“ADA Thomas, this guy took a shot at me with that big barreled bazooka. He missed, but he wasn’t trying to scare me or wound me—he was trying to kill me. That story needs to be put on the record.”
Thomas went right at it. “What do you want, attempted murder? Together with the assaults, I don’t know if it changes anything. I’m not even sure I can get an attempted murder conviction if we tried the damn thing,” she said, a patently ridiculous statement. Nick ignored Thomas’s foolishness and decided to take another tack; it is real important to get Clinton off the street for a long time, he knew.
“Okay, let’s say I consent to an attempted manslaughter. How about that?”
“So we are clear, Clinton can only be convicted of attempting an intentional act, so it would be attempted manslaughter second degree—attempting to cause serious physical injury that could result in death. Not much of a legal stretch, but under the circumstances I’m not sure a judge would accept that, and I don’t think it changes anything with regard to the sentence,” once again the shaky prosecutor was making a somewhat specious argument. “How about we take the attempted assault, but I ask for a presentencing hearing before the court and let the judge take in your testimony before he sentences this animal.”
“Fair enough,” Brennan responded.
****
Thomas met with Epstein again and explained the situation. “Mister Epstein, Lieutenant Brennan wants to be heard on the matter before your client is sentenced.”
“Ms. Thomas, I don’t give a squirrel’s ass what your cop says. So long as the sentence doesn’t exceed fifteen years, I’ll go along. If you think this is open ended, let’s go to trial, and I’ll put you to your proof!” Epstein said, now bluffing himself.
****
In court, Thomas and Epstein met with Justice Glenn McLaughlin. McLaughlin was a big, broad-shouldered Irishman with a ruddy complexion, light brown eyes, a dry sense of humor and a reputation for fairness. The large county courtroom, like most superior courts, had seats for a sizeable audience, a big jury box, and an enormous bench centered in the broad well in the front of the room. In some ways it looked like an elaborate altar overlooking the congregants in a cathedral.
“Your Honor, the People have an unusual request. We have reached a settlement in concept with the defendant. The People are going to recommend fifteen years to run concurrently on five counts of assault with a deadly weapon and one attempted assault of a police officer, but the officer wishes to testify before you sentence Mister Clinton.”
“Judge, the defendant consents to the hearing, but we seek a sentence that does not exceed fifteen years,” Epstein added.
Judge McLaughlin looked befuddled as he said, “Let me see if I understand the deal before me. You want me to listen to a police officer’s testimony regarding the conduct of the defendant but not let it affect Mister Clinton’s sentence—is that correct?” He paused to the lawyers’ silence for ten seconds and then continued, “Hey, I’ve got an idea: How about I just go home and you guys handle the whole thing without me?”
“No, Judge, we are not trying to be unreasonable, we just want to make sure the testimony results in a sentence of not more than fifteen years. If you decide on less, that would be fine,” Epstein said with a timid smile.
“What has Mister Clinton been indicted for, Ms. Thomas?” the judge asked sternly.
“Six counts of attempted murder, Justice McLaughlin,” Tonya responded.
“Mister Epstein, I’m inclined to order a trial on this whole matter and then let the sentencing chips fall as they may.”
It was becoming obvious that Epstein for the first time was becoming nervous, as beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. “Judge, we are close to a deal with the People and Mr. Clinton has suffered serious injuries. He is a young man from a poorly supervised background with little education. If he hadn’t had access to a gun, this never would’ve happened. Gun laws are culpable here too, and he only has a minor record.”
“Ms. Thomas and Mr. Epstein, I will take the officer’s testimony but only if it permits that I sentence the defendant to up to twenty-two years—a long time. If I decide to sentence him to more, Mr. Epstein, you can withdraw the defendant’s guilty plea and go to trial. How does that sound?”
Epstein, with a long face, cleared his throat and answered, “I think that is acceptable, Your Honor. Permit me to speak to my client.”
Thomas, confident that the story told by Brennan would elongate the sentence, smiled and said, “Yes, Judge, the People will accept those terms.”
Epstein walked towards the defense table and had an animated conversation with Clinton, occasionally speaking loudly and flailing his hands about. Epstein finally turned and announced to the court, “Defendant accepts, Your Honor.”
The clerk called out, “Lieutenant Nicholas J. Brennan, please take the stand.”
Nick, in a neatly pressed uniform with a white shirt and bright gold buttons and a shiny lieutenant’s oval-shaped shield with four sharp points at the top of the badge affixed over his heart, raised his right hand as he took the oath.
Ms. Thomas asked Brennan to describe the night he was called to the Bayside Bar in Montwood, New York.
“I carefully entered the alleyway after I saw the defendant escape into the corridor between the two buildings on the left side of the Bayside Bar,” Nick said.
“The sidewalk outside the bar was littered with wounded people screaming and lying in broken glass from the doorway and the bay window in the front of the establishment.” He went on, “I was nervous and readily admit I was frightened, but I knew we had to capture the culprit responsible for the carnage and mayhem.”
“Objection!” Epstein yelled out.
“Sit down, Mister Epstein,” the judge admonished.
“Continue, Lieutenant,” Ms. Thomas said with impatience in her voice.
