by Neil Turner
I shake my head.
“The boy isn’t much different than his father was and now, after what your father did, the O’Reilly boy is meaner than ever. How do you think it’s gonna be for our daughter if I get up in court and tell what that boy’s father did and said the night he was shot?”
“I didn’t know—”
“There’s always been a lot you didn’t know, Tony. It’s been years since you had time to bother with Cedar Heights or the people here… including your own parents. They were mystified and hurt by your neglect. The only people you had time for were the ones who could help you escape our little one-horse town.”
“I’m sorry, Sandy. I guess I can’t fault how you feel about me, but this is for Papa. Can you at least tell our investigator what you heard?”
Not a hint of sympathy or forgiveness softens her features when she takes a step forward to force me out of her way. “No.”
I’m sorely tempted to tell her that O’Reilly’s kid can’t bother her daughter now that he’s behind bars, but I don’t dare cross that line—especially as I’m an officer of the court. Sandy and I stare each other down for several seconds before I turn and trudge back to our house.
I head to the bathroom to shave and stand before the mirror, glaring at the ragged face staring back at me. Sandy’s comment about me neglecting Mama and Papa has left me shaken. I hadn’t paid enough attention—I realize that now—but neglect? Was it that bad? Enough that even the neighbors noticed? How could I have been such an asshole? I shake my head and turn on the taps to splash cold water over my face; maybe hoping to wash away the shame I see there. After another minute of self-flagellation, I grab a hand towel and dry off. Then it’s off to court.
Judge Mitton calls us to order an hour later. Pat sits front and center amongst our neighbors with her lost eye symbolized by the black patch. This is only her second public outing since being released from hospital. She winks at me with her good eye when she catches me looking, prompting my first smile of the day. I appreciate her being here; she’s nowhere near as fully recovered as she’s pretending to be.
Mitton brings in the jury and calls on Dempsey to continue the prosecution’s case.
“The prosecution rests, Your Honor.”
A stunned silence falls over the courtroom. “The hell?” Mike mutters.
I think back to Friday afternoon and Dempsey intimating that the prosecution had more witnesses and/or evidence to present. “Guess he was just screwing with us.”
Mitton pounces on the opportunity to move things along. “Is the defense ready to deliver its opening statement?”
“May we have a moment, Your Honor?” Mike asks.
After prosecutors complete their case-in-chief, defense attorneys often move to dismiss the charges by claiming the prosecution hasn’t provided sufficient evidence to prove guilt. Such motions are almost always dismissed. We’ve been considering a plan to pitch a twist on the strategy. Thankfully, Mike’s office worked up the motion yesterday. In hopes of buying time, we decide to play that card now.
“May I approach?” Mike asks the judge, brandishing a sheaf of papers that includes a copy of the Fiona Novak statement.
“Give it to my clerk.”
Mike hands the paperwork to the clerk and returns. She glances at it, makes a notation, and passes it along to the judge.
I hand a copy to Dempsey and say, “We got the statement last night.”
The judge’s eyes settle on Mike after he sees what the clerk has handed him. “Another motion, Counselor?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Don’t see many of these,” Mitton mutters when he finishes reading and beckons the lawyers to the bench. We rush forward as quickly as decorum allows, then jostle for position, not unlike children struggling to be first in line at the Good Humor truck. The judge lifts the corner of the motion and looks at Mike. “A motion to set aside a grand jury finding, Counselor?”
“I believe the motion is fully warranted in this matter, Your Honor,” Mike replies.
“Why is that, Counselor?”
“If the State had been in possession of the new evidence that has come to light—specifically Deputy O’Reilly’s personnel records and the new statement from his ex-sister-in-law, we argue that the State would have brought lesser charges.”
“Pure speculation, Mr. Williams.”
Mike counters, “Given the current state of the evidence, bringing a capital charge in this case is demonstrably inappropriate.”
“Your Honor—” Dempsey starts to say.
