by Neil Turner
Pat is still down amid a growing pond of blood. At least she’s breathing. Deano is quivering and whining in the corner. “What about an ambulance?” I ask.
“Minutes away, sir.”
“She’s still breathing,” I announce before peeking out the back-door window. Seeing nothing, I flip the switch for the outside lights and take another look.
“Police,” a taut voice says from the other side of the glass. “Turn the damned lights off and unlock the door!”
I douse the lights and have my fingers on the lock before I gather my wits. How do I know who’s outside? “I need to see you first.”
“Sir?” I hear from the telephone handset still in my raised hand. “What’s going on?”
“You talking to 9-1-1?” a deep voice shouts from outside.
“Yeah,” I reply.
A big hand holding a shield appears in the window. “Give them my shield number. My name is Cho. They can confirm that from my shield number.”
The voice on the phone is beginning to lose its calm professionalism. “Sir? Sir! Is everything all right?”
I relay the cop’s name and shield number. She assures me that Officer Cho is legit, so I swing the door open.
The big cop steps inside and spins me against the wall and starts to pat me down. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”
“Hey! This is my house. I made the 9-1-1 call.”
“Then we won’t have any problems, will we?” he says before pulling the wallet out of my back pocket.
“Hurry up! Pat’s hurt!”
More footsteps enter the kitchen before he releases me and hands my wallet back. A menacing female cop stands in the open doorway. Our watchdog touches a tentative nose to her hand. She absently scratches behind Deano’s ear.
Officer Cho nods at me. “He lives here.”
Okay, so getting the new Illinois driver’s license paid off.
“I’ll clear the rest of the house,” the newcomer says before she marches down the hall with gun in hand. Deano bounds along at her heels. Scratch his ears and he’ll follow you anywhere. Anytime, apparently.
I stifle a strangled laugh as I watch them go, then turn to Cho. “Get the paramedics in here.”
“As soon as my partner gives the all-clear,” he replies as he drops to his knees beside Pat.
“How is she?” I ask anxiously.
“Breathing. Decent pulse. Can’t tell you any more than that.”
I sink into an empty chair. Pat may be breathing and her heart may still be pumping, but even I know that the outcome of a bullet to the head comes in varying shades of bad. Cho continues to monitor Pat, clearly concerned and doing what he can to help. Sure, he was a little rough with me, but I suppose walking into a shooting scene is a touch nerve-wracking.
“Sorry if I was harsh with you,” I say.
He shrugs. “Harsh? That was nothing, sir. You oughtta hear some of the shit we get called for trying to help. No worries.”
“All clear!” the woman cop calls from the stairs.
“Front door unlocked?” Cho asks me after he tells the 9-1-1 operator to send the paramedics.
“No,” I reply as the reflection of emergency lights splashes across the living room walls. I’m off like a puppy to kibble, anxiously holding the front door open as a couple of paramedics hustle into the house with a crash cart. Try as I might to squeeze back into the suddenly crowded kitchen, I can’t see what’s happening with Pat before she’s wheeled away and I’m alone with Deano and Constable Cho.
I grab my car keys, run out to my car, and give chase to the ambulance.
After two hours pacing the emergency waiting room, all I know for sure is that Pat is in a trauma room. I’ve been informed that only her family will be apprised of her condition. Nonetheless, I’m still here an hour later when I encounter a distraught woman at the coffee vending machine. A quick look pegs her as Pat’s mother.
“Mrs. O’Toole?” I ask. When she makes eye contact, I continue. “My name is Tony Valenti. I’m a friend of Pat’s. I was hoping—”
Pat’s mother levels a shaking finger at me. “You got her mixed up in your troubles. My daughter was worried for you and look where it’s gotten her!”
“I had no idea—”
“You will not see my daughter again if I have anything to say about it!” she shouts. “Stay away from her. You broke her heart in high school.”
I did?
“I won’t have you hurt her anymore!” After a final malevolent glare, she turns her back to me and stomps away.
