Once a Noble Endeavor

by Michael Butler

  The two suspects crossed directly in front of Nick’s police car. Nick radioed headquarters that he was in foot pursuit and found himself involved in yet another foot chase. As he jumped from the police car, his police cap flew off his head and fell on the busy highway near the center median.

  The two burglars ran in tandem toward a backyard and suddenly split up—one left, one right. Nicky went left and picked his prey and tackled the culprit as he tried to negotiate a sharp turn around a large, thick bush. On the ground, the suspect raised his left leg towards Nick’s face and kicked him in the lip. Then, with youthful speed and dexterity, the felon scrambled to his feet. Nicky recovered quickly and again grappled with the fleet-of-foot thief. This time, placing his weight upon the adversary, Nick was concentrating on handcuffing him. The bad guy tried to get away again but to no avail.

  Back at the stationhouse, Nicky breathlessly wrestled the cuffed monster through the front door and signed in at the desk with the prisoner.

  The desk supervisor, Sergeant Lawrence Riccio, an arrogant type with his big belly protruding over his gun belt, said to Nick, “Where the hell is your hat, officer? You can’t come in the goddamn stationhouse without your hat.”

  “I don’t know, Sarge, but what happened—”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know? Where the hell is your lid, Brennan?”

  “Look, Sergeant Riccio, I may have this wrong, but I think they gave me the hat to help catch burglars, robbers, rapists, you get it—and I caught this one. If I lost a shoe, a hat, a pen, a belt or a bullet, so be it, all harmless equipment, but I caught the criminal, and that is all that matters.”

  “Not true, Brennan, you wise ass son of a bitch. I asked you to show me your department-issued hat and you implied you lost it. You are now officially screwed.”

  At that moment Sergeant Carrillo returned through the front door from the burglary crime scene and captured the end of Riccio’s diatribe. “Larry, are you nuts?

  Brennan, please take the prisoner up to the detectives, and I will deal with the desk officer. Riccio, the kid was doing his job; he caught the crook, what’s the problem?”

  “Hey, Carrillo, your cop lost his hat and cap device, I don’t know where or even when, but no matter. He gets burned without that hat, crook or no crook, his fault, the crook’s fault, your fault or my fault. No hat, no good, he gets burned—understand?”

  At that moment all the other officers assigned to the burglary chase, which finally resulted in two arrests, came through the front door of the stationhouse to prepare paperwork and offer assistance. “Hey, Sergeant Carrillo, I found Nicky’s hat on the highway. It’s not pretty, but we got it—probably run over a few times, but basically intact,” said Paul Rector.

  “Thanks Paul, Sergeant Riccio was just looking for it,” the reserve colonel responded as he raised his eyes.

  Later, Sergeant Riccio approached Nick with the crushed hat and said, “Today is your lucky goddamn day, Brennan. Rector found your hat, and you are not going to lose any money because of your negligence. Here,” he said as he handed a pile of blue fabric with the silver cap device in the middle to his subordinate.

  “Thanks, Sarge. Hey, by the way, we were having a debate upstairs. As a big football fan, what do you think is more important, a helmet or a touchdown?”

  That day Nick decided to get promoted to sergeant.

  Chapter 3

  On April 21, 1978, Steve Clinton was talking to one of his friends, Victor Guzmán.

  “What’s the goddamn deal? I give your pal the money and later I realize he gives me about three quarters of the weed I paid for!” Clinton screams.

  “Maybe he just got it wrong by mistake…you know, the guy didn’t graduate from school. He can’t write, maybe he can’t count either.”

  “I didn’t graduate but I can weigh dope, dipshit. No excuses, Vic baby, I lost money on the deal and he has to get his ass kicked,” Steve responded. “Where’s his hangout?” Clinton demanded.

  “That bar on the main road, the dumpy sports place. He’s there all the time, every night—he makes a lot of deals there, he sits right by the big front window.”

