Once a Noble Endeavor

by Michael Butler

  At the range, Brennan learned or reinforced lessons he had experienced before. Carlton taught the officers that at any assignment to a building or house entrance always place a foot—usually the officer’s left foot—across the base of a door that opens out. That action eliminates any surprises, particularly those of an aggressive dog charging out.

  The lieutenant also taught the young cops to stand away from the front of a doorway and take a position off to the side where one is protected by the door jam and the wooden or metal supports holding the doorway in place.

  “Don’t get shot through a door—it really eats shit,” he counseled.

  In one exhibition, Lieutenant Carlton fired his pistol under a car down onto the hard roadway to show that the officer can skip the round, which will travel parallel to the ground under the vehicle and strike a target on the other side, usually in the legs. Part of that lesson included the admonition that when a cop takes cover behind an auto, the officer must take up a position behind the tire to avoid that “skip trick” being used against the lawman.

  Carlton also recommended a top down assault on a building when possible, especially for a barricaded or trapped suspect or a gunman firing out of a structure.

  “Put gravity on your side. Like the Marines always said, grenades don’t roll up stairs.” Pointing to the top of the training building, he added, “By entering from the top and moving down, the cornered rat has a place of exit—or so he thinks,” he said, motioning towards the lower floor doors and windows. “If you have help outside, right here, he enters no man’s land. Firing down on a target provides an advantage. If you can, do it!”

  ****

  Back in the classroom at the Training Center, instructor after instructor reinforced the social importance of tolerance. The cops and the system were compelled to understand the inequality of the society—we have a social mission too, they all seemed to suggest.

  The class supervisor, a Navy veteran, never discounted the importance of the social elements related to a cop’s job. But as an experienced police sergeant, he often said, “This is a dangerous job at times. It has its moments, and it isn’t going to matter to your family that you were seriously injured by a homeless vagrant or a bank president— watch everybody’s hands and stay out of the hospital and the funeral home. Force begets force.” It reminded Nick of John’s cogent analysis of the mortars and rockets—it doesn’t matter how the guy kills you, you are still dead.

  Included in the studies were the “terms of art” used by cops. “On the job” was used to identify oneself as a cop to a brother or sister officer. A nightstick was called a “stick,” and a blackjack was called a “jack.” If an officer used his jack against an adversary, he “jacked” the cop fighter. The use of deadly physical force was called using “DPF.” When a supervisor signed a patrol officer’s book, the mark was called a “scratch.” Whenever an officer was hired or promoted, he or she was “made.”

  Instructors shuddered when someone said they were “law enforcement” or “with law enforcement.”

  “Law enforcement is a verb, not a noun. We are cops—we announce that reality and we enforce laws. We are not law enforcement. Leave the term ‘law enforcement officer’ to some park ranger, bay constable, or federal agent who wishes he were with the FBI. We are ‘on the job’—they are not. And always remember feds are not police, no matter what the windbreaker says—they are just investigators.”

  ****

  Nick had begun to take college classes at night as he approached the completion of police basic training. It became clear that the police academy was much closer to college than it was to military boot camp, but he enjoyed it nonetheless and learned a lot.

  Firearms training was closer to the military style of instruction, and Nick did well, as he had in the Army. Brennan qualified as a demonstrated marksman with his firearm—in this case a .38-caliber revolver. Later he would carry a semiautomatic 9-millimeter pistol. His steady aim and good sight picture always earned him the expert badge.

  The days at the academy passed quickly, and before long the new cops were on “practical patrol,” working with active officers in the field and observing and assisting in real police assignments.

  ****

  Once Nicky graduated and got to a police precinct, he fell quickly into the pattern of routine police patrol and all the calls for service that involved. Domestic disputes, which were common, required the cop to separate the combatants, keeping them away from the kitchen and its knives, listen to the complaints and make a referral to the Family Court, a forum dedicated to keeping the family together.

