by Neil Turner
“Okay then,” Plummer says. “Coffee?”
Not the burnt swill I smell. “Got a fresh pot somewhere?”
“I put one on a few minutes ago.” His eyes shift to Brittany. “Soda?”
“Can I have coffee?” she asks weakly. She’s been alternating between bouts of catatonic silence and uncontrolled sobbing since Plummer cut us loose on Liberty Street.
“Sure can,” he says. “Two coffees coming up. Cream and sugar?”
“Yes,” we say in unison. I look around the room after he ambles away. Beefy men in shirtsleeves occupy two of the other desks and a few uniformed cops wander in and out. The stares we attract range from curiosity to outright rancor.
When Plummer returns, he sets three white Styrofoam cups of steaming coffee on his desk. A red stir stick bobs in each. “Someone is on the way over from the Public Defender’s office,” he tells us while he dumps a mound of creamers, sugar packets, and sweeteners in the middle of the desk.
My eyes cut from the condiments to the detective. “A public defender? Why?”
“Your father had enough sense to ask for a lawyer when we brought him in. When my partner told him that his defense will probably run into six figures, your dad said he doesn’t have that kind of money. So we called the Public Defender’s office.”
After my brain catches up to my mouth, I realize that was probably the right call. My knowledge of the criminal justice system can be written on the back of a post-it note. Still, Plummer is mistaken if he thinks his “trust me” schtick is going to wash with me. I don’t see his angle yet, but I’ll sniff it out.
The detective leans back in his seat and crosses his arms. “So, you’re a lawyer?”
I nod while stirring two creamers and two sweeteners into my cup.
“Illinois Bar?” he asks.
I can practice law in Wisconsin or Georgia and even joined the bar in New York for business purposes, but I’ve never worked in Illinois. “No.”
A flash of annoyance flickers in his eyes—probably because he realizes I played him with the lawyer revelation to weasel my way in to see my father—but he says nothing before Brittany interrupts.
“Deano?” she asks.
In a dazzling display of having my head up my ass, I hadn’t thought of the other family member at Forty-seven Liberty Street this evening until Brittany brought it up at Dunkin’.
“Before we go any further, Detective,” I say, “where’s the dog?”
“He was in the backyard when I left.”
“Poor Deano!” Brittany exclaims. “He must be terrified.”
“He’s okay,” Plummer assures her. “The poor old guy was a little agitated, obviously, but he was taking things in stride.”
“Good to know,” I reply, briefly wondering what we’re going to do with the apple of Mama’s eye.
“Yuck!” Brittany blurts with a pucker after she takes a sip of Plummer’s high-test coffee.
The detective drums his fingers on the desk while we watch her dump four more sugars and five creamers into her cup. He turns his attention back to me. “Your father says you’re unemployed. No interest in applying to the Illinois bar so you can take on his case yourself?”
“I’m a corporate guy. I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“Are you thinking of hiring an attorney?”
“Maybe,” I reply with a frown. “I hear public defenders aren’t exactly the cream of the defense attorney crop.”
“I don’t want to waste their time, Mr. Valenti,” Plummer says with a hint of annoyance. “If you plan to hire someone else, do it soon.”
Can I afford to get Papa a real lawyer? Can he afford not to have one? He’s got the house and his pension and there must be some savings. Will that be enough?
As if reading my thoughts, the detective asks, “Do you have any brothers or sisters who can help?”
I shake my head. “My sister died a long time ago. There’s a brother I haven’t spoken to in years.”
“Can you reach him?”
I haven’t spoken to Frankie since the final beating he administered to me in our teen years. That one left me hospitalized for a couple of weeks. Hell, he didn’t even bother to come to Mama’s funeral. Estranged understates the distance between us. “I’m not even going to try,” I tell Plummer.
He nods and moves on. “You know your father’s being evicted from the house?”
A gasp escapes Brittany as we absorb another sucker punch.
“What?” I ask in disbelief.
“The deputy was serving him with an eviction notice.”
