Once a Noble Endeavor Read online

  “Nicky, pull to the side—right over there by the dump entrance. I’m going to put the gear over here between us. You take up your 16 while I move around.”

  Brennan did as he was ordered and sat with his M16 in his lap as he looked around for any suspicious activity. Where is our contact? Nick wondered as John pulled the can from the back and set it between the two seats.

  “Hey John, look over at that one hill over there… I just saw a puff of smoke…” before he could complete his thought, there was a large explosion immediately to the front of the jeep, about two hundred feet away.

  “Oh shit, incoming. Get under the jeep!” Planner screamed as another round hit a bit closer. Brennan jumped up, rifle in hand, and dove under the only protection available —the jeep.

  Both armed, John and Nick were trapped under the vehicle, pointing their gun barrels in the direction of the bursts of fire. Suddenly, running toward them from the right and leaving the road Nick had turned on to enter the dump was a man in fatigues and a soft cap—no doubt the NSA contact. The guy, four hundred feet away, was running in long strides as quickly as his big feet would carry him. Another explosion occurred to the left and then another to the front.

  “Holy crap, Johnny, the enemy found us—they know we have the secret shit!” Nick screamed above the deafening noise.

  “Aw c’mon, Brennan, are you a moron? They don’t know we have the top-secret shit, and even if they did, they certainly wouldn’t take a chance on destroying it in an explosion of their own making.”

  “You mean these idiots are attacking a garbage dump? We are definitely going to win this friggin’ war if that’s their strategy,” Brennan yelled, now watching the puffs of smoke followed by the resulting detonations.

  The breathless NSA officer quickly slid under the jeep. “Hi guys, I’m Bob Haines and I have been assigned to meet you here. I followed you from—” he said as another boom rattled the trio and interrupted the conversation.

  “Mr. Haines, our timing is terrible, and so is the VC aim. I have the metal container right here next to me. What should I do with it?”

  “When the shelling stops, throw it in the dump—it’s a can full of useless shit,” said Haines. “The real gear was flown by helicopter to the Delta by a couple of experienced ASA couriers early this morning. That’s why I asked Bailey to have you meet me at the dump instead of town—no point in dragging it all the way out here if I met you at the intelligence installation.”

  “Are you friggin’ kidding me?” Nick asked with a befuddled look in his eyes.

  “You see, we planted a false message through one of our agents that we were going to move the stuff to Tan An using brand-new couriers by way of a jeep. It worked.”

  “What do you mean?” John wondered.

  “You were followed from the Saint George but lost the tail after the turnoff on the main highway—those were some erratic driving moves there, specialist.”

  “Erratic? How about evasive, Mister Haines?” Nick said with a deceitful smile.

  After about ten minutes the shelling finally stopped and Nick said to John, “Hey Johnny, what do you think? Was that rockets or mortars?”

  “What do you mean, rockets or mortars? Why do you want to know?”

  “I think it’s important—you know, suppose I got killed.”

  “Oh, I’m real sure your mother would really care that you got killed by a mortar rather than a rocket. ‘You see, Mrs. Brennan, luckily Nicholas was killed by a mortar and not a rocket.’ ‘O thank God, John—Nicky was always afraid of rockets.’”

  “You have no sensitivity, but you do make a good point, Johnny boy.”

  After a few minutes when they were sure the shelling had actually subsided, the guard from the dump, ducking down cautiously, came over to check on the two soldiers and Mr. Haines. “Is everybody alright?” the sergeant inquired.

  “Yeah, we are all fine, thanks, sarge,” Planner answered.

  “Hey sarge, that was some weird nonsense—attacking the dump and all.”

  “Actually, it happens a lot. You see, the VC send in kids to go through the garbage during the attack. They use the cans for booby traps, they feed hungry militia with unspoiled food, they make shrapnel out of some of the metal, and they collect clothes and bedding for use by their troops—a pretty valuable resource for our enemy. That’s why we guard this hole.”

  John took the metal container and threw it as far as he could into the pile of rubble as Nick depressingly watched and said, “That settles it, Johnny boy, this is the last war I am going to be a part of—nobody seems serious!”

  Chapter 2

  The juvenile courtroom was open and sparse, with two old light brown, heavily scratched tables on an old, dirty linoleum floor covered with black streaks inside the gated area at the front of the room. The judge’s bench made of faded pine was lower than that found in a regular superior court. With the judge seated behind the bench, the clerk called the calendar.

  “Index number JD 7111004; People of the State of New York versus Respondent Steven A. Clinton. Mr. Clinton, please approach the bench with your attorney.”

  At six feet, Clinton was a big boy for fifteen years of age—with a broad chest and big shoulders. He looked around as he stood up from his seat in the audience. He walked into the courtroom well—the enclosed area nearest the judge. He was wearing discolored and worn jeans and a threadbare tight white tee shirt and was accompanied by a man of portly stature wearing a crisp white shirt, red and blue tie and a nicely pressed and fitted dark pinstriped suit. Carrying a soft leather briefcase, the man said in a deep voice, “Good morning, Your Honor. Shall I note my appearance for the record?”

