charged up and as ready as he would ever be to get this eventful day over with so that he could get back to his normal routine and start reaping the benefits of these momentously shifting tides; a new beginning which would coincide nicely with the end of this nerve-wracking, inconveniencing, murder trial phase of his life.

Even though a small number of his fellow jurors had pretty much kept their cards close to the vest, and even though Annie, the feisty HR clerk, actually seemed to be hinting at acquittal at one point during the trial, Newlan couldn't imagine the deliberations going forth beyond the end of the day (in spite of what he considered, in his humble opinion, to be the many unanswered questions surrounding the case which literally screamed out for an extended period of heated, no-stones-left-unturned analysis).

But regardless of his nagging doubts, Newlan was utterly convinced that Breslin was going down for the count. However, since it had already been decreed by the luck of the draw that he was going to have nothing whatsoever to do with the final outcome of the case, little-by-little over the course of the morning, he had gradually begun to write off his emotional investment in the trial in precisely the same way in which he tended to dispose of all his bad memories; that is to say, bury them deep within the dark, overstuffed closet of his mind; just unload the entire offending episode from the vast moving van of his memory banks as if it were all some sort of speculative stock loss being sold off for tax purposes, that was his plan.

And so it was against this repressive backdrop that Newlan anxiously prepared himself for the anticlimactic ending of the case on what he hoped would be his final day spent trapped inside the bowels of the Middlesex Superior Courthouse.

And yet, even though the outcome of the trial appeared to be a fait accompli, for some inexplicable reason, Newlan still detected a strange surge of excitable, if somewhat volatile, energy rushing through his entire body as he hurried on through his morning routine in anticipation of what was sure to be one of the most memorable days of his life.

Before heading out the door, Newlan scooped up the George Carlin anthology from off his desk, along with a few back issues of Rolling Stone magazine; in his mind he had decided that what he needed more than anything else to get him through this day was some light reading material to keep himself occupied while he patiently waited out the verdict, just like everybody else who was present in the courtroom was going to be doing.

Of course, Newlan couldn't leave his condo without first make a trip to his CD closet, and he abruptly concluded that from here on in, until the trial was over, it would be all Grateful Dead, all the time. However, as usual, the musical selection of the day wouldn't be _that_ easily decided; for he still had to complete the thorny task of deliberating over which of his many Grateful Dead CDs to bring along for the ride. Naturally, it took him an extended period of methodical contemplation, wading through the scattered skeletons in his closet, but eventually, after an engrossing bit of internal wrangling, he managed to pick out a handful of classic Dead CD's...and out the door he went in a tangled huff of sinking dread and buoyant exhilaration all rolled into one.

Not even the evil-eye stare of Saeed Kahn could shake the rickety optimism out of Newlan's soul on this beautiful summer morning; what with the sun shining, the birds chirping, and the Grateful Dead CD "Go to Heaven" blasting from his speakers as he sparked up a joint for the cruise down the highway.

By the time Newlan made his way into the courthouse parking garage, the CD had spun almost all the way through, and he stubbornly made up his mind that there was absolutely no possible way he could exit the cozy confines of his red Mercury Mystique, under any circumstances, until the last track of the disc, "Saint of Circumstance" had played itself out to completion; and of course, per usual, he sang along to the changing tempos of the tune as if his life depended on it, which in some inexplicable way, it surely did, what with its heavenly refrain of voyaging to the other side in search of a long-lost angel.

Not surprisingly, the song transformed Newlan into a man possessed, and he found himself uncontrollably clapping his hands and stomping his feet along with the beat as he assisted Bob Weir in punching out the gospel-like chorus which spoke of not knowing what you're searching for in life, but reaching for it just the same.

The chaotically empowering words stuck like glue to the heart of a suddenly overwrought and reflective Newlan, and as he sauntered towards the juror entrance of the courthouse, he suddenly became quite cognizant of the many ordeals he had slogged through in the past few weeks; he suddenly resolved that it was high-time he made some serious changes in his life; he suddenly adjudicated that as soon as he arrived home that evening, he was bound-and-determined to place a long overdue telephone call to Marianne Plante and profess his everlasting love for her until his dying days, even if it killed him.

Newlan remained pensively sedate while his friendly colleague, the elderly Patty, nervously chatted with him in an attempt to keep her mind occupied. Of course, Patty wasn't the only person in the waiting room sitting on pins and needles, and after the arrival of more than half the jittery jurors, Donny, the equally elderly Court Officer, popped his head in the door and thankfully provided the antsy crew with the temporary distraction of physical exertion as he shuttled them upstairs to their awaiting deliberation room; a room which had become their prison-like home-away-from-home for many a long day now; a room from which by day's end they would mercifully make their final departure from; a room which would soon become the focal point of the defendant John Breslin's life in the balance; a room which would at long last be used for its intended purpose.

The first wave of jurors obediently followed Donny's lead, and as they made their way off the elevator, out of the corner of his eye, Newlan unexpectedly came across the sight of Fred Miller's best friend and roommate, Robert Hurley, sitting by his lonesome, hunched over on a long wooden bench, clutching an ornate set of rosary beads.

And upon recognizing the approach of the marching jurors, Hurley chose, for reason known only to him, to peer directly into Newlan's wandering eyes, as if he were attempting to measure the soul of a stranger. But predictably enough, in response to this inquisitively restraining glance, our faithfully consistent protagonist promptly lowered his gaze in much the same manner that he had been practicing whenever he entered or exited the courtroom throughout the course of the past three weeks.

Despite his feigned indifference however, Newlan couldn't help but feel sorry for the poor, forlorn victim of despair. You see, from Newlan's probing vantage point, Hurley appeared to be utterly bereft of all hope. And he wasn't quite sure exactly why, but it was at that very moment that the magnitude of the day's pending decision hit him like a flaming meteor crashing down from the sky.

As one by one the jurors settled into the deliberation room, Newlan seemed to sense the tension in the air, building to a rumbling crescendo. And even though he himself would not be taking part in the deliberations, the stress of it all was still rubbing off on him nonetheless. Much like his involuntary pangs of sympathy for Robert Hurley, Newlan felt a solemn swelling of empathy and admiration rising up from his gut, and it was aimed squarely at his fellow jurors who, after all, never asked for this assignment any more than he did.

At around 9 AM Dan the handicapped juror rolled into the deliberation room on his wheelchair, followed in close pursuit by Billy the high-strung Court Officer, who was itching to get the show on the road. But alas, much to his chagrin, two jurors remained peculiarly unaccounted for.

Billy realized almost immediately that they were still waiting on a couple of late arrivals, based solely on the simple fact that there were a few too many empty chairs scattered about the room, and without giving the matter a second thought, he impatiently grunted in his heavy Boston accent, "alright who's missing?"

Even though the jurors had unanimously developed a fondness for Billy's playful bantering and his gruff exterior, he himself made it a practice of never getting caught up in the trap of becoming too emotionally attached to any of his juries. Billy had officiated over countless trials in his many years as a court officer, and as such, he often had trouble remembering the multitude of faces and names, which seemed to blend into one big melting pot of rainbow-filled colors and jumbled letters.

To remedy the current situation, Billy decided that a roll call was in order, but that exercise proved to be entirely unnecessary, for after a quick scan around the room, the jurors who were already on hand were easily able to discern the exact identity of their two colleagues who were still amongst the missing. Surely, it was almost impossible to miss the ever-present, larger-than-life persona of Jane in seat number 15; and surely it was almost equally impossible to miss the scrappy little senior citizen who may have been Breslin's only hope, namely the opinionated Annie in unlucky seat number 13. And so, before Billy ever even got down to an official head count, Stan, acting in his newly anointed role as the jury's foreperson, took it upon himself to informed the grumpy court officer who the missing parties were, and Billy in turn informed Judge Gershwin.

At this point in the proceedings, all the present-and-accounted-for jurors could do was to sit and wait for the arrival of their misplaced colleagues...and wait they did. They waited and waited and waited, until after about an hour of intense waiting, Billy breathlessly bound his way through the open doorway of the deliberation room with an urgent update.

"Juror number 15 will be here any minute...juror number 13 came down with an illness, she's off the trial...juror number 8...you're on deck."

Chapter 105 – Jane's Tricky Day

Tuesday morning June 24, 2008 – 9:45 AM

While Billy the Court Officer was in the process of breaking the stunning news to Frank Newlan regarding his unanticipated reinsertion onto the deliberation team, a Massachusetts State Police cruiser carrying Jane (AKA juror number 15 in the John Breslin murder trial) was rushing its way towards the Middlesex Superior Courthouse at breakneck speed, with blue lights flashing and sirens blaring loud enough to beat the band.

Jane had already been through quite the hectic morning, one for the ages to be exact, but unfortunately for her, she still had much to endure in the coming hours before she could even think of calling it a night. However, despite her present predicament, the day had started out well enough, or as well as could be expected when you just so happen to be a sitting juror on a much publicized murder trial and you're poised to make a decision that might put a man behind bars for the rest of his life. But then, in the blink of an eye, it all began to roll downhill faster than you can say "guilty of all charges".

As she had done since the beginning of the trial (other than for a minor dustup which lasted a couple of days), Jane met up with her fellow juror colleague, the spunky senior citizen, Annie, at the bus stop down the street from her home in the sprawling suburb of Medford Massachusetts, and from there, together they waited for the 286, which made a stop directly across the street from the courthouse.

Jane found it funny, in a non-amusing sort of way, that she and Annie had lived within a few blocks of each other for over ten years, and yet, up until the day that destiny placed them in the same jury pool, neither one of them was remotely aware that the other even existed.

Had she known of the specifics, what Jane might have found even funnier, and in an even less amusing sort of way, was the fact that another colleague of theirs on the jury, namely one Mr. Frank Newlan, also just so happened to reside in the same general vicinity of town where she and Annie lived.

For his part, on more than a few occasions over the last three weeks, Newlan found himself vividly recalling the ride on the courthouse elevator down to the lobby at the close of the very first day of the trial with the two women in tow. But more importantly, he vividly recalled himself covertly listening in as the female version of the odd couple discussed strategies regarding bus schedules and tokens and alternate routes. At the time he even considered offering the ladies a lift, but in the end he decided against it...and not surprisingly, as the days turned into weeks, and as they all became more acquainted with one another, he looked back on this spur of the moment decision with his usual dose of conflicted emotions.

At the time however, Newlan was burdened with a cargo of conflicted concerns regarding the implications of becoming too friendly with these total strangers. Of course, on the flipside, his fear that a simple gesture of goodwill might have led to them discussing the trial on a regular basis turned out to be quite prescient (especially when you consider what actually ended up taking place as far as them disobeying Judge Gershwin's marching orders on a regular basis). In any event, regardless of how things played out, in the final analysis he stood by his ruling in spite of the fact that it left him wrestling with a guilty conscience from day one of his civic obligation and never let up.

As a matter of fact, on each and every morning since the start of the trial, Newlan drove past the very same corner where Jane and Annie stood waiting for their bus, but since he was an early bird, he never came close to encountering his irascible colleagues, for if he had, even he wouldn't have been heartless enough to dash on by without offering them a ride.

And as fate would have it, Newlan just missed bumping into Jane and Annie by no more than a few minutes on this fine morning, which was too bad because, based on what was about to occur, Jane sure could have used his assistance, or anyone's assistance for that matter.

Jane had a funny feeling that this was going to be a difficult day, which was hardly a surprise based on the circumstances that she and her fellow jurors found themselves in, but the morning couldn't have gotten off to a worse start even if it had been scripted by some melodramatic Hollywood writer.

On the other hand, when Jane initially met up with Annie at the bus stop on this beautiful sunny morning, it seemed to be business as usual, with her patiently listening in as Annie bitched-and-moaned about her rising stress levels while they waited for the bus to arrive.

Jane attempted to reassure Annie that everything was going to be alright, while at the same time Annie chain-smoked a half a pack of cigarettes to make up for the nicotine cravings which were bound to build up over the course of a long day spent stuck inside the non-smoking courthouse, and all the while, the both of them were acutely cognizant of an oppressive sense of urgency that was looming in the summer air.

It didn't take long before Jane began to tune Annie out, just like she did every morning when her colleague's bellyaching reached the point where it was too much to take. And truth be told, all it really took on this stifling morning was for the feisty little HR clerk to turn her venomous barbs towards Tracy Stone and Nancy O'Brien, and just like that, Jane's blinders were wrapped on so tight that an unwitting darkness began to overpower her; just like that, the insulated world which she had worked so hard to build up, began to come apart at the seams; just like that, the start of her ordeal was about to begin in earnest.

But be that as it may, it was only when Annie began muttering that the trial was going to be the death of her, did things truly begin to go awry in Jane's improvident life. It was only when Annie began complaining of chest pains, and then shortness of breath, did things truly begin go amiss in Jane's myopic world. It was only when Annie collapsed on the pavement, did Jane truly begin to lose a hold of her jerry-built composure. It was then and only then that Jane began crying out for reinforcements; it was then and only then that she began screaming out a desperate plea for help; it was then and only then that the airtight safety of her sheltered, segregated life began to take on water; it was then and only then that the cut-and-dryness and the black-and-whiteness and the long-and-shortness of life on this mysterious planet Earth begin to seem a little less certain to her.

And ironically enough, out of all the ebony-toned, early-morning workers who were waiting at the bus stop, not one of them spoke a lick of English; not one of them had the slightest idea of what to do in the event of an emergency; not one of them could Jane turn to for a helping hand in her time of need. And to make matters worse, Jane, who had a cell phone sitting in her purse, which she could have used to dial 911, never made the obvious connection, and furthermore, in her panic and confusion, the thought never even crossed her mind.

Luckily for Jane however, and more importantly, most fortuitously for Annie's sake, the oversized 286 bus pulled up shortly after she had fainted, and the bus driver took charge of the situation, calling for aid on his transmitter and placing a pillow under Annie's head.

Soon enough, the emergency responders arrived and franticly went about the business of reviving the fallen Annie, while at the same time, the bus driver, his good deed done for the day, went on his merry way, which left poor Jane -- poor histrionics-loving Jane -- on her own to hysterically explain her quandary to the caring police officer who had just pulled up to the curb in his cruiser, right behind the mini-hospital on wheels.

And so that's how Jane found herself in the back of a police car zooming towards the courthouse faster than the speed of light. And so that's how Annie found herself in the back of an ambulance racing toward the nearest hospital in sight. And so that's how Frank Newlan found himself back on the deliberation team, accelerating like a bat out of hell, in an imminent, head-on, full-steam-ahead collision course with his past, his present...and his yet to come.

Chapter 106 – Deliberations Begin

Tuesday morning June 24, 2008 – 10:15 AM

When Jane finally arrived at the courthouse she looked to be a little bit frazzled, but otherwise, all in all, she was in seemingly good spirits. And although she didn't delve into too much detail regarding exactly what happened during the bus stop incident, other than to say that she believed Annie was going to be OK, it was clearly a harrowing experience that shook her far more than she cared to admit.

"Oh and by the way Frank, Annie sends her apologies. She felt badly that you're gonna have to take her place," added a somber Jane...and as her words took form and built into some sort of meaningful bridge inside of Newlan's distracted brain, he feigned a sense of composure while at the same time his defense mechanisms were already well into the process of kicking into high gear as he attempted to get a grip on this unexpected turn of events.

Newlan took the high road and he sheepishly replied with something to the affect that Annie's health was the far more important issue here, but deep inside he was ruefully kicking himself for not making use of Doctor Clay's note; in retrospect, he figured that at a minimum, he should have at least made an attempt at getting himself excused from the trial when he had the chance. And to make matters worse, of all the remaining jurors, Annie was the only one who had given even the least bit of credence to his contrarian opinions. He still recalled the way she made subtle eye-contact with him on a number of occasions, in an almost telepathic communiqué of agreement, and now even that lifeline had been taken away from him.

Newlan was caught completely off guard by his 11th hour reinstatement to the panel, and now he was suffering from a serious case of mixed emotions; a vexing condition which left him in a near state of panic. On the one hand, he was perplexed by his own brooding reaction to the news that he had been selected as the alternate juror; in fact, he was literally dumbfounded when he involuntarily found himself feeling torn over his exclusion from the deliberation team; and furthermore, he was so discombobulated when it appeared the verdict was going to be reached without his input that he practically fell into a state of depression. But on the other hand, once he had a chance to think it through and get used to the idea that it was no longer his battle to fight, he was perfectly content with being reduced to a spectator, sitting it out on the sidelines, like an injured athlete missing a big game; and as any athlete will tell you, they need ample time to get their game-face on, time which Frank Newlan was not going to be afforded.

If Newlan had known that he'd be taking part in the deliberations, he would have spent the night mentally preparing for the occasion by visualizing a variety of possible scenarios, just like modern athletes are trained to do these days with the help of sports psychologists.

However, regardless of Newlan's readiness, "the game must go on" as they say in the world of sports, and so shortly after Jane's arrival, Billy was back in the deliberation room bearing a note from Judge Gershwin which read as follows:

Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury,

The court has officially recognized that alternate juror number 8 will now replace juror number 13 who has been excused due to illness.

At this time, you may begin your deliberations.

Sincerely,

Mindy Gershwin

Associate Justice of the Superior Court

Newlan immediately honed in on the fact that they weren't being dragged into the courtroom before they start of their deliberations so that the session could be properly brought into order, just as the fastidious Judge Gershwin had distinctly informed them would be the case yesterday evening; and just as with any other deviation from his normal routine, this change of plans, this uncompleted item on their agenda, this unexplained divergence from protocol, had him anxiously scratching his head and grumbling that something wasn't right.

But even though this departure from ceremony was somewhat unusual, for the most part, none of Newlan's colleagues gave the matter much of a second thought, which left him apprehensively shrugging his shoulders in frustration; he figured that if this underwhelming reaction to the courtroom anomaly was any indication, then he was bound to be the odd man out when the final tally come tumbling down.

Newlan's assessment of his no-win place on the team was further reinforced by the odd behavior of the two jurors who were seated closest to him in the deliberation room. Once it became clear that Newlan was officially being hoisted back onto the team, Yong, the pretty Korean juror, who was seated at her customary position to his left, rose up abruptly and took a seat on the other side of the conference table where Annie usually sat, directly opposite him; and Mark, the network security specialist who was seated to Newlan's right, picked up his chair and slowly inched it away from him, leaving our paranoid protagonist alone on an imaginary island of his own making. The cold shoulder treatment was insulting enough, but what really disappointed Newlan more than anything else was the simple fact that he assumed he was on good terms with both Yong and Mark; but apparently he was wrong in that regard.

Thankfully for Newlan however, Stan, the astute jury foreperson, who was seated at the head of the table, recognized the fractured discomfort that this sudden change in seating plans might cause within the room, and so to rectify the situation, he moved tersely into the seat that Yong had just vacated.

At the time of Judge Gershwin's decision, Newlan was somewhat perplexed when she chose Stan to serve as their foreperson, but now he was thinking that maybe there was more to Stan than met the eye. He initially suspected that Stan was much too easy-going to lead this diverse group of headstrong people. But of course, he acknowledged that Judge Gershwin, however wise a jurist she might be, had no way of knowing any of Stan's personality traits, and yet maybe she was a better judge of character than he gave her credit for. Nevertheless, based on the way that Stan handled what could have been a very uncomfortable situation, Newlan was forced to reconsider his own doubts regarding their foreperson's qualifications.

And just when Newlan thought that things couldn't get any worse, Patty, the motherly juror who he had come to adore, broke down in a fit of tears before the first round of discussions had even commenced to take shape.

"I'm so frightened...and no matter what happens, I don't know if I can face the families," sniffled Patty, and as if on cue, a handful of jurors immediately surrounded her and heaped her with comforting words. However, it was only when Newlan approached and assured her that everything was going to be alright did she begin to regain her composure.

"You should try doing what I do and don't look out into the gallery...and whatever you do, don't make eye-contact with anybody," advised Newlan as he put a gentle arm around Patty. But despite his best efforts, it still took quite a bit of coaxing to calm down the petrified senior citizen.