“But he owns the house outright!” I argue. “How can he be evicted from his own home?”
“We’re a little fuzzy on what’s going on there. I’ll have someone look into it tomorrow morning. Maybe it has something to do with that eminent domain circus a year or two back?”
He’s referring to an attempt to expropriate the neighborhood to build a shopping center and condos. “All water under the bridge,” I answer confidently. “The developer pulled the plug on the deal.”
Something in Plummer’s gaze suggests skepticism. “Titan Development was behind that proposal, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah. Why?” I ask. “Do you know something I don’t?”
He shakes his head. “Not really, just a passing thought. Given this eviction business, your father might not have the house to help pay for his defense. Something to think about.”
Great.
Brittany hasn’t let go of the doggy bone. “Can we go get Deano?”
“You can swing by when we’re done here,” Plummer replies. “You won’t be able to go inside the perimeter but I’ll give them a heads-up to expect you. Someone will bring the dog out.”
“Thank you!” she says.
I resume my push to see Papa. “When can I see him?”
Plummer’s eyes drift beyond me while he thinks. “Not tonight,” he finally replies. “We’ll see what the public defender has to say.”
My initial instinct is to argue—what with me being a lawyer and all—but I’m way out of my depth here. Turning help away might not be the wisest move.
“And here he is,” Plummer announces.
A tall black man whose lengthy gait suggests athleticism is striding toward us. The hem of his colorful knit sweater ends below the waistband of a well-pressed pair of pleated slacks; a navy-blue windbreaker is slung casually over his shoulder. He’s a sharp looking guy. The slender folio tucked under his left arm is the only indication that he’s here on business.
Detective Plummer extends his hand, which quickly disappears into one the size of an oven mitt. “Mike,” he says to the newcomer. “This is Tony Valenti and his daughter Brittany.”
I look into Williams’s inquisitive, deep-brown eyes. He’s a shade taller than me, probably 6’ 6” or so.
“Michael Williams,” he says in a deep, silky voice as he grasps my hand and pumps once. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Mr. Valenti is the suspect’s son,” Plummer says. “He’s also an attorney.”
The public defender’s alert eyes turn to mine. “What kind of law?”
“Corporate. Not a member of the Illinois bar.”
Williams stares at me. I stare back. His next query isn’t verbalized but I see it in his eyes: Are you gonna be a problem? I’m wondering the same about him.
He rests his ass on the edge of Plummer’s desk. “What have we got, Detective?”
“A dead sheriff’s deputy, a sixty-nine-year-old suspect named Francesco Valenti, male, apprehended with what appears to be the murder weapon. The suspect confessed to the first uniforms on the scene. Pretty cut and dry.”
“Aren’t they all,” Williams mutters wearily.
“There’s no question who pulled the trigger,” Plummer continues. “I don’t know why, though, and that’s bothering me. It doesn’t add up.”
No shit. I’m not buying this Papa shot a cop bullshit. The supposed confession to a couple of uniformed cops is a littl
e too convenient for my liking. To purloin and build upon Plummer’s trite phrase, that story adds up like one plus one equals pi.
Williams frowns as he asks Plummer, “Witnesses?”
“We’re canvassing the neighborhood to see if anyone saw the shooting.”
“Local cop?” Williams probes with a cocked eyebrow.
Plummer shakes his head. “Cook County Sheriff’s Deputy named Andy O’Reilly. He was one of ours for a couple of years before he went to the Sheriff’s office ten, eleven years ago.”
Something in Williams’s demeanor shifts, suggesting this isn’t the first time he’s heard the name. “Did you know him?” he asks Plummer.
The detective drums his fingers on the armrest of his chair for a few seconds before answering warily, “To see him, but I never knew the guy well. He lived in town. I’d see him around now and then but we didn’t talk.”
“Why is that?” Williams asks.
“Different circles,” Plummer replies with a shrug. He seems less than grief-stricken over the passing of his former colleague—an odd reaction from a brother officer. Williams doesn’t look heartbroken, either. Who in hell was this O’Reilly character?