  That evening Clinton went home and got his “riot gun,” a small shotgun he had never used but often dreamed of firing. He kept the gun far in the back of his bedroom closet, away from the prying eyes of others, in the large colonial home he shared with his parents in a wealthy gentrified neighborhood. As he looked at the 16” long weapon he inserted three “birdshot” shells. Used for hunting pheasant and grouse, the several small pellets within the rounds, when fired, were designed to spread out to hit a flying bird. At close range the shell could kill a human, but more than a few yards away from the intended victim it was likely to just wound.

  Clinton phoned Guzmán with orders. “Hey, we have a little work to do tonight, pick me up in fifteen minutes, Victor.”

  Right on time Guzmán pulled up in front of the Clinton house. Steve, watching from his bedroom window, went out the back door with the gun inside his short jacket.

  He ran across the lawn to Guzmán’s car and yelled toward the open car window “Ride by the sports bar real slow and I will look to see if our weed cheat is in his regular seat. You like poetry, Vic?” Sliding into the small vehicle and looking out the windshield with a smile, Clinton continued issuing orders. “Keep the headlights off as you go by.”

  “Hey, Stevie, I’m not in this if you are going to kill that asshole,” Guzmán said.

  “I only loaded the riot gun with birdshot. I’m just going to scare the shit out of him, but next time he buys the farm if he ever pulls that scam on me again.”

  “How’s he even going to know it’s you scaring the shit out of him?”

  “Word will get to him through the grapevine, and the message will be ‘Do it again and you’re a dead asshole.’”

  Right after the early spring sunset, Guzmán stopped and parked his car about three hundred feet from the front of the dimly lit tavern and said, “Okay I will go by real slow, with my lights off. The fat ass should be on the right side of the big picture window, sitting at the bar sort of facing toward the front door. He will be about ten feet from the window inside the barroom.”

  “Go slow, so I can make sure it’s him. If I tell you it’s him, park about a hundred feet from the dump and I’ll go back and give him a mouthful of bird bbs.”

  Guzmán followed his instructions and slowly passed the big window as Clinton whispered, “That’s him. There he is. Park right over there.”

  Clinton briskly walked back with the gun under his jacket. He looked around and into the establishment, and there sitting at the railing was the overweight target. About six feet from the glass Steve fired three shotgun blasts into the bar. With glass breaking and everyone inside screaming, scattering and yelling, Clinton calmly strolled back to Guzmán’s car.

  “Let’s get outta here, Vic, but go easy—don’t draw attention!”

  ****

  Word spread quickly as Clinton had hoped, and the drug dealer eventually telephoned Steve late one afternoon and said, “Listen, Clinton, I didn’t try to beat you, I just got it wrong that day, that’s all—you didn’t have to shoot.”

  “Well, you ever get it wrong again and next time I won’t miss. You die, get it?”

  “Yeah, I get it, but it was just a mistake.”

  “Oh, to err is human, is that it? Well, next time you are a dead human.”

  What Clinton didn’t know was that an earlier drug bust resulted in the cops figuring out, through street talk, that he was the gunman in the sports bar shooting. Steve’s telephone conversation was recorded by the police through a cooperation agreement the druggie signed. Based on the contents of the call, the cops made an application for an arrest warrant for attempted murder. Guzmán was an accomplice to be charged, but investigators hoped to “flip” Victor to make a watertight case against Clinton.

  After Clinton’s arrest, Guzmán, still uncharged, was interrogated in
the 17th Precinct. “Look, Victor you are an accomplice to attempted murder. You are looking at seven to twenty-five years. You only drove the car, we can make a deal,” the detective stated confidently.

  “Attempted murder, attempted murder, what the hell are you talking about attempted murder?”

  “Clinton fired several shots through that window aimed at the victim. Luckily, he missed. Had he hit the guy, and that’s what he intended, we’d have a murder investigation.”

  “You guys are nuts. Stevie loaded the gun with birdshot—friggin’ bbs. He stepped far away from the picture window and was only trying to scare the shit out of that pumpkin-face dickhead. You got it all wrong.”

  “Birdshot can kill.”

  “Steve did not intend to hit the guy.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “He told me and I watched from my car. I told him up front I wasn’t in if he was going to ice that crud. Before he fired he stepped back from the glass, I saw him. He was just breaking the window and the scumbag’s balls!”

