by Neil Turner
At seven-fifteen Monday morning, a visibly angry Judge Mitton sweeps down the courthouse hallway toward Mike and me. Mike made an emergency call to the court yesterday to notify the judge that we would be moving for a continuance “due to an egregious discovery violation.” The judge is dressed in a purplish paisley open-collar shirt and rumpled gray slacks. A fashion plate he’s not. We exchange morning greetings.
“Lovely morning,” I observe, hoping to lighten the judge’s mood with a little levity. Another six inches of snow fell last night. With the wind howling off the lake, morning temperatures are flirting with absolute zero.
Mitton glances at his watch and scowls. The prosecutors haven’t arrived. He pushes his door open and grumbles, “Knock when Mr. Dempsey arrives.”
“Don’t try to cheer him up,” Mike says after the door closes. “We want him good and ornery when he lights into Dempsey.”
Alex Dempsey, Sylvia Perez, and Detective Plummer arrive a moment later and we’re all shown into Judge Mitton’s chambers. Considering how long the judge has been on the bench, his office is surprisingly modest. A few family pictures dot the walls or sit on top of a cherrywood credenza. Mitton sits behind a matching desk cleared of paperwork, save for a couple of files. Even the customary display of law school diplomas is absent, suggesting his ego is tucked away somewhere with his fashion sense.
Mike reveals that Luke talked to Sandy Russo on Friday afternoon, emphasizing that she seems to have spoken with the police on September eighteenth.
Judge Mitton’s eyes settle on Dempsey. “I assume Detective Plummer is here to tell us what happened?”
Dempsey nods. “I asked Jake to find out who spoke with Mrs. Russo and why that interview wasn’t included in the police reports we received.”
The judge glowers at Plummer. “Let’s hear your story, Detective.”
“Pretty simple, Judge. A couple of O’Reilly’s asshole buddies took it upon themselves to cover his ass one last time.”
Mitton makes an impatient ”come on” motion. “Details.”
“We found out on the night of the shooting that Sandy Russo had been at her parents’ house. She left before we started going door to door, so I sent a couple of uniforms to her house the next day.”
“Why send uniforms?” the judge asks. “This was a potential witness from next door in a homicide case where you had no eyewitnesses.”
“The Vaccaros knew nothing about the shooting. I expected the same from their daughter. My plan was to send a detective if she told the uniforms anything of interest.”
Mitton nods. “That was done?”
“No. The jokers decided to erect their own little Blue Wall of Silence.”
“How?” Mitton asks sharply. “You sent them. Why didn’t you follow up?”
The detective pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket and hands it to Mitton. “This is what they turned in. They claim they don’t remember her saying anything else.”
The judge scans the page, silently hands the paper to Mike, and asks, “Have you seen this?”
“No,” Mike replies tersely after reading it. He thrusts the paper at me before he turns on the prosecutors. “This wasn’t in discovery.”
“It wasn’t in our paperwork,” Dempsey says.
“Why not?” Mike asks.
“That’s a good question,” Plummer replies. “It’s in ours and it’s logged on the record of evidence transferred to the state’s attorney.”
Dempsey turns his palms up and shrugs. “No way to know what happened at this point. It’s just one of those things, I guess. Let’s move on… no good will come from pointing fingers.”
The Report of Witness Interview I’m looking at consists of the date and time Sandy Russo was interviewed, confirmation that she was at her parents’ house at the time of the shooting, and notes that she didn’t see the crime take place. There’s no mention that she heard anything relevant.
Mitton’s eyes settle on Dempsey. “Quite a happy coincidence that the sole person in a position to shed some light on events wasn’t supposed to be heard from, Counselor.”
“It’s an unfortunate oversight, Your Honor.”
Mitton’s eyes are aflame when he leans forward to address the assistant state’s attorney. “How many times have you stood in front of a jury in my courtroom and stated that coincidences seldom hold up under scrutiny? Isn’t ‘where there’s smoke, you can bet there’s fire’ a favorite line of yours when defense counsel has an awkward circumstance to explain away?”
