A House on Liberty Street

by Neil Turner

  “Thanks,” I chuckle while he hands me his coat.

  He walks over and stops in front of the stone fireplace. “Is this Francesco’s work?”

  I nod. The stones are varied shades of gray, with purple tones and veins of pale blue and beige. A handsome carved mahogany mantelpiece bears a hodge-podge of family photos, pottery, plus statuettes and other knick-knacks Mama and Papa collected over the years.

  “And the woodwork?” Mike asks while we admire the crown molding that tops the walls. Papa spent hours routing the edges, perfecting every miter joint, staining the alder to the exact bronzed fruity shade Mama had wanted. Then he buffed it all to a museum-grade gloss.

  I nod again.

  Mike whistles softly. “He’s quite a craftsman.”

  “He is,” I reply while leading the way to the kitchen, anxious to hear the trial news Mike has come to share.

  He pauses in the doorway to the kitchen, his fingers tracing the intricate trim surrounding the doorframe. The fit is flawless; every notch and groove meticulously crafted to seamlessly kiss up against its neighbor. “Francesco did this, too?”

  “He did.”

  “Those old European guys do amazing work, don’t they?”

  Feeling a little like a bobblehead doll, I nod yet again.

  Mike’s eyes roam around the kitchen, absorbing it all: hand-crafted alder cabinets (almost always alder with Papa), sunny terra cotta plaster walls, countertops inlaid with colorful miniature tiles, sixteen-inch ceramic tile flooring, and a rustic open pendant light fixture hanging from the open beam ceiling over a stout maple table. No hint remains of the banal kitchen the builder left behind so many years ago. He looks at me with a grin. “I trust you had nothing to do with this fine workmanship?”

  “Not a thing. You said you have trial news. What’s up?”

  Mike drops into a kitchen chair. “We start on January twenty-eighth.”

  “That’s only nine days away! Are we ready?”

  “Nope. Which is why I’m here.”

  I take a couple of deep breaths to settle my nerves, followed by a serious slurp of coffee. “Okay, so where do we start?”

  “Luke Geffen did the public records search on O’Reilly.”

  “He’s your investigator, right?”

  Mike nods. “We’re getting a better picture of Deputy O’Reilly and it ain’t pretty. There was an assault and battery charge after a bar fight. Looks like the cops on the scene torpedoed that complaint with some shoddy follow-up. There was also a domestic battery complaint filed by O’Reilly’s sister-in-law after he beat the shit out of his wife and kid last year. That complaint was eventually withdrawn. No real surprises and nothing we can use so far, but Luke is going to reach out to the wife and sister-in-law.”

  “Maybe we can call them as witnesses?”

  “They’d be hostile witnesses, at best,” he replies. “That’s always a crap shoot.”

  I’m tempted to point out that hostile witnesses are more witnesses than we have at the moment, but don’t. I am, after all, Mr. Rookie Defense Attorney. “Any luck with O’Reilly’s police records?”

  “Some,” he replies. “The Cedar Heights PD file came back pretty quick. He left there years ago, so I suppose they weren’t too concerned about his record. The Cook County Sheriff’s office is another story. Getting that file is like trying to access the crown jewels.”

  “Was there anything of interest in the Cedar Heights PD file?”

  “I suspect he left under a cloud. There were a couple of excessive force complaints, not terribly unusual for a cop’s file.”

  “Given Papa’s version of events, that’s significant.”

  “We’ll need a lot more than a couple of poorly documented complaints to make hay out of his police record,” Mike counters. “I have a hearing with Judge Mitton in the morning to see if he can speed things along with the Sheriff’s office.”

  “What time? I’d like to come.”

  He cocks an eyebrow. “Where are you gonna find time to save the house, Francesco, and put in a proper day’s work?”

  “I’ve got all the time in the world. An Executive VP of Fafnir expressed concern about my work on their file in the matter of the exploding furnace. Fleiss Lansky found my involvement at the Cedar Heights Village Board embarrassing. I was reminded of the firm’s warning to resolve my differences with the Village of Cedar Heights and to keep a low profile where Papa’s troubles are concerned. Guess I didn’t.”