While I’m stunned by the attack, at least it suggests that Pat’s still alive.
Chapter Twenty-One
I’m headed back to the vending machines when I spy morning daylight peeking through a window blind and glance at my watch. It’s nearing seven o’clock. The hearing for a continuance in Judge Mitton’s courtroom will be underway in just over two hours. I have time to get home and make it to court on time if I leave right now, traffic willing. It’s not as if I’m accomplishing anything at the hospital anyway. Decision made, I purchase the biggest flower arrangement in the gift shop and leave instructions to deliver it to Pat. Then I hurry out. Thankfully, my car hasn’t been towed from the Emergency parking lot—an unexpected miracle.
I tune in to WGN Radio for the seven o’clock news, which provides more info about Pat’s condition than I received at the hospital. The Tribune and local television and radio will shamelessly exploit her shooting, citing her as “one of our own” to justify the exploitation of her life-and-death struggle. After recounting the scant details of the shooting itself, the announcer continues, “At this hour, we can tell you that Pat has survived several hours of surgery but her condition remains guarded. Her family has asked for privacy during this difficult time in their lives.”
“And in ours,” a solemn newsroom colleague adds.
“Yes. Stay tuned to WGN for updates and the latest on this breaking news story.”
A Cedar Heights PD cruiser is parked in the driveway when I arrive home. A drab brown Ford Taurus sedan festooned with antennas that screams “unmarked police car” is parked on the street. The front doorway is again strung with yellow crime-scene tape. In a departure from the last time our home was a crime scene, a policeman is standing guard. I greet and thank him before going inside. The kitchen sink and counter are a mess of broken glass and debris, but someone has swept the glass off the floor and mopped up Pat’s blood. Looking through the empty kitchen window frame, I’m surprised to see Detective Plummer standing in the middle of the backyard with Deano at his side. What is he doing here? Our eyes meet and I let them in.
“How’s your lady friend?” he asks with evident concern.
I recite what little I know, then add, “I didn’t expect to find you here.”
“I heard about this on the radio and decided to stop by. Never know what will end up being of interest to a case.”
Meaning Papa’s case, no doubt. I don’t want to consider the possibility of Pat’s shooting turning into a matter for a homicide detective.
“I have to get showered and dressed to make it to court at nine.”
“You go ahead,” he says. “I’ll see what I can find out about Miss O’Toole’s condition.”
After thanking him, I head inside to speed shower, speed shave, and speed dress. Plummer is poking around a bullet hole near the kitchen window when I return.
“Any update on Pat?” I ask.
“She’s out of surgery and out of immediate danger,” he replies as he follows me into the living room. “The entry wound was through the eye. I don’t know how deep the bullet penetrated or how much damage it did. I’m afraid she lost the eye.”
I step back and lean against the sofa for support. A vision of Pat’s bright green eyes swims into my head. I wonder how much of the intelligence that burns behind those eyes might be lost, then slide off the armrest and sink onto the cushion where she sat only hours ago.
I feel a hand
on my forearm and look up to find Plummer kneeling in front of me. “You okay?” he asks. I nod. “Sorry to hit you with that. I thought you’d want to know.”
I do want to know, but this is devastating.
Plummer carries on. “The doctors aren’t telling us much. We won’t be allowed to question her for at least a few days, so she’s either doped to the gills or they’re not sure she’s going to pull through. Head wounds are unpredictable as hell, Mr. Valenti. I wouldn’t expect to hear anything definitive for a couple of days. If you’re so inclined, pray.”
I struggle to process the news. An enormous lump in my throat precludes answering.
“I’ll touch base if I learn anything else.”
“Thanks,” I manage to croak. I’ll take any updates I can get. They sure as hell won’t be coming from Mrs. O’Toole.
Plummer backs away and stands up. “You wanna hear my thoughts about what happened here last night?”
“Yes.”
“A couple of the uniforms were talking about you being vandalized. Tires slashed and a fire set on the porch?”