  “Yes, counselor, please do,” the judge replied.

  “For the respondent, Robert Epstein 1240 Franklin Street, Garden Park, New York, Your Honor.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Epstein. Mister Clinton, do you know why you are here today?” the judge asked.

  “Yeah,” Clinton replied.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” the judge sternly corrected the disrespectful adolescent.

  Pausing briefly and raising his eyes up toward the ceiling, Clinton said, “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Mister Epstein, do you waive a formal reading of the charges?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “May I have the county attorney please note her appearance for the record?”

  “Yes, Judge. Frances Givens for the People, office of the county attorney, Stratton, New York.”

  “Ms. Givens and Mr. Epstein, with your concurrence I am going to close the courtroom to the public and conference this case off the record. Are there any objections?”

  “No objection,” said Epstein.

  “No objection by the People,” Givens offered.

  The judge, a husky, balding man of about sixty years, looked up with his reading glasses carefully balanced on the tip of his nose. He looked to the back of the room and called out to the court officer, “Clear the courtroom and please close and lock the courtroom door, and don’t allow anyone to enter.” The jurist patiently watched as the security man followed his instructions.

  “These are pretty serious charges, Mister Clinton. You are accused of burglary and double assault. Ms. Givens, what are the people alleging?”

  “Judge,” Givens said as she looked down and read from the formal charges, “the People are prepared to prove at a fact-finding hearing that Steven A. Clinton engaged in juvenile delinquency by breaking into the subject premises detailed in the charges herein at the time and place listed and while stealing liquor and a collection of valuable coins at that time and place was confronted by the homeowner and his wife.”

  “What about the complainants?” the judge asked.

  “Both of the residents are over seventy years of age and were repeatedly punched and kicked by the Respondent. The male complainant suffered serious contusions and a fractured nose, his wife was knocked to the floor and was badly bruised.”

  “Is it
alleged that Mister Clinton escaped from the scene?” the jurist asked, looking down at the record before him.

  “After the double assault, Clinton fled from the house with two bottles of liquor and a box of coins.”

  “Why is the Respondent not charged with robbery?” the judge queried.

  “Because the facts don’t support the conclusion that he used force intentionally in either taking or retaining the property stolen, your honor. He just beat them up for fun.”

  “How then was the respondent apprehended, Ms. Givens?” the judge asked.

  “Your honor, Steven Clinton was arrested several days later by the police when he was named by a defendant in an unrelated drug investigation as the burglar. During an interrogation by police, the informant offered Clinton’s name in pursuit of leniency with respect to the charges he was facing.”

  “Did we have identification by both complainants?” the judge asked.

  “No, Your Honor—only the husband could identify Clinton.”

  The juvenile court was not designed upon the same theory as an adult criminal court—formally it was called the “Family Court,” and as such it generally sought rehabilitation, not punishment. That was the position the jurist was moving towards.

  Trying to determine what method of identification was used, the judge continued to probe, “Was the respondent picked from a photo array, Ms. Givens?”

  “No, Judge, we didn’t have any photos of him.”

  “Did the police conduct a lineup?”

  “No, Judge—they picked up Clinton at home and brought him to a juvenile certified facility to interview him. The complainant responded to the police station and identified him at that time.”

  “Were Mr. Clinton’s parents or guardian present during the interrogation?”

  “No Judge, but Clinton admitted he committed the crime and the police recovered some of the coins.”

  “Mr. Epstein?”

  “Judge, the whole thing is no good. The eyeball testimony is invalid. The cops essentially conducted a show-up identification a week later in a police station and we have an underage kid interrogated in the absence of his parents. The old man picked Steven out of a lineup of one. Judge, this kid has never been in trouble before, and he won’t ever be again.”

  “Mr. Epstein, why aren’t Mr. Clinton’s parents here today?”

  “I’m not exactly sure, but Mrs. Clinton said she and her husband were too busy to attend this conference.”

  “Mr. Epstein, are you going to contest the admission of the coins?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Ms. Givens, are we detecting any weaknesses in the People’s case?”

  “I have to do some research and confer with a supervisor before I would concede any weaknesses, Judge.”

  “Look, we all agree we are concerned with the best interests of the child, right? How about we try to work out a settlement including some restitution and counseling?” the judge offered.

  “Your Honor, so long as we can ultimately have these charges dropped and sealed with no JD finding, I can say with confidence restitution and counseling are acceptable to the Clintons,” Epstein quickly interposed.

  “Ms. Givens?” the judge inquired.

  “Let me speak to my supervisor and the complainants, and we will perhaps consider a deal.”

  “Ms. Givens, I think you should take a deal and run with it. I want everyone back here in my courtroom on November ninth at 9:00 a.m.,” the judge added.

  ****

  On that day in November 1975, Steven A. Clinton, through his attorney Robert Epstein, had the charges dropped and agreed to pay for the repair of the damage to the house, pay restitution for the coins and liquor stolen, and provided a small stipend for the injuries the old couple suffered. Clinton walked out of the courthouse with a broad smile, without a juvenile record and a simple direction to seek psychological counseling.