“With all due respect, Your Honor—”
Mitton cuts him off with a raised hand and returns his attention to Plummer. “What is your department doing with the officers who pulled this stunt?”
“They’re on administrative leave while the department investigates.”
“And after a suitable interlude they’ll be back on the street,” Mike grumbles.
Mike’s comment draws a scowl from the judge, who is working himself into a lather. Plummer is the target of his ire. “Whenever I wonder why a good portion of the public trust cops about as much as they trust their politicians, lawyers, and crooked salesmen, I only have to recall crap like this. Is there no oversight of the police department in Cedar Heights?”
Plummer sighs. “Judge, sometimes even I wonder.”
“That’s a pathetic admission, Detective.”
“Yeah, it is.”
Dempsey’s eyes widen at Plummer’s comment. I hope it never reaches the ears of the powers that be in Cedar Heights.
Mitton taps his fingers on the desk. “Our first order of business this morning was going to be a prosecution motion contesting the admissibility of Deputy Sheriff O’Reilly’s law enforcement personnel records. The prosecution’s motion to suppress is denied.”
“May I speak to this matter, Your Honor?” Dempsey asks.
“Keep it brief.”
“We object to giving the defense a chance to put a dead man on trial.”
“He deserves to be on trial!” I snap.
“Save it for the jury, gentlemen!” the judge admonishes us. A sigh escapes him as he settles back in his seat and his eyes settle on Mike. “Let me guess. This wasn’t the first instance of abusive behavior by Officer O’Reilly?”
“Hardly, Your Honor. The guy was a thug in a uniform.”
“Officer O’Reilly’s record was in many ways exemplary,” Dempsey retorts.
Mitton all but rolls his eyes at the prosecutor. “Given what I’ve heard this morning and all the smoke you’re blowing, Counselor, I’m inclined to let the defense dig. You better hope they don’t uncover any other attempts to suppress evidence showing Deputy O’Reilly wasn’t the choir boy the FOP has painted him to be.”
“Your Honor—”
Mitton slams a fist on his desk as he cuts Dempsey off. “You still don’t understand how angry I am, do you?”
“If I were you,” Dempsey says, “I’d be upset—”
“You’re not me!” Mitton snaps before he turns to Mike. “I’m giving you two extra days to find out what, if anything, Mrs. Russo has to tell us. We’re adjourned until nine o’clock on Wednesday morning.”
Dempsey leans forward to wade back into the discussion. A pointed glare from the judge stays the prosecutor’s tongue.
“Discovery violations merit a remedy, Mr. Dempsey. Be thankful I’m not penalizing you further. The matter is closed.”
And with that, the judge breathes life into Papa’s defense.
“When we reconvene Wednesday,” he continues, “the prosecution will continue its case-in-chief, which will conclude by the end of the day.” Mitton’s eyes traverse between Dempsey and Mike. “That deadline includes whatever cross-examination you see fit to undertake, Mr. Williams. The opening statement for the defendant’s case-in-chief will start proceedings on Thursday morning. I’d like to wrap this up before the weekend.”
We walk out of the courthouse five minutes later and stop dead. Twenty feet away, in the midst of t
elevision cameras and scribbling scribes, stands the spokesman of the Fraternal Order of Police.
“Judge Mitton showed with his outrageous ruling this morning that he’s no friend of law enforcement or the principles of law and order,” the FOP SOB thunders. “Our members will remember this insult come election time!”
I wonder how the FOP already knows about Mitton’s decision to allow O’Reilly’s record into evidence. Then I notice Sylvia Perez watching the show with satisfaction. Ah.
“Asshole,” Mike mutters.
“Doesn’t the idiot realize Mitton is retiring?”
He shakes his head in disgust. “Tough to say. This guy never misses a chance to throw his weight around, preferably in front of a camera.”
Dempsey catches up to us. “We should talk.”
Mike’s phone chirps and he turns away to answer.
“What should we talk about?” I ask Dempsey.
“I was speaking to Mr. Williams.”
