A deal was struck. Tom and Nick were prepared to pay $250,000 for the compound. It was agreed by the pair that Tom and Carol would probably choose the slightly smaller building with its proportionally lower costs.
****
When Joann saw the main building for the first time she nearly cried. “Oh Nicky, it is beautiful, the corral, all the space, the bedrooms, that large attic you wanted. I hope you don’t get dizzy looking out the top window up there,” she added with a smile as she pointed up to the apex of the large chalet. Inside, the building was striking. It had old wood walls darkened by time but enhanced in effect. The kitchen was bright and up to date with broad, brown barn wood flooring. The bathrooms were new, and the second floor accommodating four spacious bedrooms had a balcony overlooking the lower floor and the slightly winding stairway that led down to it.
The DeBoers’ carriage house was a few hundred feet east of the main structure and similarly had a lower and upper floor with a small balcony. The work done on the carriage house had occurred more recently, and that satisfied Carol’s taste and provided fertile ground to decorate in her own more modern way. With light blue walls and shining wooden floors, Carol DeBoer was certain she would have a fashionable dwelling in the fashionable mountains of Great Barrington. The ceiling throughout was lightly stained blond pine, which set off the rooms in a way that conformed to Carol’s sense of style.
Carol DeBoer, a high school valedictorian, was bright, well-spoken, dark haired with beautiful green eyes that were complemented by her smooth light and clear complexion. A strikingly pretty woman, she was of average weight and height, as was Tom. They were certainly a handsome couple and would make great neighbors and partners, Joann and Nick agreed.
****
Great Barrington, with its own town government and police department, had recently been listed as among the best small towns in America. As Carol and Jodie drove into town one chilly day they were immediately taken by the activity. It was a large village on the fringe of the Berkshire Mountains of western Massachusetts. The area was filled with shops, churches, galleries, and retail stores. The town was home to many, many restaurants. The houses were all neatly kept—small lawns and gardens and freshly painted porches in a variety of bright New England pastel colors. Paradoxically, it seemed to be a bustling place, yet, like a lot of New England, felt calm at the same time. While crowded, nobody drove, walked or moved impatiently. The shoppers strolled on the sidewalks and the cars moved slowly through town, stopping at every crosswalk to allow the pedestrians to go by.
“I love it!” Carol screeched.
“Me too, me too,” Joann responded as her head spun in every direction.
The nearby ski area, Butternut Basin or Ski Butternut, was a perfect family retreat. The treed slopes ran the gamut from challenging to easy, and Joann studied the hillsides and could easily imagine the trails filled with young people, including Michael and Elizabeth, cautiously traversing the slopes.
As Jodie and Carol looked up at the mountaintop against the blue sky on that early winter afternoon, they decided this was it—they were purchasing paradise.
While Carol and Tom didn’t seem as interested in skiing, and hadn’t really had the skiing experience to look back upon, they liked the scenery surrounding the town and its proximity to South Egremont, Stockbridge and West Stockbridge—beautiful old New England landmarks.
Ski Butternut’s base lodge was covered in hewn wood. The large cafeteria inside had a small beer and wine bar one flight up, overlooking the dining areas below. With its reputation for safety and catering to families, it would be perfect for the kids.
“What do you think, Tom?” Nicky asked as they sat at the bar.
“Real nice, really, really nice area. Carol and the kids may decide to ski!”
“How ‘bout you, Sergeant DeBoer?”
“Not me, Lieutenant Brennan, I sense the ghosts of too many dead skiers in them thar’ hills. I’m not taking any chances.”
Interestingly, as they sat at the wooden counter, they learned that Arlo Guthrie’s famous song Alice’s Restaurant was based on events that occurred in Great Barrington in the 1960’s. The counter culture lyrics detail the singer’s arrest for littering and as a result his preclusion from the draft during the Vietnam War.
“The son of a bitch couldn’t get drafted because of the arrest,” the bartender offered. “Hell, I wish I had thought of that.”
“Me too!” said Nick, feigning agreement.
