The Sentencing of Sean Francis O'Brian

Special to the Rochester Revealer, by Thomas Sonntag

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Serendipity. That’s the only reason I was at the sentencing of Sean Francis O’Brian. My editor assigned me to cover the arraignment of a drunk driver who ran over an elderly couple in a crosswalk.  I arrived at the courthouse an hour early, just in time for my enlightenment. 

As the court beat writer for Rochester’s local newspaper, I’d seen dozens of these two-bit derelicts traipse through these confines - listening to their stories/excuses was the price to be paid for a chance to cover the big ticket felony cases. Frankly, it had become annoying to me - another nobody wasting taxpayer money and the Judge’s time with their petty crimes and blank lives.  At least with murderers and rapists, the justice system smudged out felons from civil society - dealing with blips like O’Brian, with not an encouraging word written on the slate of their moribund lives, was just tedious.

As the legal preliminaries got underway, it became apparent that O’Brian had appeared before Judge Heston Miggs at least one time before - the Judge summarized O’Brian’s short rap sheet by announcing he had previously pled no contest to a misdemeanor theft charge at a local grocery store - $500 fine with a suspended jail sentence and 40 hours of community service. And now here he was again waiting to hear the penalty for the latest advance in his criminal career. 

Flipping through the paperwork on his bench, the Judge found the document he was looking for - on this occasion, O’Brian had again pled no contest to breaking and entry at a woefully under protected pharmacy where he had attempted to steal some opioid pain pills.  No doubt intending to sell them to some of his friends. 

Judge Miggs rolled his eyes up over his readers and peered out at the defendant sitting silently alone at the table to his right. By most measures, Sean Francis O’Brian was a very ordinary man, lacking the outward appearances of the more hardened offenders I had seen in this courtroom. His appearance was as plain as his life - slight, mid-fifties, clean shaven, salt and pepper hair, farmers’ red plaid shirt, jeans, shoulders slouched in supplication. The prosecutor at the table to Judge’s left and a few scattered observers in the gallery with me were the only other occupants of the cavernous courtroom.   

Time to get the show on the road.  

“Mr. O’Brian, you have pled “no contest” to the charge of breaking and entering and attempted theft of controlled substances. This is your sentencing hearing. I have examined your record and I am prepared to render my sentencing decision. Before I do, I will give you and any character witnesses you choose a chance to speak on your behalf.  At this time, do you have any such witnesses that will be speaking here today?”

“No Your Honor,” O’Brian responded in a soft murmur.

Before the Judge could offer O’Brian an opportunity to make his own statement, a voice rose from the gallery behind me.

“Your Honor, I would like to say something.”

I turned to see a middle aged man, graying hair, glasses, a puffy brown winter coat covering what looked to be a green grocer’s apron, standing with a Walmart bag in his hand. 

“And you are...?” the Judge asked. 

“My name is Matt Stonebridge and I work at Mercer’s Deli.”

“And do you have something to contribute to the matter at hand?”

“I think I do, yes your Honor.”

“Come forward then.”

With Walmart bag in hand, Matt Stonebridge walked to the podium situated between the litigants’ tables and faced the Judge. 

Mr. Stonebridge proceeded without prompting:  “Mr. O’Brian is a pretty regular customer at our Deli. It was at our store that he got in trouble for stealing a couple of bagels. But I’m here to tell you that I know why he did it.”

The Judge raised his hand as if to cut him off, but then seemed to catch himself. “I’m not sure how that’s relevant to the current case but since Mr. O’Brian doesn’t appear to have much else going for him, I’ll hear you out.”

Stonebridge gathered himself and drew in a deep breath.  “Well you know he “stole” those bagels for his sick son’s nurse, right?  Besides, he didn’t really steal them anyway.”

Like me, I knew Judge Miggs frequented Mercer’s Deli.  I would guess he was willing to overlook the judicial irrelevance of rehashing a closed case in order to find out what had happened to some of those soft fresh bagels.  

“Okay Mr., um..., Stonebridge was it?  Please get to the point and quickly.”

“Sorry your Honor.  You see, Sean there is a painter. Not like a house painter; he’s an artist. World class. Some of the finest paintings you will ever see. I’m no art connoisseur - couldn’t tell a Rembrandt from a Picasso - but I would guess he’s inside their fence line.”

