A House on Liberty Street

by Neil Turner

  “We believe the defendant should be released on his own recognizance pending trial, Your Honor.” Everyone in the courtroom, with the possible exception of the accused, knows this pro forma motion is a waste of breath.

  “Does the State wish to be heard, Miss Dutton?”

  She gets to her feet. “The State does, Your Honor.”

  “Go ahead,” the judge says. “Be brief.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Dutton says before cutting a withering look at Papa. “Given the seriousness of these charges, the wanton and unprovoked killing of a peace officer engaged in the performance of his duties, the People ask that the defendant be held without bail.”

  The judge’s eyes swing back to Papa’s attorney. “Mr. Williams?”

  “Mr. Valenti has lived an exemplary life in this community for some fifty years. He has no criminal record. He owns clear title to a home in Cedar Heights, and what family he has left resides with him there. I see no reason to deny bond, Your Honor.”

  Like that’s going to happen, I think. Now comes the obligatory give and take before the judge proclaims a decision he’s probably already made. Dutton is on her feet before Williams’s words reach the back of the courtroom.

  Mitton’s eyes swing to her. “Miss Dutton?”

  She makes a point of looking indignant. “The People ask that the Court bear in mind the harm done to society by this defendant’s crime, Your Honor. Irreparable damage is done to the fabric of our community when police officers are gunned down in the street. I don’t need to remind the Court that the killing of a peace officer is among the most serious of crimes.”

  “You’re quite right, Miss Dutton,” Mitton says tartly. “You don’t need to explain the law to me. Have you anything substantive to add?”

  Dutton flushes momentarily before resuming her attack. “The People draw the Court’s attention to the blatant misrepresentation of the facts by the defense. Further—”

  “What misrepresentations are those, Miss Dutton?” the judge asks sharply.

  “The defendant is in the process of losing his house in a foreclosure action. He is not employed and, in fact, lives alone. The relatives staying at his house appear to be transients.”

  Where in hell did that come from?

  The judge’s questioning eyes turn to the public defender. “Mr. Williams?”

  It’s Williams’s turn to look indignant. Unlike Dutton, he has cause to. “Your Honor, I take exception to the People’s assertion that I’ve attempted to mislead the Court. I ask that you admonish the People against making reckless accusations in your courtroom.”

  “Perhaps you can explain how Miss Dutton’s allegations are reckless, Counselor?”

  Williams crosses his arms on his chest. “Your Honor, Mr. Valenti isn’t unemployed, he’s retired from a job he held for three decades. To state that he lives alone only months after the death of his wife of forty-seven years is not only disingenuous, it’s callous and mean-spirited.”

  Judge Mitton nods and cuts his eyes to the prosecution table. “The People are cautioned against personal attacks on defense counsel, Miss Dutton. Kindly make your arguments without further editorial content.”

  Dutton bows her head ever so slightly. “I meant no disrespect to the Court, Your Honor.”

  Mitton’s voice drips with sarcasm when he grumbles, “Nor, I’m sure, to opposing counsel.”

  Following the briefest glance in the direction of Mike Williams, Dutton shakes her head. “Of course not, Your Honor.”

  “Do the People have anything to add?” Mitton asks.

  “Without boring the Court with the details of the foreclosure action, Your Honor, suffice to say that it’s the result of the defendant’s refusal to pay property taxes. Sheriff’s Deputy O’Reilly attended the Valenti property on Wednesday evening to serve legal papers in that case. In the course of an attempt to cheat the village out of a few thousand dollars, the accused took the life of a law enforcement officer.”

  Williams bounces to his feet. “Your Honor!”

  The judge holds up a hand. “Are you going to argue that Miss Dutton’s version of the foreclosure proceedings is prejudicial, Counselor?”

  “I am.”

  “You’re quite right, and I’ll give her commentary the weight it deserves.” Mitton is a cantankerous old bastard, but at least he seems to be an equal opportunity son of a bitch; much better than a toady for the prosecution. He turns back to the prosecutor. “Do we need to schedule a preliminary hearing?”