DeBoer and Nick toured the whole region. To the north was Pittsfield and to the east was Springfield, both much larger cities. Great Barrington was in the Housatonic River valley, with the dominant mountains of the Berkshires visible to the east and many country clubs populating the south and west. Though it was long past peak color, they could easily visualize the awe-inspiring green, bright red, orange, yellow and brown landscape draping the hills and mountains around the valley.
****
Two or three days later after work, Tom and Nick stopped into a tavern that was popular with the precinct cops. They used to work in the precinct and knew the owner, a retired New York City detective. They had been thinking about discussing the purchase of the ski house in Massachusetts with the owner, since they had no experience in such a venture. Tom had rented out a house on the beach once, but this carried more possibilities—icy roads and snowstorms being the least. As they entered the room, there standing with his elbow on the bar was one of the cops Nick had supervised and who, for a short time, had worked for Tom in a special burglary unit. Billy Hill, a precinct cop, was an expert in vacation property and vacations generally. They exchanged handshakes and hellos.
Brennan and DeBoer ordered two beers and Nick started the conversation, “Hey Bill, great coincidence meeting you here, I need your opinion about something.” Bill seemed a bit distant staring away, but then turning he looked at his comrades in an inquisitive way.
“Sure, what can I help you guys with?”
“You’re a big beach guy, you take exotic vacations with your wife and even worked for a travel agent for awhile. Did you ever get into skiing?”
He paused. “Not really. Why?” he said as he stared out the door.
“Because Tom and I are buying a house in the Berkshires and…”
“Whoa, whoa. Skiing can be dangerous. Wait until the summer and rent a house in the Hamptons. It’s expensive but restful,” he said. Staring out blankly again, he added, “And you’ll have a better time—it’s not cold.” He cast his eyes and head down for a moment, exposing his thinning gray hair at the crown of his head.
“What’s the matter?” Nick asked.
“Nothing.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Well, I had a little fight with my wife; she sort of accused me of chasing a chick I know.” He must have wanted to talk about it, because he continued. “I said to her, what am I going out looking for chop meat for when I have steak at home?”
“Well put,” Tom said as Bill winked and quickly added, “But hey, everybody likes a good cheeseburger once in awhile, right?” That settled it—Nicky and Tommy were no longer interested in Billy’s opinion about recreation.
While Bill hadn’t made a very good point, one thing about what he said struck them: was the beach the steak and the mountains just a good cheeseburger? They would certainly find out.
Within three months Nick, Joann, Tom and Carol happily owned a beautiful New England compound in the Berkshire Mountains of southern Massachusetts.
Chapter 6
The state institution in Dannemora was a large maximum-security penal facility in the upper reaches of northern New York State; far from downstate, most inmates had few visitors on the weekends. Steven A. Clinton was no different. Much time had passed since Clinton’s conviction. His parents only occasionally took the long drive on I-87 north through the woods of the Adirondack Mountains along the Vermont border and the expansive waters of Lake Champlain.
The trip took more than seven hours
and was often treacherous in the harsh winter weather common to that part of the Northeastern US. Icy roads and blowing snow that obstructed the travel lanes often resulted in skidding and terrible car crashes, and if the car slid off the road into the deep snow there was wilderness for many miles all about. Not being particularly hardy people, the Clintons believed they could freeze to death before the state cops would find them.
“What the hell was Epstein thinking? The kid got twenty-two goddamn years. He should’ve tried the case,” David Clinton said to Steven’s mother Lisa Clinton on the long drive to the frozen North Country.
“What do you mean, a trial?”
“No jury would’ve convicted him of all those charges…a few, maybe. Nobody died. It’s the gun laws—if he didn’t have a gun he couldn’t hurt anyone. How the hell could he get a damn shotgun anyway?”
“You are right about guns, nobody should have a shotgun, or any gun for that matter. He wasn’t a bad boy. Without a gun he would have just acted out physically—beat up a couple of drunks.” Thinking a moment, she continued, “But a trial was a real gamble. They could have convicted him of trying to kill that goddamn cop, and then we’d be doing this for the rest of our lives.”