The Judge’s widened eyes and slight head retraction revealed his surprise.  Nevertheless, he must have known that the rules of jurisprudence overruled his curiosity. 

“That’s all well and good Mr. Stonebridge, but what on Earth does any of that have to do with this case?  Your last chance....”

“Again, I apologize your Honor. But, I guess, as a character witness, I just want you to know that Sean O’Brian was given a gift, that he was destined for fame and fortune, and that he gave it all up and left his New York studio to come out here and take care of his sick son. And those bagels he supposedly stole?  They were the night’s excess that he was taking over to the Salvation Army. He “diverted” a few for his son’s nurse who was having a hard time making ends meet.”

I watched the Judge straighten in his chair. Once again, he turned to the defendant. “Mr. O’Brian, is all of this true?”

“Yes sir, for the most part, I suppose it is.  ‘Cept for maybe the part about ‘fame and fortune’.”

The Judge asked O’Brian why this information was not provided during the earlier case.  With a shrug, O’Brian replied that he figured (rightly) that his misdemeanor penance wasn’t going to amount to much and he didn’t want to spend the time defending his actions in court when he had a sick son at home who needed him. 

Mr. O’Brian’s matter-of-fact, no-big-deal delivery disarmed the Judge along with the rest of us in the courtroom. How much of a difference the dispassionate explanation made was not readily discernible on the Judge’s face. 

“Is that all Mr. Stonebridge?”

“Petty much your Honor, but I would like you to see one of Sean’s paintings.”  From his Walmart bag, Stonebridge removed a magnificent fourteen-by-twelve oil painting depicting two ranch hands, a man and woman, cowboy hats in hand, leaning hard against a horse fence railing, heads bowed in dusty fatigue, the sun setting behind them into the mountains beyond. 

The depth of field, the vibrant colors, the blatant hardship, strain and emotion of the protagonists (man and wife?) ... the utter reality of the piece ... was plain to see with even my untrained eye.  

“Is this your painting?” the surprised Judge asked O’Brian.

“Yes.”  Mr. O’Brian smiled slightly as he gazed at this, one of his many scattered pieces.  “It reminds me that life is hard.”  

The Judge turned back to Stonebridge.  “And how did you come to obtain it?”

“It’s not mine. I borrowed it from the museum here in Rochester. The museum Director is a friend of mine. I told him that I was coming here today to stand for the artist.  I had to put up my car as collateral.  No shit.  Oh...sorry.”

All present had a new take on Sean Francis O’Brian. He had gone far to remove himself from the fraternity of petty thieves clogging up the justice system. Suddenly interested in the man at the defendant’s table, the Judge asked about the medical condition of O’Brian’s son. 

“My son Cooper developed mesothelioma when he was fourteen. Tough problem - tough disease. He’s gotten better though. Mainly because of his nurse, Dave Fleming.”

Mr. O’Brian described the years of care Nurse Dave invested in Cooper’s recovery. Dave could have made much more money working in the hospital system, but he had formed a deep bond with the young boy. Mr. O’Brian lacked insurance coverage and, having given up most of his artist income, could not afford to pay Dave much, but no matter:  regardless of the financial hardship, Dave would take on Cooper’s burden and share his mantle until the battle was won.

And eventually, the battle was won. Cooper recovered and Dave moved on, although his nursing career suffered from a deficit of professional diversification. 

“So the bagels were for Dave?” the Judge asked. 

“Yeah...”. O’Brian’s voice tapered off in remembrance. 

“Well, that still leaves us with the matter at hand.  Mr. O’Brian, you broke into a pharmacy to steal some narcotics. That’s a serious crime.”

Once again, a voice rose from the back of the courtroom. 

“Your Honor, may I come forward?”

With a nod from the Judge, a woman in her forties, blond and trim, strode forward from behind me to assume the deli worker’s spot at the lectern. She was carrying what looked to be a three-ring binder. 

“Your Honor, my name is Jennifer Swartz. Actually, that’s my maiden name - I was married to the defendant.”

The Judge paused to consider her carefully. “‘Was married?’  I assume you’re no longer together?”