  “Not at this time, Your Honor.”

  Meaning they intend to have a grand jury rubber stamp the charges. Williams expected that. The attorneys fall silent, as does the rest of the courtroom. The judge reviews the papers before him for several seconds and then looks up. “The Court denies the request for the defendant’s release on his own recognizance. Bail is set in the amount of ten million dollars.”

  Ten million?

  Williams explodes, “The defense objects, Your Honor! The amount is excessive and clearly beyond the resources of an accused requiring the services of the Public Defender’s office. We ask that bail be reduced to a reasonable sum.”

  The judge turns a poker face on Williams. “Bearing in mind that your client stands accused of a capital offense, Counselor, what would you consider reasonable?”

  I’m tempted to blurt, “Something smaller than the credit limit of my American Bar Association credit card,” but wisely keep my mouth shut.

  “Scale suggests something in the neighborhood of one-hundred thousand dollars, Your Honor. Certainly nothing in excess of a million.”

  “A sheriff’s deputy is dead, Counselor,” Mitton replies tersely. “Bail remains as set. The defendant is remanded into custody pending further proceedings.”

  “Your Honor?”

  The judge looks up at Williams in annoyance. “What is it?”

  “Given the circumstances of the accused, the defense submits that setting bail at ten million dollars amounts to de facto denial of bail. We therefore respectfully request that the Court go ahead and deny bail outright so we may request a denial of bond hearing.”

  Williams is right, of course— not that it’s going to do us any good. Still, I suppose it’s never too soon to start making and preserving a record for the court of appeals in case things don’t go well.

  “Request denied.” Mitton punctuates his refusal with a vigorous crack of his gavel.

  With the game barely afoot, the scales of justice already tilt heavily against Papa.

  Chapter Five

  Mr. Vaccaro and his son-in-law Phil Russo meet me at the top of the driveway when I arrive home from bond call. “You know Sandy’s husband Phil?” Mr. Vaccaro asks as we shake hands. Sandy is the Vaccaros’ daughter.

  “Hey, Phil,” I say before inspecting their handiwork. The new front door is a bland substitute for the masterpiece the cops ripped out, but it will keep the weather outside where it belongs and Deano inside where he belongs. My gaze settles on a roll of indoor/outdoor carpet that sits at the head of the driveway. I cock a questioning eyebrow at them.

  Phil waves a hand toward the porch, where the old carpeting has been ripped up and tossed aside. “We figured you’d wanna get that outta here.”

  I nod and pull out my wallet. “Thanks, guys. What do I owe you?”

  “Nothing,” Mr. Vaccaro replies. “Your parents helped us many times and asked for nothing.”

  “Let me pay,” I insist while extracting a thin sheaf of bills. The set of our neighbor’s jaw warns me that I’m offending him. “At least let me give you a hand.”

  Mr. Vaccaro summarily waves my offer aside. “This won’t take long, Anthony. Go. Your daughter needs you.”

  “The move’s been hard on her, even before… this,” I say with a catch in my voice.

  Mr. Vaccaro frowns. “Francesco told me that your wife is in Belgium.”

  I nod.

  “Is she coming back to help?”

  I’ll have t
o let Michelle know what’s going on. The odds of her helping me are a shade worse than the odds of a viper snuggling up to a mongoose. “I doubt it.”

  Mr. Vaccaro purses his lips. “A mother belongs with her child at a time like this.”

  I won’t argue with that sentiment, but this isn’t a topic I want to dwell on. I turn to Phil. “What kind of work are you doing now?”

  “Still with the Toll Authority.”

  “Doing?”

  “Assessing maintenance needs and scheduling the work. I’m a supervisor now,” he adds with a wan smile. “A little more money but plenty more headaches.”

  “I’ll bet,” I reply. Have I ever known what he did for a living? In all likelihood, I never bothered to ask.