  He found himself often saying to a wife complaining about her spouse’s drinking and boisterous behavior, “M’am, you need to go to the Family Court and discuss the matter with an intake specialist—a person who might help determine whether your husband needs therapy.”

  Crimes included frequent burglaries—breaking and entering—usually by kids looking for booze or cash. There was also a steady diet of strong-arm street robberies in shopping centers, mostly occurring in the outer reaches of shopping malls, but not always.

  ****

  On patrol one early night in December 1976, Brennan was doing his rounds in a large shopping center. It was near Christmas time, and the store windows and lampposts were covered in evergreen and decorated with flashing multicolored lights. As he looked to his left, driving slowly, he saw a young, skinny black kid, maybe sixteen, start to run on the sidewalk along the storefronts with his head down, like a football running back might charge towards the opposing line. Nick was at first baffled by the unusual movement but was then suddenly surprised to see the youngster collide with an elderly woman walking with her purse held away from her body in her hand with her arm extended in an effort to balance her gait. With incredible speed and dexterity the robber snapped the pocket book from the woman’s grasp, causing her to spin to the ground as at full speed he turned right and ran into the dark parking lot. Nicky calculated quickly that the old person was not seriously hurt, and decided to chase the robber.

  Stuck in traffic, Nick jumped from his police cruiser, dropping the car keys on the floor of the vehicle, a common practice, while he quickly announced on the police radio that he was “in foot pursuit of a young, male black robbery suspect in a westerly direction from Macy’s.” Brennan also requested backup assistance and cops stationed on the west side of the mall to contain the suspect.

  The foot race put Nicky at a disadvantage. The target had been running at full throttle as he escaped, while Brennan started from a stopped position jumping from his police car. Nicky, still lithe and about average size at five feet ten inches and 170 pounds, used his long, lean legs in long strides to accelerate quickly. The robber was not aware he was being chased, Nick reasoned. Running between the parked cars in a straight line, the purse snatcher ran for several hundred yards and began to slow down; as exhaustion set in, he looked down at his booty with a smirk. Brennan stayed on course—perhaps two hundred yards behind the suspect, he was fixed on the same azimuth; like an old ASA guy he stayed on target, and suddenly caught him within his line of sight silhouetted against the street lights in the residential complex outside the parking area. The loud slapping noise from Nick’s feet as he slowed alerted the bad guy. Looking up, the youngster dropped the purse and began to run once again, but now towards the west perimeter of the shopping complex.

  The thief spied the three or four police cars ahead and made a decision to turn and run towards Brennan in the narrow aisle provided by the parked cars. Nicky was surprised by this action, and prepared to tackle the young suspect when he saw a large knife in his right hand. Nick pulled his gun and yelled “Stop!” as the youngster continued at him. With flashing thoughts of Lieutenant Carlton “…he uses a knife…” he raised his weapon and took aim, but then hesitated when he saw the boy’s narrow and childlike frame. The kid made no attempt at stabbing Brennan, but instead tried to run around him. Nicky thrust his leg out at the boy
, who tripped, fell, and slid face down with his hands outstretched along the harsh blacktop. Nick quickly corralled the kid and swiftly handcuffed him while he lay bleeding from his face and hands and crying in a low moan.

  Police assistance arrived in short order, and the patrol sergeant announced, “Brennan, Browne is getting your police car. When he gets here, both of you take the robbery suspect to the station house.”

  “Yes sir, Sergeant,” Nick answered.

  At the police station, the desk lieutenant asked the boy, “How old are you?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “What’s your birthday?”

  “March 1, 1962,” the boy replied.

  “This youngster is a JD; take him to juvenile aid, Brennan.”

  “Thank God I didn’t shoot him, Lieutenant—he’s just a kid!”

  “Yeah, yeah—get him an ice cream cone and then take him to the juvenile detectives downstairs.”

  ****

  The next night in Brennan’s college class the topic was juvenile crime, and the consensus was that JDs were the product of poor rearing and poverty, but with timely intervention they could be salvaged and become productive members of society. To give a kid a criminal record was a disservice and must be avoided at all costs, all agreed.

