A House on Liberty Street

by Neil Turner

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Just after noon on Thursday, ten days after Pat was shot, Nurse Alva wheels her out of the hospital in a wheelchair and brings her to my waiting car. After running battery after battery of tests, the neurologists have concluded that Pat’s brain damage falls on the mild side of the Traumatic Brain Injury spectrum. Her motor skills seem to be in decent shape, although she’s experiencing occasional dizziness and balance issues. Her concussion symptoms have subsided to intermittent headaches and moderate light sensitivity. She’s prone to nausea and a little vomiting, which may manifest themselves more once she’s out of the hospital and exposed to more stimuli. The biggest concerns are some memory issues, a bit of slurred speech, and anxiety accompanied by mood swings. These will require therapy but will hopefully improve over time. Her eye wound is healing nicely. The hospital—perhaps prompted by the Tribune’s health insurance corporation—is cutting her loose. She’s excited to be going home. I’m happy to be taking her.

  Nurse Alva hands me a bag of medications after we settle Pat in the passenger seat. “Take care of that girl. She’s a special one.”

  “I know,” I reply with a smile.

  Pat fiddles with the Porsche’s entertainment system until she finds WGN. “News junkie,” she says fake-apologetically before she twists halfway around in her seat to focus her right eye on me. “What’s with you? Any new job prospects?”

  “I’m devoting all my time to Papa’s trial and getting ready for next month’s Village Board meeting.”

  “On a diet of mac ‘n cheese?” she asks with a little grin. Other than the eye patch, she’s working her way back to being the same old Pat.

  I shake my head. “I’m not one-hundred percent sure how it all works, but Mike’s sister Sara set up a crowdfunding thing for me.”

  “Cool! Tell Mike or his sister to call me. I’d like to help.”

  “Don’t worry about that. Concentrate on getting better.”

  “Don’t make me play the wounded patient card, Valenti. Just do as you’re told.”

  I have the good sense not to argue.

  “What’s your take on day one of your dad’s trial?” she asks as we enter the freeway. Sunshine pours in the windshield.

  “About what we expected so far,” I reply before catching movement in my peripheral vision as Pat slaps a hand over her good eye and groans.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Sun!”

  I pop the glove box open and fish around. “Brittany’s sunglasses,” I say as I put the case in her hand.

  She puts them on. “That’s better. Thanks.”

  “You sure? I can take you back to the hospital.”

  “Absolutely not, Valenti! Now, what did I ask you?”

  “You were asking about the trial. We’ll probably start the defense case on Monday or Tuesday. We’re still not sure what that is.”

  “That’s leaving things a little late. What’s the problem?”

  I tell her what we’ve got, what we’re hoping for, and that we’ll most likely have to go after O’Reilly. “Mike doesn’t think we have enough to make it fly.”

  “Did you talk to Theo Wilson?”

  “Just once. Atherton didn’t want him talking to me.”

  “That bastard. I’ll make sure Theo calls you.”

  “You’re going to get lots of R and R, O’Toole. I’ll call Wilson myself if I feel the need.”

  I doubt I will. Wilson’s source is a former partner of O’Reilly’s named Beau Smith, whom Luke Geffen has already spoken with. Smith claims the steroid use and long hours in the gym began in O’Reilly’s early days on the Cedar Heights police force—pretty much as soon as he realized that the combination of badge, gun, and swollen biceps was nectar to law-enforcement groupies. According to Smith, O’Reilly spent many an evening at a local watering hole for cops and their hangers-on called the Cuff and Billy Club, drinking and whoring when he should have been home with his wife and kid. Interesting tidbits to be sure, but we already know O’Reilly was an asshole. There’s no defense angle in that, especially given Smith’s newfound reluctance to testify or to let the Trib identify him as a source. He’s undoubtedly correct that he’d be a pariah with a lot of cops for doing so.

  “The prosecution laid a solid foundation for their case,” I continue. “They also did a fair job painting Papa as an unrepentant villain. I’m not sure how to go about putting a human face on a man who killed a cop.”