  Since the police made an arrest on a warrant, they weren’t able to interrogate Clinton without a lawyer present, and the entire case therefore turned on the testimony of Guzmán, the forensics, and the tape of Clinton’s conversation. The police forensic team, after the seizure of the riot gun and a search of the house, confirmed Guzmán’s account, and suddenly attempted murder had turned into a charge of misdemeanor vandalism and reckless endangerment—a much lower felony, and legally based on reckless conduct, not an intentional act calculated to cause serious injury or death.

  ****

  In court, Epstein argued, “Your honor, the People began with a charge of attempted murder, a serious intentional act, and now they have amended it down to a reckless act that was intended to scare someone, not hurt him. They have held my client in the county jail for almost two months for essentially firing a big BB gun at a drug dealer. My client is eighteen years old, has never been convicted of a crime and never had any involvement with the law enforcement community. He is an eligible YO and likely to have that treatment when the court considers the fact that the instant charge is nonviolent and unintentional.”

  The ADA responded, “We concede, Your Honor, that the original charge was wrong, but the reckless endangerment charge in the first degree is still a serious one and is a felony—many people could have been hurt or killed by the recklessness of the defendant’s action. In addition, there is vandalism and a weapons charge involved here too.”

  The judge asked, “Mister Epstein, I assume you are going to pursue YO treatment for your client, is that correct?”

  “Yes, Judge, and we are prepared to settle the case with a plea agreement after a conference with the district attorney’s office.”

  “Get this out of my courtroom!”

  At his next appearance in court, Bob Epstein conferenced the case with a more aggressive ADA. Janet Krammer, pale, tall and gaunt with sunken eyes, wearing a dress that looked like a housecoat, was a young, politically ambitious lawyer. She saw every conviction as a scalp on her belt. But a loss was bad for her future. She planned on running for DA someday. This case had gotten some ink in the local papers, but if it involved a successful YO filing it would get sealed and be of little political value; maybe even a liability. Krammer knew that even the felony charge, of reckless endangerment in the first degree, could be challenged at trial—the gun charge and vandalism were probably solid, she figured.

  The reality is that to make a case for the felony endangerment, the People had to prove there was a risk of death or serious physical injury. The birdshot, the crime scene and Victor Guzmán would actually buttress a charge of reckless endangerment in the second degree—a risk of only physical injury posed by the defendant’s reckless action. Epstein would argue at trial, she knew, and the jury might accept, that this was little more than a farmer firing a shotgun full of rock salt at trespassing kids. She wasn’t about to take a chance on that outcome, and her victim, a drug dealer, wouldn’t garner any sympathy from the panel sitting in judgment.

  “What do you want, Mister Epstein?” Krammer asked.

  “I’ll take a dismissal of the gun charge and the vandalism, a plea of guilty to a misdemeanor reckless endangerment, and a stay away order in favor of your drug dealer,” he said as he forced a smile. Pausing for a moment, he continued the plea negotiation, “My client, basically a good boy, has spent two months of his life in jail because your dumb ass cops don’t know attempted murder from a good scare.”

  “Take two misdemeanors and a permanent stay away order and we have a deal.”

  “Ms. Krammer, at trial you will not be able to prove any felonies, but I am a reasonable man, and even if the jury accepted your take—and I doubt they would—I still would get a YO. So I will take your offer. As a misdemeanant on two charges he is a mandatory YO and his record is sealed,” he said as he reached down for his briefcase. As he walked towards the office door, he completed his thought, turned back, and concluded the bargaining, “Thank you for your time. I think this disposition at least saves the taxpayers a little money.”

  ****

  The college provost at the community college announced, “Associate in Criminal Justice Nicholas J. Brennan.” Nicky proudly approached the stage and shook hands with

  Doctor Edwards. With his short, dark hair neatly coifed and his bright blue eyes and well-fitted suit, he was a sight to behold on graduation day. One or two of the attractive coeds he passed on his short journey back to his seat took notice of his masculine good looks. When he got back to his seat, he stared at his diploma with some amusement. He had gotten a two-year college degree with pretty good grades in just three years. Brennan had attended summers and increased his course work as he moved closer to completion of his educational mission, and that had paid off.

