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.
From the Eyes of a Juror Page 41