While all of this bedlam was taking place, Stan was trying like heck to get everyone back on the same page, albeit with mixed results. Some of the more apprehensive jurors were looking to him for guidance, and based on his uncertain reaction, it once again became clear to Newlan that Stan was a reluctant leader and that his original first impression was as right as rain, just as it usually was.

"Maybe we should take a vote, you know, just to get an idea of where we're at," feebly suggested Stan, but his proposal was met with an immediate and voracious display of conflicting reactions which caught him completely off guard. As it turned out, roughly half of the jurors were for a vote and the other half were against the proposition, all of which left Stan anxiously scrambling for a backup plan.

For his part, Newlan felt that there were a few questions which needed to be discussed in great depth before they could even begin to think about taking a vote, and he actually surprised himself by the strength of his convictions.

Up until the point when John Breslin decided to testify, Newlan was convinced that the evidence was insufficient to merit a guilty vote, and so for the last week he had been preparing himself mentally for the onslaught of spirited debate that he was sure he'd face. However, after Breslin's bizarre testimony, even Newlan was struggling to make sense of the situation, and he felt the need to turn to his fellow jurors for advice.

"Let's take Breslin at his word for a minute and assume that his testimony was truthful. So where does that leave us?" innocently wondered Newlan. He had been tossing the question over in his mind all weekend, so figured that he might as well throw the topic out for discussion and see where it took them.

As one might expect based on the make-up of this particular jury, it didn't take long for Newlan to get his answer; a promptly cynical answer at that. For the life of him, he never expected the swift and furious negative reaction that he received from his colleagues, which was akin to feeding raw meat to a pack of hungry dogs.

The wheelchair-bound Dan was the first of many to rejoin Newlan's broad-brush painted query with a tersely-worded reply. But despite the uproar that had overtaken the room, his response was rather predictable as far as Newlan was concerned. And on top of that, for good measures, Dan also offered Newlan a disgusted glare to go along with his opinion.

"I, for one, don't believe a word that Breslin uttered on that witness stand...and furthermore, I refuse to play this game," growled Dan...and when most of his colleagues chimed in with similar comments, it left Newlan feeling totally blindsided; and yet, he wasn't intimidated in the least.

"Well if you ask me, Breslin seemed a lot more believable up on that witness stand than Nancy O'Brien and Tracy Stone combined. So if we're gonna completely toss out everything he said as one big lie, then I plan on doing the same thing for their testimony as well," countered the stubborn Newlan, who then one-upped Dan by adding, "and furthermore, if you think I'm playing games, then you're in for a rude awakening, because I'm dead serious."

And in return for his troubles, Dan offered Newlan a squinted-eye stare which seemed to say, "If I could get up out of this wheelchair, I'd beat the living shit out of you."

But regardless of intimidating glances, Newlan was unperturbed. He wasn't about to be bullied by anyone, and so the stare-down was on, which led to the understatement of the year from Stan.

"Um...I guess we have some work to do."

"Maybe we should look at some of the evidence," suggested the peacemaking Ron the banker.

"Yeah, I've been dying to get a good look at that picture of the red car," proclaimed Newlan in an attempt to change the subject. However, he left unsaid what he was really thinking, and that was that he was also very eager to focus the attention away from his dispute with the usually mild-mannered Dan.

Just before the start of the deliberations, Billy had rolled a large cart into the room; a cart which held every speck of evidence that had been submitted in the case. And as Newlan spoke of the red automobile, he casually strolled over to the cart and began canvassing through the exhibits.

Curiously enough, some of the items on the tray-cart reminded Newlan of his own memento-filled file cabinet. It took him a while to sift through the rubble, but he eventually came across a handful of neatly-labeled manila folders which were filled with various photographs and documents, as well as a pile of letters tightly wrapped in an elastic band, amongst other things.

Newlan tossed the carefully chosen items onto the middle of the deliberation room table, and when he did, a few of the crime scene photographs depicting Fred Miller's limp, bloodied body came flying hauntingly out of one of the oversized folders, as if they were being controlled by a magician who was playing a diabolical sleight-of-hand trick on his audience.

The horrified reaction of the female jurors was perhaps to be expected, but the stoic men actually took the time to review the grotesque photos for the possible presence of any hidden clues...and although the bloody images elicited more than a few grimaces, unfortunately they shed no further light on the task at hand.

In his absorbed state of mind, for a moment there, Newlan had completely forgotten about the red car, but then the crimson-shaded bloodstains which had tragically deformed poor Fred Miller's face instantly reminded him of his initial purpose. It took some doing, sifting through folder after folder, but when Newlan finally stumbled upon the photo of Sammy Fox's red 1995 Ford Taurus, he examined it closely on his own before excitedly pointing out what he had suspected all along.

"Look at this! There's not a single scratch on this bumper."

Newlan passed the photo off to his right where Mark was seated, but his reaction wasn't nearly as enthusiastic as Newlan's had been, or as he had hoped it would be.

"From the angle of this photo, we can't really even see the bumper all that closely," explained Mark, and, not surprisingly, Newlan's counter-reaction was almost as incredulous as DA Lyons and Defense Attorney Gleason at their combined best.

"Well, it was the prosecution that entered this snapshot into evidence, so riddle me this Mark, why didn't they provide a photo that showed the scratches on the bumper? Could it be because there were no scratches?" contended Newlan.

And although Mark may have been decidedly underwhelmed with Newlan's observation, his theory perked the interest of at least a few of his colleagues who took turns studying the photo almost as closely as he did. The snapshot slowly made its way around the room, passed gingerly from person to person, and when it finally landed back in Newlan's hands, he held it up above his head like a school teacher might do, and he went on to add some more context to his original commentary.

"I've been wanting to discuss this picture ever since the day it was submitted into evidence, because if my memory serves me correctly, not one witness ever positively identified Fox's vehicle...and, as a matter of fact, a couple of the witnesses seemed to be describing a completely different car from the one that's in this snapshot. One person said the bumper was scratched. One person said it was a Toyota or a Honda. One person said it was a small, boxy car...and unless I'm going blind, this car isn't small, and it isn't boxy...and it isn't a Toyota...and it isn't a Honda. And come to think of it, why didn't DA Lyons show this photo to any of the witnesses and ask them to identify it?"

"Well, I think I might know one reason why she didn't dare go down that road. It's because she knew that no one could identify the car in this photo as being the same car that they saw in that garage on the day of the murder, that's why."

Newlan paused to catch his breath, and then in a raised voice he added, "Look, I don't care what anybody thinks, this damn car doesn't have a single scratch on its bumper, and so in my humble opinion, if we can't place Fox's car at the scene of the crime...then there is no case. And besides, what kind of a hit man drives his own car to a murder? Don't you think he would have used a stolen car, or at least get a hold of car that couldn't be traced back to him?"

Dan, who was still upset with Newlan for having the audacity to insinuate that Breslin might have been telling the truth, was becoming rather impatient, and under no uncertain terms was he going to put up with his drivel. And as such, he flat-out let Newlan have it.

"Oh please Frank, enough with the drama," pleaded Dan in a mocking tone. But now that he was on a roll, Newlan wasn't about to back down. Wheelchair or no wheelchair, he had had just about enough of Dan as well.

"Of all people, you should know better Dan. You drive that souped-up Taurus, and there's no mistaking your car for a Honda Civic," came hurtling Newlan's response by way of retaliation.

However, making use of Dan's specially-equipped automobile in his analogy was an ill-advised tactic on Newlan's part and in retrospect he would be the first to admit it; for although the car's Batmobile-inspired features were designed specifically for a handicapped driver, Newlan was referring to the fact that the vehicle was the same make and model as Sammy Fox's automobile, and he never intended to poke fun at Dan's disability. Of course, Dan didn't see it that way, and he was not amused, to say the least.

"What do you mean by that?" roared Dan while at the same time Newlan held his palms out in a gesture of peace as he attempted to backpedal from his stance.

"Nothing personal Dan, I was just making the point that you drive a big car...a Taurus no less...and unless I'm mistaken, I don't think a Ford Taurus could ever be confused with a small, subcompact car."'

"Well what does everyone else think?" interrupted Stan in an effort to get Newlan and Dan separated again.

"I think that none of this matters," angrily replied Mike the car salesman who up until this point had been sitting quietly in the corner, patiently observing the proceedings.

"Of course it matters," countered Newlan.

"How the heck does it matter? Breslin admitted that Fox committed the murder, and I know for a fact that he did it, so I don't know why the hell we're even talking about any of this crap," shot back Mike before realizing that he may have revealed way too much information.

No one in the deliberation room had any idea that Mike was basing his opinions partially on the inside information he had obtained on the night that he just so happened to wander into the same Northtown bar which was frequented by Sammy Fox's associates (not to mention Billy), but nonetheless he cringed at his own slip-up, and luckily for him, no one picked up on his blunder.

Newlan realized full well that Breslin's own words were the crucial flaw behind any of his theories, and he acknowledged as much, which led Mike to apologize for his animated outburst.

"Look Frank, I don't want to get into an argument with you, and I'm sorry for getting upset. I really do want to hear everybody's' opinions, but as far as I'm concerned, he's guilty and that's all there is too it," insisted Mike.

However, Newlan's thought-provoking conjecture had at least one person in the room pondering the merits of his theories, for out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Natalie attempting to make eye-contact with him, but for what purpose he didn't quite know just yet.

In any event, while the debate raged on, John Breslin's gut-wrenching letters and emails to his wife Tracy and her sister Beth made their way around the room, and once again, the opinions varied from one extreme to the other. Some of the jurors read between the lines and perceived a seething rage hidden behind Breslin's words, while others, including Newlan, saw a man suffering in great pain over the breakup of his marriage.

But while Newlan found Breslin's correspondences fascinating, for selfish reasons, he was much more interested in Fred Miller's emotionally draining, heartfelt letter to Tracy Stone; particularly the page that contained the words to the Grateful Dead song "Built to Last".

And as he skimmed through the familiar lyrics, Newlan's mind suddenly became paralyzed with flashbacks related to all of the strange parallels which indelibly linked him to Fred Miller, from his ominous Grateful Dead concert dream as he napped on the back of the bus bound for the murder scene, to the image of himself in the background of Miller's Grateful Dead concert photo...and all of the unbelievable happenstances in between. And through it all, he could come to only one irrevocable conclusion; "something bad is gonna happen."

Despite his cyclical astrological theory which seemed to suggest that he was in for a streak of good fortune, Newlan still couldn't get it out of his head that something bad was going to happen...and soon.

But as it turned out, before Newlan ever had a chance of becoming too wrapped in his irrational fears, he was snapped out of his daze by the buzz-saw roar of Jane and Pam, the freelance web designer, who were debating the 'real' motive behind Breslin's actions.

"It was never about the kids," insisted Jane, while Pam was equally adamant that it _was_ about the children. And with his attention once again diverted for the time being, Newlan put aside his own concerns long enough to enter back into the fray.

"Come on Jane, it was at least partly about the kids. Just look at the facts. The night that Miller was hanging out over at Breslin's house and Tracy called the cops because of the harassing phone calls, the kids were there. And when Miller showed up at the hospital, the kids were there that time as well. Those were the incidents where Breslin got the most upset...and who can blame him?" reasoned Newlan.

It didn't take long for the majority of the jurors to jump into the debate...and before you knew it, there was pandemonium in the room. But in the end, they unanimously agreed that it didn't really matter whether it was, or wasn't, about the children, and they wisely moved on.

The next topic floated out by Jane was that of the money trail, which once again had Newlan perplexed. Jane insisted that the money Breslin allegedly handed over to Fox, some time just before Christmas of 2005, was definitive proof of Breslin's guilt, but Newlan remained utterly unconvinced.

"Jane could you please enlighten us as to how the evidence supports your theory?" politely asked Newlan.

"Well, isn't it obvious? Breslin retrieves some of the money that Charlie Mercurio was holding for him, and then the next thing you know, Fox is buying expensive gifts for Nancy O'Brien's kids," surmised Jane.

"Yeah but didn't Mercurio say that Breslin wanted the money to buy gifts for his own kids? Doesn't that sound plausible as well? After all it _was_ Christmastime, and he _did_ need money to buy gifts...and on top of that, DA Lyons never presented definitive proof that Breslin supplied Fox with any additional cash, other than what he admitted to. Fox was a crafty dude, so I'm sure he had other ways to keep the money flowing in without Breslin's charitable contributions," countered Newlan.

After the money trail review ran its course, the conversation moved on in the direction of Breslin's elderly mother, and once again the opinions were mixed. Yong, in particular, uncharacteristically turned into a coldblooded assassin as she vigorously attempted to throw Mrs. Breslin under the bus, but Newlan was having none of it.

"We never found out for sure how that 2006 series hundred dollar bill ended up in the pile of 2005 money, but I'm still not convinced it wasn't planted," argued Newlan.

"Oh here we go again with the conspiracy theories," sarcastically announced Mike, and his opinion was seconded by at least half the jurors.

Newlan however, still wasn't backing down. He had invested too many sleepless nights to let the moment slip by without at least stating his opinions. He suddenly shot out of his seat and began rummaging through the evidence tray again, and this time he pulled out another item which he found to be quite interesting.

"Aha," exclaimed Newlan, as he held up the package that contained the binoculars which Breslin supposedly used to spy on Fred Miller, or at least that was the not-so-subtle insinuation by DA Lyons.

"Look at the price tag on the binoculars, $9.99...it's no more than a toy," trumpeted Newlan.

"Yeah, so what?" countered Mike.

"So what...well I'll tell you what," mimicked Newlan with an incredulous look plastered on his face.

"Can't any of you see the games that get played in these trials? For instance, what about the stuff that the police supposedly found in Fox's car...the wash cloths, the ski mask, the gloves, or whatever the hell it was...that stuff was planted...no question in my mind about it. And then we had the stipulation from Fox's daughter that they were driving around town with a gun in the back seat of his car...how ludicrous is that?" maintained Newlan with a disgusted shake of the head thrown in for good measure.

"As I told you before Frank, the testimony in that stipulation stated that Fox pulled over at some point during the ride, and that's when he took the gun out of the trunk and placed it in the back seat," corrected Mark.

Newlan couldn't quite understand the relevance of Mark's clarification so he took a page out of Mike's book and replied in kind with a "yeah, so what?" of his own.

"Isn't it obvious? Fox arranged for someone to get rid of the gun...the murder weapon," added Mark.

"Oh sure...a career criminal who was released from prison on weapons charges a few years ago is gonna leave a gun in the back seat of his car, out in the open where anyone could see it...that makes no sense at all. What if he got pulled over for a traffic violation? He might as well have put a sign on the door that said "gun in back seat!" And on top of that, this supposed incident occurred a month after the trial. If it was really the murder weapon, don't you think he would have disposed of it sooner than that?" insisted a frustrated Newlan. But alas, no one else seemed to appreciate the fallacy that he saw in some of the prosecution's claims.

As a matter of fact, not many of Newlan's colleagues were buying into _any_ of his rhetoric. But not surprisingly, that didn't stop him from getting up on his soapbox one more time.

"Look I'm not trying to disparage DA Lyons. She's a brilliant attorney and so is Gleason, but they were both guilty of trying to sneak little bits of dubious, prejudicial information into the trial, which was purposely intended to mislead us...and I for one just don't think we should be basing a man's fate on anything other than indisputable facts," persisted Newlan. His rant was quickly beginning to pick up steam again, but before he could get himself too wound up, Jane interrupted him and she decided it was time to pull out the trump card once and for all.

"You want undisputable facts do you? Well I'll give you undisputable facts. How about the phone calls? Close to a hundred suspicious, secretive phone calls. How do you explain that Frank?" demanded Jane.

Newlan realized full well that he didn't have much ammunition when it came to the bevy of covert phone calls, but he threw his own little pontificating wrinkle into the mix nonetheless.

"The phone calls were definitely suspicious, and I'll be the first one to admit it. I'm sure it would be obvious to anyone with half a brain that Breslin and Fox were up to no good, but like Gleason pointed out, there's no way of knowing what was said during any of those phone calls. And another thing that's been bothering me was Fox's behavior on the day of the murder. Why would they be so secretive for months and then suddenly Fox is dialing every phone number on the Tex-Ray switchboard trying to get a hold of Breslin? Doesn't that seem odd to anyone but me? Doesn't that make anyone think that maybe, just maybe, Fox didn't actually murder Miller? Maybe, just maybe, he was trying to extort money from Breslin, just like Gleason theorized."

"I'm sorry Frank, but I think you're giving these guys way too much credit. They're not that smart," opined Mike.

"Oh don't kid yourself. They were smart all right. They were as cunning as a couple of foxes in a henhouse," replied Newlan, not even realizing his unintended pun; a play on words which managed to coax a smile out of at least a few of his colleagues.

"And what about Fox's gimpy knee? Was it even physically possible for him to have committed the murder and then limp off without anyone seeing a thing?" asked Newlan, more to himself than to any of his fellow jurors specifically. But regardless of who the question was intended for, the street-smart Mike took the bait and he patiently attempted to explain how the criminal mind works.

"Of course it's possible. You saw how dark it was in that garage...and that was after they installed the new-and-improved lighting. Fox could have easily hid behind one of those support beams. Don't you see Frank, Miller was caught off guard. It's the element of surprise. Fox could have easily approached Miller's car without arousing suspicion. After all, Miller had no idea who he was. He could have easily tapped on the window and then asked Miller for the time of day, or for a cigarette, or something like that...and then BOOM, just like that, he shot Miller dead," speculated Mike, and for added weight he formed his hand into a fisted pistol as he shouted out the word 'BOOM'.

"Well, I guess it's possible...but still, it does make me wonder how the hell Fox could have pulled this off," admitted Newlan.

At that point in the proceedings, the debate surged forward with very little ebb and flow to it, and before the jurors knew what hit them, Billy was knocking on the door with their lunches. They had been deliberating for over two hours already, even though for most of them it barely seemed like two minutes.

After Billy left the room, Stan once again threw out his own food-for-thought idea of taking an official tally, and in between bites of their sandwiches, his colleagues agreed that they should wait until after lunch and discuss a few more points before even considering the notion of casting ballots.

However, Stan must have felt as though his foreperson responsibilities required him to move things along more rapidly, because he took it upon himself to ask a follow-up question.

"Well can we at least get a show of hands from anyone who is leaning towards not guilty?"

And even though Newlan was expecting that he might have to come to some sort of compromise before all was said and done, he was still considering raising his hand just to keep the debate going until he was ready to give in.

But before putting up his own hand, Newlan scanned the length of the room in a desperate search for an unmarked path into his colleagues' minds...and predictably enough, all he saw were eleven impassive faces staring back at him in return. But then suddenly something totally unexpected came into his line of vision and he watched in amazement as Natalie, like a first grade student confessing to talking behind the teacher's back, timidly raised her hand...as if it were a white flag...of surrender.

### Chapter 107 – There's Always Hope (Until There's no Hope)

Tuesday afternoon June 24, 2008 – 3:20 PM

There was nothing R. J. Gleason could do now but wait. Throughout the morning and into the afternoon, Gleason had been pacing the halls of the Middlesex Superior Courthouse like a first-time father in the waiting room of a local hospital.

After all the high-profile trials that Gleason had worked on over the course of his celebrated career, one would think that he'd have become accustom to the waiting by now. But alas, this phase of the trial never got any easier for him, even after all these years.

And to make matters worse, Gleason wasn't feeling very confident at the moment, and for one of the few times in his days as a defense attorney, he actually felt as if he had let his client down. As he traipsed about the corridors, the trial continued to play back over and over in his mind like a slow-motion replay, and all the while he wondered where and why it all went so wrong. Of course, deep inside he already knew the answer to his tormenting questions; he already knew exactly where the root of the problem was buried; he already knew that from the moment he was unable to convince his client, John Breslin, not to take the stand in his own defense, his fate, for all intent and purpose, was sealed.

"I know it's his right to testify, but I never should have let him do it...regardless of how badly he wanted to be heard, regardless of how badly he wanted to tell his side of the story, I never should have allowed it," mumbled Gleason as he swiftly made his way towards the elevator.