Mike waves me over. “Luke Geffen’s excited about something,” he whispers when I reach him.
“Should I wait?” Dempsey grumbles.
Mike asks Luke to hang on and turns back to the prosecutor. “What’s on your mind, Alex?”
“We should keep the lines of communication open.”
“Any reason in particular?” I ask. Dempsey gives no indication that he heard me. Funny how these guys pop up to chat every time they suffer a setback. In my previous legal life, it usually meant my adversary was worried about something coming to light. Stalling generally worked in my favor. I wonder if that’s also true in criminal law.
“Can you give us a minute or two?” Mike asks the prosecutor. “I have to take this call.”
Dempsey shrugs and pulls out his own phone. “I’ve got a few minutes,” he says before he turns and walks away. We head in the opposite direction.
“Luke, what’s up?” Mike asks when we’re out of hearing range. “Interesting… what did she say?” Mike knits his eyebrows together while Luke replies. “This afternoon sounds good… let me know what she has to say… get a read on her, Luke, tell me how she’d come across on the stand… good work… thanks… later.”
“The ex-sister-in-law just called him,” Mike tells me after he hangs up. “She knows the kid is in custody and WGN just announced that O’Reilly’s personnel records are coming in. She wants to talk to Luke this afternoon. I wonder why?”
“And if it’s good or bad news for us,” I say while Dempsey walks back to meet us with a smile on his face.
Mike looks unsettled. “I always get nervous when a smiling prosecutor wants to talk to me.”
Dempsey wants to exclude me from his conversation with Mike, who argues the point for a minute before I throw up my hands and walk away. What the hell, Mike will fill me in when they’re done.
I think about how things are progressing and my role in Papa’s defense. The hours upon hours of research and late-night reading I’ve devoted to boning up on criminal law have paid off insofar as Mike has a partner, albeit a painfully green one. We shared a good laugh recently when he delivered the decidedly backhanded compliment that my criminal law skills now surpass my prowess on a basketball court. None of it seems funny now that we’re deep into the trial. What if I ball things up?
After an animated discussion with Dempsey, Mike walks back to me. “They’re offering to recommend a twenty-five-year sentence if your father pleads guilty to first-degree murder. Francesco could be out in fifteen years.”
I guess we’re not the only people who think Mike and I have an uphill struggle ahead, even with Andy O’Reilly’s track record and character to work with. We’ve kicked this around a bit and the endgame remains a bone of contention between us. I’m inclined to put the case in the hands of a jury whereas Mike wants to angle for the best possible plea deal. He doesn’t want to let an opportunity slip by; I don’t want to settle for the first or second offer that comes along. Sooner or later, our diverging views are going to come to a head.
Chapter Thirty
At six-fifteen the next evening, Pat and I watch from my living room as WGN Evening News airs a segment previewing tonight’s Cedar Heights Village Board showdown. They’ve begun with a recap of last month’s meeting, complete with the photos of Liberty Street and Independence Park that had featured so prominently in the would-be developer’s presentation. A video showing the rest of the neighborhood in all its well-kept glory comes next.
Mr. Rosetti follows, looking every inch the dignified senior citizen. “I have lived on Liberty Street for over forty years. Like many of our neighbors, we bought our house new from the builder. Our children grew up on Liberty Street and played in Independence Park. We all did our best over the years to see that our neighborhood flourished.”
“Until Titan Development took an interest,” the reporter interviewing him prompts.
“That’s correct. A handful of houses in the neighborhood were purchased by the developer, trashed, and then trotted out last month to suggest that Liberty Street is a slum in need of condemnation. Two years ago, those houses were as pretty and well-kept as the homes you just showed.”
WGN moves on to a segment summarizing the Tribune’s bombshell reporting about the underhanded tactics Titan has wielded nationwide to expropriate property it wished to develop. We drive over to Village Hall at a quarter-to-seven and find a couple of open seats amongst my neighbors. I seem to have done a better job rallying the folks of Liberty Street than I’d thought. The public seats are filling quickly and the media has descended upon Village Hall en masse, far too many of them to squeeze into the cubicle-sized square of floor space allotted for the press. Cedar Heights is generally lucky to see a reporter or two from the community paper at a board meeting. This evening offers a feast of exposure. Pat was right about her media brethren. She says it only takes a drop or two of political blood to be spilled within sight of two or more reporters to get them circling. Linking corruption to murder incites a feeding frenzy.