Mitton raises a hand to forestall him. “I don’t necessarily disapprove of prosecutors giving themselves a little wiggle room by overcharging a case. We’ve all seen it done a thousand times. Often enough, it works out for the best.”
Mike leans in. “Your Honor—”
Mitton waves him off. “I want to study your brief, read this new statement, and have my clerks do a little research. Everyone gets an extended lunch and I’ll rule when we come back. Court will be recessed until three o’clock, but I expect you people here at two-thirty.”
The judge’s eyes move between Mike and Dempsey. “If you folks haven’t already been talking, I suggest you try to find common ground.”
Fat chance.
When we return from lunch, Mitton’s clerk greets us and ushers us into the judge’s chambers.
“Did you folks have a chance to talk about a deal?” he asks.
“Not a word,” Mike replies.
Mitton cocks an inquiring eyebrow at Dempsey. “Counselor?”
“I spoke with State’s Attorney Walker. Unfortunately, he has commitments he couldn’t reschedule. We’ll get together this evening.”
“Mr. Williams?” Mitton asks.
“The State knows where to find me, Your Honor.”
Mitton appears satisfied. “Perhaps we should adjourn for the day and allow you folks some time to work things out.”
“I see no reason to waste half a court day,” Dempsey says.
I sense that Mike is about to agree. “Can I have a moment with Mr. Williams?” I ask the judge.
Mitton glances at me in surprise. “By all means.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” I say while tugging at Mike’s sleeve. “We’ll just step into the hall.”
As soon as the door closes behind us and I make sure we’re alone in the hallway, I turn to Mike. “Walker’s the top dog in Dempsey’s office, right?”
“That’s right. Cook County State’s Attorney Timothy Walker. A real piece of work.”
“You want to negotiate?”
“That’s what the judge wants.”
“It’s not what I want, dammit.”
“We don’t have enough to hang tough,” Mike says softly. “I wish it wasn’t so, but it is. Time’s run out on us.”
“The hell it has. We haven’t even started our case. The judge didn’t rule on your motion.”
“He won’t rule in our favor. Even if Mitton agrees that the case is overcharged, he’ll deal with that by pushing Dempsey to cut a deal for a lesser charge.”
“Why is everyone pushing for a deal?” I ask.
“Business as usual, Tony. There’s always pressure to clear the docket.”
“I don’t like it. Let’s wait them out. They’ve just seen what Fiona Novak has to say. They’ve gotta start worrying about what the jury will think of O’Reilly when we’re done with him.”
“That’s possible, but if they come back with a reasonable sentence, I don’t care what we plead to.”
“That’s not your call,” I counter. “I talked to Papa last night. He doesn’t want to go to jail.”
Mike gives me an incredulous look. “The hell?”
“You need to talk to him before we open, Mike. Trust me on this. We can open our case in the morning.”
Mike ponders a moment longer. “If you say so.”
“Good man.”
“You handle things in there,” Mike says before he opens t
he door to lead me back into chambers.
I’m initially taken aback at being appointed spokesperson, but it isn’t as if I’ve never addressed a court. “Mr. Dempsey doesn’t have a deal to discuss with us at the moment, Your Honor,” I say once we’re seated. “We’d like to hear what they have to say before we deliver our opening statement. If the prosecution brings us a deal to discuss, we’ll fill you in on that before court resumes.”
The judge nods. “Fair enough. Will you be ready to make your opening statement first thing tomorrow?”
“Absolutely, Your Honor,” Mike replies.
“Absolutely” might be a little optimistic.
Mike seems to agree thirty minutes later when we leave the attorney-client room after Papa gives us our marching orders. Our job is to keep him out of jail, turning Mike’s preferred strategy on its head.
“How the hell are we supposed to do that?” he asks in exasperation as we step into the cold outside the courthouse. “You need to make him see reality, Tony. We open in the morning and we still don’t have a case. We need to cut a deal.”
“The hell we do. Not the shit deals on offer so far.”
