Chapter 13 – Dreams so Real
Wednesday evening June 4, 2008 – 8:30 PM
By the time Newlan made his way back to the comfortable confines of his condo, he barely had any strength left to prepare dinner…but somehow he managed to make a sandwich and heat up a can of soup. A serious pang of hunger had come over him during the homeward drive, but the day’s events, which fueled an inexplicable anxiety that had settled in the pit of his stomach, caused him to lose much of his appetite.
And so after what could hardly be called dinner, Newlan sank down into the black leather sofa in his living room with the weight of the world on his mind and the volume turned up on his HDTV.
Newlan had gone on a rare spending spree when he purchased his condo, and in a moment of weakness he sprang for the new furniture and the large-screen TV. He was never one to go out and buy the latest high-tech gadgets, and he was skeptical of HD from the start, but he figured he’d go for it anyway since he kept hearing about how the high definition resolution on these new TV’s was going to make the average picture-tube TV set obsolete, and on top of that, the prices had dropped quite a bit in the last year.
But despite Newlan’s cynicism, and much to his surprise we might add, when the cable technician came over and hooked up the HD box to the TV, his jaw dropped the moment he caught sight of the stunning clarity being projected on the widescreen monitor. Close-up shots of people’s faces in particular seemed to clarify every little wrinkle or facial imperfection.
“All these aging TV newscasters are gonna hate HD,” thought Newlan at the time, and his prognosis turned out to be an accurate one, as even the most photogenic of broadcasters would attest to.
Newlan was the first of his friends to own a HD set, and when the gang came over for the inaugural viewing of a New England Patriot’s football game on the TV, they too were also amazed at the sharpness of the picture. HDTVs were pretty much made for sports fans such as Newlan and his pals, and so naturally he promptly became the popular host of many a lazy autumn Sunday afternoon spent watching football games and drinking beer.
Newlan was the typical male channel surfer, and he would invariably end up watching the loop of stories on the New England Cable News network (or NECN as they like to refer to themselves as) when nothing else was on, or in between innings of the ballgame, which on this evening had the Red Sox hosting the suddenly half-decent Tampa Bay Rays.
In keeping to form Newlan switched over to NECN during the commercial break in hopes of catching the latest weather report, and wouldn’t you know it, literally within seconds, the newscaster announced, “Juror selection was completed today in the Townshend and Breslin cases…details after the break.”
“This is just great…I’m already facing a dilemma over whether I should watch the news because of this damned trial,” growled Newlan. And although he ruminated fervently over whether to change the channel, in the end, he grunted “the hell with it” and decided to watch the story, in spite of the honorable Judge Gershwin’s stern instructions.
Newlan’s concerns turned out to be unwarranted because the report was primarily geared towards the Townshend case which featured the handsome young sex addict from England who allegedly murdered his wife and infant daughter, while the Breslin case was almost an afterthought, and nothing of importance was revealed that he wasn’t already privy to.
“It figures, my case is playing second-fiddle to that fuckin’ limey pervert,” grumbled Newlan out loud…and then with a puzzled expression on his brow, he added, “When did I start talking to myself? I guess Dr. Clay was right. Maybe I do need to see a shrink.”
Whether or not Newlan truly required the services of a psychiatrist are debatable, but in any event, after watching the Red Sox game with his eyelids half-closed, he suddenly came to the realization that he needed to contact his office and let everyone know that he was going to be out of work for a while. And with that task in mind, he sleepily sat down at the desk in his spare bedroom and powered up his laptop so that he could shoot off an email to his co-workers, letting them know the bad news regarding his jury duty selection.
Not wanting to get into too many details, Newlan composed a brief message and proofread it a few times as he always did (even though he wasn’t sure why he bothered, since it seemed that no matter how often he reread and spellchecked his emails, invariably some sort of grammatical error would slip through).
Of course linguistics were surely a mute point at this hour of the evening, because by now Newlan was much too tired to worry about typos or exhaustive narratives, and so for the subject matter he simply typed, Jury Duty, and then he read the text to himself one last time before hitting the send button.
Hi everyone. Unfortunately, much to my dismay, I have been selected to serve on jury. The case is expected to last at least three to four weeks…but if anything changes I'll keep you posted. Based on the length of the trial, it goes without saying that it is a fairly high profile case, but as you are probably well aware, I’m not allowed to give out any details.
Anyway, I'll be checking my emails and voice mails when I get home at night so leave me a message if anything urgent comes up.
Thanks,
Frank
Newlan painstakingly considered whether he should provide his co-workers with even the slightest of clues regarding what case he was serving on, but ultimately he decided to abide by Judge Gershwin’s orders…at least for the time being anyway.
“Fuck them…and besides, I gotta keep Bobby Parant guessing, which will drive the old bugger crazy,” mumbled Newlan with a yawn and a chuckle.
With his task completed, Newlan was just about ready to hit the sack, but within seconds of firing off the email, his phone rang and it was his manager from work, Jason Young, on the other end of the line.
Young was only a few months younger than Newlan (“no pun intended” as Newlan liked to say, tongue-in-cheek, apropos the Young/younger reference) and yet he always seemed to have a lot more energy than Newlan cared to deal with, especially right about now with the clock ticking towards midnight and the trial hanging over his head like the blade of a guillotine.
There was no question about it; Young was a workaholic, and he was also the ambitious go-getter type who had dreams of climbing the middle-management ladder. Whereas Newlan had no interest in the management side of the business, even though he had been approached many times in his career with proposals concerning “changing sides” as he liked to put it.
Newlan firmly believed that he had the makings of a top-notch manager, but when all was said and done he’d talk himself out of it every time.
“They don’t make much more money than I do…,” he’d say, “…and besides who needs the headaches and the aggravations of dealing with all of these prima donnas and head-cases anyway.”