A side door opens at seven o’clock and in troops His Honor the Mayor, followed by the village clerk and all six village trustees. I notice the eyes of a couple of trustees widen as they take in the carnival crowd awaiting them. An explosion of flash bulbs abruptly diverts their gaze. Mayor Brown turns a sour countenance upon the swollen press gallery before calling the meeting to order. Roll call confirms that the entire Village Board is present. The clerk matter-of-factly recites the Pledge of Allegiance. There is no prayer. There’s every indication that Brown intends tonight’s meeting to be over quickly. His hopes run into trouble immediately, beginning with the usually routine step of approving the agenda.
Trustee Smith looks up from the paper in his hands. “I see that you’ve taken the Independence Park/Liberty Street Redevelopment Plan off the agenda, Mr. Mayor.”
The mayor’s response is lost in the angry clamor sparked by Smith’s disclosure.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Mayor,” Smith says when the turmoil dies down enough for him to be heard, “I didn’t hear your reply.”
His Honor angrily hammers his gavel until the crowd falls more or less silent. “I said that as there’s no representative from Three Streams Development here this evening, there’s no point having it on the agenda.”
As he speaks, I realize Zaluski is also nowhere to be seen.
Smith furrows his brow. “I was under the impression that we village trustees are the deliberative body in Cedar Heights, Mr. Mayor. Am I wrong?”
Brown sighs a long, heavy rumble of resignation. “You’re quite right, Trustee Smith. Is there some point to your little speech or are you just playing to the cameras?”
Smith smiles tightly. “I move to reinstate discussion of the Independence Park/Liberty Street Redevelopment Project to this evening’s agenda.”
“For what purpose, Trustee Smith?” the mayor asks. “We don’t yet have answers to all the questions raised at our last meeting.”
“Perhaps you don’t want the matter on the age
nda with all this press here, Mr. Mayor?” Smith suggests.
“Nonsense,” His Honor replies, turning an indulgent smile upon the media throng, wordlessly commiserating with them over his need to suffer such a fool. “I, for one, want answers to these troubling questions.”
“Such as the suggestion that the United States Attorney is investigating allegations of improper dealings between Titan Development and the highest levels of this village’s administration?” Smith asks sharply.
Mayor Brown glares at the trustee but, perhaps tellingly, doesn’t dispute the claim. It was first printed in the Tribune this morning.
“I second the motion,” Trustee Myers says, reminding everyone that there’s a motion on the floor. The skittishness that was evident the first time she bucked the will of His Honor four weeks ago is nowhere to be found.
The motion reinstating the main event to tonight’s card passes four to two. A wave of relief surges through the public and press seating.
The clerk asks for the minutes of the January seventh meeting to be approved. They are. More minor village business follows. The hiring of an accounting intern is approved and a new liquor license is authorized. The Parks Department gets funds to purchase a new lawn mower. As each measure is introduced, discussed, and quickly approved, the elephant in the room hovers impatiently.
During discussion of a request from the fire department for funds to send a pair of paramedics to a certification class in Springfield, Reverend Jakes pulls me aside. His eyes roam across the press contingent and extra seats hurriedly brought in to accommodate the public. “Quite a turnout,” he says.
I nod approvingly. “Who would’ve thought?”
“Anyone watching you pull all this together. None of this would have happened if you hadn’t taken the initiative. You were the rallying point—the neighborhood leader, as it were.”
If that’s the case, it’s a wonder anyone showed up. “Plenty of people worked hard to get things to this point, Reverend. Pat O’Toole. My neighbors. Trustee Smith.”
A deep chuckle escapes Jakes. “I’ve got a wee bit of experience fighting city hall, Tony. You’ve done a fine job here.”
