by Neil Turner
“You give me far too much credit.”
“Balderdash!”
I love how he says that. I smile gratefully and grasp his arm. “Thanks, Reverend. That means a lot to me.”
Mayor Brown announces that Liberty Street is the next item on the agenda and informs the buzzing crowd, “I’m afraid time doesn’t allow for public comment tonight. We’ll make time at a future meeting.” He raps his gavel to still the resulting commotion, then turns to the row of trustees. “Each of you will have a maximum of two minutes to address this matter.”
“Pressing meeting with the feds?” a mocking voice calls out from the press pack.
His Honor’s eyes snap to the reporters. “The press are invited guests here this evening,” he snaps in a menacing tone. “The invitation can be rescinded.”
The press area falls silent.
Brown puts off the main event as long as possible by inviting every other trustee to speak ahead of Smith. Myers leads off and counsels delay. Two other trustees echo her comments. The remaining pair of unabashed toadies to the mayor argue against this sentiment, deploring such ill-conceived efforts to stand in the way of progress. His Honor appears appreciative of their efforts.
“Something is terribly wrong with what’s happening on Liberty Street,” Smith says when his turn arrives. “I think it behooves us to put the brakes on this project before the mayor and his minions sneak it in the back door.”
“I resent that accu—” His Honor starts to retort.
Smith rolls right over the budding objection. “I move that all funding for the Independence Park/Liberty Street project be temporarily withdrawn, effective immediately.”
Trustee Myers seconds the motion. The measure passes four to two, momentarily rendering the discombobulated mayor mute. With the door thus ajar, Smith launches a follow-up strike before His Honor can recover.
“I further move that additional action pursuant to approval of the Independence Park/Liberty Street Redevelopment Plan be deferred until a new mayor and board of trustees are sworn in after the next Cedar Heights civic election.”
Trustee Myers immediately seconds the motion. To my delight, a well-orchestrated palace revolt seems to be underway.
“The roll, Madam Clerk?” Smith prompts.
“I haven’t called for a vote yet!” the red-faced mayor thunders. The clerk gives him an expectant look. His Honor can either call for the vote or keep the discussion going. “Call the vote,” he mutters.
“Trustee Myers?” the clerk asks.
“Yea.”
Two more yeas and a pair of nays tally before the clerk calls for Smith’s vote.
“Yea!” he booms. The ensuing vacuum swallows the echo of his words.
“The motion carries four to two,” the village clerk announces with an air of disbelief. His Honor, along with the rest of us, is equally stunned at the speed and totality of his defeat.
The clerk’s announcement seems to throw a switch releasing the pent-up tension in the room. Dozens of voices explode. Residents whoop while reporters shout questions. The mayor’s gavel restores some semblance of order. The fury twisting his crimson face is warning enough to retake our seats and still our tongues.
“I have an announcement to make,” Brown says in a hollow voice. “Immediately before this meeting began, I reluctantly accepted the resignation, effective today, of Village Manager Peter Zaluski.”
A few hands shoot up in the press section while less reserved reporters shout questions.
“Was Zaluski working with Titan?”
“Was the resignation forced?”
“Will Mr. Zaluski be charged with any wrongdoing?”
His Honor is banging his gavel and demanding a motion to adjourn when Pat grabs my sleeve to drag me out of my chair. “Come on!”
I follow dumbly as she leads me deeper into Village Hall. We stop abruptly outside a closed office door in a dimly lit suite of offices. The lights are on and we can hear activity inside. Pat’s hand rests on the doorknob for a split second while she thinks. Then, with a decision apparently reached, she raps on the door. The office falls silent.
My eyes settle on the brass placard affixed to the wall beside the door: Peter R. Zaluski, Village Manager.