  Now with more than four years on the job, Nick began studying for promotion to sergeant and continued his pursuit of a bachelor’s degree. In an effort to broaden his horizon a bit, he studied business administration in the four-year program at Saint Agnes College. His grades at community college provided him with a partial scholarship for his remaining two years at the well-known institution, and the GI Bill helped with expenses.

  Nick’s new boss at work was Sergeant Jack Welsh, who took over Nick’s squad after Carrillo’s retirement from the police service. Carrillo retired with just over twenty years of service, as was customary, but went on active duty with the Air Force to pursue his second career—not a common event after police service.

  Welsh, about thirty-five years old, six feet tall with black hair, a moustache, and dark brown eyes wasn’t as personable as Sergeant Carrillo, but still used his time productively with subordinates.

  “How are the studies coming, Nick?” he asked.

  “Good, Sergeant. College is a bit slow, but the promotion school is moving right along.”

  “When is the next sergeant’s test?”

  “In June—a little over six months. I’ve been studying, and I hope I’m ready.”

  “Spend a lot of time on the English usage and reading comprehension drills—that usually makes the difference with the close scores at the top of the list.” Studying Nick’s erect posture, which he couldn’t help but think projected a military background, he inquired about a more personal matter. “You just got engaged, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, to Joann Termino—her nickname is Jodie—we get married at the end of next summer.”

  “You are quite busy—really busy. Good luck with everything, Nick!”

  “Thanks. Yeah, pretty busy, but Jodie cooperates. Sometimes I think she is more ambitious than I am.”

  Jodie was a beautiful young woman of twenty-four years with light blue eyes, dark eyelashes and long, straight, dark blonde hair, full and parted in the middle. Joann, like Nick, had a reputation for something of a quick wit and a good sense of humor complemented by a dazzling smile. She was stylish and of average height, with a thin and shapely build—her l
egs were long and muscular from her years on her school’s gymnastics team. Jodie, just a bit of a fashion plate, wore flattering clothing that either clung tightly to her athletic form or hung nicely from her feminine frame, like the apparel worn by models on the runway.

  Joann’s support for Nicky’s education and advancement was complementary to her own plans. She met Nick at Saint Agnes in the student union lounge, and as she often told him, she planned to get her doctorate to teach history on the college level. At first just friends, their relationship slowly developed into a romance. As a couple, they encouraged each other to learn and study hard.

  “Nicky, now study hard—don’t make me date some homely guy on the dean’s list,” she would often say with a laugh.

  ****

  One night getting close to their wedding day, Nick met Joann at a local Italian restaurant they favored and they began to make the final plans for the big day. They had arranged the church and Joann’s gown and the wedding party but were yet to secure a reception hall. “Nicky, the wedding is only a little over eight months away and I just can’t decide on where we should have the reception, and I have to get the invitations out,” Jodie stated.

  “Why don’t you like Christie’s? It is convenient to all, and your father will like the slightly lower price than the other places we looked at. At any rate you get to decide, so whatever you choose is fine by me.” Joann listened but became a bit pensive and looked to be deep in thought.

  “Christie’s. I think you are right, I was a little reticent—a bit small, but it only handles one bride at a time, and dad and mom like the price, it is close for all, and it is a brightly lit, nice place with a big dance floor and good food.”

  “Whatever you want, Joann, but that big dance floor is what I’m looking for,” Nick said while swinging his arms side to side pretending to do the twist in his seat.

  “If you even think about doing the twist at the reception, let me tell you, I’ll be the first bride ever to become a widow on her wedding day on the dance floor, if you catch my drift,” Jodie said, holding back a smile. “Okay, let’s go with Christie’s. I’ll make the call tomorrow,” Joann finally declared. Still thinking like a bride-to-be, she continued, “Nicky while I have picked out a beautiful and, might I add, sexy gown—you’ll love it—I’m not sure about a headpiece. What do you think?”