From the Eyes of a Juror

by Frank Terranova

  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.