Williams studies the detective for a moment before moving on. “Is the suspect going to qualify for a public defender?”
“Looks that way.”
Williams’s curious eyes turn to me. If I were him, I’d also wonder why the father of a corporate attorney needs a public defender. I try to look less ashamed than I feel. Williams breaks eye contact with me, steps away from the desk, and looks down at Plummer. “Where can I talk to Mr. Valenti?”
“I’ve got a room set up,” the detective replies. Then he turns to me. “This may not be suitable for a fourteen-year-old. Have you got a relative who can pick up Brittany?”
“Papa’s all we’ve got here.”
“Friends?” he asks.
“We’ve only been back a few weeks. I haven’t had a chance to reconnect with anyone.”
The corners of Williams’s mouth turn down. “Neighbors?” He doesn’t seem too keen on the idea of having Brittany around, either. Why don’t these guys want her here? Too many witnesses to what they’re up to?
“Nobody she knows,” I reply. “I don’t want to leave her with strangers tonight.”
Brittany finally pipes up to ask me, “Can I stay? I’d rather be with you.” She underscores the plea with the distraught, doe-eyed entreaty she perfected long ago—a gambit straight out of her mother’s playbook. I’ve succumbed to both of them many a time.
Plummer’s gaze shifts to her. “How about I give you something to read and you can wait in one of the offices?”
Brittany’s eyes remain locked on mine while she squeezes the blood out of my fingers. “Please, Dad?”
“She stays with me,” I tell Plummer, hoping to hell I’m making the right choice.
“Fair enough,” he says with a frown. Then he sits up straight, places his hands on the desk, and gets down to business. “Any history of mental instability with your father?”
“None,” I reply.
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. Why do you ask?”
“I’ve got him on suicide watch.”
Brittany stiffens at my side. Suicide? Papa? How ridiculous. Are the cops setting up one of their “suspect died in custody” incidents?
“He’s not in the lockup with the herd?” Williams asks.
“I didn’t want to lock him up with the regulars,” Plummer replies. “He’s in an interview room. I cuffed him so he can’t do anything dumb.”
Williams leans his hands on the desk and stares hard at Plummer. His voice is pure ice when he asks, “Cuffed?”
“For his own safety.”
“Jesus! You’ve had a sixty-nine-year-old man cuffed to a chair for”—Williams glances at his watch—“what? Three, four hours?” Maybe Williams smells the same “died in custody” scenario I’m worrying about.
“For his own safety,” Plummer repeats through clenched teeth.
Williams snorts. “How did you come by that confession, Detective?”
Plummer is on his feet in a heartbeat. His hand shoots toward the bigger man’s chest and his index finger punctuates each word of his response without quite making contact. “Don’t you ever insinuate that crap with me again, Williams. Ever! You got me?”
Cook County has a long history of cops obtaining questionable confessions from suspects before they see a lawyer. It seems to be a sore point for Plummer; there’s quite a temper under that seemingly calm façade. At heart he’s probably just another asshole cop.
Williams backs down immediately. “Sorry, Detective. I know better.”
The fire in Plummer’s eyes subsides as quickly as it flared. “You know that’s not my style,” he mutters as he settles back into his seat.
“I know,” Williams replies contritely. “I was out of line. Sorry.”
“Fair enough,” Plummer replies with a curt nod. Then he turns to me. “I’m concerned about your father’s emotional state. I want you to observe through the mirror and tell us what you think.”
“I should be in the room with him,” I reply. Plummer and Williams both shake their heads. I slide to the edge of my seat. “That’s my father you have penned up in there, Detective.”
“I know,” he replies. “He’s not ‘penned up,’ he’s in custody.”
“Semantics,” I retort. “I want to make sure he’s okay and that you guys haven’t been screwing around with him.”
The detective slaps a palm against his fingertips in a “time out” gesture. “I’m not going to debate this. Either accept what’s on offer or go home.”
“You told me to come here to see him!”