Pat hammers again, waits five seconds, then twists the knob and punches the door open. Zaluski stands frozen in place behind an enormous wooden desk. A copy paper box rests in the middle of the blotter. Another box sits on the floor nearby. Both are filled with the accoutrements and paraphernalia of long occupancy: plaques, diplomas, framed photographs, a personalized crystal paperweight, an engraved letter opener. Other odds and ends poke out of the piles in the boxes.
Pat walks in, continues to the desk, and leans on it for support. I follow, stepping alongside her, concerned that she’s pushing herself too hard. Her eye is locked on Zaluski, who stares back without comment.
“Sorry about your job,” I blurt, surprising all three of us.
Zaluski’s eyes search mine for a long moment before he judges my words sincere. “Thank you.”
“Wanna hear my theory of what happened?” Pat asks.
Zaluski says nothing.
“You were duped, Mr. Zaluski,” she continues. “Like everyone else who wants to get ahead in Cedar Heights, you toadied up to Mayor Brown and his pals. I think you believed, and probably still do, that the homes on Liberty Street really should be razed for a shopping mall.”
Zaluski stares back but still says nothing.
“Isn’t that right?” she presses.
He nods.
“So, when these rental properties popped up and you found out the Valentis and Rosettis had potential property tax issues to exploit, I’m guessing you thought that was a little bit okay, huh?”
Zaluski doesn’t reply, nor does he interrupt.
“Then along came the business with the Valenti garage. That was like manna from Heaven, wasn’t it?”
Zaluski is now watching us like a fox cornered by baying bloodhounds on the hunt, desperate to plot an escape route before the men with guns arrive.
“I don’t think you were behind the worst of what went on,” she continues, “but you’re certainly guilty of helping orchestrate the persecution of the Valentis.”
Zaluski’s eyes flicker to mine, confirming Pat’s charge. I can imagine gears whirring behind those eyes. Excuses. Rationalizations. Perhaps he was “just carrying out orders.”
“You were used by the mayor and his pals, weren’t you?” I ask.
Zaluski doesn’t answer. Instead, his haunted eyes return to Pat. He finds no succor there.
“You were used as callously as Tony’s family and Officer O’Reilly,” she snaps. “You were so blinded by ambition that you didn’t see it. Isn’t that right?”
Something in his eyes—is it possible to nod with your eyes?—conveys silent confirmation. Unquotable confirmation.
“The mayor knew, didn’t he?” Pat asks.
No denial. No confirmation. No response at all.
Pat keeps hammering away. “You were his henchman through all of this, weren’t you? Admit it. You were duped. Willingly, no doubt, but still duped.”
Zaluski replies with an almost imperceptible nod.
Pat pushes harder. “The mayor knew what was happening all long, didn’t he? He was in on this with Titan. Isn’t that right?”
Zaluski finally responds. “Didn’t you say in one of your articles that Mayor Brown knows everything that goes on in Cedar Heights?”
Pat nods.
“Whoever told you that knows this village.”
A mirthless smile curls Pat’s lips. She has what she came for.
“Can I get back to my packing now?” Zaluski mutters. “I’d like to be out of here before the rest of your colleagues find me.”
Pat tosses a business card onto the desk. “Fair enough. Call me if you want to unburden your soul.”
“Good luck,” Zaluski says.
I look up to find his eyes
on me. “You, too,” I murmur. Then I follow Pat into the hallway. As she marches away, I pause and turn back to gently close the door on the premature termination of Peter Zaluski’s public service career. My anger at him is spent, scattered like dust with the realization that his professional demise echoes my own at Sphinx Financial.
Pawns. The two of us.
Chapter Thirty-One
Two hours later, Pat and I are quietly savoring our triumph while we sip mugs of hot chocolate at my kitchen table. Several neighbors have come and gone, even Mike popped in for a few minutes with his congratulations. I was among the few who avoided the media-fueled street celebration of our victory at Village Hall. I’m emotionally drained—euphoric over the outcome of tonight’s meeting yet dogged by anxiety about what awaits us in court tomorrow morning. I excuse myself to tuck Brittany in.