  ****

  The day Nick Brennan reported to the police academy he was filled with both apprehension and excitement. Will the academy be like Army basic training, or more like college with guns? he thought. For November in the early cloudless morning, the weather was warm as he walked across the busy street to the Training Center. The building, three stories high with a blond-colored brick exterior, looked modern, but not particularly impressive, Nick thought.

  The first day involved introductions to various higher-ups, a swearing-in ceremony, the completion of forms stacked as high as a telephone book and a reading of the rules, including conduct, dress code, scheduling, the calendar of training and an opportunity to meet the police supervisors who would oversee the classes to follow.

  Sergeant Yates spoke first to the new recruits. “You were sworn in this morning, and while you have the legal authority to make an arrest, you are directed to not do so, unless instructed otherwise.” He waited for a moment to allow the order to sink in. “You are also legally authorized to carry a pistol, revolver, or other sidearm, but you are directed not to do so,” he said, pausing again. “If you come to this academy licensed to carry a gun, you are directed to surrender that weapon tomorrow morning at the arms room in the basement. If you are a former peace or police officer from another agency and you have a weapon secured there, give me all the information I will need to have that weapon or weapons delivered to our arms room. Now, are there any questions?”

  “Yes, Sergeant. When does our actual training begin?” one student asked.

  “Tomorrow at 0800 hours, and you are to appear in business attire—a jacket and tie for the men and appropriate business attire and low heels for the ladies.”

  “Where is the training conducted, Sergeant?” another asked.

  “All of the general instruction takes place in this classroom; firearms and physical training occur at the outdoor range.”

  ****

  The training overall seemed to be modeled after federal agent training, particularly the FBI Academy. There was a strict dress code, with modified military courtesies and a constant emphasis on professional conduct as opposed to the more familiar military efficiency and training experienced at other times by many in the class. A certain philosophy was reflected in the academy culture; cops were crime fighters and social workers.

  In one exercise Nick watched as an instructor, a psychologist, discussed crime trends.

  “Crime is a social consequence,” the doctor said. “Poor people react to poor social and economic treatment by committing crimes,” she insisted.

  “Doctor, is it your position that poor people commit more crimes than wealthy people?” a dark-haired female recruit with an inquisitive look asked.

  “No, poor people commit more street crimes, but wealthy people also commit a lot of crimes, just other crimes—embezzlement, bank fraud, forgery, and other white collar crimes,” she proposed.

  “So then poor people don’t commit more crimes because they are poor, they just commit different crimes, is that right?”

  “Perhaps, but you will deal with street crimes mostly, and many white-collar crimes are never reported, and even when they are, regular cops often don’t get involved,” she explained.

  “People with no money see people with money and say ‘give me mine.’ They see it as just. Middle-class or rich criminals aren’t seeking economic justice, they are taking other people’s money to unjustly enrich themselves.”

  Nick stayed neutral on the abstract causes of crime but saw both classes of crook as wrong irrespective of motive. It was clear that street crime was far more common in poor areas, but poor people were also the victims, and as an empirical matter it wasn’t all that clear that the more prosperous areas had many white-collar criminals.

  Thinking about it, Nick understood by comparison that a soldier’s job was a lot easier because the warrior was simply trained to find, fight and kill an enemy, while cops had to protect and serve. He thought there seemed to be a focus on empathy in the police business, something a bit foreign to Brennan, and something the
military never really internalized.

  ****

  At the outdoor range the lead firearms and defensive tactics instructor, Lieutenant Bill Carlton was unconcerned with the emotional or social reason an adversary used force against a cop. He brought a military mentality to the job—a basic reality. Using an old adage adopted by cops on TV, Lieutenant Carlton said, “He uses his fist, you use your stick, he uses a knife, you use your gun—you cancel his ticket right there. We are all going home tonight.”

  He spent extra time with the female officers in the academy, making sure they understood and became comfortable with using levels of force that they had never considered before.

  “I have never been punched in the face, Lieutenant,” one of the woman cadets offered while donning boxing gloves and entering the makeshift ring.

  In the Army, Nick remembered, soldiers in basic training were schooled in the offensive tactics related to the pugil sticks—simulated weapons with large, heavy, round pads attached to poles, used to club and stab an opponent. Soldiers who had never been in a real fight were startled when they were struck by an opponent.

  Now in police training, Carlton had the young cops put on boxing gloves and punch one another in the face. Some of the women, after being hit, were shocked and had obviously never been punched, or for that matter never been in a fistfight before. Nick laughed as he watched the incredible offense each of the women expressed at being slugged.

  “This is bullshit, why is he allowed to hit me in the face?” one of the women asked with resentment as the training officers looked at the female trainee with amusement.

  “Yeah, try using that as a defensive tactic on the street, Lucy,” said the boss, referring to her personal annoyance, “and maybe you’ll get your ass kicked, maybe lose your gun and maybe get someone hurt. You have to learn to recover from an attack!”