  Mrs. Vaccaro marches around the hedge. Her daughter Sandy is in tow, carrying a flowered casserole dish. Sandy, a bookish and withdrawn girl, was a couple of years behind me at school. Even as toddlers, we only played together when our regular playmates weren’t available. I don’t think I’ve spoken ten words to her since I graduated high school.

  “We brought you something to eat,” Mrs. Vaccaro announces. She reminds me of Mama: stolid, uncompromising Italian matriarchs who were the glue of the neighborhood and its families.

  I nod gratefully. Dinner. Another domestic necessity that slipped my mind. I’d probably be assless if it wasn’t attached. “Thank you.”

  Her eyes drift away to the porch. “How is Francesco?”

  “Not well. Did you see anything last night?”

  “No,” she replies gravely. “The storm.”

  I know there was a brief but intense thunderstorm. “Is that when it happened?”

  She nods. “You know who is behind this, don’t you?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Peter Zaluski and the mayor,” she replies with disdain. “Find out what they’re up to and we’ll know why this happened.”

  Zaluski again? He moves to the top of my list of people and things to research.

  Sandy holds out the casserole dish. “One of Mama’s herb casseroles.”

  I take the dish from Sandy and set it on the railing, uncomfortably aware of how badly she’s shaking. What’s that about? I wonder while my eyes track between her and her mother. “Thanks for dinner.”

  Mrs. Vaccaro nods. “I will send Brittany and the dog home.” Then she leads the procession of two back to her house.

  I give Phil’s arm a squeeze before placing my hand on Mr. Vaccaro’s shoulder. “Thanks again.”

  “We are neighbors,” Mr. Vaccaro replies, as if no more needs to be said.

  I collect the casserole and head inside. I’m pulling plates out of a kitchen cabinet when Brittany and Deano arrive. He races through the house with his toenails scratching for purchase on the tile and hardwood as he checks every room and the basement for Mama or Papa. Unsuccessful, he shuffles back into the kitchen and flops forlornly onto his bed.

  “I know how you feel, old fella,” I commiserate while giving him a quick ear massage. He edges onto his back and folds his forelegs to demand a tummy rub. I oblige him.

  “Smells delish!” Brittany exclaims while turning an accusing look my way. “All I’ve had to eat today is Fruit Loops for breakfast.”

  “I had a banana,” I reply while getting up to rummage in the silverware drawer for a serving spoon. We’d feasted on the meager offerings of the Best Western’s free breakfast this morning. After shoveling towering portions of casserole onto our plates, I snag a couple of sodas from the fridge and sit down.

  Brittany forks up a couple of mouthfuls before she starts talking. “What happened in court? Papa was supposed to get bail or something?”

  “They set bail at ten million dollars.”

  “Isn’t that a lot?” she asks in surprise.

  “The prosecutors want to send a message that cop killers don’t belong on the street,” I explain while pushing noodles around my plate. “They can do that by denying bond outright, which would mean a court hearing to explain why Papa’s a flight risk and/or a danger to society.”

  “He isn’t, is he?”

  “No, he’s not,” I reply firmly. Which is why Mitton wouldn’t risk a denial of bond hearing.

  “So, why ten million?”

  “Maybe someone was worried I keep a few extra million in the sock drawer.”

  Brittany’s eyes widen. “Can you get that much money?”

  “Not a chance. I kicked the problem around with Mike Williams. I’ll see what I can cobble together and then we’ll file a motion asking the court to reduce bail.”

  She looks surprised. “That’s the lawyer guy from last night and this morning?”

  I nod.

  “But you’re gonna find someone else, right? You said guys like Williams are pretty much scraping the bottom of the barrel.”

  Hearing my ill-advised words is a bit jarring. “That might have been a bit harsh.”

  She cocks an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” I say contritely.

  She forks up more noodles and gives me a long look while she chews. “Now what?”

  “Williams thinks they’ll arraign Papa next week,” I reply, doing my best to sound like someone who knows what the hell he’s talking about.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It’s the first step in the trial process. The judge will read the charges and ask Papa if he pleads guilty or not guilty. Then they’ll set a date for the first hearing.”