As the seconds slowly ticked away like some sort of cruel water torture, Gleason hastily decided to slip outside for a whiff of fresh air...and after a brief stroll around the courthouse grounds, he found himself a shady, tree-lined park bench in a roped-off section of the courtyard which was off-limits to reporters. However, this minor restriction, not to mention a swarming police presence, still didn't prevent the pesky news photographers from snapping picture after picture as they stood on their perch, just beyond the yellow police divider, and the flash bulbs really kicked into high gear when the lawyer for accused wife and child killer, Neil Townshend, joined Gleason on the outdoor settee.

Townshend's attorney, Robert Ensberg, was an elderly gentleman, and like Gleason, he had represented his fair share of lunatics and madmen and victims of Greek tragedies in his time. He and Gleason had crossed paths on countless occasions over the decades, and they had swapped many a war story over a steak and few beers at the annual National Association of Defense Attorneys conference which they both made a point of attending just about every year.

The two renowned defense attorneys rose and shook hands, and they bestowed each other with a brief, friendly embrace, all of which was caught on film for prosperity by the relentless press corps. They were genuinely happy to bump into each other at such a trying time, for there was no one else in the world who could relate to what the other was going through better than they themselves could.

Coincidentally, the Townshend jury, as well as the McMahn jury, had begun deliberations on the very same day as the Breslin jury, and this unlikely bit of synchronicity led directly to the chance encounter by the two longtime associates.

"I've been following your case, old buddy...and it looks like your client is in even worse shape than mine," noted Gleason with a rueful smile highlighting his pale face.

Ensberg nodded his head and grinned sheepishly in agreement.

"Oh yeah, my guy's going down. He said he didn't do it so I had to come up with something...a dozy of a story I might add...but no one in their right mind is gonna buy it. Oh well...wasn't it you who once told me that you can't make chicken salad out of chicken shit?" proclaimed Ensberg with a shrug of the shoulders, and for a moment, the two men chuckled at the insanity of their work. But then, just as quickly, they put their serious hats back on and debriefed each other regarding their latest hopeless causes.

"Well I did catch one break," added Gleason. "The sole juror who I thought might be sympathetic to our cause was chosen for the only available alternate's seat...but then this morning, another juror came down with an illness, so 'the keeper' as I like to call him, is thankfully back on the case."

"Is it true that your client also had a medical situation?" inquired Ensberg.

"That it is," replied Gleason. "And you can rest assured that if he's found guilty, an appeal will be forthcoming."

"You don't think he could have faked it, do you?" wondered Ensberg.

"Of course not," replied Gleason with a wink and a smile as he suddenly recalled instructing Breslin to utilize his migraine headaches to his advantage.

Gleason didn't really believe that Breslin could have pulled off such an elaborate ruse; a con job for the ages; a scam which would have required him to dupe a team of highly regarded medical specialists; but then again, he thought, if anyone could do it, he'd put his money on John Breslin.

Nevertheless, regardless of what Breslin did or didn't do, for some reason, Gleason's unspoken words of trickery had Ensberg feeling momentarily hopeful, or perhaps he was merely attempting to convince himself that there was still a sliver of a chance for his client. But either way, he picked up his own spirits, as well as Gleason's, by clinging on to a hope and a prayer, albeit by the skin of his teeth.

"And despite all of the speculation and drivel that's being spit out by the hordes of media, at least the juries are still deliberating...so...you never know," reflected Ensberg as Gleason nodded his head in concurrence.

The national and local media members who had been religiously covering the trials of the horrible hubbies had unanimously predicted swift guilty verdicts in all three cases, which didn't surprise Gleason in the least. He had come to loath the Nancy Grace's of the world; he had come to despise their bloated rhetoric. But irrespective of anyone's opinion, the time for conjecture was over, for as Ensberg had so succinctly pointed out, it was all in the hands of the jury now, and you just never knew what they were going to do.

In their long and illustrious careers, both Gleason and Ensberg had witnessed innumerous stunning verdicts with their own two eyes, not to mention the many national TV shockers ranging from O. J. Simpson, Robert Blake, and Michael Jackson, to the notorious Teflon Don, John Gotti, so they were well aware of the fact that all was not lost, no matter how glum things appeared to be at the moment.

"As I like to say, there's always hope until there's no hope," declared Gleason with a doleful half-smile, to which Ensberg wholeheartedly offered his agreement.

The casual chit-chat stretched on for a while longer, and just when Gleason's pep-talk with his colleague had him feeling slightly better about the state of things, his cell phone went off with the startling ring of a special-effect that he had programmed into the clever mobile device specifically for certain ultra-important phone numbers...and an anxious look spread across his face as he listened intently to the voice on the other end of the line.

Gleason shot up from his seat on the bench and he hurriedly shook hands with Ensberg again as he abruptly said his farewells.

"Gotta go...I'm wanted up in the courtroom...looks like the verdict is in," declared Gleason as he glanced down at his watch. "Roughly five hours...not sure whether that's a good sign or not...but we'll soon find out."

And with that, the renowned defense attorney rode off into the sunset...on a horse that was called...The American Way.

Chapter 108 – A Stalemate?

Tuesday afternoon June 24, 2008 – 3:30 PM

It had been over two hours since the jurors in the John Breslin murder trial looked on in stunned silence as their colleague Natalie raised her hand in quiet defiance to announce her not guilty vote...and still the debate raged on.

Based on Breslin's own testimony, Newlan felt it was a given that everyone in the room would at a minimum find him guilty of conspiracy; he also felt it was a given that Breslin would be found guilty, at least to some level of complicity, on the murder charge; although whether it would be first degree, second degree, or manslaughter, he wasn't quite sure. And so it was with these unsettled feelings lingering in his mind that he enthusiastically advocated for Natalie to expound upon her decision, just in case she had picked up on something that he might have missed.

"I for one would like to hear what you have to say," urged Newlan. He was cautiously hopeful that perhaps she had come up with something that never crossed the rest of their minds, and sure enough she had.

Natalie was conspicuously fidgety and her nerves were shot, but she bravely offered up her theory nonetheless.

"Did anyone else happen to notice that there was an empty parking spot at the front of the garage, close to the street entrance, on the morning of the murder?" wondered Natalie.

The large cardboard drawing depicting the inside of the garage, which DA Lyons had used to mark the identity of each and every automobile that was parked in the lot when the police blocked off the entrance, sat leaning against the wall behind the evidence cart like a discarded poster, even though, since it wasn't marked as an exhibit, it technically shouldn't have even been in the room. Nevertheless, upon catching wind of Natalie's inference, Pam retrieved the diagram and hoisted it up high so that everyone could see it. And sure enough, along with the empty spot where the unidentified red car had been parked, there it was; another unoccupied parking space, unaccounted for up until now, in close proximity to the front of the garage, just as Natalie had suggested.

However, the majority of Natalie's colleagues weren't seeing the significance of her observation, and even Newlan was wondering where she was going with her supposition.

"What does that prove?" argued Mike. "Someone who had legitimate business to attend to in the area could have been parked in that spot, and then that same person could have left before the body was discovered, oblivious to the crime that just took place."

"Yeah, someone like the murderer...he surely had some business to attend to in the area. Don't you see? Wouldn't the murderer have chosen a parking spot close to the front entrance so that he could make an easier getaway out of the garage?" confidently replied Natalie. But besides Newlan, none of her fellow jurors were seeing even the least bit of logic in her theory, and even he was somewhat skeptical.

"That doesn't make any sense. The murderer would have had to gun down Miller and then hustle to the front of the garage, just to get in his car. Whereas if he was parked across from Miller, like the red car was, it would have made it much easier for him to slip back into his vehicle and pull out of the garage unnoticed...especially if the murderer had a bum knee," countered Mark. But Natalie shook her head in stubborn disagreement.

"In my mind, the theory that Gleason proposed in his closing statement, the same theory that Frank brought up this morning, makes a lot of sense to me. Someone else killed Fred Miller, and when Sammy Fox heard about it on the news, he figured that maybe he could weasel some more money out of Breslin. And did anyone else notice that Fox never actually told Breslin that he killed Miller? He only said something to the affect that his problem had been taken care of. And like Frank said, why in his right mind would Fox have called Breslin's office a few hours after he committed the murder? What possible reason could there have been? Wouldn't Breslin have already known what was going down if they had it all planned?" wondered Natalie, and Newlan couldn't help but smile that sly smile of his when she tossed his name into the mix.

"You have to admit, it _is_ very curious that Fox and Breslin were acting so secretively for months, but then as soon as the hit took place, Fox decided to go crazy, calling random phone numbers over at the Tex-Ray building, trying to get a hold of Breslin," added Newlan, but by now their fellow jurors were exasperated, none more so than Mike.

"Come on guys, this whole extortion idea was never part of Gleason's defense. He never even hinted at any of this until his closing statement, because by then, he had no other alternative but to come up with some crazy story to explain Breslin's bizarre testimony," reasoned Mike. He then pointed in Natalie and Newlan's direction as he lobbed another question their way.

"Could one of you please explain to me why Gleason's opening statement and his strategy throughout the trial didn't even remotely match his closing arguments?" demanded Mike, while at the same time Natalie glanced over in Newlan's direction with a look on her face that appeared to be asking for guidance. But alas, neither one of them had a logical answer to Mike's latest inquiry.

"I'll tell you why, because Gleason never wanted Breslin to testify in the first place," continued Mike. "It's rare for an attorney to advise his client to testify, especially in a murder trial. But once Breslin decided to go for it, once he royally botched it up, Gleason had no choice but to come up with some cockamamie theory that makes no sense at all," reiterated Mike.

And while all this 'deliberating' if you will, was going on, Stan the reluctant foreperson tried, to the best of his abilities, to keep the situation under control. But much to his chagrin, the battle lines had been drawn...and a peace settlement appeared to be...nowhere...in sight.

Chapter 109 – They're Ready for you Your Honor

Tuesday afternoon June 24, 2008 – 4:05 PM

Associate Justice of the Superior Court, Mindy Gershwin, sat imperviously behind the enormous mahogany desk in her judge's chamber, catching up on some long overdue paperwork...and like everyone else who had an interest in the outcome of the John Breslin murder trial, all she could do now was to wait patiently for the jury's decision.

By now a little bit of background on the honorable Judge Gershwin is probably long overdue, and thus without further ado, you the dear reader should be made aware of the fact that she graduated with honors from Columbia University's School of Law. As one might suspect, she was a diligent student and a tireless worker, so it should come as no surprise that she was ultimately appointed, posthaste, to the Massachusetts District Court Bench in the spring of 1983

Being the industrious jurist that she was, Judge Gershwin gradually worked her way up to the Superior Court, and prior to her judicial appointment, she had served nobly as Federal Defender, and later as a member of the Massachusetts Parole Board.

Judge Gershwin was universally known by both the district attorney's office and the Massachusetts Association of Criminal Defense Lawyers to be tough but fair. For example, on the one hand, she had once battled with the Secretary from the Office of Public Safety over a court-ordered early release program which she had resolutely championed but which the Secretary vehemently opposed. While on the other hand, she had recently sentenced an elderly grandmother to three years in prison for grand larceny in case where the woman had pilfered funds totaling more than two hundred thousand dollars from her employer.

Over her long and distinguished career, Judge Gershwin was no stranger to controversy, but she always stood by her old adage that if neither party appeared to be particularly happy with her rulings, then that was usually a good sign that she had done her job as far as serving as an impartial arbiter. And regardless of sentencing guidelines, she was also known to consider extenuating circumstances when it came time for meting out punishment, whether it be throwing the book at a violent rapist, or showing leniency to a manslaughter defendant who acted in a fit of passion.

However, even when assessed in its totality, Judge Gershwin's vast sum of experience and training never fully prepared her for what might be about to unfold in the John Breslin murder case. If the jury convicted Breslin of first degree murder then the decision would be taken out of her hands, since by Massachusetts law she would have no other choice but to sentence him to life in prison without the possibility of parole. But if a verdict of anything less than first degree murder was returned, it would result in her being forced to make a monumental decision because, as much as she hated to admit it, there _were_ extenuating circumstances in this case which by right had to be considered.

In any event, Judge Gershwin had learned long ago never to fret over a decision until she was completely sure whether it was necessary to be made or not, and so in the meantime, she attempted to keep herself occupied by reviewing a defendant's brief for the appellate court.

Nevertheless, in much the same manner that R. J. Gleason wrestled with the decisions he had made throughout the course of the trial, Judge Gershwin couldn't help but replay the case over and over in her mind, all the while critiquing her own performance, albeit for entirely different reasons than the noted defense attorney.

For although Judge Gershwin may have been an adjudicator by trade, when you got right down to it, she was still a human being at heart, complete with all of the flaws and complexities that make us as a species so unique. And as such, she could see well beyond the bombast of both attorneys. She could see that for the most part, Breslin was a family man; she could see that in many ways, he was a good man who just so happened to have suffered from an extremely bad lapse of judgment. Conversely, she could see that Fred Miller was a man who possessed his share of personal problems. But on the other hand, she could also see clearly that the lovelorn Miller was not a man who deserved to have had his life taken away from him in its prime.

Yes, the visionary Judge Gershwin could see all of these things and so much more. But alas, her foresight came to an abrupt end when Billy knocked on her door, and with an anxious twang of excitement ringing in his voice, he announced, "They're ready for you your honor."

Chapter 110 – Over a Woman

Tuesday afternoon June 24, 2008 – 4:15 PM

The tension was so thick inside of courtroom 630 of the Middlesex Superior Courthouse that you could have cut it with the proverbial knife. And as one might expect, emotions were running high, like a fevered temperature, throughout the packed courtroom, from the four corners of the gallery to the depths of the jury box, right on down through the center aisle that separated the Miller's and the Breslin's and the district attorneys and the defense lawyer; all of them crumpled up into a pair of distinctly counterbalanced war-units who were presided over by the intimidating, elevated platform which of course contained the judge's desk, along with the honorable Judge Gershwin standing firmly in command.

As was his standard practice, Newlan kept his eyes peeled firmly to the ground as he shuffled to his seat at the end of the jury box. And as such, until Judge Gershwin made her unprecedented announcement, he never even realized that the defendant John Breslin was amongst the missing.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, as you might have noticed, Mr. Breslin is not in attendance with us today. According to his doctor, he suffered an apparent stroke, sometime during the overnight hours, and he is now resting comfortably at an undisclosed hospital," stoically apprised the equitable judge.

"So that's why they didn't trot us out here before we began our deliberations this morning. Judge Gershwin and the lawyers must have figured that Breslin's medical emergency might have affected our decision. I bet this will be sure grounds for an appeal," whispered Newlan into the totally unresponsive ear of Natalie who appeared to be shaking like a leaf.

And although Natalie was indeed an emotional wreck, her reaction was actually quite tame compared to the rest of her female counterparts on the jury, many of whom were weeping softly into their handkerchiefs. The announcement of the verdict was now only seconds away, and it was obvious that this climactic scene called for much more level-headedness than most of the emotionally distraught jurors could muster.

For his part, Newlan bit his lip in a futile attempt to keep his cool. And even though it turned out to be a losing battle, he might have been able to pull off his impassive pose had it not been for Patty's cries, which echoed ever so gingerly above the white-noise din of the courtroom buzz. Apparently Newlan's morning pep talk had worn off, and he felt badly that there wasn't a damned thing he could do to help the kindhearted Patty after all she had done for him.

In an almost déjà vu-like flashback, Newlan once again watched on rather indifferently as Dan consoled Jane with a series of massaging strokes to the back of her shoulders, just as he had done when the introduction of the crime scene photos elicited an anguished reaction from the pit of her stomach right down to the core of her very being. Ironically enough however, when Newlan discerned that Natalie was also beginning to tear up, he followed Dan's lead and caressed her as well in a tender show of support.

But despite the scattered sounds of whimpering coming from the jury box, and despite the breathless murmurs leaking out from the gallery, you could have probably heard a pin drop in the hushed courtroom when Assistant Clerk Dan Dente finally got around to asking the million dollar question.

"Mr. Foreman, on the count of conspiracy to commit murder, how do you find the defendant, guilty or not guilty?" enquired Dente, and in return, Stan, the embattled jury foreperson, whispered "guilty" in a voice so low that Newlan could barely hear him, even though they were seated just a few feet apart from each other.

"And on the count of murder how do you find the defendant, guilty or not guilty?" continued Dente, and once again Stan replied with a softly imparted one word answer, "guilty."

"Guilty of what Mr. Foreman?" added Dente in a demanding tone.

"Guilty of murder in the second degree," muttered Stan...and with that, the John Breslin murder trial was officially over. And with that, Judge Gershwin announced that sentencing would be a week from today. And with that, it would now be up to her, in her infinite wisdom, to dish out the appropriate punishment for one Mr. John Breslin.

The entire episode felt so surreal to Newlan that he had the urge to pinch himself, lest he come to find out later that he was dreaming the whole time...and as he leaned back in his swivel chair and listened to Judge Gershwin laud the jurors one final time, he breathed a heavy sigh that was aimed more at closure than it was at relief.

"You are, without a doubt, one of the most remarkable team of jurors that I have ever come across in all my years as a judge, and I commend you with a praise that goes beyond words. And on behalf of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your willingness to serve, despite the many hardships I'm sure you have all endured," enthusiastically applauded Judge Gershwin.

But regardless of the fact that Judge Gershwin may have been quite pleased with the work of the jury, apparently neither the Breslin nor the Miller side of the room was very happy with their verdict, which of course, if we were to follow the sage judge's litmus test, probably meant that the jurors had come to a fair compromise.

As one might expect, Newlan was totally oblivious to the grimaces coming from the Breslin side of the aisle since he never so much as peeked out into the gallery as the jurors marched out of the courtroom one the last time.

And furthermore, Newlan never noticed Cam Miller who, despite his unhappiness with a verdict of anything less than first degree murder, mouthed a silent "thank you" to the jurors as the filed on by.

And on top of that, Newlan never caught sight of Jane as she mouthed back a beaming "you're welcome" toward Cam Miller, while at the same time she dabbed her eyes with tissue paper.

And finally, Newlan was none the wiser of R. J. Gleason, who was hunched over, with his head hanging down low, looking ever so lost and abandoned, looking ever so unnaturally barren, as he stood alone at the defense table, unaccompanied by his stricken client, who was now a convicted felon to boot.

However, despite Newlan's ignorance pertaining to the flurry of activity that was taking place all around him, his sense of hearing wasn't the least bit affected, and as such, he couldn't help but pick up the sounds of a commotion coming from the far corner of the courtroom where an inconsolable Tracy Stone, much like Gleason, also stood hopelessly alone in the back row of the gallery, straddled in between the Miller's and the Breslin's at the near end of the last pew-styled wooden bench on the right hand side of the aisle, sobbing uncontrollably...like a grieving parent...attending a funeral Mass.

...

And so dear reader, we must ask ourselves, how in the world did the jurors come to a unanimous decision just when they seemed to be on the verge of unraveling into a million pieces?

Of course, in reality the truth of the matter is that the answer to our question lies somewhere well beyond this singular tale; for since the dawn of time, since the earliest days of man, it has been clearly documented that foolish, yet deadly, discord has caused so much unnecessary blood to be shed across the lands of our fathers that it will sooner or later leave us all drowning in a quagmire of our own making. And furthermore, it has indeed been balefully foretold time and time again by wise men of vision, past and present, that one day soon enough, from the far-reaching machinations of the seven continents right on down to the majestic tides of the mighty oceans four, a titanic storm will commence a brewing; an indomitable storm to end all storms; a raging storm, in fact, to end all days.

Yes, from the intrigue of the East to the superpowers of the West, from the heartiness of the North to the abundance of the South, from the scalding sun of the twelve deserts to the opposite poles of the shivering Arctic hemispheres, as one, we shall meet our fate.

Nay, from the wombs of our written history to the pagan days that came before the birth of Christ, from generation to never-ending generation, from the depths of our leader's hearts and to all connected points in between, so much unnecessary violence has been leveled upon the common man that we as human race should be ashamed of ourselves. Country vs. Country; State vs. State; City vs. City; Town vs. Town; and in these modern times of urban gangs, we've even devolved into Street vs. Street. And now -- as we are fast approaching that inexorable point of no return, an epoch era where our survival as a species will surely teeter in the balance like a sad carnival clown perched on splintered tightrope -- here we stand...on the brink...of this great divide.