She’s already under the covers. “How would you feel about me staying?” she asks.
It’s a question I’ve asked myself a few times this week. Brussels seems the best place for her right now. My daughter has gained maturity in the past few months and Europe seems to be broadening her perspective. She’s traveled, seen new cultures, and met people unlike any she’s known before. All in all, I like the change in her. I can’t see a return to St. Aloysius turning out well and I can’t afford private school. “Much as I’d love to have you here, maybe you’re better off staying in Brussels for a while yet.”
“How long?”
“At least the rest of the school year. We’ll see how things are here come summer.”
The tentative smile she pastes on doesn’t mask her anxiety. “Don’t want me around?”
“What kind of a doofus kid of mine thinks I don’t want her around?”
My quip produces a chagrined grin. “Tell me why you think I should stay there.”
“Do you like it?”
“It’s kinda neat but I miss some stuff here.”
“You don’t get many chances to live overseas.”
“I miss you.”
“I miss you, too,” I say while taking her hand in mine. “It’s not like this is going to last forever.”
“I know.”
“You want to live here?”
“Here? In this house?”
“Yup. Right here.”
She hesitates. “I thought you were gonna get a place in the suburbs?”
“I don’t think so. Money’s tight and the house is growing on me. Papa and I have been talking and I think I’m going to stay. Living here opens up a lot of possibilities for me when it comes time to choose a new job.”
“You’re still gonna be a lawyer, right?”
“I’m not sure.”
Her eyes widen. “What else would you do?”
“Good question.”
“Wow,” she says with a little smile. “Maybe you can do something respectable and I won’t hafta tell people my old man is a lawyer.”
I reply with a playful smack on her arm. “Get to sleep. Big day tomorrow.”
She squeezes my hand and snuggles deeper before we say our good nights.
“Everything going okay with you two?” Pat asks when I walk back into the kitchen.
“She was asking about coming back.”
Pat’s face lights up. “Soon?”
“I think she’s better off in Brussels for now. Besides, she’s not big on the idea of living here. She mentioned the suburbs.”
“Have you closed the door on that idea?”
“I think so. I’m not sure what I’ll do if she makes it a condition of coming back.”
A frown signals Pat’s disapproval. Part of me agrees with her. On the other hand, let her have a kid of her own, then we’ll see how firmly she stands on principle. By silent agreement, we let the subject drop.
“Any plans for the next hour?” I ask.
She gives me a quizzical look and shakes her head.
“Are you feeling up to hanging around while I run over to the jail?”
“I’ll be okay,” she says, then glances at her watch. “It’s awfully late for that, isn’t it?”
I nod. She’s right, but I want to tell Papa what happened tonight and get his input on tomorrow. We’re meeting the prosecutors at seven-thirty to discuss plea deals. He’ll suffer the consequences if what passes for our strategy blows up on us.
“Going now?” she asks.
I glance down at the last of my hot chocolate. “Maybe I’ll finish this first?”
We sit in companionable silence for a minute, savoring tonight’s victory and worrying about tomorrow. At least I am.
Pat breaks the silence. “I thought Brittany was enjoying Europe?”
“Maybe she’s feeling a little homesick.”
“She told me she gets bored sometimes.”
“How? There’s so much to do and see.”
“Like Euro Disney?” Pat asks with a wondering shake of her head. “If you never do more than scratch the surface of life, anything gets old in a hurry. Even Europe, it seems. It’ll be a shame if the kid gets saddled with her mother’s provincialism.”
“I suppose.”
“Sticking to safe and familiar all the time is a shitty way to live.”
I nod in agreement while The Razor’s Edge comes to mind. Has the story influenced the changes in me over the past month, or has my evolution deepened my appreciation of the novel? I suppose it doesn’t really matter if the chicken or the egg came first; the Tony Valenti who read the last page of Maugham’s masterpiece isn’t the same man who first cracked open the cover. My worldview today has much more in common with Pat’s than it does with the one I shared with Michelle.