“That’s right Your Honor. We divorced about a year after Cooper got sick. I wasn’t strong enough to handle the pain of watching my boy disintegrate before my eyes.  I had a good job working for a New York advertising agency and I was too selfish to give it up. Sean never understood how I could break up our family to pursue my own happiness. He finally quit trying to talk me out of it. He took Cooper and moved out to Rochester to be near the Mayo Clinic. That’s where he met Dave Fleming.”

Ms. Swartz’s voice cracked:  “Dave took my place ... and I haven’t found a way back in.”

Gathering herself, she stunned us all with her next words:  “Now it’s Dave’s turn.  He’s dying.  Sean is taking care of him because there’s no one else to do it. Sean was stealing those drugs for Dave.”  

Jennifer explained Dave’s quick demise from nurse to patient and how Sean seamlessly inserted himself into the caregiver role. 

“Once Cooper got better, he took advantage of a disability program and went off to college. Sean stayed in touch with Dave - Sean was probably the first person Dave told about his lung cancer. Sean had just started painting again but set it aside once again to help his friend. And by the way, it was Dave and Sean who brought Cooper back, not just Dave.”

“So why break into the pharmacy?” the Judge asked. 

“No money for pain killers. Dave had already spent his life savings and Sean never had much to begin with.”

I could see the Judge was visibly moved. “Where is Dave now?”

“I don’t know,” Jennifer replied. 

Sean Francis O’Brian expelled the answer with a sigh:  “He’s in hospice care at the Vet Center.”

The rest of the hearing went by quickly. Jennifer showed the Judge the three-ring binder containing Sean O’Brian’s portfolio - an eclectic mix of portraits, landscapes, and abstracts, each with vitality of expression and uniqueness and yet bound by a style that conveyed across each piece.  To think that this common man, indistinguishably blended in with the masses, this quiet master, this defendant, would turn his back on his remarkable gift in the service of others, crushed my practiced cynicism.

The sentencing of Sean Francis O’Brian came to an abrupt end. “Time served,” the Judge declared with a single beat of his gavel.

But for me, the case was not closed.  I needed to come to terms with the essence of O’Brian’s sacrifice. 

On the surface, the idea of sacrifice is straightforward:  giving up something for someone or something else. It is often said that servicemen and women pay the “ultimate” sacrifice when they give (however unwillingly) their lives in battle. The courage and bravery of these heroes allowed them to overcome fear of death to perform their duty as they saw it. And these people are properly revered in our collective memories and celebrated with national holidays. 

The sacrifices of Sean Francis O’Brian and Dave Fleming were also profound, but there will be no parades for them.  Yet in some ways, their sacrifices were just as heroic. Unlike instantaneous death in battle, their long trials endured, their sacrifices were prolonged, and their gifts were willingly given.  

Although Sean declined to make a statement before his sentencing, Judge Miggs couldn’t help asking Sean if he ever regretted his sacrifice - he could have done so much more with his gift, with his life, if he had wanted to. Sean had looked up at the ceiling for a time and then steadied his eyes on the Judge:  “I guess the “should’s” just absorbed the “could’s” and the “want to’s.””  

In this age of self-help books and remedies and “what’s in it for me” prescriptions, Sean O’Brian is an anachronism. To many of us, it seems he unwisely chose to lead a life of sacrifice. Sean might disagree, insisting that he was compelled to do so.  Do we choose to breathe?  Sacrifice is proof of one’s humanity. 

I thank Sean Francis O’Brian for opening my eyes, even though I’m sure he would have no idea what I’m thanking him for. To the rest of the Sean’s of the world, sacrificing in anonymity, wondering if anyone else knows or cares, hoping that strength of character is persuasive in the afterlife, take comfort in pleasing your soul. 

And to those who question their own sacrifice, I would commend to you the words of Marcus Aurelius:  “Recall to your mind all that you have passed through and all that you have been able to endure; and that the story of your life will soon come to an end, and your duty will be accomplished. Recall, too, all the beautiful things you have seen and how many pleasures and pains you have seen through, how many honors you have turned away from, and how much unkindness you have repaid with kindness.”*

* Excerpt from The Essential Marcus Aurelius, Jacob Needleman & John Piazza