Chapter 80 – Real Men?
Wednesday evening June 18, 2008 – 11:40 PM
Charles “Charlie” Mercurio was teetering on the verge of an emotional collapse as he stared into the bathroom mirror at the pink scar running halfway across his gut like a slithering snake.
It had been over two years since Mercurio plunged a serrated knife into his belly in a desperate, drunken attempt at ending the pain that had overtaken his soul. It had been over two years since he found his sorry, subpoenaed ass being dragged before a grand jury which was hearing evidence in the murder case against his good friend, John Breslin. It had been over two years since he fearfully withheld pertinent information from that same grand jury…and when Assistant District Attorney, Elaina Lyons, caught him in an outright lie, it was all too much for him to take. When Lyons threatened him with prison if he didn’t come clean, he resolved right then and there to drink himself into a coma, in hopes of never waking up again. And when that didn’t work, he resorted to the aforementioned drastic measures which left him with a foot long disfigurement indelibly stamped into his abdomen.
The events of the past two years had, without a doubt, eroded Mercurio’s sanity, bit by bit, until ultimately he reached the point where his whole world was falling apart at the seams; and it had all started some twenty four months ago when he was “three six packs into a case of beer” as he so eloquently put it to DA Lyons; it had all started some two revolutions around the sun ago when he decided that life was no longer worth living; it had all started some 700 days ago when he took matters into his own hands so to speak and attempted to end his life.
Apparently not much had changed in the last two years, for much as Mercurio was then, so here he was tonight, inebriated to the max and questioning his own existence; here he was, questioning his Lord and savior; here he was, questioning whether he had the strength to carry on.
Tomorrow Mercurio would testify at the trial of his old pal, Johnny Breslin, and he knew full well that there was a good chance he might say something which would abet in the prosecution’s objective of sending Breslin to prison for the rest of his life; and the mere thought of Breslin’s plight, the mere thought of his own predicament, was playing tricks with his unstable mind.
Luckily Breslin’s attorney, R. J. Gleason had seen to it that Mercurio’s suicide attempt would never come to the jury’s attention, but Mercurio was well aware of the fact that everything else was fair game…and he was preparing himself for the worst.
Even though Mercurio’s doggedness was tenuous at best, after two years of anguish and deliberation, he had resolved to tell the truth. What else could he do…try to kill himself again? There was no way he was going to risk being brought up on perjury charges, no matter how good of a friend Breslin had been to him, so it was either tell the truth or end it all. And although both options were still on the table, neither alternative seemed very appealing to him at the moment.
As far as Mercurio knew, Breslin was innocent. But some things just didn’t seem to add up, and lately he was beginning to question his old drinking partner’s motives. Could Breslin have deceived him? Could Breslin have gotten him caught up in trap? Could Breslin have taken him for a fool?
For the past two years, Mercurio had been wondering off and on whether there was any chance, any chance at all, that he may have unwittingly played a small part in a monstrous murder plot. It just didn’t seem possible, and yet, the thought had crossed his photographic mind on more than a few occasions since his suicide attempt and his subsequent half-hearted recovery.
Clearly, Mercurio’s brain worked in strange ways, but there was even more to it than meets the eye, for he just so happened to be one of those people who was born with the uncanny ability to recall mundane details which most of us would never retain, and he distinctly remembered that cool autumn night in October of 2005 when he took a ride with Breslin to his former home in Marlborough Massachusetts for the purpose of checking up on his estranged wife, Tracy.
Mercurio vividly recalled Breslin’s fist-pumping reaction when the DJ on the classic rock station WXLZ played the AC/DC song “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap” while they were cruising up the highway. He still recalled Breslin’s exact words; “Crank it up Charlie…I love this fuckin’ song.”
Mercurio still recalled the possessed look in Breslin’s eyes as he enthusiastically sang along to the tongue-in-cheek lyrics. It was as if Breslin had been on the receiving end of some sort of higher-calling, a calling informing him that the redemption he had been praying for would soon be at hand, much like the tall tales that one of those phony preachers on the TV might tell as they begged for money in return for a promise to save your soul.
Mercurio still recalled Breslin asking him to pull over so that he could use a pay phone, and he still recalled replying, “What the hell you want to use a pay phone for Johnny? I’ll let you borrow my cell phone if you don’t have yours on you.”
Mercurio still recalled Breslin taking him up on his cell phone offer, and he never forgot how Breslin stepped outside of the car so that he could, as he put it, “talk in private”.