At the prison complex, surrounded by high metal fences with barbed wire atop tall “medieval” spires and wooden gun towers, the outdoor temperature was about fourteen degrees and cloudy, with blowing snow obscuring the parking lot. The whole area was sustaining winds at twenty miles per hour. After parking a quarter mile from the institution’s entrance on that Saturday afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Clinton had a long, cold walk to get to a dimly lit security checkpoint to gain entry to the depressing cold stone building. Lisa, with a full-length dark brown fur coat, faired better than David as he shivered with his hands in the pockets of his simple, lightweight, hooded waist-length jacket. At the front gate David and Lisa found themselves entering a series of metal detectors and then confronted by a correction officer and his dog.
“We don’t have any goddamn drugs. Keep that hound away from me,” Lisa said stridently, staring at the guard.
“Sorry Ma’am, we have to do this with everyone,” he replied courteously.
Inside the visiting area was a series of metal tables and chairs lined up neatly in straight lines on the concrete floor in the pale yellow room. The space was obviously designed to accommodate more than a hundred people. As the Clintons gazed across the room and picked out a table, they remained, as usual, with their backs defensively against the wall. Finally, after about thirty seconds, David and Lisa walked into the center of the collecting crowd and sat down on a couple of hard, cool seats. Once properly seated, they looked around. This was their third trip to the dungeon and yet they still hadn’t gotten over the cultural shock of visiting a place filled with rapists and murderers. Perhaps the other fifty visitors that day felt the same, but they didn’t seem to exhibit it.
In contrast to the Clintons’ attire, most of the other visitors wore old, bulky, heavy winter coats, and some chose seats they seemed to have reserved for themselves.
“Get outta my goddamn seat,” a tall, heavy, black woman yelled out in a high-pitched scream at a petite woman with a small child who had just nervously sat down on a chair next to a table for four.
“Not exactly the place I thought Steve would end up, Lisa.”
“This whole goddamn thing was an overreaction by the judge and the DA. The kid is basically good—he is suffering from some anger management problems, that’s all.”
After about ten minutes Steve Clinton appeared in the doorway of the visitors’ center. He seemed even bigger and more muscular than the last time they had seen him. Dressed in a dark green jumpsuit and ball cap partially concealing a short ponytail, he squinted and looked around the large, noisy hall. Afraid to leave their seats, David and Lisa raised their hands and began to wave them wildly.
“Steven! Over here, over here!” Lisa screamed, competing with the overwhelming hollow background noise coming from the inmates and visitors in the brightly colored concrete room. All the voices seemed to be echoing off the walls and bouncing all around the pair.
Steve spied his parents and slowly walked with a severe limp in their direction.
“Hi Dave, hello Lisa,” he said as he shook his father’s hand and hugged his mother, not getting too close to either.
“The guards are now watching more closely and they always, as usual, worry about drugs or weapons being snuck in,” he said to explain his new protocol.
“We prefer to be called Mom and Dad,” David said, to no response.
“Sorry that we haven’t been up in quite a while. How are you?” Lisa asked.
“Fine.”
“What do they have you doing now?” his father queried.
“Now I do maintenance. That’s why I have on the dark green outfit. I’m also finally in therapy with some kind of counselor—I don’t know, maybe a psychologist or a social worker,” he added.
“How is the therapy going?” his mother asked.
“Good. I play the game. The therapist wants me to show regret and accept responsibility for my actions and I put on an act and pretend to have incredible remorse even though I know those bastards in the Bayside deserved what they got.”
“What do mean they deserved it?”
“Those clowns were all druggies who had been cheating my friends out of their money—shortchanging them—selling them cheap shit. Those assholes want to screw with my friends they screw with me. I always get even.”
“We’ve been all through this before. Drugs are illegal and you could’ve killed that cop.”
“He’s lucky I didn’t, but let me tell you, every night I go to sleep dreaming about—”
“Steven, stop it! You’re making me nervous with all this get even shit,” Lisa said with a frown on her carefully made-up face—bright red lips and heavy dark eye makeup.
