by Neil Turner
“I wanted to set the scene in my mind so I can visualize how things played out. Helps to see the sightlines so we know where to look for potential witnesses and whatnot.”
We both turn to survey the scene from the base of the porch, then walk to the end of the driveway and look back. Our front yard landscaping continues to flourish even as winter gathers on the meteorological horizon. Papa retains the upper hand in the holding action against our side of the Vaccaros’ exploding lilac hedge next door. The freshly mown lawn gives way to tidy flowerbeds that border the sidewalk and foundation. Bits and pieces of the concrete steps leading up to the porch have flaked off after being pounded by years of countless footfalls, but a comfortable sag is all that betrays the age of the freshly painted wooden porch itself. A pair of glossy green ceramic planters flanking the base of the steps overflow with the last batch of scarlet and white geraniums Mama ever planted.
The brick facade of the house features an oversized picture window to the right of the porch and a couple of high bedroom windows on the left. Decorative forest green shutters bracket each window. A steeply pitched roof sits atop it all, crowned by a fresh umbrella of black shingles. Our home looks much as it did at this time yesterday—indeed, much as it has year after year after year. The only difference is the gaping wound in the front entrance and the moat of blood guarding the door. Will I ever stand here again without picturing that?
Once Williams is done looking at “sightlines and whatnot,” he turns to look me in the eye. “There’s nothing to be gained by antagonizing Detective Plummer—or the rest of the cops, for that matter.”
Like I need a lecture from this guy. “What they did here was bullshit.”
“Sure was,” he agrees. “Some petty asshole delivering a little payback.”
“Asshole indeed.”
“This is just the tip of the iceberg, Mr. Valenti. Nothing infuriates law and order types more than a dead police officer. As luck would have it, we’ve got a whole nest of law and order zealots in local and state politics these days—from the governor and attorney general right on down to the state’s attorney. This is all politics to them.”
“Great,” I mutter as we begin a slow walk back up the sidewalk toward the house.
“Did I hear that a dog is missing?”
I explain the Deano mystery. “Plummer is checking into it. I don’t even know where to begin looking.”
“He probably hasn’t wandered far if they left him here,” Williams says reassuringly while his eyes track up and down the block. “Why don’t you take a little walk around the neighborhood?”
I shrug noncommittally. Leaving Brittany on her own doesn’t seem like a good idea. Deano will probably wander back looking for a meal if he’s in the neighborhood. I’ll give him and Plummer an hour before I go looking.
“I gather you’re planning to hire a real lawyer to replace me?” Williams asks.
Even if I wanted to, there’s no money—not at the moment, anyway. I’ll see how things play out. “Probably not.”
He looks surprised. “So, we’re good?”
“For now.”
He holds out his hand and we shake. “Gotta run along. See you in court later?”
“I’ll be there.”
He nods and turns to go.
“Just a minute,” I say. “Did you learn anything here?”
He tilts his head toward the row of houses across the street. “Lots of folks might have seen what happened. I don’t imagine the police are around here often?”
“No.”
“Someone might have been curious enough to watch the action. We just need to figure out who. The cops should have canvassed the neighborhood last night looking for witnesses. I’ll look for that in discovery.”
The thought hadn’t occurred to me. He’s probably right. Maybe this guy knows what he’s doing, after all. He showed up last night and he’s here again this morning, so he gets an E for effort. “Why don’t you send an investigator yourself?”
Williams gives a little snort. “Who’s gonna pay?” he asks before he walks away and climbs into a battered old Toyota Corolla. I look between the Porsche and the Corolla. Both are the vehicles of lawyers, one of whom pursues justice in life and death struggles. The other chases a buck. Judging by our wheels, guess who society values more? The realization unsettles me. The ringing of my phone rescues me from deeper contemplation.
“Tony!” a hearty Midwest voice booms when I answer. “Gavin Townsend from Executive Solutions.”
My greeting lacks my headhunter’s over the top enthusiasm. “Hello, Gavin. How are you?”
“Great! I, uh, saw the news this morning and couldn’t help wondering....”