Mike looks at me in disbelief. “You, too? The acorn didn’t fall far from the tree.”
“I want to be sure Papa has a say in what we do,” I say with an edge in my voice.
“We both want the best possible outcome for Francesco.”
“Maybe so, but we’re miles apart on what that looks like.”
Mike’s expression is troubled when he says, “I’m starting to think so.”
“With what Fiona Novak just gave us, we’ve got enough to raise the specter that O’Reilly was in the grip of roid rage,” I say after an uncomfortable pause. “The guy was chock full of steroids when they cut him open. Think about it, Mike. He fits the mold.”
“Even if he does, we’ve got nothing concrete to prove it.”
“Let me dig. Have Luke Geffen dig, too.”
Mike looks skyward and sighs. “Fine. Run with it, but let’s not piss away what little time we have chasing rainbows.”
I’m not finished tossing hand grenades. The only way to keep Papa out of jail is to convince the jury that he was defending himself. The only evidence we have of that is what he told us. “We may have to put Papa on the stand.”
Mike spins on me. “The hell you talking about, man? No friggin’ way is that happening!”
“Why not? We’ll put a little old guy on the stand, a law-abiding citizen who’s bewildered by what’s happening to him—a simple man who wonders why the government is so determined to put him out of his home of forty years. Cedar Heights made life miserable for him and his wife. That’s been proven. To his mind, the stress of that had a lot to do with her death.”
Mike groans. “Come on.”
“That’s how he feels, dammit! That’s what he’ll say under oath. Can anyone prove otherwise?”
“Judge Mitton is going to tell our jury that their job is to decide whether or not Francesco shot and killed O’Reilly,” Mike counters. “Why he did it isn’t relevant.”
“Papa will be a sympathetic figure to the jury,” I argue. “They’ll hear his version of what happened that night. They’ll hear how much O’Reilly scared him. We can put on a bunch of neighbors as character witnesses.”
“The hell you been smoking? I’ll tell you what happens if we put Francesco on the stand. He’ll tell his story and then Dempsey will tear him apart. He’s an absolute beast on cross.”
“The jury is also going to hear the story of a legalized thug named Andrew O’Reilly,” I counter angrily. “They’ll hear his record. They’ll hear from people who know firsthand what Andrew O’Reilly was about. I don’t know about you, but if I were sitting on the jury, I know where my sympathies would lie.”
Mike’s eyes bore into mine. “But you’re not sitting on the jury, Tony. Think about that.”
I’m not throwing in the towel. “Papa will be a sympathetic figure.”
Mike shakes his head in exasperation. “He’ll be especially sympathetic when they stick a needle in his arm, won’t he?”
Picturing that pulls me up short. Who in hell do I think I am pretending to know what to do in a murder trial?
Chapter Thirty-Three
Mike is chatting with Dempsey and Perez when I walk into the courtroom at seven-twenty the next morning. I stifle a yawn while Mike separates himself from the prosecutors and walks over to me.
“We okay?” he asks.
Are we? Nothing will be gained by us squabbling. “Sure.”
“Has anything come out of the show at Village Hall Tuesday night?”
“An investigator from Papa’s insurance company called yesterday to compare notes. They’re going to pay the claim and go after Titan for reimbursement.”
Mike grins and thumps the table. “Hot damn! Score one for the little folks!”
“No kidding,” I mutter while envisioning the outstanding balance on my latest ABA credit card statement. My eyes drift back to Dempsey and Perez. “Where’s Walker?”
“Always the last to arrive. The Alpha Dog waits on no one.” He eyes me for a moment. “You look like hell. Did you get any sleep?”
“A minute here, a minute there. I’m a little groggy like Mount Everest is a little tall. But I’m pumped full of coffee.”
He chuckles, then turns serious. “I thought about things last night. We’ll play things your way this morning.”
“How so?” I ask in surprise.
“Let’s dip a toe in the water in terms of putting O’Reilly on trial and see how that plays.”