I nod.
“The tires? Could be a random act of vandalism. Arson on your front porch a month later? Maybe the two incidents amount to targeted vandalism. But someone shooting at you here a few weeks after that?”
“Not vandalism?” I ask weakly.
“You should have been a detective. Come with me.” He leads me back through the kitchen and out the back door. Then he walks over by the kitchen window and points to several small holes in the wall. “The people you’re up against in this eminent domain business have a lot of money and power.”
That’s not exactly a news flash, Detective.
“Agreed?” he prompts while I stare back at him.
“Agreed.”
“Whoever did this managed to put two shots through a big window from short range. We found ten shell casings out here, so that’s eight misses. Our suspect isn’t a marksman. If a professional had been sent to take you out, you’d be on a slab at the coroner’s office.”
“That’s a comforting thought.”
“This looks pretty amateurish to me. You might want to consider staying somewhere else for a while.”
Like I should crawl into a hole and leave Papa in the lurch while the cops do whatever it is they’re going to do about this? Not to mention letting Cedar Heights take the house unopposed? Absolutely not.
Perhaps reading my thoughts, Plummer sighs. “Amateurs are unpredictable. An amateur might come at you anywhere and at any time. Probably best that you’re not out in public any more than you need to be.”
The bicyclist again comes to mind, but that didn’t involve Pat. Besides, I’m pretty sure it was just a kid on a bicycle, not a shooter. “Any suspects come to mind?”
Plummer looks me in the eye. “You tell me.”
Have I pissed off anyone enough to prompt them to shoot me? Has Pat? We probably both have somewhere along the way. If we’re talking recently, though, the eminent domain issue seems the most likely trigger. I leave for court with the unsettling specter of some nut stalking me with a gun. Someone I won’t see coming.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I’m hands-free in the Porsche on Cicero Avenue, uncharacteristically weaving in and out of traffic at twenty miles per hour above the posted speed limit. If I don’t hit anything or get pulled over, I should make it to court by nine. What the hell, if you own a Porsche, you should drive it like you’re on an open Bavarian road even when you’re in Chicago traffic on a winter morning, right? I’m waiting to be put through to Pat’s boss at the Chicago Tribune, city editor Brook Atherton.
“This is Atherton.” He sounds like a guy from the heart of Brooklyn. Based on his name, I had him pegged for a New England preppie. So much for my powers of deduction.
“My name is Tony Valenti.”
“Pat’s friend,” he says immediately. “Do you have more news about her condition than we do?”
“I listened to WGN at seven.”
“Then you know as much as we do.”
Damn. I was hoping for more, figuring he would be in touch with Pat’s family.
“What can I do for you?” he asks.
“I’d appreciate it if you could keep me up to date on Pat’s condition.”
“What does her family think of that?”
Honesty is probably the best policy. “They won’t be updating me.”
“If the family take us into their confidence, I won’t betray that confidence.”
Suspecting that I won’t be hearing from Mr. Atherton again any time soon, I bid him farewell and mash the gas pedal against the floorboard. Having successfully dodged both vehicular mayhem and the cops, I meet Mike outside our courtroom with five minutes to spare.
“How’s Pat?” he asks.
I tell him what I know.
He shoots a look toward the courtroom doors. “You gonna be okay in there? You don’t need to be here, man.”
“Better than sitting at home thinking bad shit,” I say before leading the way into court. Once we’re seated, I tell Mike about Pat’s colleague Theo Wilson, including the fact that he has a source with info about O’Reilly’s alleged heavy steroid use.
“Keep me posted on that,” he says as court is called to order.
Two minutes later, Judge Mitton is staring down at us. More precisely, he’s staring down at Mike. I’m sitting quiet as a church mouse so as not to screw things up. Watching with interest from across the aisle is Alex Dempsey.
“I have your motion for a continuance, Counselor,” the judge says to Mike. “I’m not sure who to be annoyed at, you for coming to court with this so close to trial or the sheriff’s office for dragging their feet getting the file to you. Enlighten me.”