“Was that Tony Valenti’s father?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“It was.” My admission is met with silence. “Do you have something for me?”
“I sent your CV to a bank holding company that’s looking for corporate counsel,” he replies. “They expressed interest yesterday and asked when you might be available to meet with them.”
I don’t know what the next hour has in store for me, let alone the coming few days, but I desperately need a job. “Early next week?”
“We’ll see, bud. Like I say, I saw the news this morning and couldn’t help but wonder.”
“And?”
“My client called ten minutes ago with the same question.”
I deflate like a punctured balloon. Overcoming the stigma of being associated with my most recent employer poses a potential wrinkle in my job search, but I’m confident of overcoming that. The collapse of Sphinx Financial had been spectacular—yet another signpost along the road of corporate degradation—but it’s not as if I did anything wrong. But Papa has. That might touch me in ways I’ve yet to imagine.
“Tony?”
“I’m still here,” I mutter.
“I’m sorry, buddy, but I’ll have to get back with my client on this. I’ll call you.”
“When?” I ask before realizing the line has gone dead. Just great. Out of work. Zero prospects. Trouble with the law. Maybe homeless sometime soon. All that and no money to be a successful father to my daughter. What kid wants anything to do with a destitute failure of a father?
Speaking of Brittany, it’s time to see how she is. I find her flung across the bed in her room, racked by sobs and drenched in tears. I step across a pile of clothing strewn over the floor and settle beside her. “What’s up?”
“Just all of this… this shit! I can’t deal with it, Dad! Why the hell did your father do it?”
Not Papa or even Grandfather—just “your father.” “It’ll be okay, honey.”
“No, it won’t ever be okay again!” she wails.
I cradle her head in my lap as I’ve done for years when she’s upset. While she sobs, I ache at the cruel contrast between my early teenage years and what Brittany has endured over the past few months. First came the death of one of her grandmothers. A month later, the stock option wealth that helped make her sheltered upbringing possible vaporized in the scandal-ridden implosion of my employer. Then Brittany’s mother walked out on us. This morning her grandfather sits in jail, accused of murdering a police officer on the front step of her new home.
I absently watch her goldfish Puckerface putter around his bowl until the crying peters out. She looks up at me through bloodshot eyes. “I’m not going to school.”
I’ll be glad for the company. I nod and brush my hand across her brow, pausing to run my thumb around her puffy eyes, which are the same somewhat startling shade of Caribbean blue as her mother’s. Her gaze cuts away to the iPhone in her hand.
“I guess I’ll leave you to it,” I say, hoping she’ll ask me to stay for a few more minutes.
She nods and starts tapping on the keyboard. “See you later.”
I reluctantly walk out of her room and down to the basement. After venting my frustrations on a couple of flies that cross my path, I gather up a handful of towels and
rags that are set aside for cleaning and yard work, then head back upstairs and change into an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt. I check for rubber gloves and find none, so I pluck a couple of freezer bags out of a kitchen drawer to cover my hands. I steel myself to what awaits outside and slip under the police tape onto the front porch, then hesitate at the top of the steps. Dare I clean this up? Will the cops be back, pissed with me for destroying evidence? Screw it, they had their chance. While battling waves of nausea and clouds of godforsaken flies, I bend to my task, spreading towel after towel after towel to sop up the grotesque lake of blood before working the towels and rags into a pile. By the time I stuff the sopping mess into a green trash bag and fling it into the yard, I’ve worked myself into a towering rage against the cops, a God I don’t even believe in, and the arbitrary inequity of fate in general. What the hell have I done to deserve any of this?
My next stop is the garage to collect a battered two-gallon tin bucket and a stiff brush. On the way back, I unspool the garden hose, drag it to the porch, and sweep jets of water back and forth across the porch until the run-off cascading into the flowerbed and across the sidewalk loses most of its reddish-brown tinge. Then I make a couple of passes across the carpet with the brush. I’m wasting my time; the carpet needs to be replaced. Who the hell do I call to take care of something like this? I retrieve the garbage bag and drag it to the curb, then rehang the hose and carry the bucket back to the garage.