But alas, thankfully for the sake of mankind's future (and some might say contrary to popular opinion), it has also been demonstrated over and over through the years that reasonable men and women can settle their differences in a civilized manner when they put their minds to it. And so in the end, the jurors in the John Breslin murder trial did just that. In the end, they decided that they should review Breslin's testimony one last time, and in the minutest of detail, which was all that Frank Newlan ever wanted in the first place.

And when at long last the jurors looked at the situation from a detached, unemotional perspective, it became clear that John Breslin, by his own admission, put into motion the chain of sequenced events that would ultimately lead to Fred Miller's death. And yet, the question still remained; what, if anything, was he guilty of?

But before we answer that question, we must ask ourselves, was there any chance at all that Sammy Fox _wasn't_ the man responsible for gunning down Fred Miller in cold blood? Perhaps, in the eyes of the minority, there remained a remotely slim possibility that the wily Sammy the Fox didn't commit this evil deed. However, Breslin's behavior, both before and after the murder, made it impossible for the jurors to consider that likelihood; particularly since his attorney, R. J. Gleason never successfully managed to work this exculpatory angle into his defense, as was duly noted by more than one member of the savvy jury.

And so it was, that after much debate, Natalie and Newlan rescinded their theory that someone else may have killed Fred Miller, even though to this day, both of them continue to have their nagging doubts. But unfortunately for Breslin, there just wasn't enough evidence presented by the defense to back this contention...and in the end, Breslin's own words made it next to impossible for them to fight for his cause.

At that point, with the logjam broken, the jurors began to make some headway, and they quickly decided that Breslin was guilty of conspiracy. Many of the jurors emphatically contended (and rightfully so we might add) that even if Breslin's testimony was completely truthful, he should have gone to the police when Fox attempted to extort more money out of him, and Newlan had to admit that his colleagues were one hundred percent correct in that regard.

Newlan chose to believe Breslin's every word, and yet after much consternation, he couldn't, in good conscience, let him go Scott-free. Regardless of how scared Breslin claimed to have been, if he had only managed to dredge up the courage to go to the police, then the results of the trial may have been different. But since he didn't, conspiracy was a given.

Taking that logic to the next level, it became easier for the jurors to consider a murder verdict. However, determining the degree of murder turned out to be a much more difficult task.

At the outset, only Natalie and Newlan had voted for second degree murder, while the rest of their colleagues unanimously insisted on a verdict of murder in the first degree. There was no denying that Fred Miller would still be alive this very day if it hadn't been for John Breslin's foolish actions, but based on the premise that Breslin was telling the truth, Newlan vehemently held out for a finding of second degree murder.

"Breslin testified that he called off the dogs, and he didn't even want Sammy Fox to beat up Fred Miller anymore, never mind murder him...and as I've contended all along, if we are going to believe Tracy Stone and Nancy O'Brien, then I choose to believe Breslin as well. And the act of calling it off, as far as I'm concerned, is cause for at least a speck of leniency," reasoned Newlan.

But no matter how Newlan framed his case, his fellow jurors still couldn't seem to fathom his rationale, and the hip Mark even went so far as to categorize Newlan's premise as being no more than "Pretzel Logic", which coincidently enough, just so happened to be the title of a song and an album by one of both Mark and Newlan's favorite rock bands, none other than Steely Dan.

Newlan shot Mark a squinted, suspicious stare that had his colleagues holding their breath, waiting for another outburst from the petulant juror number 8. However, before anyone could say another word, Newlan backed up his puzzled look with a valid reason with which to explain his startled reaction.

"Hey, that's a Steely Dan song. I just went to see them last night. They were in town at the Pavilion."

"You're kidding me. I was there too," acknowledged Mark with a sly smile.

Not surprisingly, the serendipitous revelation caught Newlan off guard. But nonetheless, despite his surprise, he gave Mark his props anyway.

"And the stroke of the bizarre-and-improbable never ends! Well, I gotta at least give you credit for good taste in music Mark...but getting back to the trial, my 'pretzel logic' as you so aptly put it, is based on the fact that once Breslin called the whole thing off, then there was no more premeditation on his part, and thus in my mind he's guilty of second degree murder," insisted Newlan, and after another period of thoughtful discussion and good-natured sparring, Stan called for another vote...and amazingly enough, the tally was now locked at 50/50.

Lisa, Natalie, Pam, Patty, Stan and Newlan were now on the second degree murder side of the fence, while Jane, Yong, Dan, Mark, Mike and Ron were all still steadfast in their belief that the crime warranted a conviction of murder in the first degree, and nothing less.

With the deadlock showing no signs of being broken, Newlan went on to make such an impassioned plea that if one didn't know better, you might have thought he was fighting for his own life as much as he was fighting for Breslin's future.

"No question, his actions led directly to this horrible turn of events, but let's look at the facts again. Let's look at the extenuating circumstances. Let's give him a shred of hope that maybe someday in the distant future, if he carries himself as a model prisoner behind those bars of the State Penitentiary, and if he shows some remorse for his actions, then maybe someday he can get himself released on parole. Maybe someday, after he's sufficiently paid his debt to society, who knows, maybe then the parole board might let him go so that he can live out his remaining days with his kids by his side...his kids, who he loves so much and who will be all grown up by then," beseeched Newlan. But as it turned out, his implored preaching only served to further anger the half dozen of his colleagues who were still planted firmly on the first degree murder side of the ledger.

"What about Fred Miller? He's _never_ gonna get a chance to grow old. He didn't deserve to die that way... and over what?" demanded Jane in an animated tone.

"Over a woman," came a muffled reply from the corner of the room that perked up Newlan's attention big-time. And although he would have liked to have found out who it was that made the bold observation, in the end it didn't matter. For regardless of who made the poignant jibe, that didn't change the fact that the succinct, almost taunting, comment sent him reeling down an unforeseen path which somehow cleansed his soul.

Newlan's intentions were never meant to undo all of the goodwill that had been built up over the last few hours, and so he proactively reached out to his colleagues before things fell apart again...and from there, he proceeded to launch into a confessional homily which left them all speechless.

"Look, of course Fred Miller didn't deserve to die. Only a fool would say that. And I know most of you won't believe me, but I can relate to him more than you could ever possibly know. I've been through hard times, just like he went through. And although I was never a true addict in the clinical sense of the word, I've been a substance abuser. I've lived through periods of my life where I chose to rely on drugs and alcohol to get me through the day. Oh yeah, I hit rock bottom and I hit it hard. And yes, it was all because of a woman...a woman much like Tracy Stone. And even though none of us really knows exactly what happened between Fred Miller and Tracy Stone and John Breslin, from my experiences I can tell you one thing for sure...and that is that we're all responsible for our own actions. Just as Fred so painfully wrote to Tracy, 'we all make choices in life'. And he was right on, because we all do make choices in life...we all do take chances...and we all know that if you mess around with another man's wife...well then, bad things can happen," professed Newlan in a voice that was cracking with emotion.

And as if to add to his sense of conviction, as soon as the words "we all know that if you mess around" left Newlan's mouth, a numbing shiver could be seen racing up and down the nape of his back like a spinal tap gone haywire. As soon as the words "another man's wife" escaped from Newlan's vocal chords, violent visions revolving around his own predicament with Marianne Plante and her jailed husband crystallized in his mind like a clump of pearls melting into sea salt. As soon as the words "well then, bad things can happen" leapt from Newlan's tongue like a frog from a lily pad, he buried his head in his hands and began to cry like a baby.

The raw emotions of the last three weeks had unquestionably become too much of a burden for Newlan to bear on his own, and he fell into the throes of an unexpurgated breakdown right then and there in the deliberation room; right then and there at that oversized conference table; right then and there...in front of a jury...of his peers.

The fear in Newlan's eyes was measurable, and Patty rushed immediately to his aid, much as he had done for her. And before he knew what hit him, he found himself surrounded by a roomful of caring, compassionate soldiers; loyal friends who were willing to do anything...just for him.

...

When Newlan finally regained his composure, Stan called for another tally, and this time around it was a unanimous 12 to 0 vote for second degree murder. In the end, the consensus was that Breslin would be sent to prison for a minimum of 25 to 30 years, which basically amounted to a life sentence anyway, so why fight tooth-and-nail over the last inch of rope?

Later on that same evening, Newlan would find himself agonizingly wondering whether his ignominious collapse might have had anything whatsoever to do with the sudden change of heart by his fellow jurors. But for now, he was content. For regardless of his fragile emotional state, he had no intention of changing his vote, so it was just as well that his colleagues caught an unexpected glimpse at some of the evils that were lurking out from behind the eyes of... juror number 8.

Chapter 111 – Relieved of Duty

Tuesday afternoon June 24, 2008 – 4:35 PM

With their duties fulfilled, the jurors stood around and mingled in the deliberation room as if they were guests at a fancy cocktail party...but all the while they were impatiently waiting to be escorted off the premises for the very last time.

And as if to expand on the cocktail party theme, Jane submitted a spirited proposal that they should all go out for a couple of drinks in an effort to unwind after their long ordeal.

The mouth-watering notion had been swilling in Jane's head for several days now, and in a true all-for-one and one-for-all gesture, Lisa, the usually bashful waitress, chimed in and suggested a Mexican restaurant located right down the street from the courthouse called the Borderline Café.

In honor of the victim, Fred Miller, as well as in a sly, witting deference to Frank Newlan's oft-mentioned connection to the deceased, Lisa also recommended that they consider sampling a tasty and appropriately named concoction called a Grateful Dead.

"A Grateful Dead...what's that?" curiously wondered Newlan.

"It's sort of like a Long Island Iced Tea in that it's a mix of tequila, vodka, rum, and gin, except it's topped off with Chambord raspberry liquor instead of triple sec," explained the painfully shy Lisa in a timid yet playful tone.

Lisa's recipe recital elicited a slew of zesty comments from her colleagues, such as "mmm, delicious", "make mine a double", and "sounds potent" just to name a few, and furthermore, the enthusiasm was coming from every corner of the once fractured room. And although, much like their deliberations over John Breslin's fate, the decision wasn't immediately unanimous, after a handful votes it was settled; the jurors were going out for a drink.

As they lingered restlessly in the deliberation room, their zealous exuberance was soon enough exchanged for raucous, if somewhat nervous, laughter, as if they were all self-conscious freshmen feeling their way through their first college mixer. And as such, it was becoming quite apparent to everyone in attendance that Jane's suggestion was a good one, because, surely, they desperately needed to let off some steam in a bad way. But alas, unfortunately their libations would have to wait a little while longer due to the fact that they were being temporarily detained by the cantankerous Billy the Court Officer.

"You guys aren't going anywhere just yet. Judge Gershwin wants to have a little talk with you before you leave," groused Billy, and within minutes, into the room sauntered the grandmotherly judge, still fully garbed in her ankle-length black robe.

Judge Gershwin first took a moment to once again personally thank the jurors for giving her their undivided attentiveness throughout the trial, and she even went out of her way to praise Newlan for his comprehensive note-taking.

"So you were really watching us that closely?" replied Newlan as he feigned shock and surprise.

"Yes, I was constantly observing each and every one of you," acknowledged the ever-pleasant judge with a hint of a smile on her face, and from there, she went on to hand out complimentary accolades to the group as whole, as well as to various jurors individually.

After dispensing with the figurative laurel wreaths, Judge Gershwin offered the jurors the chance to ask _her_ any questions that _they_ might have...and ask away they did. And while she had their ears she made it a point of reminding them that, although they were under no obligations, they should watch what they say to the press.

Yong took the opportunity to laud the American system of justice, especially when compared to the suppressive communist regime she grew up with back in Korea...and although Newlan kept his negative thoughts to himself, he was very much underwhelmed by the breadth of Yong's stirring speech. Of all people, Newlan felt that Yong should have remained a little bit more open-minded, for it was obvious to him that she had made her decision to convict Breslin very early on in the trial, and as far as he was concerned, her attitude lent itself more to a repressive dictatorship than it did to an open democracy.

But besides Yong's soapbox speech, the majority of the questions posed to Judge Gershwin were fairly benign in nature. However, Jane, improbably enough, appeared to be seeking some measure of reassurance when she meekly asked the honorable judge whether they had done the right thing.

"As a judge I must remain impartial at all times...but between you and me, let's just say that Mr. Breslin seemed to think that he was smarter than the rest of us," gossiped Judge Gershwin as Jane cracked a slightly twitchy grin in return.

From Day One, Jane always seemed to be supremely confident in her convictions, so her apprehensive inquiry came as a surprise to Newlan. And furthermore, Judge Gershwin's chatty reply surprised him even more so. And if truth be told, as soon as the judgmental opinion left the prudent judge's mouth, she herself regretted letting the words slip out, unfettered.

After a few more awkward questions, Judge Gershwin glanced at her watch in a not-so-subtle hint that the time had come to cut things short and say farewell.

"I don't want to keep you too long," declared the noble judge as she swept around the room and shook every last one of the worshipping jurors' hands.

Oddly enough, rather than provoking reverence, Judge Gershwin's impromptu ceremony found Newlan fighting himself to suppress a grin, because, for some reason, the pomp and circumstance of the moment comically reminded him of the Pope greeting the faithful in Rome; but nevertheless, he appreciated the kind gesture just the same.

And so, with their final obligations met, the civic duty of our brave jurors had definitively come to an end (at least for the next three years that is). Yes indeed, Frank Newlan had miraculously completed his commitment to the Commonwealth of Massachusetts and lived to tell the tale...but for how long, remained to be seen.

As the jurors made their way towards the parking lot after receiving a final, almost teary-eyed, sendoff from Billy who was really just a big old sentimental softy at heart, Newlan was overcome by a strong urge to sneak away and ride off into the sunset, never to look back again. But just as he approached his rusty old car, he heard the enchanting voice of a fair maiden, whispering in the wind; it was a familiar voice; it was a warm voice; it was a caring voice; it was the sweet voice of the attractive Natalie calling out his name.

"Frank, you _are_ going to join us at the bar for a drink, aren't you?" perceptively wondered Natalie in a pressing tone. But on the other hand, she was totally unaware of the fact that her invitation had unknowingly rendered Newlan practically speechless; for undoubtedly the woman he had dubbed "the Ice Princess" just a few weeks ago, now held a special place in his heart, and suddenly he wasn't quite sure whether he was ready to move on just yet. After all, he had to look back, he always looked back.

"Um, um, um, I suppose I could stop by for a cocktail or two," stammered Newlan, while at the same time Natalie cast him an impish wink as she teasingly offered up a mischievous reply.

"Well, you didn't think you were gonna get away _that_ easily, did you? And you didn't think you were gonna get away without even saying goodbye, did you? Oooof course you didn't."

Chapter 112 – Dueling Press Conferences

Tuesday afternoon June 24, 2008 – 4:45 PM

Although the jurors in the John Breslin murder trial may have fulfilled their civic duty, for renowned Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason, the crusade was just beginning. And even though the first few rounds of the battle were lost, his overwhelming responsibilities to his client would continue to mount throughout the course of the grueling appeals process.

And right of the bat, Gleason was forced to come face-to-face with taxing item Number One on his agenda. In an effort to rally his cause, Gleason felt obligated to make the rounds with the assembled press corps, and as such, he found himself trapped inside a tented, makeshift briefing area, just outside the courthouse lobby, surrounded by a pack of rabid reporters who were barking out question after question, while at the same time, in his ever-churning mind he strategically plotted out his response to the jury's inevitably predictable decision.

"Did your client definitely suffer a stroke?" "Did it affect his testimony?" Do you plan to appeal?" roared the ravenous media in rapid-fire fashion as they pushed and shoved for position...and per usual, Gleason replied to the dizzying barrage of inquiries in the measured tone that had always been his calling card.

"It is apparent that my client, John Breslin, did indeed suffer a stroke, and it is equally apparent that his medical condition surely did have an impact on his brain."

"One of the common indications that a person is experiencing a stroke is the inability to remember things that he or she said as recently as a few minutes ago. In addition, a person who suffers a stroke becomes unable to answer even basic questions, because he or she loses the ability to formulate a rational answer in their injured brain. You see, the stroke prevents the brain from doing so, and I truly believe that that is why there was such a dramatic disparity in Mr. Breslin's testimony last Friday as his condition worsened over the course of the day. If you were in attendance, you would have seen that when he took the stand, first thing in the morning, he was clearly able to articulate his story, but by the end of the day, he appeared to be confused and at times incoherent."

After voicing the paramount themes of his tactical keynote address, Gleason paused to take a short breath, and during the brief lull in the action, the voracious media throng immediately swarmed in on him again.

"Will you request a new trial based on incompetency issues stemming from Mr. Breslin's medical condition?" asked a correspondent from Court TV, and naturally, Gleason methodically pondered the question for a moment or two before expounding further on his hastily fabricated thesis.

"A person who suffers a stroke in the middle of testifying at his own trial, as my client did, would be, in my opinion, unable to testify in an appropriate manner...and therefore, as a result of his failing health, it is ludicrous for anyone to say that he received a fair trial."

"Mr. Gleason do you know exactly when Mr. Breslin was stricken? And also could you touch upon his current condition, as well as his long-term prognosis," shouted out a well known, drop-dead beautiful local female reporter who was situated in the back of the scrum.

Gleason was obviously setting the stage for a new trial, and as such, he authoritatively replied to the knockout reporter's query (or at least a portion of it).

"It is apparent that Mr. Breslin suffered the stroke last Friday. Those who were present at the trial might recall that on a number of occasions, he even stated from the witness stand that he had a bad headache. And in addition to that, basic components of the defense, which he had presented quite well on Friday morning...he couldn't even remember having stated when he was back on the stand later that same day for cross-examination. And from there, apparently his condition slowly deteriorated over the weekend...until it reached the point where late last night he collapsed in his jail cell."

"Mr. Gleason, Mr. Gleason, please Mr. Gleason, is this sufficient grounds for an appeal?" beseeched the pushy mob, but Gleason was reluctant to definitively answer the million dollar question without first thoroughly researching the matter for the presence of any precedent-setting prior decisions.

This same question, or a variation thereof, was presented to Gleason, over and over again, until finally, he gave in and responded in kind.

"That would have to be decided by a judge. However, I have spoken to his primary care doctor and it is within one hundred percent certainty that he did indeed suffer a stroke. A team of specialists has already completed a series of imaging tests on his brain; tests which indicate conclusively that there was significant damage done by the hemorrhage. Thank you...I have no further statements to make at this time."

And with that, R. J. Gleason slowly dragged himself away from the podium, ready to begin in earnest, the long and arduous appeals process on behalf of his client, convicted murderer, John Breslin.

...

At around the same time that R. J. Gleason was meeting the press, Cam Miller stood at another podium on the other side of the courthouse, backed by his parents, along with Fred's best friend and roommate Robert Hurley, as well as various members of the district attorney's office, led of course by the ever-scowling Assistant DA, Ms. Elaina Lyons.

Cam Miller was more than mildly disappointed that the jury didn't convict Breslin of first degree murder, but overall, now that he had some time to swish the verdict around in his head for an hour or so, he was begrudgingly happy with the outcome of the trial.

"Breslin will be in prison for a long, long time," silently rationalized Cam. "And if he ever does get out, he better hope that I'm not still alive...or else he may end up being hit with a death sentence after all."

Of course, he said nothing of the sort when he made the following brief statement to the press.

"First of all, I want to thank the district attorney's office and all the fine police officers who tirelessly investigated this case. Second of all, I'd like to thank the courageous jurors for seeing to it that justice was served here today. On behalf of my family and Freddie's friends, I'd like to say that we are relieved to know that this coward, John Breslin, will spend the rest of his life in prison, at least if I have anything to say about. And now it's on to the Sammy Fox trial, where I am confident that this spineless excuse for a man will also meet the same fate as his accomplice...and by doing so I pray that my family and I can finally obtain some measure of closure in our lives. Hopefully tonight we will all be able to sleep a little bit better, even though we know full well that our solace will never bring Freddie back."