  A scowl creeps over Mike’s face as he listens.

  “Trying to protect our home and keep my father from being executed are apparently matters of little import in the grand scheme of things. And that was that.”

  “They fired you?”

  I nod.

  “The hell is wrong with those people?”

  “It’s a law firm,” I reply. “Appearances. Reputation. Billings. That’s what matters.”

  “That’s a bitch, man.”

  We spend a minute or two disparaging Fleiss Lansky before moving on to ponder the possibility of using Deputy O’Reilly’s past to build a defense strategy. After twenty minutes, we reluctantly conclude that we don’t have much to work with.

  “We need to get Francesco’s story in the record,” I say.

  “Easier said than done.”

  “Yoo-hoo!” Pat calls from the front door. She has also invited herself over to deliver news. “Mr. Valenti, sir? Are you home?”

  She’s closing the door with her foot and shrugging out of a Chicago Bears jacket when I arrive in the front hall. She glances up at me as Deano the Watchdog lumbers up wagging his tail. “Door was open. Mind if I come in?”

  “What if I do?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Shut up and take my coat.”

  I do so, then lead the way to the kitchen. Mike and Pat exchange greetings while I fill a coffee mug for Pat. Then I serve an Entenmann’s coffee cake I picked up on my morning grocery run.

  “You’ve been baking?” Mike asks with a smirk.

  Pat snorts. “Don’t give him any ideas. We don’t want him burning the place down.”

  “Quite a job you’ve done, getting our boy in the spotlight,” Mike says to Pat. He’s referring to the ongoing saga of the village board hearing and its aftermath, which continues to unfold in the Tribune. I’m an occasional human-interest prop.

  “Thank God it’s been a slow news week,” she says. “Valenti’s not that compelling.”

  “Thanks. It’s not as if I enjoy the limelight,” I grumble, thinking of the Fleiss Lansky guillotine falling on my neck only hours ago.

  Mike, whose thoughts must have gone to the same place, frowns and looks uncomfortable.

  I turn to Pat. “To what do we owe the honor of your visit?”

  “You go first,” she says with her eyes traveling between us. “Your intrepid reporter smells a scoop! Trial news?”

  I fill her in about the trial date.

  “Wow, that’s pretty close. You’re plotting strategy?”

  “Something like that. What have you come to tell us?”

  “Peter Zaluski deigned to speak with me. They’ve fired Mr. Building-Permits-Withheld-for-a-Small-Fee. I think precious Peter might be running a little scared.”

  “Of what?”

  “Probably the mayor. Or maybe the law. We’ll see.”

  “The law?” Mike asks.

  “Titan didn’t go away after Tony’s folks and their friends sent them packing two years ago,” she replies.

  “They didn’t?” I ask.

  Pat shakes her head. “Nope. The current Independence Park/Liberty Street scheme is basically the same redevelopment plan they put forward two years ago.”

  “Same old, same old,” Mike says.

  “That’s not news,” I agree. “They told us that at the board meeting.”

  “Right,” Pat says. “But they didn’t mention that Three Streams Development is a wholly-owned subsidiary of Titan.”

  “Bastards,” I mutter.


  Pat nods and adds, “Guess who owned the numbered company that bought your neighbors’ homes two years ago? Guess who owns the management company that’s letting those properties be run into the ground?”

  “Titan?” I guess.

  “Bingo. Our editors plan to do an expose on eminent domain abuse using this neighborhood as its basis.” Her eyes shift to Mike. “I assume you’re looking into Deputy O’Reilly?”

  “Why do you ask?” he asks warily.

  “Maybe I can help. Search the Trib’s archives and look for complaints about him. I’ll follow up on that if I find anything, check with our usual sources on all things cop-related, and see if anyone around the paper has anything to say about the guy.”

  “I like it,” Mike says. “How long will it take to poke through your records?”

  “A day. Maybe two.”