Mercurio still recalled it all like it was yesterday, and furthermore he would never, ever, be able to forget how victimized he felt when the police informed him that his phone had been used to call an ex-con by the name of Sammy Fox; a convicted murderer no less.
Mercurio still recalled holding onto an envelope full of cash which Breslin had given him. Breslin’s excuse was that he was hiding the money from his wife because of his forthcoming divorce, and it seemed like a perfectly good explanation as far as Charlie Mercurio was concerned.
Mercurio still recalled Breslin dropping by his house unannounced, right around Christmastime, with a request for half the money so that he could buy gifts for his kids.
Mercurio still recalled Breslin’s phone call at 5 PM on the night of Sunday January 15th, 2006, where he asked him to return the rest of his money. He still recalled taking a ride with Breslin over to the 88 Bar and Grill in Andover, not far from the Tex-Ray Defense Systems offices, that very same evening. He still recalled how Breslin cautiously trekked into the restaurant alone with the packet of money, and how he ambled slowly back out about 15 minutes later, empty-handed. He still recalled how Breslin inform him that he’d just had a brief meeting with his divorce attorney and that he had paid him the balance of his bill.
Mercurio still recalled that a few days after their rendezvous to the 88 restaurant, Breslin confided in him that his wife Tracy’s boyfriend had been found shot to death and that he was a suspect.
Mercurio still recalled how Breslin explained to him that Tracy had sicced the cops on him, and how he had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the murder of his estranged wife’s lover.
Mercurio still recalled how a couple of months later, Breslin stopped by his house and told him that the cops might be paying him a visit, for no reason other than the fact that they were friends.
Mercurio still recalled how Breslin counseled him to be careful what he said because the police were trying to find a way to pin the murder on him any way that they could.
Yes, Charles “Charlie” Mercurio recalled all of these things and so much more…and now he would have to share his memories with a courtroom full of vengeful people.
Mercurio didn’t know exactly what these pain-in-the-ass lawyers were going to ask him, but he damn well knew that he had better tell the truth. He damn well knew that he had better answer their questions to the best of his idiot-savant-like abilities or he just might wind up being Breslin’s cellmate.
For two years Mercurio had racked his brain attempting to make some sense of this thorny situation which he found himself in through no fault of his own -- other than the fact that he was just trying to be a good friend -- and now the day of reckoning was finally at hand. For the most part, he had attributed Breslin’s strange and sometimes suspicious behavior to his pending divorce, but now, when
push came to shove, he wasn’t so sure.
“The poor guy’s under a lot of pressure,” reasoned Mercurio at the time, but now he wondered whether he had been duped. Now he wondered whether he had been tricked. Now he wondered whether he had been played as a pawn in big game of chicken.
But on the other hand, Mercurio often wondered why Breslin hadn’t come to him with his dilemma in the first place. He would have straightened out this dude Miller, no problem. He would have left Miller broken and bleeding in the gutter, where he would have had plenty of time to think long and hard about whether he wanted to keep messing around with the friends of Johnny Breslin.
However, that was all ancient history, and now in the blink of an eye, here he was, two years later, once again forced to come face-to-face with the turmoil that had destroyed his life. Tomorrow, he just might be forced to rat out a friend and the guilt was killing him.
At the heart of Mercurio’s quandary was the fact that, where he came from, such a thing was unheard of, which brought him, full-circle, right back to his tormented predicament of two years ago, and in his mind he wavered over whether he should end it all rather than to be considered a snitch for the rest of his life.
You see, where Charles “Charlie” Mercurio came from, real men took their secrets to the grave.
Where Charles “Charlie” Mercurio came from, real men lived and died with honor.
Where Charles “Charlie” Mercurio came from, real men didn’t hit on another man’s wife.
Where Charles “Charlie” Mercurio came from, disrespect was as serious a crime as murder in the first degree.
Where Charles “Charlie” Mercurio came from, the laws of the street ruled the day.
Where Charles “Charlie” Mercurio came from, friends had each other’s backs.
But sadly, in his present state of mind, none of these axioms seemed to matter much anymore; because now, as he stared at the bright red stitches on his stomach while at the same time holding a gun to his head, he just wanted it all to be over; the innuendos; the obligation; the shear madness and overwhelming responsibility which had been placed squarely on his lap.
Yes indeed, Charles “Charlie” Mercurio was having himself one hell of a nervous breakdown.
From the Eyes of a Juror Page 94
