by Neil Turner
“Done already?”
“Can’t put it away like I used to,” I tell her while rubbing my tummy.
“You disappoint me, Chubby.”
“I’m in training.”
“For what?” she asks with open skepticism.
“Hoops.” My tale of woe on the basketball court at the hands of Mike Williams and my plans for revenge leave her in stitches until we get the bill and pay. Madison! leaves us with a couple of leftover containers.
Pat sits forward with her arms on the table. “Before we leave, let’s talk about the second reason I called today.”
I settle back in my chair and wait.
“It’s about Amy’s story.”
So, it comes back to this. My initial flash of irritation is immediately snuffed out by the trepidation in Pat’s eyes. After all my stupidity suspecting her motives, The Trib hasn’t printed a word about Amy’s death. The least I can do is hear her out. Besides, this has to be dealt with sooner or later if we’re ever going to move beyond it. “Go ahead.”
“Were you just having a bad day the last time we talked about this or did you really think I was angling all along to get a story out of you?”
“A little of both,” I reply sheepishly.
“You’re a stupidhead,” she says with a wondering shake of her head. “God only knows how much money you spent on law school, yet here I’m the only one of us thinking like a lawyer.”
I haven’t got a clue what she’s getting at, so I say nothing.
“You’re familiar with the idea of infecting a jury pool?” she asks.
“Sure.”
“The prosecution has been taking a good run at it, Tony. We’ve been running headlines like: ‘Cop-Killer a Neighborhood Nuisance’ and ‘Cop-Killer Has History of Battling City Hall.’ A story that stirs a little sympathy for your father in a potential juror or two may help his cause.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be impartial? Couldn’t you get in trouble for taking sides?”
She laughs. “You’re kidding, right? Believe me, my editors won’t fire me for handing them a story about the government covering up the deaths of American soldiers in an illegal covert operation. Ask Mike Williams what he thinks. I bet he’d be happy to see the jury pool infected a little on your father’s behalf.”
How obvious is that? I ask myself. “I should have seen that you were trying to help when you first mentioned it. I’ve been known to look gift horses in the mouth.”
“You’re under a lot of strain. I hear that’s a leading cause of idiocy.”
“I feel like an ass.”
“Only because you are, Valenti. What do they teach you people at law school anyway?”
“Advanced studies in maximizing hours billed and similarly arcane legal minutiae.”
She shakes her head and laughs. “Fifty grand a year in tuition for that?”
“So now what?” I ask after I throw my hands up in a “what can I say?” gesture.
“That’s up to you. Amy’s story could probably run between Christmas and New Year’s.”
“Are you printing what I told you?”
“Not unless you tell me I can use it. I gave my editor the bare bones without naming you or Amy and he was excited. He heard much of the story from someone else a few years ago but needs a second source before he’ll run the story.”
“I’m that source?”
“No,” she replies. “You weren’t there. My editors want to speak to the guy who was with Amy in Colombia.”
“Joe McIntyre. He exchanges Christmas cards with Mama and Papa, so his address must be around. Maybe his phone number, too.”
“Perfect.”
“Then what happens?” I ask. “You go to Colombia?”
“I’ll be staying right here, thank you very much.”
“They’ll do the whole story from Chicago?”
She laughs. “That’ll be the day. Our international staff will be all over this.”
“What about you?”
“I’m strictly local. I’ll look after the Chicago angle.”
“Am I the local angle?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she replies with a chuckle. “You might be mentioned once or twice. Don’t get delusions about seeing your name in print on a daily basis.”
Such a small role for Pat doesn’t seem right. “Isn’t this a chance to be something more than a local beat reporter?”
“I’m just a simple Chicago gal,” she replies. “I think what I do is important in its own way.”
“I didn’t mean to suggest it isn’t. Why not advance your career?”
“Maybe I’m already sitting in the right seat on the journalism bus. Don’t worry about me, Tony. I’m happy enough with my little lot in life.”
“I’m jealous.”
“Don’t be,” she says with a smile. Then she reaches for her coat. “Let’s blow this place.”
It’s still snowing two or three feet per minute.
“How’s Brittany doing?” she asks while we slog our way to the car.
“Good. Settled into school and liking it so far.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“Happy for her, sad for me.”
Pat looks at me across the roof of the car as we sweep off snow. “The little twit hasn’t written to me once. Is she coming back for Christmas?”
“Afraid not.”
“What are your plans for Christmas Day?”
“I’ll be working on discovery for Papa’s trial and probably trying to get something done about this eminent domain crap. Mike sent me a packet of discovery materials yesterday. I had a peek last night and I’ll dig into it again when I get home. It’s going to take a long time to get through it all.”
She tut-tuts. “No one should be alone at Christmas. I talked to Mom last night. You’re welcome to come by their place for Christmas dinner.”
“Multiple O’Tooles?” I ask in mock horror as we climb into the car.
She grins. “A proper infestation.”
Part of me is tempted, the rest cringes at the thought of being face-to-face with everything I’ve lost. “We’ll see.”
“You spent Thanksgiving alone, didn’t you?”