Cam then crooked his neck up towards the heavens and with his voice cracking from the emotion of the moment, he added, "and Fred, if you're watching...and I know that you are...I just want you to know that we miss you terribly, and that we look forward to seeing you again one day."

Cam wasn't planning on taking any questions, but not surprisingly, before he could even think of making his exit, the carnivorous residents of 'Press Box Row' wanted a piece of him as well.

"Mr. Miller, could you speak about your own legal problems stemming from the incident inside the courtroom?" asked an insistent reporter from CNN. But Cam Miller wasn't about to go down that slippery slope, and as such he replied with a polite "no comment".

"This moment isn't about me...it's about my brother Fred and the gutless men who took him from us...no further questions please," added Cam as he gingerly stepped down from the podium with the help of the burly Court Officer Brandon who cleared a path for him like a lineman blocking downfield for an elusive running back.

DA Lyons then proceeded to followed right behind in the footsteps of Cam Miller with a typical law-and-order statement of her own.

"We are pleased with today's verdict, and we thank the jury for all of their hard work. This was both an extremely fact-driven and emotional case, and the jurors carefully considered all of the evidence, before returning a fair and just decision. Fred Miller was only following his heart when he returned to be with the one true love of his life...and for that, he was brutally murdered and taken away from his family and friends, all because of the jealous, vengeful, cowardly acts of John Breslin, who must now pay for his crimes. And so today we give thanks...but tomorrow we get right back to work, because our task will not be complete until we also bring the actual shooter, Sammy Fox, to justice as well."

Like Cam Miller before her, Lyons also attempted to step down from the podium without taking any questions, but the same pesky members of the media who had just pestered Gleason were apparently somehow able to be in two places at once, and they weren't about to let her get away without at least giving it the old college try.

"Ms. Lyons, would you care to make a comment regarding the defendant's stroke and his probable appeal?" asked the same ravishingly magnetic local TV personality who just moments ago had hounded Gleason for an update on Breslin's health. And just as the renowned defense attorney had done, Lyons chose her words carefully.

"We have no reason to believe that Mr. Breslin did not have a medical issue. However, nothing that we have seen or heard today would in any way compromise the just verdict that was reached this afternoon...thank you, that will be all for now," concluded Lyons, while all the while, the staunch mob of journalists continued to pepper her with a bevy of controversial questions.

However, as Lyons was stepping off the podium, word began to spread like wildfire amongst the press corps that the Townshend jury had just reached a verdict, which sent them scurrying past the tenacious DA, darting about in every direction possible, like a herd of hungry lions...chasing down a pack...of frantic zebras.

And so dear reader, there you have it; just like that, the John Breslin murder trial...was yesterday's news.

### Chapter 113 – Grateful Dead Drinks (More Ships in the Night)

Tuesday evening June 24, 2008 – 5:30 PM

The ties that bound and anchored the starboard side of Frank Newlan's brain to its dock were coming apart at the seams, and the inevitable result was that the blustery sails of his mind were flapping about, three sheets to the wind. Of course, after pounding down numerous rounds of the aptly named, alcohol-laced 'Grateful Dead' concoctions accompanied by his fellow jurors as the lounged around the well-stocked bar, nestled in the corner of the cantina-styled Borderline Café, his tipsy condition should come as no surprise.

As a matter of fact, the powerful but tasty elixir was practically playing tricks with Newlan's head, so much so that he was beginning to believe that maybe, just maybe, he might have dreamed up this entirely chaotic layer of unprecedented escapades which made up the last few weeks of his life.

Newlan's wishful thinking was about to reach a Zen state of alternate consciousness when all of a sudden the news of the Breslin verdict came crackling across the restaurant's loudspeaker which was tuned in to a local radio station.

"That was us," boasted Jane to the waitress, and her transcendent declaration had the unintended effect of dousing any hopes in Newlan's mind that the trial was nothing more than one big, crazy, uninterrupted bad dream.

Newlan was sucking down two cocktails for every one carafe-shaped decanter full of dizzying potion that the majority of his colleagues were consuming (other than Mike and Ron who were matching him drink for drink). But fortunately for him, he was an experienced drinker so he could handle his booze quite well (unlike his teetotaler coworkers who would pass out at the annual holiday party after a few drinks, or worse, make drunken fools of themselves by hitting on the boss's wife).

In any event, it was rather obvious that the jurors were in need of some serious unwinding after the stress of their shared experience, and judging by the gist of their rambling conversations, it was equally obvious that the trial had changed them in some profound, yet unexplainable, way.

As the coming days languidly trickled away and dropped like grains of sand into the hourglass of time, the ordeal would leave many of the jurors temporarily lost in confusion as they struggled to recover from a spate of lethargy-inducing mood swings, while others would find themselves emotionally derailed by spells of quiet desperation which would hamper them for a long time to come. And sadly, a small minority of the learned elders amongst them would remain haunted by their taxing tribulations for pretty much the rest of their lives. However, where Frank Newlan fell in this depressing continuum of hopeless ruminations remained to be seen.

But regardless of the long-term impact, the immediate aftermath of the trial was a time for shared reflections, and the southwestern motif of the bar made it a perfect place for mingling. Indeed, a casual observer may have mistaken the gathered group of jurors for a band of happy co-workers, out socializing with a couple of afterhours cocktails; and in a sense this characterization was a fairly accurate depiction of the backdrop, except of course for the fact that the laborious task which our jurors were discussing was the work of sages disguised as your average men and women.

One such wise man was Ron the banker, and as he leaned into the bar next to Newlan and grabbed at a handful of nachos, he nonchalantly shared his thoughts with our reluctant protagonist.

"You know...if Breslin hadn't testified, I was leaning towards not guilty. Even though I thought that he and Sammy Fox were most likely involved in this mess, there just wasn't enough evidence in my opinion, so I was ready to tip my cap to him and say 'more power to you brother...you got away with it'."

"That's exactly how I felt," slurred Newlan. "It not like I thought he was an innocent victim of circumstance. I _never_ felt that way. It was all about the evidence, or I should say, the lack of evidence."

And as the commonality of their rationales became clear, the two men could only shake their heads and wonder about the essentially fatal decision that Breslin made when he decided to testify on his own behalf.

"The only thing I don't understand..." continued Ron, "...is what kind of life was this guy Miller leading? Here he was...an insurance agent by day and a drug dealer by night. I mean, what sort of person leads that kind of bizarre double-life? It just doesn't make any sense to me...and it probably never will."

Being the good listener that he was, Newlan nodded his head in agreement before adding his own two cents into the bubbling pot of confusion.

"Well, I've seen people like him...I know people like him...and for that matter, I was people like him. And in my humble opinion, it's got nothing to do with the fact that he may have been a drug dealer. It's called addiction my friend...an addiction that only a woman can bring on...and only a woman can cure."

Newlan compulsively stirred his half empty drink and stared down deeply into the ornate glass mug as he rambled on, and all the while the motion of the colorful liquid, which, when combined with the swirling ice cubes, was penetrating into his psyche like a silent incantation, leaving him momentarily hypnotized...and soon enough, thoughts of Marianne Plante and the hellish separation anxiety that he had endured for so many years began rushing through his gin-soaked brain like a turbulent riptide of unalterable memories being released from the hidden moorings of his mind.

"Yeah, but no matter what he did, he didn't deserve to die like that," replied a somber Ron, and the mere warble of another person's voice jerked a startled Newlan out of his funk like an alarm clock waking him up from a frightening nightmare. And from that tangent, it was as if the troubling thoughts of the only woman he ever loved had scarcely crossed his mind.

"I'll drink to that!" exclaimed Newlan, and as the two virtual strangers raised their glasses in agreement, the clanking clunk could be heard halfway across the room.

"Looks like you guys are having a good old time for yourselves," observed a woozy Mike as he waddled over to the bar to make the rounds and slap palms with his drunken companions. And while the three heavy drinkers fraternized privately, the rest of their colleagues were haphazardly mingling around at the other end of the bar when Jane was beset with what she thought was a clever idea.

"Hey, why don't we all sit down at that big table in the corner? It will almost be like sitting at the deliberation table one last time," proclaimed Jane, and after one too many drinks, it seemed like a grand idea to one and all. But, unlike the trial, this time a unanimous decision was reached in seconds flat. However, on the opposite end of the spectrum, curiously enough, as soon as the former jurors took their seats, the debate over the hospitalized defendant's fate stirred up anew.

"Does anyone _really_ believe that Breslin had a stroke?" wondered Yong in her distinct Korean accent.

"If I said it once, I'll say it a million times, I would never believe a thing that that man has to say," intoned the wheelchair-bound Dan.

"Who can say for sure what happened to him... _but_ I do recall that a lot of you were making comments to the affect that he seemed to be 'out of it', and that the blank expression on his face while he was being cross-examined by DA Lyons made it look like he was sedated on drugs," chimed in Newlan as the inebriated trio rejoined the crew in mid-conversation.

"Yeah but that's just because we thought Lyons had him so confused that his head was spinning," chuckled Mark.

"Well I'm no doctor, but it seems plausible to me that he might have had a stroke...and if he did, then I'm sure Gleason's gonna push for a retrial," insisted Newlan.

"Oh God, I'd hate to see the Miller family have to go through another trial," moaned Jane.

"Now I'm not saying that he deserves a new trial. But my point is that if it can be medically proven that he really did have a stroke, then I wouldn't be surprised if he gets a new trial, in spite of his stupidity, that's all" speculated Newlan.

"I don't know...it's a tough decision, but I'm just glad it's not our decision," continued Newlan as he once again stared hypnotically into his drink as if he were gazing at his own reflection on the shimmering banks of a golden pond.

And as the night wore on, and as more and more cocktails were consumed, the mood amongst the jurors in general turned towards reflective contemplation, but all the while the talk still centered around the likes of John Breslin and Tracy Stone and Fred Miller and the endless cast of characters that they had all borne witness to for the last three weeks.

Without saying as much, the jurors appeared to have simultaneously come to the realization that the moment for goodbyes would soon be at hand, and that the time had come for them to get on with their lives. But on the other hand, that final hour would not come before the nostalgic Jane once again suggested that they should consider staging an annual reunion party.

"We could even invite guests and arrange for it to be a benefit...and we could donate the proceeds to the Fred Miller Scholarship Fund," added Jane who was getting herself all worked up just thinking about such a festive event.

Not surprisingly, Jane was a take-charge type of person who enjoyed the challenges and the hoopla that went along with organizing a major function, and for some reason, her enthusiasm also perked Newlan's interest as well. But, as usual, the origins of his curiosity caught the unsuspecting Jane totally off guard.

Newlan recalled reading something about a proposed scholarship fund for Fred Miller while perusing his brother Cam's website, and even in his semi-drunken state he put two and two together.

"Hey...how'd you know that there's a scholarship fund being set up in Fred Miller's name? Was someone surfing the web when they shouldn't have been?" teased Newlan. And although Jane claimed ignorance, her telltale crimson face gave her away as far as Newlan was concerned.

Jane's reunion pitch was, for the most part, met with cool indifference, along with more than a few skeptically-raised eyebrows, but much to Newlan's surprise, Natalie was all for it.

"A benefit sound like a really good idea...but only if we also donate some of the money to Breslin's children as well," suggested Natalie.

"Oh...I never thought of that," replied Jane, and her face was getting ruddier by the minute.

However, despite their apathy as it related to the idea of an annual reunion, the jurors lingered sentimentally over their drinks as the heat of the late afternoon turned into breezy twilight, and by now, the realization that they wouldn't be seeing each other in the morning had fully sunk in.

This sudden awareness that they were approaching the end of the line led to a melancholy, almost surreal, scene; a moment stuck in time that they would never forget. It was as if no one wanted to be the first to say goodbye, while at the same time no one wanted to be the last to leave.

But sentimentality aside, after sitting through another hour of vacillating indecision, Newlan decided that he had had enough of the awkward chit chat; he decided that he would be the one to make the first move; he decide that it was high time he found his way home

Newlan had admittedly sucked down his last drink much faster than he should have, but on the plus side, his uninhibited glow assisted him in arriving at the decision that, at long last, the time had come to leave behind his colleagues of the past twenty one days, and for the love of God, try like hell to never look back.

Newlan wasn't sure why, but in the blink of an eye, he was engulfed by a strong urge to break away from this cobbled-together collection of people who, in his mind, were merely casual acquaintances and nothing more. Maybe it was the liquor, or maybe it was the suffocating weight of the world that surely wasn't going to relinquish its hold on him without a fight, or maybe it was something much darker that was lurking in his soul, but whatever the reason, he was beginning to feel a bout of agitation coming over him, and he was afraid he might say something that he would later regret. Deep in his heart of hearts he understood that, as a group, they did what they had to do. But nevertheless, he wasn't buying into the self-importance that was being weaved into the words of his colleagues. And furthermore, the sadistic satisfaction they seemed to be getting over the fact that they just put a guy in prison for the rest of his life was nauseating him to the point where he thought he was going to vomit.

To a man, to a woman, each and every one of the jurors insisted that they were sadden by the outcome of the trial and the heartbreaking domestic events that led up to their decision, but the nervous laughter and the gallows-humor jokes that they let loose as they derisively gossiped about Breslin's future in prison told Newlan otherwise.

Newlan himself was sick to his core over every aspect of the entire sordid affair and he was beginning to rue the fact that he had ever agreed to join his fellow jurors for a bit of post-verdict revelry in the first place.

Nonetheless, Newlan did his best not to let his emotions get the better of him as he rose up unsteadily and announced that he was calling it a night. Unlike his private feelings, his colleagues were unanimously dismayed to see that he was the first to go...but oddly enough, from his perspective, as he said his farewells and politely shook each and every one of their hands before departing, the formality of it all reminded him of passing through the line at a funeral reception.

Newlan tried to keep it cordial, and yet at the same time remain coldly businesslike, so as not to let his true feelings leak out from his mouth like a water fountain run amuck. However, much to his surprise, Natalie's warm handshake somehow transformed itself into an awkward, yet tender, embrace, and then, as if to shake the cobwebs out of his impassive soul, the motherly Patty had an extra long hug waiting for him when he reached her spot in the greeting line.

Although it may have been a trick of the light, Newlan could have sworn that he gleaned a teardrop or two dripping down from both Patty and Natalie's faces as he turned to look back at them one last time.

After three weeks of shared drama, they had become almost like a large dysfunctional family, and now Newlan would never see any of them ever again. Just like Gloria Moorhead, the woman he met briefly when by chance she happened to be seated next to him in the waiting room on his first day of jury duty, they were all destined to be booked as passengers onboard the same fateful ship of life; a ship that was now passing slowly into night...like a dying sun...setting into the gloomy dawn...of another world.

Chapter 114 – A Solemn Goodbye

Tuesday evening June 24, 2008 – 7:35 PM

An incredible deluge of thundering showers and black clouds erupted from out of nowhere just as Newlan was headed out the door of the Borderline Café, and the torrent of rain left him with no other choice but to make a run for his car, while at the same time a crackling bolt of lightning off in the distance lit up the sky and made him jumpier than he already was.

Newlan's shirt and pants, not to mention his brain, were slightly waterlogged as he started up the engine of his red Mercury Mystique, but otherwise he was none the worse for wear as he gingerly shifted the old jalopy into reverse to strains of the Grateful Dead belting out their version of the public domain ode to getting away from it all, appropriately titled "Going Down the Road Feeling Bad."

"Fitting tune," mumbled Newlan as he defiantly hummed along in his off-key tone while at the same time swapping in the traditional lyrics of the song as he saw fit.

" _Going where the weather fits my clothes, oh Lord...I aint a-gonna be treated this a-way"._

Conscious of the fact that he was a little bit tipsy, Newlan was extra-cautious as he pulled his car out of the parking lot and double-checked for oncoming traffic in every direction. The last thing he needed was to get pulled over for a DUI just as he was about to return to his normal routine. Regardless of the stress he'd been going through lately, when it came right down to it, he doubted that the cops would have much sympathy for him, juror duty or no jury duty.

" _Down in the jailhouse on my knees, oh Lord...I aint a-gonna be treated this a-way"._

From his rearview mirror Newlan could clearly make out the resonating silhouette of the remaining jurors huddled warmly inside the cozy confines of the bar...and the analogy of the moment wasn't lost on him; it was time to put these people, along with the John Breslin murder trial and his debilitating "I have to look back, I always look back" attitude, behind him for good and go on living his life like a song.

" _Going down this road feeling bad, oh Lord...I aint a-gonna be treated this a-way"._

But as luck would have it, just as Newlan was about to hit the gas and pull out of the parking lot, which would have presumably transported this dark chapter in his life to the inner most recesses of his mind where it rightfully belonged, out of the corner of his eye he observed Dan rolling his wheelchair in the general direction of his specially-equipped automobile while Jane hovered over him with a large umbrella in hand.

Dan, who had a cell phone pressed firmly to his ear, was engaged in an animated conversation with a potential romantic suitor, when suddenly he frantically waved over towards Newlan in hopes of getting his attention.

"What's up Dan? Is there a problem?" asked a concerned Newlan as he slowly pulled up next to Dan's vehicle.

"I was about to give Jane a ride home but something unexpected just came up," explained Dan who then added, "you live in Medford don't you Frank?"

"Yeah I do," unenthusiastically admitted Newlan.

"Would you mind giving Jane a lift?" politely asked Dan. And although at that moment Newlan wanted nothing better than to just drive off into the sunset, alone, so that he could reflect on the trial in the peace and solitude of his automobile's insulated cabin, he reluctantly agreed to shuttle Jane home.

Inexplicably, Jane hesitated ever so slightly before timidly crawling into the passenger's seat of Newlan's car and snuggly pulling on her seatbelt. However, upon closer inspection, her words made it quite clear as to what was troubling her.

"Are you OK to drive?" anxiously wondered Jane.

"Don't worry...you're in good hands," slurred Newlan as a mischievous smile formed across his weary face...and with Jane safely tucked in, he headed for the highway and skillfully merged between two massive semi-trailers for what normally should have been a short ride home. But unfortunately for our odd couple of traveling companions, the remains of the rush hour traffic when combined with the relentless downpour resulted in a far worse than usual state of gridlock.

Newlan couldn't even remember the last time he found himself stuck behind the driver's wheel of his car in the middle of a storm that was this severe, and at one point, the torrential cloudbursts got so bad that it made it difficult to see the road ahead of him (and of course the toxic flow of booze which was running through his veins wasn't helping matters either).

The pelting tempest was already creating some major flooding throughout the Greater Boston area, and as he sloshed through a series of titanic puddles which practically reached up above the rims of his tires, Newlan became worried that his piece-of-shit vehicle might stall out, leaving him stuck for eternity with Jane in the passenger's seat, stranded forever in the breakdown lane of his past.

In an impish effort to validate his fears, Newlan nervously glanced over at Jane and as a blast of thunder shook the ground around them, he half-jokingly announced, "It looks like the end of the world out there...or maybe it's just the curse of Johnny Breslin."

For her part, Jane returned Newlan's gaze with a stern yet playful stare of her own as she soberly replied, "that's not funny Frank...you shouldn't kid around about stuff like that."

Newlan appeared to be in one of those moods where he was bound-and-determined to tempt the hands of fate, but nevertheless, for Jane's sake, he managed to let out a forced laugh and a trite apology.

"Sorry, it's just that I'm a little bit superstitious...if you hadn't noticed."

It was apparent to Newlan that they were going to be stuck inside his vehicle for quite a while, and so in an effort to make conversation he dug out the Grateful Dead CD "Built to Last" from his glove compartment with the idea in mind that this not-so-fleeting moment would provide Jane with the perfect opportunity to personally inspect the mysterious, trial-related artifact for herself.

"Tada, here it is. Check out the picture of the house of cards on the cover. You see, and you didn't believe me when I said that I was carrying around a copy of this CD in my car with me on the very same day that references to the tune 'Built to Last' were brought up in the courtroom," reminded Newlan in an I-told-you-so tone as he passed the empty jewel box over to Jane while simultaneously sliding the CD into the slot and slyly clicking ahead to the title song.