  “Amen,” Mike says while getting to his feet. “I gotta run. Just wanted to give my esteemed co-counsel a heads up about the trial. The state’s attorney has his foot on the gas and won’t be letting up anytime soon. Francesco’s doughty band of attorneys is gonna have to do likewise.”

  “Just tell me what you want me to do,” I say while he shrugs into his jacket.

  “Give some thought to a few topics you’re comfortable taking the lead on. We’ll talk again at court tomorrow.”

  “Time and location?”

  “Nine o’clock sharp.”

  “On California?” I ask to clarify the courtroom.

  “Yup,” he says before the door closes behind him.

  “You have the day off?” Pat asks as we settle on the couch.

  “You could say that,” I reply before filling her in on my firing while boosting Deano up to lounge between us.

  “Those bastards! Sue them!”

  I respond with a morbid chuckle. “I wouldn’t have a prayer of winning.”

  “This stinks, Tony. It really stinks.”

  Deano is nonplussed by my work news. He’s worked his snout under Pat’s elbow and has assumed the tummy rub position.

  I brandish the slender straw I’ve been clutching for the past few hours. “Looking on the bright side, I’m available for Papa’s trial and am free to help run Zaluski and Brown to ground.”

  Pat studies me for a moment. “I think we’re going to find Titan’s fingerprints all over what’s been going on at the village. Some cash was probably spread around and a few rules were likely broken.”

  “No doubt Zaluski has pocketed a few bucks.”

  “Don’t bank on it. Zaluski is a self-righteous, grasping bureaucratic yes man who really believes untrammeled government power is a good thing.”

  “And your point is?”

  “Let’s not rule out the possibility that he was hoodwinked,” she says while she indulges Deano. “Maybe he’s beginning to realize there may be more here than meets the eye. Including his.”

  Disinclined to view Peter Zaluski in anything but the worst possible light, I change the topic. “What about the slime bucket who took the bribe?”

  “Henry Poindexter. I’m working on him. With luck he’ll tell us who paid him off, maybe lead us to Titan.” Pat takes her hand off Deano to lay it on my arm. “I want you to be very careful, okay?”

  “How so?”

  Deano squirms closer to remind Pat that she’s supposed to be rubbing his tummy. She gets the message and resumes his massage. “I was concerned about what the mayor and Zaluski might do if they feel cornered, but Titan’s a threat of a whole other magnitude, Tony. They scare the hell out me.”

  “It’s a corporation,” I argue. “I know a thing or two about how corporations think.”

  “And?”

  “Big corporations can’t afford to get involved in that kind of crap. It’s not like they’re a bunch of thugs or something. Think of the PR nightmares. Legalities. Reputation risk. Don’t lose sleep worrying about Titan coming after me.”

  She gives me a doubtful look but lets it go.

  My phone rings. The caller ID says it’s Brittany calling at one o’clock in the morning Brussels time. What’s wrong? I wonder as I anxiously pluck the phone off the end table.

  “We’re coming in two weeks!” she exclaims.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Mom’s got a meeting in Atlanta. She’s gonna drop me off at O’Hare on her way.”

  “How long will you be here?”

  “A week.”

  “What about school?”

  “I’ll take time off. Can’t stay here by myself among all these foreigners, can I?”

  Heaven forbid! I think, attributing the parochialism to my ex-wife. Suddenly very aware that Papa’s trial starts in less than two weeks, I ask, “When do you arrive?”

  “February second,” Brittany tells me after a quick conference at her end.

  Uh-oh. “Papa’s trial will be on. You won’t mind coming to court?”

  “Naw, might be kinda interesting.” She falls silent for a moment. “How’s Pat? Will I get to see her?”

  “Want it straight from the horse’s mouth?”

  “Huh?”

  I hand the phone to Pat and settle back to listen.

  “Hey, kiddo!” Pat says with a smile. While she and Brittany chat about things European and possible outings in Chicago, I take the opportunity to study her. I’ve already screwed things up with her once. It can’t happen again. She catches me looking and gives me a questioning smile while she says good-bye to Brittany and hands the phone back.