I start the car and nod.
“Fun stuff?” she asks sardonically.
“Not so much,” I reply before I put the car into gear and ease out of the parking lot. As if the night Brittany left for Europe hadn’t been bad enough, I’d sunk even further into despair and self-loathing by the time I passed out on the couch after my Thanksgiving feast of PB&J sandwiches. I washed those down with Papa’s last bottle of grappa before polishing off a half-bottle of bourbon.
Pat studies me with concern. “Think about Christmas, Tony. Being with happy people who care about you is never a bad thing.”
I can’t imagine where she plans to find people who give a shit about me. “I’ll let you know.”
She gives me a long look, followed by a shrug. “Whatever you think. There’ll be scads of food. We eat around four o’clock. The invite’s open right up until dinnertime.”
“Thanks. I appreciate the offer.”
“I hope you’ll come.”
We ride in silence until I turn onto Liberty Street and she says, “Let me know what that Citadel person has to say after you call.”
“Sure.”
A handful of snowmen in varying stages of completion stand here and there among the homes of our neighbors. Nowhere near as many as we used to build, of course, but kids still seem to populate Liberty Street. Grandchildren visiting, I suppose. A sled has left a set of tracks alongside the road in the general vicinity of the buried sidewalk. My blood begins to boil at the absurdity of condemning this neighborhood. “We’re supposed to have property rights in this country. How can Zaluski get away with this crap?”
“People like Zaluski and Mayor Brown have been getting away with this crap for years.”
I hammer a fist on the top of the steering wheel. “How?�
��
“Cedar Heights has a sketchy mayor paired with an overly ambitious village manager. That’s a particularly toxic combination. You’re in the ring with a tough tag team that is eager to auction off Liberty Street.”
“David and Goliath stuff, is it?” I ask wryly.
“Compared to David, you’re a pipsqueak without a slingshot, but otherwise, not a bad analogy.”
“You going to be okay driving in this?” I ask when I nose into our driveway.
“Am I a Chicago gal?”
“So you say.”
We exit the Porsche and stand together in the driveway for a minute, allowing the snow to drift down on us.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she asks softly.
“Unless you’re behind the wheel or a shovel, I suppose it is.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “Killjoy!”
I follow Pat to her car and help dig it out.
She leans her forearms on the roof when we’re done. “You’re gonna be in a fight to the death with Zaluski and the mayor. They’re probably still pissed about the last time the shopping center project didn’t fly. They won’t want to lose twice.”
“They’re pissed? You think either of those clowns has more pent-up hostility to vent than I do?”
Her brows knit together. “They can’t afford to suffer too many chinks in their aura of invincibility. They’ll be ruthless.”
“That’ll make three of us.”
“Be careful, Tony,” she warns before climbing into her car. “Who knows what lengths they might go to?”
Far from accepting Pat’s admonishment to tread carefully, the thought of assholes like Brown and Zaluski trying to screw my parents out of their home pisses me off. This is personal now; I want revenge for what these bastards did. The image of my shrunken father swimming inside his prison garb pops into my head. It produces my first inkling of the degree of helpless rage that likely sent a spasm through Papa’s trigger finger.
Chapter Sixteen
State’s Attorney to Seek Death Penalty for Cedar Heights Cop-Killer: Sources.
I stare at the headline for the umpteenth time since I sat down to my first cup of coffee this morning. My eyes stray from the screen to the silent phone on my desk at Fleiss Lansky LLP. Mike Williams has been in court all morning and is supposed to call when he breaks for lunch. It’s now pushing eleven-thirty. I can either read the headline again, keep staring at the phone, or do something constructive. I reach for the business card Mr. Rosetti gave me and dial the Washington, DC telephone number of Teresa Keebler-Jones at The Citadel Foundation.
“The number you have called is no longer in service…."
Shit! Looking on the bright side, Keebler-Jones isn’t a particularly common name and The Citadel Foundation is headquartered in DC. I assign the task of tracking her down to my legal assistant and call Papa’s insurance agent, Jill, to see how our claim for the garage is progressing.
“It’s early days yet, so let’s lay low,” she says. “It’s not a good idea to lean on the claims people.”
Time to light a fire under Jill. She’s young, having taken over the agency from her father when he retired a couple of years ago. This is the crap companies instill in young agents: sell, sell, sell, but don’t bother the busy people in claims when pesky customers want their claims paid. “It’s a straightforward claim, Jill. If you don’t plan to pay it, just say so.”
“You know I’d write you a check today if it were up to me,” she says in that phony insurance agent (and lawyerly) schtick that says, “we’re in this together.”
“We’re not going to play that game. Your job extends beyond peddling product and cashing commission checks. It’s time a little cash flowed back to my dad.”
“I’ll call claims this afternoon,” she replies sullenly.
She’d better. I need the damned money. Half my pay is now going to Brussels in child support. Another half goes to credit card and Porsche payments. Another half pays the utilities and buys mac and cheese. Yeah, that’s right—three halves total 150%. Even I can do enough basic arithmetic to understand this budgeting conundrum.
“I’ll look forward to your call,” I say before cutting the connection.
My assistant Pam places a sticky note on my blotter. “Here’s the number for Miss Keebler-Jones.”
I nod my thanks and dial. “Is this Teresa Keebler-Jones of The Citadel Foundation?” I ask when a lady picks up.
“Who’s calling?”
“My name is Tony Valenti, from Cedar Heights, Illinois. You helped my parents and their neighbors with an eminent domain issue a couple of years ago.”
“I’m Teresa’s sister.”
“Can I speak with her?”
A stifled sob is followed by a choked, “My sister was murdered last week.”
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, sensing the inadequacy of the words as they pass my lips.
“Thank you,” she says gracefully.
“How do I reach The Citadel Foundation?”
“The Foundation closed four months ago,” she says. “Funding issues. They ticked off some powerful interests who exerted enough pressure to strangle Citadel’s funding. Teresa was working on something new, but….”
We say our goodbyes. What the hell do I do now? I was banking on the expertise of Keebler-Jones for guidance.
Mike calls while I’m wallowing in despair. One of his death penalty murder cases went to the jury this morning. “How did it go?” I ask.
“Not well.”
“Sorry.” I pause long enough for him to elaborate. When he doesn’t, I carry on. “You saw the Trib this morning?”
“Bastards!”
His anger surprises me. “You thought they’d shoot for the death penalty.”
“That’s no surprise. I’m pissed about them leaking the decision. I should have been told before they talked to some damned reporter.”
“They’ve been leaking all along.”
“Yeah,” he grumbles, “but this is a helluva way for your dad to find out. Speaking of which, you still meeting me at the jail?”
“What time?”
“Now.”
“I’ll be fifteen, twenty minutes.”
“See you then.”
I hang up and grab my coat. We settle onto a pair of hard plastic chairs in the attorney-client room thirty minutes later and wait for the guards to produce Papa.
“I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something that might help us,” I say while we wait.
“What’s that?”
I give him a quick recap of my sister’s demise and Pat’s plan to run the story in the Trib.
“Jesus, that’s awful,” he mutters. “Not much of a Christmas fable, is it?”
Today is December twenty-third. “No. You’ve been reading the crap in the papers about Papa?”
He nods.
“Pat figures we should have a go at trying to infect the jury pool a little on Papa’s behalf. She made a disparaging remark or two about my legal instincts when she realized I hadn’t thought of that.”
Mike grins. “You telling me that a reporter has better legal instincts than my co-counsel?”
“Looks that way.”
“Shee-it,” he chuckles. “She may have a point, though. It might work to our advantage in jury selection.”
I may know squat about criminal law per se, but seeking every possible edge to use in court is universally a good thing. “Hopefully.”
“You been through the discovery material yet?” he asks after we cool our heels for another minute or two.
“Some. I’ll dig deeper starting tonight. You gonna tell Papa what was in the paper or should I?”
“I guarantee you he knows. That sort of news spreads pretty quick in here.”
“Did you hear what was in the Tribune this morning?” I ask Papa in the midst of a brief hug after he’s finally ushered into the room.
“One of the guards, he tell me.”
Undoubtedl
y with a high degree of sensitivity, I think bitterly while imagining one of the asshole guards gleefully delivering the news.
Mike slides some magazines across the table to Papa. A loaf-sized package wrapped in foil follows. “Brought you a couple of Christmas gifts.”
Papa flips through the stack of periodicals. Mike brought a little of everything—sports, entertainment, local stuff, a couple of weekly news magazines—probably hoping Papa will be interested in at least one of them. It’s doubtful, but a couple might fill a few empty hours. Papa peels back a corner of the foil. Inside is a fruitcake.
“Mom’s specialty,” Mike says proudly. “She’s been making them ever since I was knee-high to a June bug.”
“Your Mama, she make the panettone each year?” Papa asks.
Mike points at the fruitcake. “You call this panettone?”
Papa delivers a solemn nod. “Yes, in Italy we say panettone.”
“Mom bakes me a bunch every year so I can spread a little holiday cheer,” Mike says.
Papa’s eyes settle on me. “What you do for Christmas, Anthony?”
“I’ll be reading discovery materials, with a side of how to save your house.”
“What is this house business?”
I fill him them in on the village resurrecting the redevelopment plans.
“You stop them, Anthony! They no have our home!”
“I’ll try, Papa. I’ll try.”
“You come here tomorrow?”
“I’ll probably stop by in the morning,” I reply.
“What are you doing the rest of the day?” Mike asks me.
I sense an invitation coming and immediately head it off. “Pat invited me to spend Christmas with her family.” I don’t mention that I’m not planning to go.
“We eat panettone now,” Papa announces while peeling back the foil wrapping from Mrs. Williams's fruitcake.
“That’s for you,” Mike protests.
Papa fixes him with an “I will be obeyed” look. “We eat now.”
Mike shoots a grin my way. “Yes, sir.”
“Anthony’s Mama, she make panettone every year,” Papa says while breaking chunks off the cake and distributing them. “Buon Natale.”