When I come around front again, our next-door neighbor is waiting by the end of the hedge, dressed in the same style of Dickie work pants Papa favors. The neighborhood uniform is completed with an untucked open denim work shirt over a white t-shirt. Mr. Vaccaro’s craggy face is awash in sadness. His eyes search mine. “What happened here last night, Anthony?”
I’m as bewildered as he is, so I just shrug. “Have you seen Deano?”
Mr. Vaccaro’s eyes widen in surprise. “The police didn’t tell you?”
“No,” I reply while my mind races. Did something happen to Deano last night? Did some asshole cop shoot him?
“We have him,” Mr. Vaccaro says. “The police were going to leave him in the yard, so we brought him here. They were supposed to tell you.”
Assholes. I keep that thought to myself and say, “Thank you.”
“How is Francesco?”
“I don’t really know. I’ll see him in court soon.”
“Today?”
I look at my watch. “In a couple of hours.”
“We’re thinking of him. Tell him. Wish him our best.”
“Thanks. He’ll appreciate it.”
“The door,” Mr. Vaccaro says, looking up at the hole in our home. “Have you bought a new one?”
“Not yet,” I reply with another glance at my watch. Damn it! No time now.
He eyes the door, then puts a hand on my shoulder and looks me in the eye. “You go to court, Anthony. We’ll keep Deano until you have a new door.”
“Thank you.”
“Actually,” he says, “I’ll go to Home Depot. What kind of door do you want?”
Given the litany of oversights and failures I’ve been piling up lately, it’s probably best not to trust any decisions to me. “Don’t bother with anything fancy,” I reply. “Whatever you think.”
Brittany appears at the door as Mr. Vaccaro departs. “Deano?” she asks. Her face lights up when I tell her what happened. “Can I go see him?”
I’m about to reply when I see a cyclist dressed all in black racing toward the house. A hoodie pulled low keeps his face in shadow, but as soon as he turns towards us, he brakes hard and skids to a stop at the end of the driveway. Brittany’s eyes track mine so we’re both watching when the rider points at us and then draws a finger across his throat in a violent slashing motion. My eyes cut to Brittany, whose mouth is open in a little O. I angrily turn my attention back to the street as the cyclist rockets away and disappears into Independence Park.
Brittany’s voice is a hoarse, bewildered whisper when she asks, “Dad?”
“Could you see who it was? He looked like a teenager.”
She shakes her head and wraps her hands tightly around my arm.
I decide that I don’t want her alone in the house. “Tell you what. Mr. Vaccaro’s going to pick up a new front door while I’m at court. Why don’t you hang out at their place with Deano until I get home?”
Her spooked eyes stray to the park and then back to mine. She looks relieved when she nods and says, “Yeah. Good idea.”
There’s no doubt in my mind that the lowlife in the hoodie will be back.
Chapter Four
It’s warm but not sweltering and I’ve got the Porsche’s A/C cranked, yet I’m mopping my brow with my sleeve as I cross the Chicago Sanitary and Ship Canal on my way to Papa’s bond hearing. Fear. Nerves. Heat isn’t the only thing that makes you sweat.
Cook County Jail looms ahead. A massive four-story prison block glides by on my right and several older blocks stretch a half-mile to the north on my left. I recall seeing some strutting peacock from the Sheriff’s office proclaim that the Cook County Jail is the largest facility of its kind in the United States—as if the incarceration of ten thousand citizens in a single county is something to be proud of. The thought of Papa penned up somewhere within this mix of run-down brick and concrete cellblocks is repellent. If he doesn’t make bail, tonight will be the first of many nights he’ll spend as an involuntary guest of Cook County.
I walk into a bustling courtroom inside the Leighton Criminal Courts Building ten minutes later, spot Mike Williams tucked away in a back corner, and slide onto the bench seat next to him.
“Hey,” he mutters. Williams spends the next couple of minutes extracting the highlights of Papa’s life from me before he delivers a one-minute tutorial about the bond call process. Then his eyes fall to the paperwork in his lap. “Sorry, but I’ve gotta get this stuff done.”