  ****

  On the morning of December 21, 1976, the clerk in the district court announced, “The People of the State of New York versus Steven A. Clinton, index number 4680 of 1976. Mister Clinton, please approach with your attorney.”

  “For and with the defendant, Robert Epstein, 1240 Franklin Street, Garden Park, New York. Good morning, Your Honor.”

  “Good morning, Counselor,” the judge replied as Clinton, with his legs shackled, shuffled to the front of the well.

  This time Clinton’s appearance occurred in a far more elaborate setting. The judge’s bench was high and wide, with dark wood paneling all around. The jurist was surrounded by several aides and court officers. The jury box was filled with twelve handcuffed defendants—among them Clinton but a moment ago. The large audience in the wide hall sat on some thirty rows stretching to the back of the brightly lit courtroom.

  “The charge is possession of a loaded pistol in a public place—a felony, Your Honor,” the young, blonde, attractive female ADA announced. Wearing a tight, dark short skirt and loosely fitted white blouse, her attire seemed slightly out of place.

  “Your Honor, the defendant waives a reading of the charges, enters a plea of not guilty, demands a jury trial and requests release without bail ROR,” Epstein loudly stated, using the formal language of the arraignment process, although he was not required to enter a plea under the circumstances.

  “Miss Raynor, do your records show any priors?” the judge asked.

  “No, Your Honor,” she responded.

  “If it pleases the court, Your Honor, Mister Clinton has no juvenile or adult record, he has never been convicted of anything including any violent acts, he lives in the community with his mother and father, two professionals, and he works in the construction industry as a carpenter apprentice. He has never been in trouble.”

  “Judge, the people ask that Clinton be held on five thousand dollars bail to guarantee his future appearances. This is a serious charge, and he may flee,” Raynor countered.

  “Steven is not going anywhere, Judge, and the subject gun involved didn’t even belong to Mister Clinton, and the search by police was patently improper,” said Epstein.

  “How old is the defendant?” the judge asked.

  “Sixteen—he is an eligible youthful offender, Judge,” Epstein quickly stated.

  “He may be an eligible YO, Your Honor, but with a felony charge there is no absolute guarantee this young man’s conviction would be replaced with a YO finding,” the young ADA added.

  “Miss Raynor, don’t waste the court’s time with this debate—with no priors and a nonviolent felony charge, the defendant is more likely to get run over by a horse and buggy than not get a YO finding replacing the conviction,” the annoyed judge said. “Now, where are Steven’s parents?” the judge asked.

  “Both are busy this morning but plan to attend future appearances, Judge,” Epstein said.

  “Okay, Mr. Epstein, your client is ROR. But I’m sending this case to Part 9 on Wednesday morning for a felony exam to determine the validity of the charge,” the judge announced.

  ****

  On Wednesday morning Epstein met with the older ADA assigned to the felony part. Martin Glick was a career prosecutor without a sense of style or humor. As he sat behind his small, cluttered desk in a wrinkled dark suit and no tie, he stared at the pile of cases in front of him with a grimace.

  “To begin with, Mister Epstein, do you agree to adjourn the felony exam so we can conference this case?”

  “Yes, of course, Mister Glick—of course,” Epstein answered.

  “Good. Now, what is your argument in opposition to the charge?”

  “The kid was in a car with two other boys and the loaded gun was in the backseat where Steven was seated—it wasn’t his gun. When the cops pulled over the car for no good reason, they decided to toss it and found the gun and charged my client because he was closest to it.”

  “Yeah, well, the cop said he stopped the car for speeding and the gun was visible on the back floor, and he believed Clinton probably dropped it out of his waistband. Nobody went for it, so Clinton got charged.”

  “Did the cop say he actually saw Steven with the gun?”

  “No. The cop…let’s see. The officer, being completely honest, said he could not swear that Clinton had the gun on him.”