And yet despite their differences, Newlan had a pretty good rapport with Young, and he could even get away with ragging on him from time to time. Newlan was a real pro at his job, and Young was appreciative of the fact that he had such a good right-hand man. To wit, Young was confident enough in Newlan that he trusted him to watch over the ship if he ever had to duck out early. And on top of that, Young acknowledged that he could hand out the most complex assignments to Newlan, and he’d be pretty much guaranteed that the work would always get done; done right, on time, and under budget. And furthermore, if the truth be told, whenever Newlan was out on vacation, Young and the rest of the team were constantly on edge; worried sick that some obscure problem was going to arise at any minute which only he could resolve.
Newlan’s stock response of reassurance was that “no one’s irreplaceable,” and for good measures he’d add, “What if I dropped dead or hit the lottery, then what would you do?”
But regardless of Newlan’s assurances, on this night, Jason Young was worried…very worried.
“Hey, I got your email. Any idea exactly how long you’re gonna be out? We just got some b
ig projects approved today, and we’re gonna be really shorthanded without you. I knew you should have postponed your jury duty until the fall,” moaned Young in a concerned tone.
“You’re amazing Jason. I just sent that email two seconds ago. How the hell did you see it so quickly? What do you want me to say? I had to go on jury duty eventually. Who knew I’d get picked for a murder trial. Oops I shouldn’t have said that! Besides I’ll check in from home and pick up the slack at night if I have to,” replied Newlan in an attempt to assuage his worrywart of a manager.
“All right…but we’re gonna be screwed if any issues come up during the day,” conceded Young.
“What the hell do you want from me? I’ve been telling you for years that we gotta give the other guys more responsibility…but just relax will ya, everything’s gonna be alright,” encouraged Newlan, even though deep inside he knew full well that his obsessive-compulsive boss was on the money as far as his damage-control assessment was concerned.
The fact of the matter was that the IT department at Tafts University did rely heavily on Newlan which was good for job security but bad in the respect that he was constantly busy, which would, in turn, heighten his annoyance level; especially when he’d walk by his co-workers desks and catch them surfing the internet all day while he was busting his hump.
But Newlan’s on-the-job frustrations aside, after a few minutes of coaxing, he finally managed to calm Young down, and although it wasn’t easy, he was able to talk him off the ledge and convince him that they could get by without him for a few weeks.
“OK, well, keep us posted,” requested Young with a sigh, and then after a short pause he added with a chortle, “Oh and by the way…I hope you fry the guy!”
Newlan grinned as he hung up, and he thought to himself, “Young’s not a bad guy. A little bit anal maybe…but not a bad guy.”
However, shortly thereafter he had an awful revelation.
“Shit, I’m gonna be in court all day… then I’ll come home totally exhausted and be expected to work all night…man, these next few weeks are really gonna suck big time.”
The reality of the situation may have been upsetting, but the optimist in Newlan decided that thing could always be worse, and since he was already sitting at his computer anyway, he decided to surf the net in an attempt to lift his sagging spirits because, “well, you never know what you’ll find out there,” he whispered to himself in deference to the outraged politician who once compared the internet to the wild, wild west, what with the proliferation of pornography and all.
While he was at it, Newlan was tempted to snoop around for some juicy information regarding the trial, and after a few minutes of serious deliberation, he Googled John Breslin’s name…and sure enough, the ubiquitous search engine returned page after page of hits, mostly from newspaper articles pertaining to the case.
Newlan hesitated momentarily, but his curious side won out and he went ahead and scrolled down through the list of links while skimming through the abbreviated summaries. For instance, the very first link at the top of the page read:
John Breslin Hired Ex-Con to Kill his Wife’s Lover…
Detective Carolyn Curran of the Newtown Police claimed that Fred Miller knew he was in a dangerous situation well before he was murdered, even in a rich suburb proclaimed to be one of the safest cities in America. Miller had said that if he wound up…
It wasn’t easy, but Newlan somehow resisted the temptation of clicking on the link and reading the remainder of the article, and the dozens of subsequent stories regarding the case.
“Judge Gershwin would be proud of me,” boasted Newlan, although he wasn’t sure how much longer he could go on before his curiosity got the better of him.
As was often the case, Newlan’s inquisitiveness intensified his concentration level, and when he finally glanced up at the clock on the wall, he was shocked to discover that it was well after midnight. He never ceased to be amazed at the way that time flew by when he was surfing the internet, and his postulation was always the same; “No wonder some people get addicted to this shit.”
And although Newlan’s mind may have been active, his body was physically exhausted, and so as he reluctantly powered down his computer, he thankfully contemplated on the fact that he didn’t require as much sleep as it once did, whereas in his younger days he could crash for twelve hours, straight though, at the drop of a hat.
“Of course the drugs might have had something to do with it as well,” muttered Newlan as he reflected back in time to his wild-eyed youth. He wasn’t quite sure what to expect tomorrow morning when he reported to court for opening statements and the first day of testimony, but he concluded that he had better get some rest so that he would be better prepared to handle the uncertainty of being thrown off his usual routine.
And so with his eyelids reduced to slits, Newlan dragged himself off to bed, and after a restless bout of tossing and turning, which wasn’t unusual when he had something on his mind, he fell into a heavy, dream-filled sleep.
A dream fueled by his visit to the garage in Newton where Fred Miller met his downfall.
A dream triggered by that mysterious odor which Newlan firmly believed had been released from somewhere rooted deep beneath the pavement of the slimy garage.
Newlan dreamed backed to his youthful days when he worked at the local supermarket and he had the thankless task of cleaning the insides of the butcher’s meat-cutting saw; a task that he hated with a passion; an object that had apparently left a lifelong scar running across his subconscious. An object that looked something like this: