A House on Liberty Street

by Neil Turner

  “The burden of proof is on the prosecution in a criminal trial, and never more so than in a murder trial,” I earnestly tell the jury. “The prosecutor promised you he would prove Francesco Valenti cut down an innocent police officer standing at the bottom of the front porch. He told you Mr. Valenti did so in cold blood. Without warning. Without provocation. Mr. Dempsey will claim he has proven this.” I walk back to the screen door pictures and stare at them until I’m sure the jurors are also looking. Then I look back to them and gesture at the pictures. “The evidence says otherwise. The law says otherwise. I trust you will also say otherwise. Thank you for serving on our jury, ladies and gentlemen.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Within two hours, Dempsey has done what he can to mitigate the damage we’ve inflicted on his case and Judge Mitton has instructed the jurors on the finer points of law before sending them off to reach a verdict. It’s hard to imagine the jury doing anything other than setting Papa free or finding him guilty of a lesser charge with limited jail time. Then again, predicting a jury’s decision is a fool’s errand. They are as capricious as the weather, and often even more contrary.

  A scrum of reporters has cornered Pat for her reaction to the news that Andy O’Reilly Junior is in custody for shooting her. We pause to listen.

  “It’s all very sad,” she says. “The kid seems to have had a tough life, what with a broken home and seeing his mother abused for years. Losing his father at that age has to be tough, even if his dad was abusive. I hope the poor kid gets the help he needs to put his life back together.”

  Pat rejoins us while Penelope Brooks is congratulating us for what she describes as “one heck of a defense case and an amazing closing argument! Even the old law and order fogeys at Butterworth Cole had a good word or two to say about you guys. Anyway, gotta run. Good luck!”

  “How long will the jury take?” Brittany asks after Penelope walks away.

  “It shouldn’t take long,” Pat says confidently. “Chubby was brilliant. Hell, the jury might indict Dempsey for having the nerve to prosecute Francesco.”

  Mike rolls his eyes. “That’s laying it on a little thick, sister.”

  “It’s pretty damned clear that Francesco acted in self-defense,” she counters.

  We’ll see. I believe we made our case and the prosecution didn’t come close to making theirs, yet my stomach is in knots. “There’s no telling how long the jury will take,” I inform Brittany. “Sometimes they come to agreement fairly quickly, but not often. They need time to discuss things or for a majority to cajole a holdout or two to reach consensus.”

  “They’ll see things our way sooner or later,” Pat says before looking at her watch. “We should be on our way.”

  “Can’t we stay a little longer?” Brittany pleads. “Dad says it’s stupid to get to the airport more than thirty minutes before a flight.”

  “You don’t wanna be one of those self-important idiots who holds the plane up,” Pat says while giving me a knowing grin. I’ve been pegged as a chronic departure gate offender.

  My farewell with Brittany is heart wrenching. We’ve agreed that she’ll be back for at least the summer after school lets out in Belgium. What happens after that is anybody’s guess.

  Mike excuses himself to return to his office. Other cases await. I find a coffee shop down the block and settle in to wait, and to reply to numerous text messages from Brittany over the following hour. Her flight is delayed, but she’s still in a panic about boarding without knowing the verdict.

  I’m on my fifth cup of coffee when Mike calls. “You still at the courthouse?”

  “Nope. Whiling away the day at a coffee shop down the street.”

  “The jury is coming back in. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

  My gastric glands are disgorging fire hydrant worthy waves of acid into my stomach by the time I reach the courthouse just ahead of Mike. Pat arrives seconds later. She gives me a thumbs up—whether for encouragement or to signal that Brittany is safely on her way, I can’t tell. She hustles off to score a good seat while Mike and I make our way to the defense table. Dempsey and Perez are already seated.

  Before I can sit down, Mike rests his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. With his eyes fixed firmly on mine, he seizes and pumps my right hand. “However this goes, it was an honor working this case with you, Counselor. Best damned rookie I’ve ever played with,” he adds with a wink.

  “I had a halfway decent coach,” I say past the lump in my throat.

  “This case got me thinking,” Mike muses after we sit down. “Maybe I’m a little too quick to cut a deal in some of my cases. You reminded me that sometimes it’s best to go toe-to-toe with the prosecution—especially when the plea deal on offer isn’t much better than the outcome we’d get losing at trial.”

  The bailiff delivers Papa to us just before Judge Mitton returns. The clerk announces that court is back in session and the jury files back in. I reach over and squeeze Papa’s hand. He squeezes back.

  “Have you reached a verdict?’ Mitton asks the jury.

  The middle-aged black woman who was appointed foreperson of the jury replies that they have.

  Just tell us what it is already! I rail inside while the formalities are observed.

  The bailiff takes the verdict from the jury foreperson and hands it to the judge, who reads it, seemingly one letter at a time with a long pause between each syllable. He finally looks up and asks Papa to stand. Mike and I rise with him while the judge hands the form back to his clerk, who prepares to read the verdict aloud. I hope my trembling legs will keep me upright until she finishes.

  “The jury finds that the actions of the defendant in the shooting death of Sheriff’s Deputy Andrew Sean O’Reilly constitute justifiable self-defense according to Article Seven of the Illinois Criminal Code. The defendant, Francesco Pascal Valenti, is therefore found not guilty of a crime punishable by law in the State of Illinois in the matter of the death of Sheriff’s Deputy Andrew Sean O’Reilly.”

  Papa grips my hand while Dempsey rises and asks the judge to poll the jurors to ensure that the verdict is indeed unanimous and was reached free of any coercion.

  After the jurors affirm their verdict, Judge Mitton winds things up. “The defendant is to be released from custody forthwith. You’re free to go, Mr. Valenti. Good luck. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, thank you for you service. You are dismissed.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  It’s one of those surprising mid-March days when the temperature surges into the seventies and prompts the question, “Is Spring here to stay?” Pat is lounging beside me on Mama and Papa’s swing in the backyard; we each have a beer in hand. Mike came by for lunch and left a few minutes ago, but not before pinning me down on a date for our latest hoops showdown. The first rematch, played the week after Papa’s acquittal, ended pretty much like our first contest. I’m looking forward to hanging out with Mike, though not to the whipping he promises to lay on me in the gym. It’s a small price to pay for his friendship.

  Penelope Brooks was by earlier. She recently hung out her own shingle after deciding she didn’t want to be a big city law firm attorney, after all. I’ve hired her to explore a lawsuit against Titan Industries. I freely admit to spite being a motivator. I want to punish the bastards for the hell they perpetrated on my parents and our neighborhood. Our case’s prospects brightened considerably this week with the announcement that the United States Justice Department is investigating Titan’s activities in Cedar Heights and elsewhere. Penelope is also in discussion with Fleiss Lansky to settle my pending wrongful dismissal suit. Given the firm’s slavish devotion to its image, we suspect they’ll pay up to avoid a public slugfest with the newly minted local folk hero I’ve become. The media creation of Tony Valenti as a modern-day David slaying Goliaths is a curiosity I’m still shaking my head about. That said, I’m perfectly willing to use my fifteen minutes of fame to bludgeon the likes of Fleiss Lansky and Titan.

  And Papa? P
apa is in Abruzzo visiting his sister Allesandra and her family. He’s paid his first visit to his mother’s grave and plans to sneak into and out of Orsomarso to visit the grave of his father. I gave him Brittany’s old cell phone to keep in touch. He’s driving me crazy with text messages and pictures arriving at all hours of the day and night with no regard for the seven-hour time difference between Abruzzo and Cedar Heights. He wants me to bring Brittany for a visit. Maybe once school is out.

  Pat has borrowed a knit sweater of Mama’s to ward off the gathering chill as the sun sinks. She pulls her hands up inside the sleeves. Two months after the shooting, she’s steadily getting better. Some memory lapses, speech a little slurred now and again, though less and less as the weeks pass. Her balance is almost back to normal and the mood swings are fewer and less severe. If she’s to be believed, the occasional bouts of depression are over with. I hope that’s true. I still worry about her.

  “Should we go inside?” I ask.

  “Uh-uh. I’ve been waiting months to sit outside.”

  “What’s it like in St. Petersburg this time of year?”

  She shifts to look at me. “Cold. Why?”

  “Just curious.” The truth is, all her chatter about the place has me intrigued enough that I’d like to tag along this summer. I haven’t yet worked up the courage to invite myself, but I might.

  “Hmm,” she murmurs before she tucks her feet under herself. Something in her smile suggests that she knows exactly what I’m thinking.

  I reach up and run a finger over one of the buds sprouting on the Hawthorne tree the swing nestles beneath. Here and there in the yard, flowers are poking up through the soil. With the danger of freezing hopefully past, I’ve turned on the water and Mama’s Hummel boy is once again emptying his watering can into his barrel. A shaft of sunlight illuminates the idyllic scene in Amy’s mural. I take a deep, satisfying breath of the earthy smell of the damp peat Mama and Papa worked into the soil. Life is going to be good here, helping Papa tend to the yard and making time for other simple diversions. We’ve decided that he’ll tend to the tomatoes while I try not to kill off the roses.

  “I see one of the rental houses sold,” Pat says. The former Priolo, DeLuca, and Palumbo properties all went up for sale a week ago, hopefully signaling the end of the effort to bulldoze our neighborhood.

  “Pray that a family moves in,” I mutter.

  “Amen,” she says. One of Pat’s stories in the Tribune last week hinted strongly that Mayor Brown is about to be indicted on several charges of corruption related to accepting money and gifts from Titan Development. Funny how the U.S. Attorney—until recently all but invisible around Cedar Heights—is finally mining the deep vein of crime and corruption running through our little village. Welcome as the feds’ attention is, I can’t help wondering where they’ve been over the past few years.

  “I was just thinking about eminent domain,” Pat says. “Isn’t it always the way? They take something good and bastardize it for the profit motive.”

  “Or self-aggrandizement.”

  She nods.

  “Good intentions. That’s how they sell it.”

  “We know where that paving leads,” she says with a grim chuckle.

  “Straight to hell. Hopefully Mayor Brown is hitching a ride.”

  Trustee Smith has proposed funds to clean up and restore Independence Park, a measure the village trustees quickly lined up behind. He’s also called for a stepped-up police presence. I plan to be active in the rebirth of our neighborhood and have kept in touch with him. He aims to win the next mayoral election and it looks like he just might make it. I’ll support him.

  I think of my life. My work. Of modern society. Of what’s happened in the past few months. I’ve been thinking a lot of Big Thoughts lately—after forty-some years of coasting, it’s about time. All the chatter about me being a good lawyer is almost convincing in the wake of Papa’s trial. Maybe I have a place and purpose in the world, after all. Looking ahead is almost exciting, but I’m not about to let my guard down. The urge to look over my shoulder in search of storm clouds is an ongoing distraction. I know they’re lurking.

  “What about Brittany?” Pat asks.

  “She’s going to finish out the school year in Brussels.” I think about Papa’s request and come to a decision. “Then I’m going to fly over so we can join Papa in Abruzzo with his sister for a couple of weeks. We’ll come back here for the rest of the summer.”

  “Think she’ll stay?”

  “She says she wants to. I told her I’m not moving.”

  “Private school?”

  “If we can afford it.”

  “Is the house still an issue for her?”

  I nod.

  “She’ll come around,” Pat says confidently. “It’s a great house and she’ll get to live with her grandfather.”

  “If he ever comes back,” I say with a chuckle.

  “Really? He’s enjoying it there?”

  I tell her about the pictures and texts. “He’s having a ball, but I think he’ll be back to grow his tomatoes.”

  “So all three of you under one roof,” she says with a smile. “Sounds great, Valenti. Family matters.”

  “I know.” It’s been a tough lesson to relearn.

  We rock quietly for another moment or two.

  “And you, Tony? What are your plans?”

  “I’ll be okay.” While I’ve given her the same answer many a time, this is the first time I actually believe it might be true.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. What about you? Have you given any more thought to the polka dot eye?”

  “Enough with that!” she replies with a laugh. When Pat went to be fitted for her first artificial eye, she discovered that it will be a temporary one; a placeholder until her eye muscles are ready for a permanent version. I suggested that she have a little fun with it and we kicked around the idea of various color combinations and other off the wall goofiness. She’s not quite as sanguine about the experience of losing her eye as she’d have the world believe, but a little humor seems to help get her over the bumpy stretches. Hence the polka dots.

  “I’ve got something to show you when we go in,” I say.

  “Tease.”

  “Who? Me?”

  “Yeah, you, Valenti. Do I at least get a hint?”

  A partnership agreement sits in a kitchen drawer. I’ve already signed. What the hell. Why be coy? “I’ve decided to become a respectable attorney.”

  She manages a face of absolute shock and breathlessly asks, “Pray tell, how does one manage that?”

  “Penelope Brooks offered me a job. I’m going to accept. We’re forming a partnership. She has some family money and I’ll chip in some of the settlement money from Titan and Fleiss Lansky.”

  “Where will you find clients?”

  “Penelope has some connections and I’ve heard from a few people who followed the village business and Papa’s trial. Strike while the iron’s hot.”

  “Still going to need crowdfunding?” she asks with a smirk. I haven’t come to terms with crowdfunding, helpful though it was. Pat thought I was being ridiculous when I tried to send the remainder of the money back after Papa’s trial.

  “Depends how many ambulances I’m able to chase down,” I retort. “Don’t worry, O’Toole. I’ll get by.”

  “So, you’re gonna be some sort of respectable attorney,” she says after a minute. “What differentiates you respectable guys from the other ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-nine percent of the lot?”

  “We’ll seek out work with a heart—representing the little people battling the big boys, people who are disadvantaged in some way, worthy causes that need a little legal help.”

  “Lost causes.”

  “Probably some of those, too,” I reply with a grin.

  “You should get Mike to join you. You two were awesome together.”

  “I’ve thought about it.”

  “Well, think hard,” Pat suggests.
Then she smiles and briefly rests her head on my shoulder.

  As the last rays of the sun paint Amy’s sky warm, welcoming shades of pink and gold, I feel the certainty of Spring’s arrival.

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for taking the time to read A House on Liberty Street, the initial novel in the Tony Valenti Thriller series. I hope you enjoyed it. If so, you can find all the Tony Valenti novels (plus a complimentary novella!) on my website www.neilturnerbooks.com.

  Do you wish to be among the first to hear about upcoming releases, giveaways, and contests? If so, please join my exclusive Reader’s Club on the website here. Your email address will not be shared or used for any other purpose. Promise! While you’re on the website, feel free to poke around a bit to learn a little more about me and the upcoming releases.

  If you enjoyed this novel, I would greatly appreciate you taking a moment to leave a review at your book retailer. Reviews are invaluable to authors, particularly those of us who have chosen to publish independently. The review doesn’t need to be anything elaborate, just a brief line or two about why you enjoyed the book. It would mean the world to me. A final tip about reviews: Please don’t include any spoilers that give anything important away!

  My sincerest thanks again!

  Take care, be well,

  Neil