Newlan had an ulterior motive (which popped into his head as soon as he popped in the disk) for playing the tune; his devious thinking was such that if Jane were to be exposed to this intoxicating slice of psychedelia which was the Grateful Dead, then she just might decide to pass her own slanted commentary regarding the trippy taste in music he shared with Fred Miller (which just might be good for a few laughs and at a minimum kill some time). But alas, instead of receiving a critic's review, much to his surprise, all of a sudden something quite unexpected occurred; for as Jerry Garcia's voice moaned out the eerie lyrics of the haunting song, the soothing melody proved to have a numbing, quieting affect on not one but both of their scarred souls.

And as the symbolic tune droned on in the background, and as Newlan crawled his way through the traffic in a state of torpid silence, oblivious to everything around him, all the while the miles slowly passed them by.

And moreover, as they plodded along down the road, both of them lost in the moment, Newlan suddenly became aware of an imaginary beam of light shining down on him ever-so-brightly until he was almost blinded...and then out of nowhere a collage of disturbing visions escaped vividly from his mind like a terrifying scene from a horror movie coming alive before his very eyes; visions of a bloodied Fred Miller; visions of a manacled John Breslin; visions of a tortured Tracy Stone; visions of a broken Marianne Plante; visions, in fact, of every person who had ever haunted his lonely dreams.

To her credit, Jane seemed to sense that Newlan was zoning out, and she immediately became concerned about his ability to operate a motor vehicle in what surely had to be a near vegetative state of consciousness.

"I get the feeling that you're lost in thought," noted Jane while at the same time she hoped that her observation might snap Newlan back to attention. And if truth be told, Newlan's mind truly _was_ waylaid by his crippling hallucinations; ambushed in time, somewhere beyond the gates of Hell; somewhere adrift in a country that had been scorched to its core; somewhere ablaze in a landscape of burning totem poles; somewhere, bathed in darkness, with a sword in hand, battling the demons of his long lost youth; somewhere sprawled out on a barren hillside, on his hands and knees, praying for the soul of a doomed civilization.

Newlan's voice had a robotic lilt to its tone and he appeared to be under the spell of some sort of otherworldly medium as he spoke these solemn words; grave words of fear which were buried deep within the narrow ravines of his heart; portentous words of trepidation which were longing to be released from the very marrow of his bones; dead serious words of dismay which had been repressed behind the gut-wrenching walls of his subconscious for far too long now.

"I guess that I _was_ lost it thought, and I'm sure that in some ways, I always will be. And I'm sure that every once in a while, when I least expect it, John Breslin will pop into my head and I'll think about him rotting away in prison. And I'm sure that every once in a while I'll think about poor Fred Miller...how he was so much like me...and how his death was so unnecessary. And I'm sure that every once in a while I'll think about Tracy Stone and her kids...and I'll think about Cam Miller...and I'll think about Nancy O'Brien and Sammy Fox. And I'm sure that every once in a while I'll think about DA Lyons and Gleason and Judge Gershwin and Billy and everyone else that we've met in the last three weeks. No question about it, I'm sure that every once in a while I'll think about _all_ of them, and I'll think about how one senseless act can alter the lives of so many people, including you, me, and the rest of the jurors. And I'm sure that every once in awhile I'll think about how every single life in this crazy existence is so precious. We've seen proof of it with our own two eyes...the havoc that just one bullet can cause. And when I think about these things, then maybe, just maybe, I'll shed a tear or two for all of us....for all the world. Maybe, maybe not...who the hell knows for sure?"

And as Newlan rendered his hypnotic soliloquy, his piercing words suddenly hit home and out of the blue, Jane found herself crying uncontrollably like a teething baby longing for her mother's arms. Ever since the powers-that-be had stamped her seat in the jury box, the harsh reality of the Breslin trial and all its gory underpinnings had forced her to take stock of what a dangerous place this planet of ours could be...and lately these days she no longer felt safe anymore; anyplace; anyhow; anywhere; be it on the streets of her hometown, or in the comfort of her cozy house, or for that matter, in some difficult to explain way, she even felt lost inside her own skin. And because of the unforeseen manner in which these rippling tides of unknown danger had begun to overtake her, Newlan's heartfelt tome of a speech frightened her right down to the depths of her being.

If nothing else, Jane's sobbing broke through and disrupted whatever it was that was toying with Newlan's mentally unstable emotions, and when he grasped onto the breadth of his colleague's distress, he tried to comfort her as best he could. But in the end, the only thing he was capable of doing that made any sense to him was to plop in another Grateful Dead CD and drive in silence the rest of the way home.

And if Newlan's words weren't enough to alarm an already frightened Jane, then the opening line of the Dead tune "Uncle John's Band", which spoke of the ever-present danger that lurks behind every door, became stuck in her eardrums like an annoying jingle from hell, whether she liked it or not, and it only served to reinforce her fears.

By the time that Newlan's red Mercury veered off the highway, there was no doubting the fact that he most surely _was_ driving on autopilot...but somehow he managed to make it to Jane's doorstep in one piece, and when his beat-up old automobile finally came to a stop, the erstwhile enemies warmly hugged and said their goodbyes one last time.

Newlan was all a-tingling inside and he wasn't quite sure exactly how to explain what he was feeling, but nonetheless he sheepishly pleaded no contest anyway.

"We've come a long way Jane," conceded Newlan as he fought back the tears that were welling up inside of him.

"Well, I guess it was just meant to be. For reasons that I suppose we'll never understand, somehow all of the stars in the sky were aligned at just the right angle...and all of a sudden our worlds collided like a massive sixteen car pile-up," somberly concluded Jane as she winced at the thought of the big-bang logic which held her mystical premise together.

"Yeah...but now that it's over, everything's gonna be alright," reassured Newlan. But of course, he didn't mean it. He didn't mean a word of it. He knew better. Everything was not going to be alright; it never had been...and for that matter...it never would be.

Chapter 115 – A Combined Evil

Tuesday evening June 24, 2008 – 8:15 PM

After dropping off Jane at the very foot of her front doorstep, Newlan's growling stomach prompted him to remember that his fridge was in need of some restocking, and so to rectify the situation he decided to take a slight detour and do some food shopping before finally making his way home.

Just the thought of being able to wander aimlessly down the wide aisles of the supermarket without the specter of the John Breslin murder trial hanging over his head made Newlan feel good inside. And yet, a nagging haze of lingering dread hovered over his aura like the dark, swirling clouds up above him which marked this tumultuous night.

Newlan was utterly overjoyed by the knowledge that come tomorrow he would once again be blessed with the freedom to wake up at his own pace and ease his way back into the swing of things. But of course first he had to make it through the night, and after all the sleepless evenings that he had been through lately, he figured there wasn't much chance of that happening without the aid of a couple of sleeping pills. And as such, he regretted flushing Doctor Clay's prescription medication down the drain in a fit of anger and frustration over the Marianne Plante affair.

"Well anyway, that's why God invented liquor," mumbled Newlan to himself, and as he pushed his shopping cart toward the produce section, he came to the sudden realization that even though the trial was behind him, it was going to take some time before the stench of the ordeal was completely rinsed away from his tarnished soul.

Clearly, there was still a stretch of stormy weather gusting through Newlan's battered mind, and the prevailing winds told him that the best he could hope for was that maybe in the long run, he might someday be able to look back on this rancid affair and profess to the fact that perhaps, at a minimum, he possibly learned a valuable lesson or two. And if he was somehow able to get past that hurdle, then maybe, just maybe, he might even be able come to terms with the idea that performing his civic duty actually _was,_ in some perverted way, a worthwhile experience. And indeed, as much as he hated to admit it, he undoubtedly _did_ gather up his share of truths along the way; some universal; some personal; some so painful he could barely bring himself to think about them; some so devastating that it left him barely able to breathe.

Newlan's head was spinning with all sorts of jarring activity and conflicting emotions as he made his way through the checkout line; but more than anything else, all he could think of was that he couldn't wait to get home, gulp down a few strong drinks, and put himself to bed for a couple of days. Surely there was no way he could even consider going back to work first thing in the morning, even if it meant handing in his resignation papers. By his own estimates, he conservatively concluded that he would need to decompress for at least a couple of days, and he had every intention of calling in sick for as long as it took to pry his way out of the funk that was rapidly setting upon him like gangbusters gone berserk.

Newlan was ready to make a stand on this one and as he feverishly debated the situation in his head, he absentmindedly strolled away from the cashier, and in the process he neglected to retrieve his change which totaled approximately thirteen dollars.

"Fuck it, if they don't like it then let them fire me. I bet the place has been falling apart since I've been gone, so if they want to see if they can get by without me on a permanent basis, then they can go ahead and can my fuckin' ass."

The heavy rains had let up slightly by the time Newlan rolled his carriage out of the supermarket, but even so, there was still a steady drizzle in the air and so he high-stepped it to his parking spot and packed up the groceries into the trunk of his car as quickly as he could. If nothing else, the raindrops were sobering him up to some degree, and he hoped that maybe in some portentous way, the storm represented some sort of allegorical gesture from up above.

For some reason that he couldn't quite place his finger on, Newlan was suddenly engulfed by a crazy notion that maybe the cascading downpour might somehow possess the power to wash the entire Breslin saga out of his system for good. But alas, deep inside, he knew full well that symbolism can only get you so far in the real world.

The popular Grateful Dead classic from the late 80's "Touch of Grey" (and in fact the only number one single in the band's entire illustrious career) was blasting out from the speakers of Newlan's red Mercury as he made his way thunderously down the road, and he gleefully humming along to the song's inspirational chorus (which touched on the art of not only getting by, but surviving) while a glowing joint that dangled from the corner his mouth clouded up the cabin of his beat-up old car, not to mention the cabin of his cluttered mind

Although Newlan had his CD player set to random, he often wondered whether the tunes were being picked out by some sort of mysterious computer program which was hooked up to his brain, because it never seemed to fail that the chosen songs always fit into whatever mood he happened to be in at the time.

And as if to back up his hypothesis, the next song to kick in as Newlan rounded the corner towards his condo was a uniquely 'Grateful Deadian' take on countrified-rock entitled "Dire Wolf". However, even though the lyrics of this obscure tune were just as upbeat as "Touch of Grey", the words couldn't have been more different in meaning even if the two songs had been written by Jesus and Satan respectively. But nevertheless, this sharply divergent contrast in styles didn't stop Newlan from happily shouting out the folkish tale of a murderous wolf at the top of his lungs.

After all the drama that Newlan had endured for the past few weeks, the juxtaposition of the two tunes and their opposing themes -- survival and murder -- wasn't lost on him in the least, and as he pulled into his garage space, all he could think to do was to smile at the absurdity of it all. But conversely, as Newlan twisted his way out of his car, the crackling of the warm engine echoed through the quiet garage, and the unintentionally eerie, popping sound-effect spooked him to no end.

Newlan peered slowly around the length of the underground structure in every direction before proceeding, and all the while he was thinking to himself, "Son of a bitch...for the rest of my life I'm probably gonna be a basket-case every time I set foot in this fuckin' garage."

And sure enough, wouldn't you know it, out of the corner of his eye, Newlan observed Saeed Kahn, of all people, fishing for something out of the back seat of his car.

Newlan wasn't quite sure what Kahn was up to, and at the moment, he didn't really care to find out either. But of more importance, he wasn't sure whether he should attempt a halfheartedly-waved hello, or just ignore his antagonist completely and mind his own business. In the end, it didn't take long before he wisely chose the latter option; for despite his growing contempt of the all things related to Saeed Kahn, Newlan desperately wanted to avoid another awkward elevator confrontation with the churlish doorman at all costs, and so he busily rounded up the bags of groceries from the trunk of his car in a concerted effort to beat Kahn in an imaginary race up to the lobby.

It took a few frantic seconds of organized chaos, but Newlan had his bags in hand in no time flat and it seemed that he had once again won the battle; it seemed that he had once again prevailed; it seemed that he had once again successfully avoided the wrath of Kahn.

But then again, as we know all too well, things aren't always as these seem, and accordingly, just as Newlan took his first step towards the glass door which led into the lower level foyer of the condo complex, he remembered that he had left a loaf of bread sitting on the front seat of his car, and in the split second that it took for him to jerk his body back towards the car door, someone or something sent an invisible, missile-like projectile whizzing by his head. And along with the silver streak, a booming explosion rocked the garage, sending a flurry of shattered cinder-block hurtling in every direction while at the same time a cloud of dust began to form around the perimeter of Newlan and his trusty red Mystique.

"What the hell was that? It sounded like a fuckin' gunshot," angrily wondered Newlan as he instinctively hit the deck and released his grip on the bags full of groceries which he would now never get to eat.

Newlan was at a loss as to what to do next, but he did manage to peek up from his spot on the ground just long enough to behold a fist-sized hole in the concrete support beam which was situated behind the spot that his big head had just vacated.

"It couldn't be a bullet," whispered Newlan. But on second thought, after being exposed to the horrible events that occurred on the morning of January 13th, 2006 inside a grungy parking garage in Newton Massachusetts, he understood clearly that not only could it have been a bullet, but that in fact, it was a bullet.

If Newlan still had any doubts in his mind as to what he was up against, his skepticism was quickly erased when his runaway watermelon wobbled toward the center of the garage, only to be smashed into smithereens by another explosion of gunfire coming from the general direction of Kahn's vehicle.

"Holy shit, so it has come to this", muttered Newlan as his entire body trembled with uncontrollable fear. "I'm gonna be shot dead right here in this damned garage. What a fuckin' way to go."

To further complicate his predicament, Newlan's body and soul was still mentally and physically impaired from the aftereffects of his overindulgent evening. But luckily for him, his survival instincts, along with a rush of adrenaline, instantly kicked in, and his drunken brain cells were actually behaving quite lucidly as he slithered along by the base of the garage, concealed underneath the engine of a nearby car, searching for an escape route.

Creeping along as softly as he could, Newlan crawled like a soft-shelled crab until he was at least six car lengths away from his abandoned vehicle, and as he made his attempted getaway, all the while he could hear the sound of footsteps probing around the general vicinity of his automobile, seeking him out like a hound from hell.

From his cooped-up hiding place, Newlan strained to see where Kahn was located, but as much as he was tempted to do so, he didn't dare make another stab at gauging how close the pitter-pattering sounds where in proximity to his position for fear of being detected by the murderous doorman.

And while Kahn's equally soft-soled moccasins calmly surveyed the scene, Newlan nimbly crept ahead, as quiet as a mouse, and in the process, little-by-little, he was distancing himself further and further away from his deadly foe, until he could literally see the glare of the glass door that led to salvation.

Unbeknownst to Kahn, the sound of his footsteps where aiding and abetting Newlan as he calculated the gap that stood between them. But then, as if someone had alerted the killer concierge as to his missteps, suddenly the shuffling of feet ceased on a dime, and not a peep could be heard inside the stuffy, exhaust-fume-laced garage.

The hush stillness in the air alarmed Newlan in more ways than one, and he held his breath as long as he could for fear that Kahn might detect his wheezing, but all the while his telltale heart was pounding so hard that he was sure it would lead the cunning terrorist right to his sorry ass.

And when the excruciatingly loud silence didn't immediately let up, Newlan recognized the fact that he had a monumental decision to make; yes, the time had come to sink or swim; to fight or surrender; to literally live or die. On the one hand, he could attempt to stay hidden and hope for help to arrive, or on the other hand, for once in his life he could throw caution to the wind and make a full-steam-ahead charge for the exits.

In the long run, as the agonizing seconds ticked away, for all intent and purpose, the decision was being made for Newlan, and by dint of Father Time, option one was becoming less and less of an alternative by the minute.

It seemed strange to Newlan that not one vehicle had entered the garage since his ordeal had begun, and he anxiously calculated that as the clock edged later and later into the evening, fewer and fewer cars would be making their way in or out of the underground parking lot. And furthermore, in spite of how loud the gunshots seemed to be from his vantage point, he wondered whether anyone had even heard them, never mind calling the cops. He also knew for a fact that he was at least fifteen years younger than Kahn, and he figured that if he could just get past the glass door, out of gunshot range, he was confident that he could outrun the old buzzard, and at that point the plan would be to scream like bloody murder until someone dialed 911.

As the night wore on, Newlan pondered his choices for what seemed like hours, even though in reality it was no more than ten minutes...and finally he decided on option number two; make a run for it and never look back again.

Before commencing his jaunt, Newlan decided to try one last-ditch effort at using his self-proclaimed internal radar to determine where Kahn might be stationed. But alas, no matter how hard he concentrated, he couldn't seem to penetrate the madman's beacon of darkness.

"Maybe Kahn panicked and took off for his fuckin' hellhole once he realized that he couldn't find me," speculated Newlan. But unfortunately there was no way of knowing for sure if his theory was accurate without giving himself away.

And besides, Newlan reckoned that perhaps the element of surprise might work in his favor, so he hesitantly crawled out from under his hiding place and assumed a runner's stance next to the driver's side door of a large SUV.

"On your mark...get set...go" silently counted Newlan, and bang, just like that, he was off to the races. But as fate would have it, and much to his dismay, a bullet rang out at roughly the same moment that he exploded out of the blocks, as if it were a signal from a flagman marking the start of an Olympian competition.

On the plus side of the ledger however, the bullet just missed grazing Newlan's head by a fraction of an inch, and strangely enough, he felt as if he were acting out the part of a character in the movie based on the 1924 Olympics, "Chariots of Fire", as he set out on his mad dash for survival. He could even hear the movie's award-winning musical score running through his head as his body moved along as fast as his legs could carry him, while at the same time everything around him seemed to be moving in slow motion as he sprinted closer and closer to the finish line.

But sadly for Newlan, just when he thought he was going to make it to his glorious destination, just when victory seemed to be within reach, just when it appeared that the devil would be vanquished once and for all, he slipped on a patch of oil and his feet went out from under him. Just when he could see the light at the end of the tunnel, just when the gold medal was within his grasp, just when victory was about to be snatched from the jaws of defeat, he landed flat on his back and his head bounced up against the asphalt like a basketball in the hands of the Boston Celtic's star swingman, Paul Pierce.

Newlan was stunned and dazed into submission, but even so, he could still hear the sound of footsteps charging towards him like a herd of angry elephants. And despite his injuries, he was still able to lift his aching head just high enough to make out the form of a man in a ski mask, brandishing a gun and rapidly bridging the distance between them.

And then, in the blink of an eye, Newlan found himself staring up at the mercy of this crazed madman who was shakily pointing a pistol down at his head while slowly reaching for the mask with his free hand. Bit by bit, the mask inched its way up, gradually revealing the treacherous face that was hidden beneath its well worn veil of torment.

But much to Newlan's surprise, the masked lunatic was not Saeed Kahn. Much to Newlan's surprise, it was the face of a man he had never met before, but at the same time it was the face of a man who appeared to be vaguely familiar to him.

Newlan eyesight was still blurry from the fall, and so he didn't immediately comprehend the face of evil that was staring him down. It wasn't until he squinted, just right, into the bright florescent lights of the garage that he yielded to the demons which had haunted his spirit for so long now that it seemed like forever. It was then and only then that his train-of-thought drifted back into focus long enough to reveal his deepest fears. It was then and only then that he acknowledged the man behind the mask; the face behind the gun; the truth behind the lies.

It was then and only then that Newlan came to grips with the fact that he was in the presence of the face that had haunted his dreams since he was merely just a little boy. It was a long, thin face. It was a sullen, angular face. It was an impish, rage-filled face. It was the ghastly face of his unseen adversary. It was Tom Willis.

Chapter 116 – Shots Fired

Tuesday evening June 24, 2008 – 9:05 PM

Sergeant James "Jimmy" Leach and his partner, Officer Gary Graves were having a good old laugh for themselves as the exited the local Dunkin' Donuts, each of them carrying a complimentary iced coffee and a sack full of sweet treats.

"Did you see the way that hot little cashier was eying me? You know she wants me," boasted Graves.

"You wish, dickhead," replied a jocular Leach, even though he was tense and on edge as usual.

