You are listening to the Roberta Glass True Crime Report, putting the true back in true crime.

From New York City, Roberta Glass is now on the record.

I'm returning to the Brooklyn Federal Courthouse this morning to watch Claire Bronfman's sentencing. I look forward to the methodical ritual of the security procedure.

The metal detectors, the checking of phones, I've come to pack a bag so I move through each point effortlessly.

The quiet, the order, and feeling of safety has been a comfort, as I have watched

high-priced defense lawyers try to win the court's favor with a wrap better suited to a used

car salesman than a lawyer. I've watched broken souls

in various states of healing tell the court what Keith Rennary took from them, their money,

their freedom, their self-worth, their sanity, and most sadly, their ability to trust another human being.

Only twice did I witness the serene quiet, the military-like order of the court, disturbed.

Both those moments were sparked by Claire Bronfman.

The first was when the judge demanded the criminal

defendant, Bronfman, speak to the court not through her lawyers, but for herself. She had to answer

for why she had hid her recently hired legal representative Michael Agingnotti from the court. Before she could answer,

a bench hearing was requested and granted. White noise filled the courtroom briefly,

then was turned off again, and as Claire Bronfman headed to the defendant's table, her knees buckled, she grabbed for a chair in front of her, and she performed a faint.

By the time the EMTs arrived with their gurney, Bronfman's health seemed to have radically improved.

I'll never forget, Bronfman's jumping on the gurney in the aisle of the courtroom,

sitting straight up with her legs straight in front of her,

patent leather tasseled loafers,

the toes of them pointing skyward.

It's a vision that's burned in my brain.

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