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 haz
e…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 lat
ely 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.
From the Eyes of a Juror Page 62
