From the Eyes of a Juror

by Frank Terranova

  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 di
sciplined, 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.