“I finished the book.”
“Enjoy it?” she asks with a knowing smile.
“Very much.”
We exchange a quick hug before I leave for the jail.
Papa is escorted into the attorney client room thirty minutes later. After we embrace and settle into our molded plastic seats on either side of a battered wooden table, Papa fixes his alert eyes on mine. “Why you come so late, Anthony?”
His eyes sparkle while I relate the outcome of the Village Board meeting and the fate of Peter Zaluski. “The feds are also investigating Mayor Brown,” I conclude.
Papa smiles. “Is good, Anthony. As should be.” Perhaps he feels as if some of the injustices and losses he’s suffered have been partially redressed. There have been a few more smiles of late. We’ve knocked down several walls and are as close as we’ve been since I left for college. Papa seems pleasantly surprised to have me playing a role in his defense. As I’ve grown more confident that I’m contributing something of value, I’ve even kicked around a little legal strategy with Papa. I’ve come tonight to do a little more of that. “I think the prosecution is bringing us a new plea deal in the morning.”
“What is this deal?”
He shakes his head in annoyance when I start to explain what a plea deal is. “I know what plea deal is,” he snaps impatiently. “What they say?”
“They’ll recommend twenty-five years if you plead guilty. It’s a possibility we need to consider.”
He scowls. “They still call me guilty and I go to jail?”
I nod.
He fixes a steely gaze on me and states, “I no go to jail, Anthony.”
He killed a cop, for God’s sake. Short of getting the needle, what else does he think is going to happen? I can’t imagine how we’re supposed to reconcile Papa’s demand with reality, but I know that look and that tone of voice. This isn’t up for discussion. I get an unsettling sense that if Mike and I don’t deliver, Papa will find a way to take his future into his own hands.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Papa’s trial will resume at eleven this morning after our two-day recess. We’ll be starting a couple of hours late to accommodate Judge Mitton, who is presiding over an emergency hearing for another trial. Aside from Luke Geffen delivering the written transcript of his interview with O’Reilly’s ex-sister-in-law, Fi
ona Novak, the trial landscape hasn’t changed since Monday. We’ve still got a huge hole in the heart of our case and are running out of time to fill it.
I take the garbage and recycling out to the curb, still wracking my brain for any germ of an idea that might lead to a coherent defense strategy. Sandy Russo exits the Vaccaros’ front door. By the time she notices me, I’ve crossed into their driveway and am standing beside the driver’s side door of her Ford Explorer. She pauses, probably deciding whether to go back inside or deal with me.
“Good morning, Sandy.”
“Hi,” she mutters without meeting my gaze.
I remain silent until she finally looks up. “You wouldn’t talk to our investigator.”
“I said all I had to say to him. The nerve of you people—pretending that I was talking to someone from the police. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m in a hurry.”
“You might have information that will help Papa. Why didn’t you come forward?”
“I talked to the police.”
“They didn’t tell us that.”
She shrugs. “That’s between you and them.”
“No, Sandy, it’s not. They’re legally bound to give witness statements to the defense. They didn’t tell us about you.”
She looks confused. “Why not?”
“My guess is that they don’t want anyone to know what really happened that night.”
“Your father killed a policeman, Tony. End of story.”
“But only Papa knows why.”
“So he can tell the jury all about it.”
“Who’s going to believe him if it’s his word against the State of Illinois?”
A hardness comes into her eyes. “I can’t get involved.”
“You’re already involved. We can call you to testify.”
“I don’t think so,” she shoots back.
“You think wrong.”
She frowns as if her worst fears have just been realized. Then anger tightens the muscles around her eyes and mouth—exactly the expression her mother got when I’d crash through their hedge in pursuit of a baseball or football. “My daughter has to go to school with O’Reilly’s son. Did you know that?”