After telling the judge that we first requested the file weeks ago, Mike gives the court a quick overview of what Luke Geffen has uncovered. “Your Honor, in light of these new developments, we need to explore Deputy O’Reilly’s background in as much depth as we possibly can. We’ve been handicapped in our trial preparation and need more time to prepare.”
Alex Dempsey opens his mouth, then clamps his lips shut when Mitton casts a smoldering glance his way.
“Exactly how does this impact your trial preparation?” the judge asks Mike.
“This new information may go to our client’s state of mind at the time of the shooting, Your Honor. The information we’ve compiled suggests that Officer O’Reilly had a lengthy history of belligerent behavior that may be relevant to this case.”
“Have you turned this information over to the prosecution?”
Mike replies, “Our information comes from public records and the Cedar Heights PD, Your Honor, information that’s readily available to the prosecution. Mr. Dempsey will have any discoverable information as soon as we do.”
“He’d better,” Mitton warns.
“He will. We would appreciate the assistance of the prosecution to obtain Deputy O’Reilly’s personnel records from the Cook County Sheriff.”
The judge turns his attention to the prosecutor. “Mr. Dempsey?”
“First I’ve heard of it.”
Mike snorts.
“Have you brought this to Mr. Dempsey’s attention before this morning?” Mitton asks.
“No, Your Honor,” Mike admits.
This draws a withering look from the judge before he turns back to the prosecutor. “Can you help speed this along, Counselor?”
Dempsey shrugs. “You know how these things are, Your Honor.”
Mitton’s nostrils flare. “Tell me how things are.”
“It generally takes some time to pry personnel records out of the sheriff’s office.”
The judge’s frosty gaze lingers on Dempsey for several seconds before he begins scribbling some notes. He talks while he writes. “Mr. Williams makes a valid point. Let’s see if I can help smooth the way for you gentlemen.”
Dempsey scowls at Mike while the judge finishes working.<
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“I’ll have an order ready within the hour for the release of Deputy O’Reilly’s personnel records to your office,” Mitton tells Dempsey. “Perhaps they’ll respond promptly to a request coming from you. Have my order delivered to the sheriff as soon as you get it. A copy of the personnel records will be in the hands of defense counsel by close of business today.”
“I’ll do my best, Your Honor, but the sheriff’s office is an independent agency. It’s not as if they drop everything when we ask for a favor.”
Unless it helps the prosecution, I think.
“You’re not asking a favor of them, Mr. Dempsey!” Judge Mitton thunders. “You’re delivering an order of this court. If the sheriff has any difficulty distinguishing between the two, tell him to give me a call. I’ll be here all day.”
“I’ll do my best, Your Honor.”
“Your best better be good enough,” the judge warns Dempsey. Then he turns his attention to us. “The defense motion for a continuance is denied.”
Mike sags beside me.
The judge’s eyes shift back to Dempsey. “This ruling assumes that Officer O’Reilly’s complete personnel file is delivered to the Public Defender’s office by five o’clock this afternoon. If that doesn’t happen, I’ll reconsider the motion for continuance and impose sanctions against the prosecution.” After a rap of his gavel, Judge Mitton dismisses us and calls for his next case.
Well done, Judge.
Dempsey surprises me by drawing Mike aside as soon as we exit the courtroom. They talk for less than a minute before Mike walks back.
“What was that about?” I ask.
“I think Alex has an inkling of what we’re going to find in O’Reilly’s file.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He wanted to know what our position would be if they took the death penalty off the table.”
“A plea deal?”
Mike nods. “Francesco pleads guilty to first degree and the State asks the Court to agree to a life sentence.”
I think of all we’ve learned about Andrew O’Reilly. My mind revisits the crime scene photos of our battered screen door. I recall what little Papa has told us about that night. Then I decide that, if we plea at all, we’ll plea for a damned sight less than first degree murder and life in prison. “What did you say?”
