![]() Pinsky doesn’t want me to know exactly where he lives and is clearly nervous about the repercussions of speaking to the press. Often, we forgo the establishments’ bustling interiors and sit bundled up outside, in the privacy of empty tables and preoccupied passersby. Over the course of the next few months, we meet periodically at a series of coffee shops and cafes not far from his university dorm. “I just feel it’s important for my side of the story to be heard,” he says after hugging me in greeting. He is an anxious young man in Invisalign braces. When I finally meet up with him on a chilly day this spring, he is no longer a kid. He did not speak to the media, who portrayed him as a mini mastermind, a suburban teenage sociopath. In the two years since Pinsky’s case became public, he has remained an enigma. The only thing in the basement safe at that particular moment was a pair of his mother’s Uggs. He also knew that he couldn’t give it to them. He knew that the thieves wanted this money, the millions and millions of dollars he had stolen. Two weeks before the break-in, a lawsuit had been filed against him, and news stories had circulated connecting him to the hack. 7, 2018, when he was 15 years old, Pinsky had pulled off a heist of $23.8 million, one of the largest cryptocurrency hacks of its kind ever executed. He knew - or, at least, was pretty sure he knew - why the men were there, breaking into his family home at 4 a.m. The gun metal grew warm in Pinsky’s hands. From somewhere downstairs, there was yelling. Pinsky hustled them behind something - a chair, a mattress he can’t remember now - closed the door and backed away from it, the shotgun raised to his shoulder, his finger on the trigger, his eyes on the doorknob. She directed him to the adjacent room where his three younger brothers were gathered, terrified and tearful. In the floors above, Pinsky loaded the shotgun and met his mother in the hallway outside his bedroom. An unknown man dropped down into their unfinished basement, his own gaze trained in the direction of a safe that had been installed by a previous owner. On May 23, 2020, a broken window set off the alarm that woke Pinsky’s family. He ignored the stares, drawn the shotgun up to his smooth, handsome face under its shock of black hair, trained his brown eyes on a point in the distance, and pulled the trigger. At Blueline Shooting Sports a couple of towns over, his slender, studious form had drawn looks from the rougher types who spent their afternoons aiming assault weapons at targets next to a store full of tactical supplies. His answer to that last concern was a shotgun, which he had stored in a drawer by his bed, near the chess trophies he’d won when he was younger, when the games he played stuck to their borders. He’d sat in his 12th-grade math class and pondered the various means by which calamity might befall him, how it would arrive, what form it would take, what he might do to defend himself. Beyond Main Street, tended lawns extend up into the hills, deliberately at a peaceful remove from the crime and grime of urban life.Īnd yet, Ellis Pinsky had feared that something dangerous and violent was headed toward Irvington. The town is named for former resident Washington Irving, whose Rip Van Winkle is cast in bronze, forever waking from his long slumber in the yard beside Town Hall, oblivious to the soccer moms in Lululemon and the teenagers in Ivy League sweatshirts who saunter by throughout the day. There is a historic Main Street that runs up from the water, a parade of American flags suspended from buildings that look as though they were plucked from a Christmas village. Singer Paulette McWilliams on Her Years With Marvin Gaye, Michael Jackson, and Steely DanĪ bedroom community 20 miles up the Hudson River from New York City, Irvington’s whole point is to be a place of calm, not calamity, a place where white-collar families can disperse themselves sparsely in well-appointed homes with river vistas and two-car garages. RS Recommends: 5 Devices You Need to Set Up Your Smart Home
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