“Have at it,” I say. My attention turns to the exhibition of hardened cops, scruffy criminals, and hardscrabble lawyers who ply their trade in bond court. I watch them cut corners and deals as a steady stream of Chicago’s underbelly parades before Judge Myron Mitton.
The judge looks like he’d rather be somewhere else. I imagine we all do. His long, pallid face is set in a perpetual frown. Misshapen strands of graying hair sweeping back from a high forehead testify to encroaching baldness. The judge shows little outward interest in his decisions; he’s either weary of or flat out bored with the monotony of the dreary dramas that play out before him. Sheriff’s deputies escort an accused before Judge Mitton, who limits himself to a perfunctory question or two unless the charges threaten a significant jail term. In those cases, Mitton stirs himself to ask if the accused can afford a lawyer. If not, he appoints counsel. Bail is set and the prisoner is marched out of the courtroom. The lucky ones who can swing bail go home. The rest will languish in Cook County Jail awaiting trial. Hit replay.
The door swings open yet again and Papa shuffles in between a brace of sheriff’s deputies. Swimming inside his orange prison coveralls with his hands cuffed before him and his feet shackled together, Papa could hardly appear less threatening. The law enforcement types in the courtroom nonetheless snap alert while the deputies maneuver Papa into position before the bench. Then the jailers step away, leaving their shrunken charge alone to face Judge Mitton. There’s no sign of the strapping, energetic father I’d once had to run to keep up with.
I nudge Williams, who looks up from his paperwork.
“State of Illinois versus Francesco Pascal Valenti,” the court clerk announces while I watch in disbelief.
The judge, more animated than he has been since my arrival, sits straighter while he peers over his glasses at Papa. “Francesco Pascal Valenti, you have been charged by the People of Illinois with the crime of murder in the death of Cook County Sherriff’s Deputy Andrew Sean O’Reilly, a violation of Illinois Criminal Statute 720 ILCS 5/9-1 (b)(3), felony murder in the first degree with
aggravating factors, filed as case number 03639.”
Williams pops to his feet and starts making his way to the center aisle.
“Do you understand the charges against you, Mr. Valenti?” Mitton asks.
Papa nods in reply.
The judge sighs. “Please answer the question aloud so the court reporter can record your response.”
It takes Papa a moment to catch on. “Yes,” he mumbles.
“Do you have an attorney, Mr. Valenti?”
Papa looks around in confusion.
“You are entitled to representation. If you are unable to afford an attorney, I will appoint one to represent you.”
“No lawyer?” Papa mutters.
Mitton’s manner inches towards impatience. “Would you like the court to appoint counsel for you?”
“May I be heard, Your Honor?” Williams asks when he finally reaches the bar.
The judge’s eyes lift to him. “What is your interest in this case, Mr. Williams?”
“If it pleases the Court, my office will represent the accused.”
“I assume the Public Defender’s office is aware that appointment of counsel remains the prerogative of this court?”
Williams nods. “Of course, Your Honor.”
Mitton appears placated by Williams’s deference. “Has an investigation been made into the financial resources of the accused?”
“A preliminary assessment suggests Mr. Valenti will require a court-appointed attorney.”
Mitton turns to his clerk. “Give Mr. Williams a copy of the complaint.”
“May I have a moment with Mr. Valenti, Your Honor?” the public defender asks while the clerk collects the paperwork.
“A moment, Mr. Williams.”
The judge gives them a minute before he turns to the prosecutor, a trim and serious-looking brunette I guess to be in her early thirties. “Are you ready to argue bond, Miss Dutton?”
“We are, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Williams?”
Williams leans close and whispers to Papa, then replies, “Ready, Your Honor.”
The judge asks his clerk for the bail review, which is a report completed by the probation department. He instructs the clerk to give Williams a copy and then drops his eyes to read. A couple of grunts punctuate his progress before he sets the report aside. He gives the public defender a “come on” gesture and says, “Go ahead, Mr. Williams.”