Plummer’s eyes turn to ice. “No I didn’t! I said you might get a chance to see him, Mr. Valenti—after you informed me that you’re a lawyer and conveniently forgot to mention that you can’t practice in Illinois. I could hardly say no. Besides, I realize this can’t be an easy situation for you.”
Horseshit! Whatever this guy’s game is tonight, empathy has nothing to do with it.
Perhaps intuiting my thoughts, the detective rests his elbows on the desk and leans over them while he fixes a stare on me. “Let me make things clear to you, Mr. Valenti. Your father is the prime suspect in a capital murder investigation. The only people who get access to the prisoner at this stage of the game are cops, prosecutors, and defense attorneys licensed to practice in the State of Illinois. As you are none of the above, you’re not speaking with your father tonight. Understood?”
“This is bullshit!” I retort in a mixture of frustration and helpless anger.
Plummer points at the door. “I’ve had enough of this. Get out.”
We glare at each other, but I don’t budge.
Williams steps in. “Let’s not lose sight of why you wanted Mr. Valenti here, Jake. I’d like to hear what he has to say about his father’s demeanor.”
Plummer sighs and meets my gaze. “Are you going to accept my conditions?”
Not trusting myself to utter a civil reply, I clamp my lips shut and nod. What the hell else can I do?
“For what it’s worth, I think this will be easier for your father if you’re not in the room,” Williams says.
I don’t answer him, either.
Plummer stands. “I’m gonna go make sure the room’s ready.”
Williams steps in front of me after the detective leaves. “I’m not thrilled to have you along tonight, Mr. Valenti.”
“Why?”
“Your father didn’t do himself any favors talking to the police earlier. I need him focused on me when I’m with him. If he sees you, he’s likely to blurt out more that the police don’t need to hear.”
I square my shoulders in a corporate power move to signal that I’m about to impose my will. “I’m going to do whatever I can to help my father.”
“I understand and respect that,” he responds with a nod. �
��I’m glad you want to do what’s best for your father. So do I.”
I let the comment go, maintain eye contact, and wait for him to fold.
Williams shakes his head with a bemused expression. “You trying that ‘first person to blink loses’ bullshit with me?”
I feel the color rising in my cheeks after he calls my bluff. Now what?
“Do you have any experience in criminal law?” he asks.
“Just what I remember from law school… but two heads are generally better than one.”
“Sometimes that’s so, sometimes not.”
“I intend to be involved.”
He looks resigned. “I think the best thing you can do for your father right now is to let me handle things. We can’t afford any missteps in a potential death penalty case.”
I’m shocked into momentary silence. Illinois did away with the death penalty years ago. “A death penalty case?”
Williams nods grimly. “Looks like he killed a first responder.”
“But Illinois abolished the death penalty.”
“The Republicans brought it back this year,” he informs me with a look that telegraphs his awe with my legal expertise. “You missed that?”
“I’ve been out of state,” I murmur sheepishly.
“Folks can get the needle for killing a kid, a first responder, or for multiple killings.”
The death penalty revelation fuels my determination to have a say in things. “All the more reason for you not to be cozying up to the cops. You’re supposed to be here to help Papa, not grease the skids for Plummer.”
Williams’s eyes smolder while he bites back whatever angry retort is on his lips. Then he shakes his head and sighs. “Look man, you’re confused. You’re angry. You’re scared. I get it.”
“But?” I snap back.
“Plummer’s right. You can’t be in the same room as your father right now. It isn’t done.”
I nod tersely. Bitching and arguing hasn’t gotten me anywhere to this point. I’m done wasting my breath.
“I’m surprised he has you here at all,” Williams continues.
I shrug.
“What happened at your house seems cut and dry, yet something is niggling at Plummer. If he’s nothing else, Jake is a fair-minded man, a cop who is interested in getting things right. He must sense that he doesn’t have the whole story. That could be a rich vein for us to mine. Park your anger and keep your eyes and ears open for clues as to what’s on his mind.”