“Don’t worry, the next time they aren’t going to catch me as—”
“Steve. Stop it, stop it right now. Play along with these assholes and forget about revenge. Epstein says you could be out in less than eighteen years if you don’t get in trouble, even sooner with a work release program,” said David Clinton, interrupting his son’s tirade.
“Fine, I’ll just do my job, see the shrink and workout with weights.”
****
Time in a state prison goes slowly. Clinton was far from even counting the days until his release and he knew it. He was true to his word and spent his time roaming about the prison fixing broken toilets, solving electrical problems, fixing the roof, shoveling snow and attending therapy.
“Doctor Wiegand, I have learned so much about myself from this treatment,” Clinton reported one day during a therapy session.
“Yes, Steven, you certainly are a good student, and that helps greatly with your progress.”
“I hope that when I get out I can do something productive,” Clinton added while gazing around the treatment room used for individual sessions as Doctor Weigand sat behind his large, barren desk.
“You will, Steve. You see, your problems have mostly been caused by your temper and the availability of instrumentalities that you can use to strike out at those you feel have wronged you,” the doctor said as he scribbled on a file card with a small black pen.
“I see that now, Doc, but I’m pretty sure I have control over my anger. I know that what I did was wrong, and I will never let that happen again.”
“Well, Steve, you also understand that as a convicted felon you are not permitted to own or possess firearms ever again, and they are therefore not available to you through any means, so I’m sure nothing like this can or will ever happen again.” Looking down, Wiegand began to write again and added, “To a very large degree you are also a victim; your parents took little time to guide you or have you get a good education and find a good job. That, of course, led in some ways to the drug abuse which in turn led to the shooting.” Thinking for a moment, he continued, “You
were, in a sense, suffering the effects of poverty and loneliness in a rather wealthy family household. Most criminal acts are not entirely the fault of the actor—there are many who share in the blame.”
“Yes, I know. My mom and dad are really good people but they were always very busy with work and had little time to spend with me. As an only child, I was often left alone, without any siblings to share my time with,” Clinton responded with tears welling in his eyes.
“You also were quite lucky you missed when you shot at the policeman, and as a result your lawyer was able to make a pretty good deal for you.”
“In some ways that cop saved my life. He didn’t kill me and he didn’t get killed, so I have the ability to move on. I thank God every day for his intervention that night. Someday I will thank him in person for what he did.”
“Good, Steve, very good. You are seeing the big picture, and we will have you in full recovery in no time.”
“Thanks, Doctor Weigand, but you deserve most of the credit. You opened up my eyes.”
“It is both of us, Steven. We are a team, a team dedicated to making you into a productive, responsible, taxpaying citizen.”
****
Nick Brennan was in his office. It was just before five on a cold, cloudy, winter Friday night. He was just getting ready to leave for a weekend in Great Barrington. Clearing the clutter from his messy desk, Nicky received a telephone call from a detective assigned to the special events unit in the main office at police headquarters.
“Lieutenant, we have a hostage situation in Jewell at 156 Hoggatt Lane. It is a residence with a gunman holding four or five people, we have detectives on the way, we have the command post bus being transported to the scene, the Precision Firearms Team is en route, and I will be sending hostage negotiators upon your direction.”
“Okay, Detective. Dispatch three negotiators and mark me en route with an ETA of about half an hour.”
“Yes, sir, the log is so noted.”
Nick hastily drove north in his unmarked police car; the trip required frequent passages through intersections controlled by traffic lights, with lots of Friday-night cross traffic. Brennan seemed to get none of the lights in his favor; almost always a steady red shone as he approached, and each time he cautiously passed through the confluence of streets, he had to concentrate and remember he was traveling without the benefit of bold police markings and had only a solitary small, spinning red light held on the dashboard by a base magnet. He realized the red beam of light cast out from the tiny device was almost invisible even only a few yards away from the police automobile.
Once a Noble Endeavor Page 9