  “I’ve got an idea that might help.”

  “Good. We’re starved for ideas.”

  “I’m coming to the trial.”

  “No way, Pat. You should be home resting.” And keeping out of public view until the cops catch the bastard who shot you.

  “Me sitting behind the defense table with this damned eye patch will make an impression, Tony.”

  “That’s all we need. Evidence that Papa consorts with pirates.”

  Pat punches my shoulder. “Stop with the class clown crap. I’m being serious here.”

  “Sorry.”

  “All modesty aside, I’ve got a pretty positive public profile around Chicago. It won’t hurt to have the jury see me lining up behind your father.”

  My initial reaction is to object to using Pat as a human prop. My second take is that it’s a damned fine idea. Will Mike approve? I decide to ask him before committing to anything. “We’ll see.”

  “The hell you will. I don’t need your permission.”

  “Point taken.” I work the Porsche into the right lane. “Detective Carter called this morning.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “He’s the detective trying to find out who shot you. They have a ballistics match between the gun used to shoot you and a .22 caliber cartridge and slug used in a gang shooting three years ago. The gun itself hasn’t been recovered.”

  “I don’t get it. What’s a gang shooting got to do with me?”

  “Nothing,” I say as we exit the freeway. “Carter told me that most gang guns are throwaways that can’t be tied to a specific person unless they’re recovered at the scene of a crime.”

  “Oh,” she murmurs.

  I’m starting to wonder about her neighborhood as we pass train yards and a succession of ramshackle warehouses and industrial concerns. Not exactly what I’d want to see when I look out the kitchen window with my morning coffee in hand.

  We drive through the southern reaches of Humboldt Park and pass Norwegian American Hospital before Pat says, “Turn left into the alley.”

  We park behind a tall, narrow three-story house and Pat leads me inside. The back door opens into a bright, wide open kitchen with a huge island. The kitchen spills into an expansive, sun-infused living room that stretches to the front of the house. The floors are a fruity hardwood, not unlike our floors on Liberty Street. It’s an airy, welcoming space.

  “You like?” Pat asks when she sees me gawking.

  “I do! It’s all yours?”

  “I live in the main house and rent out a suite in the basement. Want the twenty-five-cent tour?”

  “Sure.”

  She points at the stairs. “Let’s go up.”

  The second floor consists of a big master bedroom at the front of the house, an updated bathroom that I suspect has been substantially enlarged, and two narrow bedrooms. One bedroom is now a home office and the other is a modest guestroom; both have a very nice view of the garage and alley. Pat pauses at the base of a set of narrow stairs leading to the third floor.

  “Secret hideaway?” I ask. “Sex chamber? What lies at the top of the stairs?”

  “I don’t know if I’m ready for this,” she murmurs anxiously. She has turned pale and is a little shaky.

  “Are you okay?” She doesn’t answer. When I notice a sheen of moisture glistening on her forehead, I wrap an arm around her shoulders. “Hey, no worries. I can see this later.”

  “I need to face it now.” She takes a deep breath and climbs the stairs with me in tow. We emerge into atti
c space that has been converted into a spacious painting studio. Pat has clearly put a lot of time and effort into setting this up—and likely some serious coin, as well. A pair of dormer windows and a skylight cut into the steeply pitched ceiling flood the space with natural light; several light fixtures hang throughout the room. A handful of canvasses hang on the walls and a substantially complete landscape sits on an easel, awaiting only the top third of a mountain to be complete. Beside the easel, the once-white surface of a melamine table is coated in bright splashes of paint. The vivid colors also drip down the sides of a plethora of paint containers clustered at one end of the table. The floor around the easel sports an even greater riot of color.

  “You’re still painting?” I ask.

  “Duh.” Color me stupid with a giant brush.

  “You were good in school, but this stuff is brilliant. Do you sell your work?”

  “Some friends and acquaintances have pieces hanging in their closets and basements,” Pat deadpans, but I can tell that she’s pleased with my reaction.

