David Rosenfelt
Airtight
The tabloids called it “The Judge-sicle Murder.”
It was a ridiculous name for an event so horrific and tragic, but it sold newspapers, and generated web hits, so it stuck.
In the immediate aftermath, very little was known and reported in the media, so they compensated by detailing the same facts over and over. Judge Daniel Brennan had attended a charity dinner earlier that evening at the Woodcliff Lakes Hilton. Judge Brennan generally avoided those type of events whenever he could, but in this case felt an obligation.
The Guest of Honor was Judge Susan Dembeck, who was at that point a sitting judge on the bench of the Second Circuit Court of Appeals. Since Judge Brennan’s nomination to that court was before the Senate and he was replacing the retiring Judge Dembeck, he made the obvious and proper decision to support his future predecessor by attending the event.
Others at the dinner estimated that Judge Brennan left at ten thirty, and that was confirmed by closed-circuit cameras in the lobby. He stopped at a 7-Eleven, five minutes from his Alpine, New Jersey, home, to buy a few minor items. The proprietor of the establishment, one Harold Murphy, said that Judge Brennan was a frequent patron of the store. He said it on the Today show the following morning, in what the network breathlessly promoted as an exclusive interview, which aired seven minutes before Good Morning America’s breathlessly promoted exclusive interview with Mr. Murphy.
Among the items that Murphy described Judge Brennan as buying was a Fudgsicle. It was, he said, one of the Judge’s weaknesses, regardless of the season. As was the Judge’s apparent custom, Murphy said that he started opening the Fudgsicle wrapper while walking to the door, such was his desire to eat it. Murphy seemed to cite this as evidence that the Judge was a “regular guy.”
Murphy didn’t mention, and wasn’t asked, the time that Judge Brennan arrived at the store. It was eleven forty-five, meaning the ten-minute drive from hotel to store had apparently taken an hour and fifteen minutes.
It was ten minutes after midnight when Thomas Phillips, who lived four doors down from Judge Brennan, walked by the Judge’s house with his black Lab, Duchess. In that affluent neighborhood, four doors down meant there was almost a quarter mile of separation between the two homes.
The Judge’s garage door was open, and his car was sitting inside, with its lights on. This was certainly an unusual occurrence, and Phillips called out the Judge’s name a few times. Getting no response, he walked towards the garage.
In the reflected light off the garage wall, he could see the Judge’s body, covered in blood that was slowly making its way towards where Phillips was standing. The Fudgsicle, melting but with the wrapper around the stick, was just a few inches from the victim’s mouth, a fact that Phillips related when he gave his own round of exclusive interviews.
The murder of a judge would be a very significant story in its own right, especially when the victim was up for a Court of Appeals appointment. But the fact that this particular judge was “Danny” Brennan elevated it to a media firestorm.
Brennan was forty-two years old and a rising star in the legal system. It was a comfortable role for him to play, as he had considerable experience as a rising star.
He was a phenom as a basketball player at Teaneck High School, moving on to Rutgers, where he earned first-team All America status. Rather than head to the NBA as a first-round draft choice after one season, which he could certainly have done, he chose instead to stay all four years. He then pulled a “Bill Bradley,” and went on to Oxford as a Rhodes scholar.
When his studies had concluded, he finally moved on to the NBA, and within two years was the starting point guard for the Boston Celtics. It was during a play-off game against the Orlando Magic that on one play he cut right, while his knee cut left. He tore an ACL and MCL, which pretty much covers all the “CLs” a knee contains, and despite intensive rehab for a year and a half, he was never the same.
Confronted with physical limitations but no mental ones, Daniel Brennan went to Harvard Law, and began a rapid rise up the legal ladder.
A rise that ended in a garage, in a pool of blood and melted Fudgsicle.
“I can’t make it tonight,” I said.
I’m sure that my brother, Bryan, heard the news while lying in bed, because his response sounded a little groggy. “And you woke me at seven o’clock in the morning to tell me that?”
“I feel terrible about that, especially since I’ve been up all night. Don’t you work?”
“It’s Saturday, big brother.”
“You don’t rip off the indigent on Saturdays?” I asked, unable to help myself. It wasn’t that I lacked respect for Bryan’s position as an investment banker; the truth was I really didn’t even understand what it involved. But it made for an easy target.
“It’s way too early for occupational banter,” Bryan said. “Sorry you can’t join us.” Bryan certainly couldn’t have been surprised that I was backing out of the dinner; my cancellation rate had to be well over sixty percent. He continued. “Julie will be disappointed.”
“No she won’t,” I said, without much conviction. As always, it was impossible for me to have any idea what Julie might be thinking, which was unfortunate, because it was probably the thing I involuntarily pondered most.
In my mind’s eye I could see Bryan turning over in bed and talking to his wife, who herself I’m sure was just waking up. She was wearing a white nightgown, low at the neckline. My mind’s eye often has a very specific imagination. “Julie, Lucas can’t make dinner,” Bryan said. “Are you disappointed?”
“Of course.”
Bryan spoke back into the phone. “You were right; she’s delighted you’re not coming. What’s going on, Lucas? Why can’t you make it?”
Bryan was one of the few people on the planet who called me Lucas; to my friends and coworkers I was “Luke”; to people I arrested I was “asshole.” “Lucas” sounded formal, which I suppose made sense, since my brother is way more proper than I am. I almost expected him to call me by the name our parents stuck me with, Lucas Isaiah Somers.
“You didn’t hear what happened?” I asked.
“When?”
“Last night, just before midnight.”
“I went to sleep at ten thirty,” he said.
“Danny Brennan was murdered.”
Bryan went silent, probably mentally replaying his connections to Judge Brennan in his mind. Then, “I didn’t know him that well, just met him at a few charity dinners, but I liked him. This is awful. Is anyone in custody?”
“No.” I could hear him, in the background, telling Julie what had happened.
“Julie wants to know if it’s your case.”
It’s the exact question I knew she would ask, especially since it might wind up her case as well as a prosecutor. “Technically, but not that anyone would notice. Every FBI agent in the United States is either here or on the way. Apparently, when the President appoints a judge to the Appeals Court, the plan is that they are supposed to remain alive.”
“So you local hicks should stick to traffic tickets and picking up jaywalkers?”
“Not according to the Captain, which brings me back to why I can’t make dinner tonight.”
“OK. Good luck,” Bryan said. Then, “How did he die?”
“Stabbed to death in his garage when he got home. Thirty-seven wounds.”
He paused again to relay the information to Julie, and I heard her say, “Sounds like he pissed off an amateur.”
I knew exactly what she was talking about. Professional killers rarely used knives, and when they did they were precise and efficient. A blade in the heart, or a slice across the neck. Thirty-seven stab wounds meant the killer was an amateur and was venting fury. It was an emotional killing, or at least made to look like one.