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 ev
ery 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.”
From the Eyes of a Juror Page 93