  “Wow!” I whisper when my gaze falls upon a painting that depicts a solitary figure sitting on a beach watching the sunrise. I don’t know how I know it’s a sunrise over Lake Michigan, but I do. The painting speaks to me of welcoming the day. “You did this?”

  When she nods, a tear leaks out the corner of her good eye.

  “Hey,” I say, wondering what I’ve said wrong.

  She sniffles. “I’ve lost my depth perception. I can’t paint with one eye.”

  My mind is racing to retrieve something I read. “Got it!” I say triumphantly.

  Pat pulls back and looks up at me. “Got what? A new eye for me?”

  “There was an article in one of those airline magazines about a painter who lost an eye. He didn’t think he could still paint but he could. If he can, so can you.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You can. You will.”

  “If you say so, Pollyanna,” she says with a reluctant smile. “For the record, they told me the same thing in the hospital.”

  “Me, doctors, art schools… all on the same page. Maybe you should start listening to me.”

  “Not happening!” She nods toward the painting I was admiring. “I can picture that over your fireplace.”

  I turn to her in surprise. “You’d sell it to me? How much?”

  “It’s a gift, dummy.”

  “You’ve gotta be kidding. You can sell this!”

  “Don’t be gauche, Valenti. Gentlemen don’t argue with wounded ladies.”

  I guess I own a painting.

  “I’m a little tired,” Pat murmurs. “Let’s go back downstairs.”

  I take her by the elbow to steer her out of the studio and down the stairs.

  “You want some water?” I ask when we reach the main floor. Looking into the kitchen, I notice that Pat’s house has been stocked for her return. A small mountain of gauze bandages sits on the granite kitchen counter beside an enormous Costco-sized bucket of Tylenol and what could well be a small grocery store’s entire selection of fresh fruit.

  “Mom,” Pat says when she sees me looking. “She’ll be here in a half-hour or so.”

  “I’d best be out of here by then.”

  She grimaces and walks into the living room. “I’ll take that water now.”

  When I catch up to her, water bottle in hand, Pat has settled onto a ruby red leather sofa and pulled her feet up under her. She takes the water. “Thanks. If Mom had her way, I’d be living at home and sleeping in my old bedroom for the next month or two.”

  I settle onto the other end of the sofa. “That’s not a bad idea. I don’t like you being here by yourself.”

  “Ha! Like that’s gonna be possible. Between Mom and Reverend Jakes and his flock, I’ll be begging for solitude before long. I’ll expect to see you here on a regular basis… if you don’t mind coming.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “You can have a Get Out of Visiting Pat card when you’re in court,” she adds with a thin smile.

  We chat for a few minutes during which she continues to fade as the initial excitement of coming home ebbs away.

  “You don’t have to wait for Mom to get here,” she mumbles as her eye settles to half-mast. “I’m not being very good company.”

  “I’ll wait right here,” I reply softly as her eye closes. I find a throw blanket in the coffee table drawer, drape it over her, and sit quietly until Mrs. O’Toole arrives. I sneak out the back door as she comes in the front.

  On the way home I ponder all I’ve learned of Pat in the past few months. I’m struck by how deeply she’s rooted in her hometown and how her Chicago isn’t necessarily my Chicago. My Windy City is Michigan Avenue and State Street; Wrigley Field and Grant Park; a cheesy old tune claiming that Chicago is “My Kind of Town” and other nuggets of civic boosterism. Pat is familiar with all that, but she also inhabits a city I know little to nothing about. Reverend Jakes welcomes her to Lawndale, her civic anthem is “Sweet Home Chicago,” and she’s rehabbed and lives in a house on the fringes of the city. She’s doing her part to put her neighborhood back on its feet. Pat understands the vast cultural milieu of the people who live in this city, including—maybe especially—the underprivileged, who have never quite registered on my radar. I feel bad when I see them on the news and hear their sad stories; sometimes I’m even moved to indignation that people live in abject poverty in America, but my commitment to helping has never gone beyond a tax-deductible donation to the United Way. Pat, on the other hand, embraces these people and feels their suffering. She moves amongst them and champions them in print. She shines a light into the murky nooks and crannies society hopes to hide them within. She demands that we do better. She does better.