The door opens and Cook County State’s Attorney Timothy Walker marches into the room. He’s a study in immaculate grooming, reminding me of any number of faceless C-suite corporate executives of my acquaintance. An elegant blue suit hangs perfectly on his trim frame. A red and blue striped rep tie stands out in sharp relief against a blindingly white dress shirt. His head of thick blonde hair is styled to display its owner’s youthful vigor to maximum effect. A pair of black oxfords gleam under the brilliant overhead lights with each lengthy stride he takes. My fingers inch to my own striped rep tie. I resolve to go shopping to buy something less establishment.
Walker shakes hands with Dempsey and Perez, then chats with them for a minute before he turns and advances on us. We meet him beside the defense table.
He takes Mike’s hand first. “Williams. How are you?”
“Fine.”
“Tough case,” Walker says, as if he’s been losing sleep over it. He turns to me and extends his hand. “Timothy Walker, Mr. Valenti. May I call you Tony?”
I take the proffered hand. Piercing blue eyes study me carefully. “If you want.”
“How are you holding up?” he asks. Although the question is couched in feigned concern, I sense that it’s exploratory—a fighter sizing me up. I’ve played this game before and won’t be telegraphing any sign of weakness to Papa’s ambitious would-be hangman.
“Just fine.”
Walker stares into my eyes for a moment before he turns back to Mike. “Last time we locked horns was the Camponelli matter, wasn't it?"
Mike’s strained response is filtered through a tight smile. “Maybe so.”
Mike told me about the Camponelli case yesterday to illustrate who we’re up against. Walker had clinched the endorsement of the FOP for his second Cook County State’s Attorney campaign by winning death penalty convictions against two teenage gang bangers accused of shooting a narcotics officer. Mike told me that his clients weren’t choirboys, but there was no evidence that either one of them pulled the trigger; the cops couldn’t even prove they’d been in the immediate vicinity when the shooting took place. It had taken the highly questionable testimony of a jailhouse snitch to seal the case. Two kids awaiting possible execution for a crime they probably didn’t commit doesn’t bother Timothy Walker. Not one bit. The important thing is that suburban voters lap up his tough-on-crime shtick. An undercurrent o
f animosity flows between the two men as they lock eyes.
“You sleep well when you think about those kids on death row?” Mike asks.
“Like a baby,” Walker replies with an edge of surliness.
“Let’s get to it,” I suggest.
Walker slides effortlessly back into character by flashing me a winning smile. “I couldn’t agree more,” he says affably. He gestures for Dempsey and Perez to join us. After they do, Walker turns to me. “Alex tells me you’re being a little stubborn?”
The condescension rankles. Instead of taking the bait, I reply with the hint of a shrug.
Walker shifts his attention to Mike. “Alex offered you first-degree and twenty-five years. What more do you want?”
“A serious offer.”
“That’s the best offer you’re going to get.”
Mike takes a step back. “See you back here in an hour or so.”
“What the hell do you want?” Walker snaps.
“Something resembling justice,” I retort.
“We’ll seek the death penalty if you don’t bend,” Walker threatens. “We’ll get no less than life in prison.”
“And if we bend?” Mike asks.
“We’ll be satisfied with twenty years.”
“What’s the difference to a sixty-nine-year-old man?” I ask.
Walker turns his palms up. He and his colleagues have taken several steps toward the door when Judge Mitton throws the door open and walks into the courtroom. He’s once again a study in clashing attire. This morning it’s a plaid long-sleeve shirt over a pair of faded brown corduroy slacks. His shoes cry out for a visit to the shoeshine stand in the lobby. The contrast between him and the Cook County State’s Attorney turning to greet him is stark. Knowing that the rumpled judge holds the upper hand in the power equation between them must grate on Walker no end. I suspect Mitton isn’t shy about letting Walker know who rules his courtroom.
After a quick round of greetings, the judge steps back to study us. “Have you come up with something workable?”
“We’ve made an offer,” Walker replies smoothly. “The defense isn’t receptive.”