  We eat on in silence until she lays her fork aside and levels her eyes on mine. “I miss Atlanta, Dad. This is so different.”

  That it is. Our house in Atlanta had been at least six times the size of the bungalow we’re sitting in. The neighborhood was, of course, nouveau riche exclusive. “Wildercliff: One of Atlanta’s most sought after gated communities,” in realtor-speak. At least that was our realtor’s spiel when we put the place up for sale. It’s still listed.

  “I’m not exactly fitting in at school,” Brittany moans.

  Which I don’t understand. She’s smart. Personable. Pretty. Talented. I could go on. I reach across the table and take her hand. “Sometimes, these things just take time, Britts. You’re a great kid. They’ll figure that out soon enough.”

  “I dunno.” She squeezes my hand back and then gets up to collect the plates and deposit them in the dishwasher. “I don’t have any friends here.”

  “You will.”

  “When?” she groans theatrically. “I need friends now!”

  “Patience.” The platitude sounds lame, even to me.

  “You know what I think?”

  “What?”

  “I’m gonna be some sort of freak kid now,” she says in horror before continuing sotto voice, “Hey! That’s the chick whose grandfather wasted a cop!”

  The hell of it is, she’s probably right. I get to my feet and wrap her in my arms. We cling to one another for a long minute before the doorbell rings. Leaving Brittany to clear off the dishes, I march to the front door expecting to find Phil and/or Mr. Vaccaro on the step. Instead, a pair of Cook County Sheriff Deputies confronts me.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” the taller one says while his partner hangs back. “This is the regular address of Francesco Pascal Valenti?”

  “It is.”

  He thrusts a sheaf of papers into my hand. “Your name, sir?”

  “What’s this about?” I ask while studying the papers. I’m holding an eviction notice.

  The deputy stares back coldly. “We need your name to confirm service.”

  “Why don’t you serve my father?” I ask. “You know where to find him.”

  His expression plunges from cold to frigid. I give him my name. “Is that Tony or Anthony?” he asks sharply.

  “Anthony,” I reply with a touch of contrition. I’ve just realized why they’re here. The deputy who tried to serve the papers last night can hardly file an affidavit to prove service.

  “You regularly reside at this address?” the cop asks
.

  “I do.”

  “For now,” the smaller deputy mutters under his breath from the bottom of the steps.

  Asshole, I think as I stare back.

  “That’s all, Mr. Valenti,” the taller man says. Without another word, he spins on his heel and marches off the porch. The second deputy pauses to give me the stink eye before following.

  “Who was it?” Brittany asks when I return to the kitchen.

  “The cops.”

  My daughter’s eyes widen in fear yet again as the assault on her formerly well-ordered, sheltered world continues. Her voice is barely more than a frightened whisper when she asks, “What did they want?”

  “They were serving another eviction notice.”

  “We have to leave?”

  “Not necessarily,” I reply. I hope to hell we don’t. Where would we go?

  Brittany looks horrified. “But we might have to?”

  I nod reluctantly.

  “That’s just great,” she snaps with her lips twisting in anger before she stomps off to her room. “Just frigging great!” she shouts as the door slams shut.

  Briefly considering and immediately discarding the impulse to follow—experience tells me it’s best to leave Brittany alone for a while—I browse through my phone’s contact list to find her mother’s number in Brussels. All I’ve got is her new office number. I get voice mail.

  “Hello. You’ve reached the office of Michelle Rice, Executive Vice-President of Human Resources for Coca-Cola Europe,” she says in her crisp Ivy League business voice. Then she pretends to care about my call. Blah, blah, blah.

  I wait for the beep. “Michelle, it’s Tony. It’s Wednesday evening. Papa... uh, Papa shot a sheriff’s deputy last night. Dead. Call me.” I pause and look at the phone in my hand. What else is there to say? My thumb is hovering over the End Call icon before I hastily recite my number and hang up. Who knows if she’s erased my number in an effort to wipe me from her life? It had been quite a ride, but the end was about as pleasant as wrestling a wolverine barehanded.