  Were we really raised a mile apart and educated at the same schools? There was a time when I took pride in how far and fast I had traveled from my origins. I put great stock in my career success and the social heights Michelle and I scaled to reach the upper echelon of Atlanta society. Then again, Icarus also soared higher than he dared. Turns out neither of us can fly for shit.

  Though she’s never strayed far from her roots, perhaps Pat’s journey has yielded richer rewards and taken her further in ways that count. She’s inspired me to try to do better. To be better. To make a positive difference. We’ll soon know if I’m up to the challenge.

  A car door slamming close behind me after I park at home and climb out of the Porsche startles me. I look up to find Phil and Sandy Russo getting out of a silver Ford Explorer in the Vaccaros’ driveway.

  Phil smiles and lifts a hand. “Hey, Tony!”

  I pause, then plow through the snowbank separating the driveways, extending my hand as I go. “Hi, Phil. How’s it going?”

  He comes around the Explorer to meet me. “Doing okay.”

  My eyes capture his wife’s. “Hi, Sandy.”

  Sandy doesn’t say a word before she turns her back on me and hurries into the house.

  “I’m developing a complex,” I tell Phil as we stare after her.

  “Hell, I’m sorry, Tony. I’ve never seen her like this with anyone. You sure you didn’t steal a lollipop from her or bust up a favorite doll when you were kids?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  I’m still tossing and turning in bed two hours later when it occurs to me that I’ve never seen a statement from Sandy in the discovery materials.

  Why not?

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I’m meeting Mike at a local diner near the courthouse in response to my text telling him we need to meet before court begins. He swears by the place, which seems to be something of a go-to destination for flies. The food must be good, because the greasy spoon sure can’t be renowned for its décor and ambience. Maybe the extra fly protein in the food sets it apart. Maybe a touch of fly shit spices up every bite? I order coffee with a side of water.

  “What’s so urgent?” he asks after ordering a Big Breakfast! special.


  “Do you recall seeing a statement from Sandy Russo in the discovery materials?”

  He shakes his head no.

  “Everything the cops have should be in that discovery, right? I’ve seen everything they gave you?”

  “That’s right,” he replies with a quizzical expression. “Why?”

  “My neighbor’s son-in-law mentioned his wife giving a statement to the police. If she did, it’s not in the discovery.”

  “What did she see?”

  “Phil said Sandy didn’t see the shooting but she overheard them arguing.”

  Mike’s eyebrows arch. “Francesco and O’Reilly?”

  “Right. Her maiden name is Vaccaro. Her folks still live next door. Maybe the cops used the wrong name.”

  Mike ponders the news for a moment and then pulls out his cell phone to call Luke Geffen. “Hey, Luke. Go through all of our Valenti discovery one last time and make sure that a woman named Sandy Russo or maybe Sandy Vaccaro isn’t mentioned in any police reports. Hell, check all the Sandies, Sandras, and any variation of the name you can think of. Plan on lunch at my desk and clear your calendar for the afternoon.” Mike pauses and looks at me. “Do you have her contact information?” After I shake my head, Mike resumes his conversation with Luke. “The husband’s name is Phil Russo. Find out where they live and plan to pay her a visit after lunch.”

  “Let’s get to court,” he says after he ends the call.

  Day two of Papa’s trial begins with Detective Plummer on the witness stand. Dempsey uses him to lay out the version of events the prosecution wants the jury to convict upon. This takes up the entire morning. Again, Mike is content to let them build their case with only a few objections.

  We meet Luke Geffen for lunch at Mike’s desk in the Public Defender’s office. He’s a surprise. I’d expected some sort of television hard-boiled private eye type. He barely looks old enough to drink legally—a scruffy, skinny-assed kid in ripped jeans and a well-worn Chicago White Sox jersey who lost the battle with acne somewhere along the way. But he’s engaging, funny, and quick as a whip. Luke confirms that the names Sandy Russo and Sandy Vaccaro are nowhere to be found in our discovery materials.