The two cops learned a long time ago that in their line of business, the utilization of humor was essential as a means for survival. But at the same time they were always on their guard, and as they surveyed the boulevard in search of dissenters like a dynamic duo of dictators looking down on their kingdom from high above a palatial balcony, they were the masters of their domain. Although we might exaggerate as to the scope of their powers, in many respects, the allegory hold water; for within the city limits of Medford Massachusetts, they _were_ the law...and they reigned over their land with an iron fist.

Sure there were plenty of pitfalls out there in the unseen darkness, but there were also many perks as well. Free food, free liquor, and even free drugs for those who were so inclined, not to mention more sleazy women than they could shake with a stick.

But all in all, despite their bluster, and despite the fact that they might occasionally yield to the lures of temptation, these were two good cops; two honest cops (unlike a few of their crooked brethren who helped pull off one of the biggest bank heists in the history of the country back on Memorial Day weekend 1980 when they played the role of lookouts as the Medford Depositors Trust Bank was emptied of jewels and untraceable money while a holiday parade marched by right outside the front door of the woefully ill-secured financial institution). Of course, that was before Leach's time, and his goals were a lot less lofty than those of his predecessors, or even those of his partner Gary Graves for that matter; namely, to make it to the end of each shift in one piece.

However, in spite of the dangers that lurked around every corner, so far, tonight had been just another average, ordinary night spent patrolling their territory, and Graves in particular was feeling rather restless due to the lack of action.

"Why don't we take a ride down to the park where you use to hang out as a kid?" suggested Graves. "According to our latest detectives' report, the new gang of punks who rule the roost in that part of town these days are dealing drugs and causing havoc 'til all hours of the morning."

"What are you crazy, Graves? I'm looking forward to a nice quiet night, now shut the fuck up before I have to hurt you," shot back Leach with a tongue-in-cheek smile plastered across his face.

And in return, Graves shook his head in mock disgust as he teasingly replied to his boss's command.

"Man, you're getting soft on me Leach...and besides, like I told you a million times already, I'd kick your ass all the way up and down the fuckin' block, old-timer."

The good-natured -- albeit foulmouthed -- banter continued unabated as the two cops strolled through the parking lot like a pair of conquering warriors. But just as they were about to hop into their cruiser, a sporty little BMW coupe containing two beautiful, buxom blondes pulled up beside them, putting them on their best behavior.

"Good evening officers. Could you tell us how to get to Tafts University?" politely asked the dolled-up driver.

"What's up ladies? I smell a fraternity party brewing," exclaimed Graves.

"Oh no, we're just visiting some friends who go to school there," replied the equally dressed-to-kill passenger.

"Not so fast, not so fast...did you know you that one of your taillights is out?" cautioned Graves.

"What are you gonna do, give us a ticket?" chaffed the lovely driver while at the same time offering Graves a playful pout.

"No, no, just want to make sure that you ladies are safe...and maybe get your cell phone number so that I can join you for a few drinks after my shift," replied Graves as he turned on the charm to its maximum setting.

Leach, on the other hand, wasn't in the mood for his partner's flirtatious act at the moment; he didn't mean to be a party-pooper and he surely remembered what it was like to be young, but after all, business was business.

"Come on Graves, leave the young ladies alone. We got work to do," demanded Leach as he ducked his head into the open window of the Beamer to get a closer look at Graves' overly-perfumed prey.

"They _are_ stunning," thought Leach while at the same time he directed the girls to their destination.

"Just go straight down this road for a mile and take a right hand turn which will bring you into the center of campus...you can't miss the signs," explained Leach. And with their good deed done for the day, the two cops tipped their caps as the coeds coquettishly waved goodbye.

"They were hot...I'll give you that much Graves," admitted Leach, and the chortling barbs continued as they vaulted back into their steel-reinforced squad car.

Leach revved up the powerful, specially equipped Ford police car engine, and in so doing, he nearly drowned-out their radio contact with the dispatcher back at headquarters. But even over the din of the rumbling exhaust system, they were still able to discern the anxious voice of the 911 operator, calling for all hands on deck.

"Shot fired, Medford River Park Condominiums. Repeat, shot fired, Medford River Park Condominiums," alerted the dispatcher, and the guffawing inside the cruiser ceased-and-desisted immediately as the men in blue pulled their game-faces firmly up over their heads.

When the address in question registered in Leach's brain, like the wheels of a slot machine coming to a ringing stop, he turned toward Graves and with his eyes bulging out of his head, he breathlessly spoke only one word; "Frankie."

And for his part, Graves returned the glare accordingly, and the intense cop replied in kind with a terse one word answer of his own; "Newlan."

Chapter 117 – Fade to Black

Tuesday evening June 24, 2008 – 9:15 PM

Frank Newlan was struggling just to breathe, his lungs blocked from a severe case of hyperventilation, while at the same time his towering assailant jeered at him in disgust.

"Do you know who I am Newlan?" growled Tom Willis as a puzzled Newlan wondered how this madman knew his name.

But strangely enough, despite the failure of his respiratory system, and despite the fact that he had no idea who this gun-toting lunatic was, somehow Newlan did indeed recognize the evil face that was staring down at his prone body. There was no mistaking the frigid smirk that had haunted his dreams dating all the way back to his childhood; and although the memories sent a chill through him, he still didn't have a clue as to what he was really up against.

For dubious though it might seem, Newlan, he of the purported psychic abilities, never even made the slightest connection between himself and the ghostly apparition who appeared before him now like a frightening nightmare turned upside-down.

And what's more, astonishingly enough, Newlan foggy brain didn't contain even the faintest inkling of reason to surmise that his murderer might turn out to be his lover's jealous husband, Tom Willis, whom he believed to be still locked up in jail.

Based on the premonitions of his slumbering dream-world, the only thing Newlan gathered for certain was that this was an encounter that was fated to occur, almost from the day he was born...but why?

Why would a power from the Great Beyond save him from falling to his death when he was just a child, only to have him meet his demise in such a brutal way? Why had he been haunted by dormant visions featuring this sinister character all his life? Why did his dreams so often end with him falling from the sky like a dead weight, but never quite touching down to the ground?

Why? Why? Why, oh why, we often ask, but who other than the good Lord above can say for sure why certain fates befall us? And under the circumstances, Newlan couldn't even venture a guess. In fact, he had no idea whatsoever who would want to perpetrate such an atrocity on his bleeding heart...but surely he was about to find out soon enough.

"I'm Tom Willis that's who I am," bitterly announced the sunken skull of a face with a dash of evil burned into its eyes for good measures.

And suddenly, with the identity of his persecutor revealed, it struck Newlan that somehow his life had become inexorably entwined with Fred Miller's death. Somehow they had become long lost brothers-in-arms in some sort of macabre parallel universe. For some bizarre reason that he couldn't even begin to fathom, he was convinced that he was destined to meet the same tragic end that befell Fred Miller...and there wasn't a damned thing that anyone could do about it. Yes, for some perplexing reason that defied all logic, this was the lonely path that destiny had led him to; and nobly enough, he was ready to accept his fate. Like Fred Miller and countless others before him, he had done wrong. He had laid asunder the noble institution known as marriage; a sacrilege which is punishable by death in many a country, whether by the law of the land, or by way of retribution from the likes of an angry, possessive, bloodthirsty husband such as Tom Willis or the recently convicted murderer, John Breslin, just to name a few; merciless men who somehow derive at the radical decision to take the law into their own hands and never look back.

Amazingly enough, in spite of his fears, Newlan was calmed by the revelation of what it was he was dealing with, and with the help of this false sense of bravado, which he conjured up out of thin air, he angrily questioned his executioner.

"What do you want from me Willis?" cried out Newlan.

"What do I want from you? What do you think I want? I want you to admit that you slept with my wife, you fuckin' home-wrecker," commanded an incredulous Willis.

"You treated her like shit...so what did you expect?" fumed Newlan.

"It's not a matter of what I expect Newlan, it's a matter of what I demand. And I demand to be treated with respect. Respect Newlan, you understand me? Respect, you motherfucker," hissed Willis.

But Willis's babbling only served to further fuel Newlan's bubbling tank of emotional petrol; for despite his grim predicament, an uncontrollable anger arose from somewhere deep within his soul, and he decided right then and there that if he was going down, he was going down swinging.

And, incomprehensible though it may sound to the uninitiated, all of a sudden, Newlan could clearly make out the soothing voice of Dido, crooning in a soft whisper that he must never wave that white flag of surrender, as if she were channeling his soul through some sort of magical incantation. And furthermore, he drew courage and strength from this inexplicable phenomenon.

"Well you'll get no respect from me you asshole," screamed Newlan while visions of flaming white flags burnt a pair of gaping holes into his optic lenses and left an indelible mark stamped upon his retinas.

"Oh so you think you're a tough guy Newlan? You think you can fuck around with somebody else's wife and get away with it? Is that what you think Newlan? Is that what you think?" replied Willis in a calm interrogating tone.

And even though Willis's pistol was gleaming with havoc as its snake-eyes waved above Newlan's head with derisive intent, he was defiant to the end, as made clear by his bellowing response.

"You don't fuckin' deserve her Willis."

"Well you don't fuckin' deserve her either, Newlan...and you're never gonna have her. And do you wanna know why? Do you wanna know why, you motherfucker?" asked Willis in a pestering tone.

"Not really," sarcastically replied Newlan.

"W-w-w-w-w-well I'm gonna tell you why anyway," insanely stammered Willis as his gun shook unsteadily in his hand and his face contorted into a frightening mixture of wretched pain and irrepressible rage.

"Be-be-be-because she's dead. Do you understand me Newlan, she's dead? She's dead...the kids are dead...and you're...and you're... and you're next Newlan," roared Willis like a psychotic maniac.

In the blink of an eye, the dire words, which had been emanating from somewhere deep within Newlan's clairvoyant subconscious over the past few weeks like the steady pulse of a hospital monitor, registered in his mind almost immediately; "You're next Newlan".

It all seemed so obvious to him now...and now, Newlan finally understood what it all meant. And now, the fear that lurked within his heart betrayed his emotions like a cold slap across the face. And now, the anguish in his voice made his words almost indecipherable as he wailed out a tortured "noooooooo" at the top of his lungs.

And now, suddenly Newlan didn't care in the least what happened to him. Suddenly nothing in this world, in this life, much mattered to him anymore. Suddenly he had reached the end of his rope. Suddenly he had completely lost his will to live.

"Shoot me...just shoot me and get it the fuck over with," implored a sobbing Newlan as he lifted his head and spat towards Willis's face.

And Willis was only too happy to oblige. It was time to end this charade. He had gotten his satisfaction by confronting Newlan, up close and personal, but now it was time to finish what he had started. Now it was time to do what he had come here to do in the first place. Now it was time to put an end to this no good, wife-stealing SOB. Now it was time to execute the ultimate act of power. Yes, the time for talk was over, and the hour was ripe for the taking of another man's life.

Willis bent over slightly and aimed his gun directly at the most lethal spot he could conceive of, dead-center in the middle of Newlan's forehead.

And for his part in this tragic play, Newlan closed his eyes and took a deep breath as he winced in anticipation of what was now a foregone conclusion; his total and utter obliteration. He was more than ready to meet his maker. He was more than ready to succumb to the forces of the afterlife. If Marianne Plante was dead then he wanted to die too.

Newlan heard the sound of a rifling click and just like that, his life flashed before his eyes. At long last, at least he would be with his mother and father again. At long last, at least he would be with his dear friend, Karen McDermott again. At long last, at least he would be with the only woman he ever loved again, together forever, in death as in life.

In the fraction of a second that it took for the bullet to rip apart Newlan's cranium and send an oozing spatter of blood dripping across his face, he heard the concussive force of the blast reverberate through the garage, like the piercing ring of an ominous telephone call in the dead of night. But he didn't feel pain...only numbness. He didn't feel death...only peace. He didn't feel darkness...only a bright light shining down on his body like a beaming conduit...calling him back home.

Indeed, in the split second that it took for Newlan to feel all of these things, his skull once again bounced hard against the asphalt, except that this time his eyes rolled back into his head...and his whole world...faded to black.

Chapter 118 – Closure for Some

Tuesday evening June 24, 2008 – 9:18 PM

Tracy Stone had been tossing and turning for hours with the weight of the world on her mind before she finally drifted off into a lethargic slumber. Tracy had put herself to bed early on this the inexorable day of her ex-husband's ultimate reckoning, in hopes that when the clock struck midnight, perhaps the dawning of a new day would bring about a change in her life.

But, inevitably, Tracy would not get through the night without a visit from her past; a reminder of her youth; a tour of duty into her dark side and beyond; for only through somber reflection would she ever find her salvation.

And of course what was to happen next is all too predictable; Tracy dreamed of Fred Miller. She dreamed of the two of them, arm-in-arm, entwined and floating weightlessly like a billowing cloud which had transformed itself into the shape of a pair of cotton-candy figurines as seen from the eyes of a child.

There they were, paddling through the warm amniotic fluid of their Mother's womb, towards the beam of light, with the orchestral music of harps and harpsichords providing the soundtrack of their journey through time and space. They were one with the universe and nothing could be more radiant.

However, as entrancing as the moment seemed to be, soon thereafter Tracy felt herself losing her grip on this magical world of the afterlife; she could feel herself departing from this euphoric land of Kingdom Come; she could feel herself returning to the waking world...and all the while, she was fighting the feeling with every beat of her heart. If only there was some way for her to hold onto this dream-world then her fate would be sealed; her life would be healed; her ticket on that downtown train would be a done deal; for certainly she would never let go of this vision on her own accord.

Nevertheless, Tracy could feel the force of gravity separating her from Fred Miller's embrace; she could feel her body drifting down towards the Earth below; she could feel herself returning back to the cruel world of Purgatory from whence she came. She was not yet ready to join hands with the glorious legions that had gone before her; she was not yet ready to begin the work of her true calling at the side of our Father; she was not yet ready to leave behind the sins of her past quite so soon. But she _was_ being given a glimpse of what lay before her if she could somehow manage to change her course in the tempting land of milk and honey...and then...well then, the rest was up to her.

Yes, even as Tracy made the languid trek back down to terra firma she could begin to feel a change come over her, and yet, at the same time, she gazed up longingly at Fred Miller's glowing spirit, smiling over her like a ray of sunshine. Clearly she could see that at long last he was ready to leave behind the chains that held him in a state of suspended animation. At long last he was ready to join that grand procession in the name of God. At lost last he was ready to make that solitary hike over the green hills, over the melting mountaintops, over the rainbows which led to the other side. In short, at long last, he would be at peace.

Tracy could hear her beloved Freddie's ethereal voice as it took its final inventory. She could hear his voice as it whispered like the wind. She could hear his voice as it ushered his soul straight into the Hereafter.

And then suddenly, like a total eclipse that plunges all light into darkness, the shadow of Fred's being was gone...and when the twilight finally faded back into view, who should be standing before Tracy, balanced on a cloud like a magic carpet rider, but none other than juror number 8. Tracy was perplexed. Who was this stranger and why was he here?

It was a mysterious osmosis to be sure, but Tracy was positive that it was more than just smoke and mirrors. Surely, it had to be a sign of redemption. Surely, it had to be a symbol of atonement. Surely, it had to be a mark of absolution.

By share force of habit, Tracy found herself reciting a solemn prayer for the dead and the dying, and she could feel Newlan's universal sense of sadness as he joined in on her invocation. She could feel his hope and hopelessness, battling it out to the bitter end. She could feel his pain. She could feel his sorrow. And yet at the same time she could also feel his optimistic vibes, ringing out in the face of all odds.

And just when the vision was about to fade, Tracy saw the longhaired wise man shedding raindrops of tears by the bucketful, aimed at the four winds below; all in a laborious effort to save the lost inhabitants of a dying planet; all in a valiant effort to cleanse their souls in a bath of holy water; all in an effort to make peace with his Maker; the same Maker who now held Fred Miller by the hand and carried him away.

Something quite extraordinary appeared to be occurring, and in her embryonic state between the waking world of reality and the sleeping world of fantasy, between the light and the darkness, between the living and the dead, so too did Tracy shed a tear of deliverance as her body spun down to the ground.

Tracy could feel the circle of life revolving. She could feel the whirlwind of past and present, collide and disperse. She could feel the tsunami of days gone by, washing away the hurt. And then, like a miracle, with every ounce of strength in her soul, she could feel the dead weight of the curious juror number 8 relinquishing its hold on her, and on him, and on everything that had ever held them down.

Tracy looked up one more time before she awoke for good, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man we know to be Frank Newlan waving goodbye. And enigmatically enough, by his side stood a woman; a woman who looked very much like she did, in body and in soul. The clouds had disappeared, and yet there they were perched in the sky; man and woman; perhaps husband and wife; perhaps Adam and Eve; supported by nothing but a gentle breeze from Heaven. There was no longer any panic in this stranger's eyes. There was no longer any trepidation in his demeanor. There was no longer any chance of him plummeting to his death in his humanly dreams. For, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the time had surely come where he would never fear falling...again.

...

When Tracy finally rose from her dream it was just after midnight, and a hint of an involuntary smile formed on her face a she peeked over at the fluorescent glow of the hourglass-shaped clock on her bedroom wall. Something told her that better days lay ahead. Something told her that we must all make choices in life, and that the time had come for her to make the choice to move on to the next chapter in her story. And last but not least, something told her that no matter what happened in the past, from this day forward, everything...was going to be...alright.

Chapter 119 – End of the Road

Tuesday evening June 24, 2008 – 9:20 PM

Medford Police Sergeant James "Jimmy" Leach wasted no time racing to the scene of the crime, namely the Medford River Park Condominium complex, and he and his partner, Officer Gary Graves, arrived onsite within minutes of receiving the frenzied call from headquarters. While they were in transit, the dispatcher filled them in on all the gory details regarding the whereabouts of the reported gunshots, and with a general location in hand Leach came skidding to a halt just beyond the ramp that led down to the lower level parking garage.

A young mother in a minivan was attempting to enter the garage at the same time that the officers arrived, but for some reason her garage door opener was malfunctioning and she wasn't at all happy about the situation. To further complicate matters, upon surveying their surroundings, the tense cops jumped out of their cruiser and directed the irritable housewife to leave the premises immediately, for her own safety. When the ill-tempered woman protested, Leach threatened to arrest her on the spot, and that took care of that dilemma. However, in defense of the frazzled homemaker, it is only fair to report that she was accompanied by two cranky kids who were throwing dueling tantrums in the backseat of her car, and she wanted nothing more than to just go home and rest her weary bones. But, more to the point, she had no idea of the dangers that were lurking within the garage; otherwise she would never have resisted the lawmen's orders in the first place.

With one problem solved, Leach hustled down the ramp of the garage and banged on the heavy metal door, hoping that someone would open up the gate, but his efforts were to no avail. He then located the manual open/close switch, which theoretically should have raised the thick barrier, but when he pressed the button, nothing happened.

"Something's not right here," hollered Graves just as another gunshot came ringing out from the depths of the garage.

"Holy fuck, someone's shooting the place apart down there," added Graves. But surely there was no play-by-play commentary necessary for his partner, Jimmy Leach, to figure out what was going on inside the garage.

"Let's go around to the indoor entrance," ordered Leach. "And whatever you do Graves, be careful...and don't fuckin' panic."

And so with guns drawn, the two valiant Medford Police officers made their way inside the condo complex in a mad dash, life-or-death attempt at apprehending this apparently crazed gunman. It was a race against time, and unfortunately for the good guys, their intruding adversary already had a major head start on them. And furthermore, unfortunately for Frank Newlan, as well as for the men in blue, Tom Willis had known enough to disengage the garage door opener as soon as his victim pulled into the lot, and with the help of his private investigator associate, Brent Blain of the Boston Intelligence Group, he was, of course, already in possession of all the information he needed to track down one Mr. Frank Newlan.