  “Mom says we’ll make the rest of the arrangements by email.”

  “Sounds good. You have to go?”

  “Yup. It’s late here. Mom just got home and told me we’re coming. I couldn’t wait to tell you!”

  “I’m glad you did,” I reply, wondering if Michelle is making a habit of leaving our child alone until one in the morning on weeknights. “Have a good week. Can’t wait to see you.”

  “It’ll be fun.”

  “Darn right it will. Love you.”

  “Love you, too, Dad.”

  After setting the phone back on the table, I lounge back and find Pat’s thoughtful eyes on me. “Gonna be a busy week to have her here,” she says.

  “Better than a busy week without her.”

  “True. I’ll pitch in as needed.”

  “Thanks.”

  She changes gears. “Remember me mentioning that I’d talk with our crime beat guy about O’Reilly?”

  I nod.

  “His name is Theo Wilson. I’m having lunch with him tomorrow. He found a cop who was on the force in Cedar Heights with O’Reilly. Better still, this guy and O’Reilly were also members of the same gym for the last year or two. Sounds like they were both into body-building and that O’Reilly was into steroids in a big way.”

  “Why is he willing to talk?”

  “Says guys like O’Reilly are the bane of good, honest cops.”

  “Sounds promising.”

  “Let’s hope so,” she says.

  “More coffee cake?”

  “Sure.”

  After we head back to the kitchen, fix our plates, and settle down at the table, conversation circles back to the topic of my employment, or lack thereof. This continues into cleaning up afterward, with Pat bitching about how Corporate America screws over its employees with impunity.

  I have no counter argument. Perhaps I’ve backed the wrong horse all these years? “Maybe I’m getting what I deserve in a karmic sense. After Sphinx and all.”

  Pat snaps a dishtowel at my butt. “That was on Hank Fraser, not you!”

  “I’m not so sure about that anymore.”

  She smiles and touches my arm. “Well, the Tony Valenti I know today is a good man.”

  I know better but don’t argue the point.

  She notices my hesitation and laces her fingers through mine. “I may have had a schoolgirl crush on you twenty years ago, Valenti, but it takes more than popular preppie boy crap to impress me now.”

  “Ye
ah?”

  “Yeah,” she replies before releasing my hand and holding out her coffee mug. “I’ll take some more of that coffee.”

  I smile and turn away to pour another cup when a pane from the kitchen window shatters and falls into the sink. A burst of pops follows. More glass shatters before it registers that someone is shooting at us. Pat shrieks and spins away, topples across the table, and crashes to the floor. She’s face-down when I dive down beside her. My heart all but seizes up when I see blood streaming off the end of her nose and puddling on the floor. Pat’s not moving and doesn’t answer my anguished pleas to tell me she’s okay.

  The shooting seems to have stopped. I douse the lights and snag the phone off the counter while I dash back. For an interminable minute, I fixate on her blood as it pools on the floor. Now in full panic mode, I dial 9-1-1 and explain that Pat has been shot and is lying comatose in a lake of blood on my kitchen floor.

  The operator asks me to hang on while she dispatches emergency services. “Sir, help is on the way, but I need you to tell me as much as you can about what’s happening,” she says when she returns. “Do you know who was shooting at you? Is the shooter in the house?”

  “No. It came from the backyard.”

  “Are the doors locked?”

  I check the back entry and run to the front door to confirm it’s also locked, then scurry through the upstairs rooms to make sure the windows are closed and locked. “All good. I’ll check the basement.”

  “Sir?”

  “What?” I ask from the top of the stairs.

  “Wait for the police and let them check.”

  Doesn’t sound like bad advice. But. “You won’t send paramedics in until they’re sure the house and yard are clear?”

  “Correct.”

  Well, that decides it. Pat needs help now. I flick the switch and scamper down the basement stairs, too terrified about her to be tentative. The windows are all closed. Nobody lurks around the corner with a gun. I tell the emergency operator that the basement is clear. “I’ll check the yard now.”

  “Stay inside, sir!” the operator snaps with a trace of exasperation. “Police are on the scene.”