  “Look, Marty, this kid is a guaranteed YO. If you want to go the whole route and try this case, which will include a felony exam, suppression hearings, a jury trial, a presentence report by probation and finally end up with a YO finding replacing a conviction—if you even get one—fine, but we can do better.”

  Epstein was a clever lawyer; he knew he didn’t want to use up his YO card on this charge. The kid was a “scummer” and would surely be in trouble again, he reasoned. With a noncriminal conviction and without having to use YO status, Epstein had money in the bank for the future.

  “What are you offering, Bob?”

  “I can get the kid and the family to accept a disorderly conduct charge—a simple violation with a seal.” He was referring to the closure of the file and the record in the event of future criminal charges.

  “What about a fine?” asked the ADA, knowing the system was always starved for cash.

  “Pick a number—the kid’s parents are up to their eyeballs in bucks.”

  “Five hundred?” the ADA asked.

  “Five hundred it is.”

  Epstein went out to the court hallway, where Steve and his father were impatiently waiting.

  “How long is this bullshit going to take? I have to get to work,” David Clinton asked.

  “Yeah,” Steven echoed, “how long is this bullshit going to take?”

  “Here’s the deal,” Epstein said, “we got a lazy, overworked ADA, and he is willing to take a plea to disorderly conduct—a petty offense roughly the same as a traffic ticket. We pay five hundred bucks, they seal the file, no criminal record, and if Stevie should get in any trouble within the next year or two, which I am sure won’t happen, we haven’t used up the YO card—you know, just in case.”

  “I guess I don’t get my gun back, right?” Steve said with a big smile.

  “Your gun? I told everyone it wasn’t yours…uh oh,” Epstein said, feigning concern.

  “Take the deal, but let’s get outta here. I’m meeting an important client for lunch and I can’t be late,” said David.

  “Done,” Epstein announced.

  ****

  Nicky liked college, but he didn’t always accept the conclusions a professor of criminal justice might reach. The proposed societal causes of crime often troubled Nicky. Sometimes bad guys are just bad guys, he thought.

  In his second year at t
he community college he was required to take biology, calculus, statistics, American history, and English composition and literature. The courses were challenging but not overwhelming. In fact, he liked the mental exercise. These courses seemed to be more objective and largely without the imposition of opinion by the instructors.

  At work one day, his boss, Sergeant Thomas Carrillo, asked how things were going in school. Carrillo, slightly round shouldered at six foot four inches and 220 pounds, was close to retirement at age forty-two. A Vietnam-era fighter pilot, he was a leader, not a manager; a Lieutenant Colonel in the Air Force Reserve, he was popular with the cops.

  “The studies are going fine, Sergeant, thanks. I think you and college are inspiring me to get promoted. How am I doing as an ass kisser?” he asked with an exaggerated smile, as Carrillo laughed, his broad midsection moving up and down above his wide gun belt.

  ****

  Later that evening, Brennan was beginning a midnight tour out on the east end of the sprawling precinct. The night was dead quiet. Hours passed without incident. At about five in the morning he shared some coffee with the bordering car, piloted by Paul Rector.

  “Boy, Paul, it is a little quiet tonight.”

  “Yeah, a little too quiet,” Paul said with a deadpan look, mimicking a trite line popular in all the westerns on TV and in the movies at the time.

  Suddenly, the radio crackled. “Cars twenty-one and fourteen, assist unit five in pursuit of two male burglary suspects headed east into the adjoining county from Bi-County Shopping Center.”

  “Okay, headquarters,” answered Brennan.

  “Okay,” replied Paul.

  Nicky decided to go east and north before he headed in the direction of the burglary. “Headquarters, I am tracking northbound to intercept the suspects as they cross the county line, probably on Boundary Line Road,” he reported.

  “Okay, all units be advised twenty-one is traveling north on the county line and unit five is traveling eastbound toward the county line on Maple,” the dispatcher advised.