Yes, unfortunately for Newlan, Willis was tipped off about the presence of a cramped, moldy utility closet, located in the far corner of the garage. Yes, unfortunately for Newlan, Willis had stumbled upon a perfect little cubby hole of a hiding place, and he was cognizant of the fact that he could sit and wait patiently inside this musty little hole in the wall until such a time when the moment was right for him to pull off a surprise ambush on the unsuspecting Newlan...and sure enough, that's just what he did.

Willis was expecting Newlan to arrive home a bit earlier in the evening, but the delay actually turn out to be a blessing in disguise since it allowed him to confront his antagonist without any fortuitous interruptions. His original plan was going to be to just shoot and run, but as it turned out, he was gaining much more satisfaction out of this up-close-and-personal encounter with the doomed home-wrecker.

...

Meanwhile, back inside the garage, lying on the slick pavement of the grimy indoor parking lot, Frank Newlan's lifeless body began its endless journey back to infinity, just as Tracy Stone had portended in her fantabulous dream. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, or so the story goes. He could feel himself floating...free as a bird...lighter than air...never again would he have any fears of falling to his death...for now he could fly...now he could soar above the clouds...now he could glide on the wings of love...now he could facilitate his ascent to Heaven on his own terms, like a hot air balloon rising peacefully up over the hazy summer sky.

But as is often the case in our waking lives, Newlan's transformation would not go quite as planned, for he met a perplexing detour on his road to forever; it was a voice; a voice that was calling out to him, seemingly from beyond the grave. Was it the same voice that had saved his life when he was just a child? Was it the same voice that raised him up on that fateful day when he fell into a near fatal lapse of unconsciousness in the living room of his condo just over a week ago? Perhaps it was one and the same. But alas, there were also other forces at work here on this day; other dark forces; other far more predictable forces; other all too human forces.

"Wake up and open your eyes...wake up and open your eyes," repeated the metallic voice in a drillmaster's tone.

It was a familiar, yet foreign, voice that was calling out to Newlan, and without thinking twice, he groggily obeyed the command from above. However, when at last he opened his eyelids, what he saw in the mirror of his mind made no sense to him. No sense whatsoever.

For what Frank Newlan saw when at last he opened his eyes, was the one and only Saeed Kahn, hovering over him with two guns trained to his head.

Newlan was totally befuddled by the scene that was unfolding around him, and at the moment, he wasn't even sure whether he was dead or alive. He could plainly feel the blood dripping down from his face, and he could clearly discern the blotchy, dark red stains caked to the front of his shirt; but other than a pounding headache, he felt no pain at all.

Miraculously enough, other than a persistent gong that was ringing in his ears like a haunted church bell on steroids, Newlan felt next to nothing. But on the other hand, mingled in with the clanging chimes, he also detected the distinct rhythmic wheeze of a faint yet agonizing moaning and groaning...groaning and moaning....moaning and groaning, like the whining pants of a wild pig that had just been impaled by a hunter's arrow.

Newlan was quite sure that the excruciating murmur wasn't originating from his own battered body...but what else could it be?

It took a supreme effort, but Newlan somehow managed to summons up the strength to painstakingly lift his head slightly and turn to his left...and when he warily focused in on the origins of the harrowed wheezing, he almost did a double-take, for lying next to him on his stomach, in a puddle-sized pool of blood, was none other than Tom Willis.

Willis's hands were instinctively reaching for his dislodged pistol, but Kahn had already kicked the weapon away from its owner's outstretched arms and picked it up for his own treacherous use.

Kahn was now in possession of not one, but two 38 specials; his own pistol, as well as Willis's. And at the present time, both of his brightly adorned paws were aimed down at the fallen combatants, and what's more, the lawless, barbaric look in Kahn's eyes conveyed the fact that he wasn't at all afraid to use either one of his recently acquired automatic weapons; on either one of these scum's of the Earth for that matter.

"Don't move a muscle, you infidels," demanded Kahn in a tone that was even more deranged than Tom Willis's barbs aimed at Frank Newlan.

At this point in time, Newlan's head was spinning like a proverbial top, but what he was somehow now only just beginning to comprehend was the fact that Saeed Kahn, for some unspeakable reason, had just saved his life. Kahn had shot Tom Willis in the back, just as Willis was about to gun him down. It was Willis's blood that was splattered all over him. It was Willis's shoulder that had rammed into his noggin, knocking him out cold like a strong safety delivering a devastating blow to the head of a helpless wide receiver.

However, what Newlan would never know for sure was how this unfathomable scenario came to be; a scenario which we will nevertheless divulge to you, the dear reader.

What Newlan would never know for sure was that Kahn had inadvertently witnessed the initial gunshot that Willis had directed towards him. And what Newlan would never know for sure was that Willis, he of the one track mind, never even noticed Saeed Kahn unloading his own groceries from the back seat of his car. What Newlan would never know for sure was that Kahn quietly concealed himself behind his vehicle and calmly assessed the situation. And last but surely not least, what Newlan would never know for sure was that when his demise appeared to imminent, Kahn instinctively sprang into action against this stranger who had dared to invade his dominion. No, Newlan would never know for sure exactly what happened, but to the end of his days, he always had a nagging hunch, or as renowned Defense Attorney R. J. Gleason would say, he had "a theory...just a theory".

But on the flipside of the coin, there was one thing that Newlan did surmise beyond a shadow of a doubt; and that was the fact that Kahn's intervention was no act of kindness on his behalf.

Kahn glared down at Newlan with a terrorizing look on his face, and Newlan could plainly see the hate in his eyes. Kahn gripped Willis's gun tightly in his right hand, and his trigger finger was itchy, oh so itchy. This was his chance. He could blow Newlan away, straight to Hell, and pass the blame conveniently onto Tom Willis. Once and for all, he could rid the Earth of this foul rodent and escape unscathed at the same time; and who know, perhaps he might even be honored for his heroic efforts by the filthy American powers-that-be...oh the rich irony of it all.

Kahn didn't utter another word, not even a grunted syllable, but Newlan could sense what was about to happen next. He had mercifully managed to escape death from one enemy, but now he was about die at the hands of another ruthless assassin. He had won the hard-fought battle for survival...but now he would lose the war of the worlds to this cowardly interloper. Where was the justice in that?

Once again, Newlan gritted his teeth, and he shook from head to toe as he prepared to die. Once again he heard the clicking sound of a gun, followed be a smoking blast of mayhem. However, once again, inexplicably enough, he was still alive. Once again, when all seemed lost, he heard a voice...a booming voice...a roaring voice...a thundering voice...a voice almost too miraculous to behold.

"Police don't fuckin' move."

It was the voice of his childhood pal, Sergeant Jimmy Leach. It was a warning shot from the gun of his massive, rambunctious, attack dog of a partner, Officer Gary Graves.

...

For the rest of his days, Newlan would never know for sure exactly who called the cops to report the sound of gunfire coming from the garage, but before the break of dawn there was one notion he would be one hundred percent positive about, and that was this; he had finally reached the soft white underbelly of his latest downward cycle...rock bottom...end of the road...no time left on the clock. And now...at long last...finally...things were assuredly looking up again...just in the nick of time.

Chapter 120 – The Man on the Moon

Tuesday evening June 24, 2008 – 10:15 PM

Medford Police Sergeant James "Jimmy" Leach was as anxious as he had ever been since joining the force, and as he crouched down on one knee in a bent-over position, huddled inside the back of an ambulance that was transporting Frank Newlan to a nearby hospital, he tried with all his might to comfort his childhood buddy.

"Just relax Frankie...everything's gonna be alright," assured Leach as he squeezed Newlan's hand as tightly as he could. But naturally, as always, Newlan, remained utterly unconvinced.

"I'm telling you Jimmy, Kahn was about to kill me," insisted a shaken Newlan as he attempted to lift his six foot frame up off the stretcher.

"And I'm telling you that you're crazy Frankie. Kahn might very well have saved your life. We took his story and it checks out," replied Leach with a sense of finality in his tone, while at the same time he firmly directed Newlan back into a horizontal position on the gurney.

By this point in his hard day's night, Newlan was just too beat up to fight anymore and so instead of resisting his friend's nonverbal instruction, he leaned back down on the padded bed and covered his eyes in his hands as he began to cry like a baby.

"What's wrong Frankie?" asked Leach as he tenderly caressed his old pal's shoulder blade like a father might do to a moody child.

"I don't even care anymore. I might as well be dead too. The bastard killed Marianne. He even killed their kids...oh God, what am I gonna do, Jimmy, what am I gonna do?" pleaded Newlan in a babbling tone which bordered on the north side of the fence that separates the sane from the demented.

"Marianne? Marianne who? Who killed Marianne? What the hell are you talking about," wondered a puzzled Leach as he lifted his hat and rubbed his fingers through his graying hair.

"Marianne Plante," dolefully replied Newlan through his anguished tears.

"You mean the Marianne Plante that you dated back in high school?" quizzically asked a befuddled Leach.

"Yeah, who else would I be talking about?" sniffled Newlan as a sorrowful look of hurt filled his puppy dog eyes.

"What the hell does she have to do with any of this? You must have really taken a good hard knock in the head Frankie, because you're making no sense at all," declared Leach.

"Don't you know? That was her husband who tried to kill me. Apparently he found out that there was something going on between us," begrudgingly explained Newlan in between sobs.

"Her husband?" exclaimed Leach who then proceeded to add an explanation, not to mention a lecture, to his startled response. "In the confusion, I just assumed that it was a robbery gone haywire, because when desperate people panic, the situation usually escalates into violence. Or, God forbid, I thought that maybe one of Breslin's cronies found out who you were and was coming after you to even the score. Come on Frankie, you of all people should know better. After all you've been through on this damned trial, didn't it ever don on you that you can't go messing around with another man's wife?"

"Yeah, but she didn't deserve to die that way. Oh dear God please, why couldn't you have taken me instead?" wailed Newlan. But sadly his pleas fell on deaf ears, and moreover, not a soul could so much as hear the faintest whisper of his cries.

Ironically, poor, poor, pitiful Newlan's sorrowful prayers were being drowned out by the increasingly loud howl of his speeding ambulance's siren as it made its way toward the emergency room; a one-way trip that would leave him safely deposited into the helping hands of the caring ER staff at the local Medford Memorial Hospital. And believe it or not, these compassionate human beings were in fact the same team of talented doctors and nurses who were currently in the process of saving the life...of one Mr. Tom Willis.

...

Newlan lay on his gurney in the hallway of the ER and lamented his fate for what seemed like forever, but when he finally received some medical attention, it turned out that he had only a minor concussion, and what with the state of hospitals these days, he was whisked out of the understaffed treatment room and released on the spot.

Meanwhile, Newlan's lifelong friend Jimmy Leach had stood poised by his side the entire time; and with Newlan's release papers in hand, Leach arranged to have Gary Graves come pick them up and transport them to the police station so that the investigators could take down Newlan's statement for the official record.

Mercifully, after numerous frantic phone calls back at the precinct, Leach discovered that Marianne Plante and her children were not dead after all. But it was due only to the grace of God that they weren't home when her husband came looking for his gun.

When Newlan got the news of this miraculous reversal of fortune he was absolutely dumbstruck and disgusted by the treacherous depths that Willis had sunk to in order to perpetrate his evil myth on him. But despite the wickedness of her husband, he was overjoyed just the same to hear that Plante and her kids had emerged from the crisis unscathed.

Not knowing what else to do, Newlan just shook his head in bemusement as he made the sign of the cross and muttered as much to himself as to Leach; "That no good bastard Willis was beyond cruel. Not only was he gonna kill me, but he wanted me to go to my grave thinking that Marianne was dead too."

As for the matter of Willis's unexpected release from jail, it turned out that somehow a young go-getter of an attorney, perhaps a younger version of R. J. Gleason, finally managed to get him released on bail after almost a week of incarceration. Of course, after the events of this evening, Willis would not be seeing the light of day again for a long, long time, much to the delight of Frank Newlan.

"Come on Frankie, I'll give you a ride home," offered Leach after Newlan had gone over his story with the detectives for about the hundredth time.

The short ride back to his condo was unusually quiet when out of the blue Newlan launched into a solemn, unsolicited confession; if no other reason than to break the uncomfortable silence which was hovering over the cabin of the intimidating police cruiser like a ghost from his past.

"I guess maybe I asked for it," admitted Newlan. And remarkably enough, all it took was this simple statement to open up the floodgates of an emotional heart-to-heart talk between two old friends.

"Look Frankie, don't go getting yourself all bent out of shape over this, because it's nothing that I haven't come across before. It's a fuckin' jungle out there, and I should know, I've seen it all," offered Newlan's street-smart cop of a friend. "There _is_ no bad versus good. There _is_ no wrong versus right. It's just life dude...shit happens. Its survival of the fuckin' fittest...and tonight you survived. That's all you need to know. That's all you need to worry about. Tonight you survived. Who the fuck knows what's gonna happen tomorrow, but for tonight anyway you survived...so just go home and count your blessings...and be grateful for the fact that you lived to see another day."

"I guess you're right Jimmy. I guess when life knocks you down, the only thing you can really do is pick your sorry ass up again...and dust yourself off...and get back in the game," robotically replied Newlan as he once again fell into one of his legendary, trance-like swoons. "It's either that, or just give up and die...and I'm not about to give up...and I'm not ready to die just yet. And on top of that, I'm gonna do things my way, even if it kills me. I guess just don't know of any other fuckin' way to live. But in the end, regardless of what happens to us, sometimes I feel like we have no control over our fate anyway. Sometimes I feel like whatever the fuck is gonna happen, is gonna happen, and all we can do is hang on tight and go along for the fuckin' ride...and pray that everything turns out alright."

As the night wore on, and as the two childhood chums sat outside of Newlan's condo in Leach's squad car and rambled on and on until the eastern sky turned into a bloody shade of orange, an inspiration came over Newlan, and not surprisingly, he ended the conversation, and the evening, with a colorful aside.

"Well James, as the Grateful Dead might say, who the hell can predict for sure how long any of us...are fuckin' built to last." And with that, he shook his friend's hand goodnight; he was finally home...at last.

...

As Newlan trudged through the empty lobby of his condominium complex, still wearing his bloody shirt like a red-stained badge of honor, the salty nighttime guard, Charlie, shot him an incredulous stare as he admiringly exclaimed, "Newlan, you must have a horseshoe up your ass...because you are one lucky motherfucker."

"Amen Charlie, amen," sighed Newlan, and as he headed for the elevator he couldn't help but notice the headline peeking out from the Boston Record American newspaper machine in the corner of the lobby:

### BOSTON RECORD AMERICAN

### SPECIAL EDITION

### GUILTY!

### GUILTY!

### GUILTY!

### 3 HORRIBLE HUBBYS GOING AWAY FOR LIFE

### GOOD RIDDANCE!

It wasn't easy, but somehow Newlan resisted the urge to drop a coin in the slot and pick up a copy. Instead, he just kept on going and he didn't look back...and if he had anything to say about it, he was never looking back again.

When Newlan got up to his condo, he immediately pull off his shoes in an effort to relieve the throbbing ache that had developed in his feet, and shortly thereafter, once he was fully settled in, he wandered over to the phone to check his voice mail.

Newlan was alarmed to discover that he had an unlucky thirteen new messages waiting for him, and his first thought, instigated by Jimmy Leach's misguided theory, was that maybe some of Breslin's buddies _had_ already gotten a hold of his number, and that they were gonna come after him with revenge on their mind.

However, clinging to his newly-found false sense of security, Newlan hit the play button on his answering machine anyway. He figured, "fuck it, after what I've been though, if they want me...then they can come and get me."

But as was most often the case when Newlan had one of his ominous premonitions, he was wrong; dead wrong. To start with, the first message on his machine had nothing whatsoever to do with vengeance; on the contrary, it was verbal dispatch from the national TV news program Dateline NBC, and the energetic voice of the woman on the other end of the line was giving it her very best sales pitch in an attempt to recruit our paranoid protagonist for a once in a lifetime opportunity.

"Hi...this message is for Mr. Frank Newlan. I'm Laura Bremmer from DateLine NBC. I understand that you were a member of the jury on the John Breslin murder trial. We would be extremely interested in hearing your thoughts about the case, and we were wondering whether you might be willing to speak with us on camera for a story that we're going to be doing in the fall. It will be a full, hour-long feature on the trial...and we feel that the jury's mindset is always a critical component to a successful show."

"We're particularly interested in speaking with you because your intensity came across quite clearly in your demeanor as we watched the trial unfold from the gallery. You seemed to have a certain allure about you, which we think would make for a compelling TV interview."

"Bullshit! Flattery will get you nowhere bitch," jokingly taunted Newlan as he stared down at the inanimate object that was rambling on like an incessantly yakking girlfriend, and with its red eye blinking back at him for good measure.

But, all joking aside, at the same time, Newlan worriedly wondered how anyone could have gotten a good look at him after he took such painstaking measures to ensure that he kept his face pointed in the opposite direction of the audience for the entire duration of the trial; and for that matter, how in God's name did the good people at NBC know who the hell he was?

Bremmer went on to say that she had spoken to a majority of the jurors and that a handful of them were interested in participating in the segment. She also added that one juror in particular, a woman by the name of Jane, had given him high praise for having the courage to stand up alone against his fellow jurors and highlight what he felt were the inconsistencies in the government's case.

Newlan was shocked to discover that Bremmer had already talked to so many of his former colleagues, and more importantly, that she had pried so much information out of them. And furthermore, since just about all of the jurors were probably at the Borderline Café when Bremmer began making her uninvited phone calls, Newlan wondered how she had gotten a hold of them that quickly...and so for the sake of his own sanity he attempted to square the disparity in his mind as he talked out the solution in his head.

"I bet that most of the jurors gave out their cell phone numbers as their main point of contact. And I distinctly remember that while we were hanging out by the bar, one by one they excused themselves because that had to take a 'personal' phone call. Ha, they were probably talking to Bremmer the whole time," groggily surmised Newlan in his concussion-ravaged brain. "No wonder some of them were giving me guilty looks when they came back to the bar. But at least I gotta give Jane her props...I knew it was only a matter of time before she saw things my way."

As Newlan paged through the rest of his voice mails, he discovered that most of the messages were from various news agencies; both of the print and TV variety; both of the local and national breed; all of them wanting a piece of him; all of them wanting his opinion on the trial.

Stunningly, the remaining handful of calls were urgent messages from Marianne Plante warning Newlan about her husband's unexpected release from jail and the dire consequences that it might pose for him.

"Damn it, I gotta get myself a cell phone," wryly proclaimed Newlan while at the same time he was just happy to hear Plante's voice, the terror in her tone notwithstanding.

With his voice messages out of the way, Newlan found himself pacing around his condo like a man possessed. After all of the trauma he had been through, he didn't know quite what to do with himself at the moment...but one thing was certain; he had absolutely no intentions of going on TV and making a fool of himself, or for that matter, of talking to _any_ reporters at all.

Although Newlan's unwillingness to participate was due mainly to the simple fact that he just wanted to put the whole ordeal behind him, it was also because, no matter how admittedly irrational the supposition was, he was scared shitless that Breslin might find out who he was and send someone after him, just like he had done to the ill-fated Fred Miller.

However, for a brief moment, Newlan had a thought...a shining thought...a radiant thought...a luminous thought...and quite frankly, we might add, a ridiculous thought.

"Maybe I should try to make some money out of this mess. Shit, everyone else does it," babbled Newlan as a dim light bulb went off in his big head and began to glow like a budding star in the darkness of the darkest night.

Newlan was consistently dumbfounded by the perverse ways in which the human species relishes in the sad tales of other peoples' suffering and misery, and he laughed out loud as the gleaming vision crept into his brain. He laughed heartily at himself and at everyone else in this crazy, mixed-up world. He laughed so hard that he could barely contain himself. Amazingly enough, despite all that had happened to him, he could still find some humor in this God-forsaken planet. Astonishingly enough, despite all that he had been through in the last few weeks, he could still look in the mirror and chuckle at the zaniness of this demented, schizoid existence.

Newlan looked up at the lunar skyline from the privacy of his bedroom window, and as his shimmering vision gained clarity, he exclaimed to the man on the moon, as if he were talking to an old friend, "Frankie Newlan, TV star, man you can't make this shit up!"

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