“I slowly walked toward the back of the alley in a Northerly direction. I knew that at least one of my cops had the other end covered, and the suspect had not exited from that end.”
“What happened next?” Tonya asked as she continued her examination.
“It occurred to me that we had our guy trapped and I decided to retreat and just keep him contained. I slowly backed out and then suddenly I heard and saw Clinton move a shotgun into a high ready position. Everything was happening at once. I think I fired first, and then he began to fire in my direction. The rounds from the blast from his shotgun seemed to go over my left shoulder. Almost simultaneously I hit him several times in his legs.”
“Were you aiming at the defendant’s legs?” Ms. Thomas asked.
“No, no. One of my cops began to run in our direction from the other end of the alley just before I opened fire. I pulled my shots down to avoid hitting the officer, and I hit the defendant in the legs. I was hoping to hit him between his shoulders—the center of body mass.”
“Nothing more, Your Honor,” said Tonya.
“No questions, Judge,” said Bob Epstein.
Nick Brennan left the stand and took a position in the audience to hear the judge impose the sentence. He immediately realized that Epstein didn’t cross him on his testimony because it didn’t clearly support a charge of attempted murder, but Nick knew he told the truth and the story was recorded. Tonya was holding back—she didn’t want too much drama, he thought.
The jurist began the sentencing process.
“Ms. Thomas and Mister Epstein, I have reviewed this case, read the indictment, reviewed other accusatory instruments, including statements and preliminary complaints. I have also carefully read the probation department presentence report and finally today I have heard the testimony of Lieutenant Nicholas J. Brennan. Mister Clinton, you have not been heard. Before I pass sentence, do you have anything to say?”
“The defendant declines to make a statement, Judge,” Epstein responded as he and Clinton stood up. The judge then had Clinton, still standing, “allocute” to the charges.
All
ocution was the formal process of examining the defendant to establish each and every material element of the criminal charges. Clinton stated on the record that he intentionally assaulted the five complainants with a firearm and attempted to assault the police lieutenant with the shotgun. In response to each element of the charges referred that the jurist rattled off, Clinton said, “Yes, your honor,” locking in the convictions. Judge McLaughlin looked down as he took the defendant’s testimony, and when the allocution was complete, the judge looked up with a grimace on his face.
“This court finds the defendant, Steven A. Clinton, guilty of five counts of assault in the first degree and one count of attempted assault in the first degree and sentences the defendant on all counts to twenty-two years in state prison. That concludes this proceeding. Mister Clinton, you have shown yourself to be a violent and unpredictable person and deserving of the sentence you have hereby received. You are directed to engage in psychological therapy and counseling as deemed appropriate by the Department of Corrections during your incarceration. If there is nothing further, the court officers will remove Mister Clinton consistent with these proceedings.”
As the court officers approached to handcuff Clinton, he sat down then rose to his feet and screamed, “Twenty-two years, twenty-two years. I can’t do it. I can’t do it.”
The Irish judge looked back as he left the bench, and with a twinkle in his eye and with a mischievous smile said, “Well, do as much as you can!”
Not at all amused, Clinton screamed out, “It was supposed to be fifteen years!”
“Put your hands behind your back,” one officer directed as the other pinned the defendant’s arms away from the defense table.
Nicky smiled broadly as he left the large ornate hall of justice. That took Steven A. Clinton out of circulation for quite a long time, he thought to himself. Late that night, little Michael Brennan was born to Joann and Nick.
Chapter 5
It was a cool and sunny late October day with bright azure skies in Copake near the foothills of the Berkshires and Catskills in upstate New York. The two guys were in Nick’s car, and Tom DeBoer was keeping Brennan busy with a casual conversation about his childhood visits to a lakefront house in Connecticut. The thought triggered, no doubt, after they spied the sparkling blue Lake Copake. There the big pond sat with large, rectangular yellow-flowered farm fields surrounding it on three shores while a wooded hillside ran up and away from the lake towards the horizon on the far side.
“The goddamn place didn’t even have any plumbing,” Tom said, “we had to go down to the shoreline and get ice-cold water to wash in the morning. Freezing. Sometimes we even washed up in the lake.”
“Where was it?” Nicky asked.
“Central Connecticut, about two hours from the city, and there were very few houses around the water in those days,” he thoughtfully paused, and added slowly, “But now the place is filled with cottages and even all-year-round homes.”
Suddenly they heard a police siren behind and saw the flashing lights of a New York State Police station wagon approaching. Here they were on some backcountry road in the middle of nowhere and managed to draw the attention of some woods cop, Nick thought.
He pulled to the side of the roadway and began to get out of the auto. The trooper signaled him to get back in the car. Brennan respectfully bowed his head but disregarded the hand motion and approached the officer with his badge and ID held high above his shoulder in his right hand.
The cop was tentative. He started to get out of the front seat then got back in and closed his door. Suddenly, there was loud, deep-throated barking. No doubt a large dog, Nick thought, because there were thick low-pitched guttural growls too. The state officer lowered the window in his vehicle and yelled out over the noise of the riled-up German Shepard, “Let me see your identification.” Brennan handed him his shield case and stepped away from the police car. It was a K9 unit. I didn’t even get pulled over by a traffic cop, he thought. The patrolman got out and both he and Nicky moved further away from the plaintive yelps and stood in front of the flashing lights, near the police cruiser’s front bumper, between the two vehicles.
“Lieutenant,” he said, “you were going pretty fast. You know, sort of speeding.”
The rule was to not argue with a guy who was supposed to extend a professional courtesy to a brother officer. “Sorry. I was engrossed in a deep conversation with my buddy there—he is on the job too, and I guess I just wasn’t paying attention.”
Then he added, “What’s the limit on this road, Trooper?”
“Thirty-five. You are on the job downstate, hey?”
“Yeah, we are up here looking to maybe rent or even buy someplace near the skiing.”
“There’s a lot around here, but you might want to go a little north and east for the best ski slopes,” he said as he looked at Brennan’s badge one more time. “Have a nice day, I have to feed the dog, and I don’t want you to be his lunch,” he said with a broad grin.
“Thanks for the courtesy, Trooper.”
“No problem, Lieutenant!”
As he slowly walked back to his car, Brennan began to reminisce. Nick and Jodie always dreamed of a ski house; not something as large as their home, but big enough with a big attic for extra space—a structure made of timber would fit the bill.
North and East, Nick thought as he got behind the wheel. Then the memory of his first days on skis invaded his mind. Daydreaming and gazing away for a moment, an old event flashed in Nick’s head as he slowly slid into the seat and put the car in gear.
****
The early part of the 1990s had been consumed by Nicky going to law school. Brennan’s many appearances in courtrooms over the years had convinced him that he could be a pretty good lawyer.
In January 1993, Nick, Jodie, Michael and baby Elizabeth, the newest addition to the Brennan brood, as a reward for all their educational accomplishments decided to get away as a family and really become skiers.
Elizabeth was a beautiful three-year-old baby girl with curly dark blonde hair, light blue eyes and Jodie’s great looks. Agile for her age, she was a promising athlete. Michael, the dedicated big brother with dark hair, resembled his father and also displayed great physical prowess. The two kids were both excited to start.
Old friends, John and Liz Planner, were going to join them in the effort. After Vietnam, Nick saw John from time to time and always had a great adventure when he did. After his discharge from the Army, Planner took a job with NSA as an intelligence analyst. He loved his work but resented the fact that he generally could not discuss what he did—even his official credentials were classified confidential, and his bosses discouraged subordinates from discussing the nature or place employment.
With John now married to the curvy, dark-haired and outspoken Liz, the Planners and the Brennans became something of a clique. The Planners had skied for several years on and off. Now, as teachers for this project, they were going to provide the horsepower for the Brennans to learn this new art. Nick, true to his personality, especially where Planner was involved, was a little nervous about learning and not particularly confident in Johnny’s concern for safety.
The whole plan started when John and Liz were able to get a great January rental across from Mount Snow, near the geographical center of Vermont. The group included John, Liz, Jodie, Nick, and their two kids. This was to be collectively their first great winter challenge.
Mount Snow was an enormous ski area. The color, a pristine white, was overwhelming to look at and was displayed broadly across the visual landscape. Each mountain stood as a perceptive imposition—thrilling to the accomplished skier but frightening to the newbie. There were several mountains, and the trails ran from the beginner or the green trail to the expert, the dreaded black diamond.
The night before the training began, Nick nervously looked out through their big bedroom window at the mountains illuminated by a full winter moon and the headlights of the trail groomers’ vehicles criss
crossing the face of the mountainside. He was impressed with the reflective visual experience but still slightly fearful, and said to Jodie, “It looks like daytime out there. Whoa, look at the size of those goddamn mountains.”
“Nicky, you will do fine. Just listen to John and Liz. Now come to bed, we have to get up early,” Joann said, batting her blue, almond-shaped eyes, dropping her robe on the floor, slipping under the covers naked and overtly offering Nick her affection.
****
At the threshold, an interesting point was that a new skier could take a green trail from the summit of the mountain down to the base lodge and feel comfortable doing that. A green trail had a long, soft slope that was often wide and inviting. A new skier was attracted to the mild and not intimidating downhill course. The trick, of course, was to make sure the green trail on top was open before a skier got on the lift to the peak of that imposing pile of granite. Trails were posted as either open or closed on a large diagram posted at the base area at the beginning of the ski lift line.
Nick knew he had no idea what he was doing and couldn’t ski the length of a garden hose. John and Liz convinced Brennan that he was prepared for the green trail from the top. The ride to the summit required a triple chair, which easily accommodated the three of them. As Nicky got on the chair, he clumsily stepped on his own left ski and dislodged it from his ski boot. The ski was left on the ground behind at the lift entry point. “Now I’m screwed,” he yelled at John. “Shit, I am riding up the mountain with one friggin’ ski, and I have to get off at the top without even the ability to ski on two,” he stammered.
All the way on the lift, he suffered from intense anxiety brought on by the movement uphill. His fear of heights slowly kicked in. “Make sure you guys help me,” he said, turning around and craning his neck to look down the mountain.
Once a Noble Endeavor Page 7
