by Neil Turner
“I pretty much lived in that pool when I was a kid,” I say while thrusting my hands deep into my pockets. “How could they let this happen?”
“There aren’t so many kids in the neighborhood now. Children today have better things to do than flop in the water to cool off.”
I think of Brittany’s lifestyle. “Malls are air-conditioned.”
“Don’t get me started on malls,” Pat gripes as we pass through the park.
Rotting fabric on rusting swings and the bent and twisted rails of a derelict merry-go-round greet us at the playground. Hard to believe this place was once filled with peals of laughter and the simple joy of kids at play. We pick up the pace.
“You’ve got something to tell me about Zaluski?” I ask, belatedly remembering the reason Pat had stopped by.
“There’s no smoking gun,” she replies. “But I talked to a gal in the tax department who told me Zaluski had ‘suggested’ the village assessor might want to poke around the neighborhood a couple of years ago—right after the developer scrubbed the shopping center project.”
The bastard! I think while I absorb the news.
“She thinks the village is getting ready to take another run at the shopping center plan.”
Great. “Anything else?”
“Not really. I just thought you should know.” Pat stops dead when we reach the crumpled rear corner of our garage. A tattered sheet of black plastic flaps in the wind. “What happened here?”
“Some idiot ran into the garage last spring. Papa put up a couple of tarps, but they were stolen. Eventually he just slapped the plastic up and hoped for the best.”
Pat’s brow furrows. “Doesn’t he have insurance?”
“He does.” I tell her about the building permit delay and conclude, “They’re still waiting on the permit.”
“How long has he been waiting?”
“Believe it or not, almost five months.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
Pat’s eyes narrow. “This wouldn’t happen to be the deferred repairs cited on the eviction notice, would it?”
I nod, immediately seeing where she’s going. When Cumming’s office had gotten the paperwork that was filed with the eviction request, it had come with pictures of the garage and copies of three Notice to Perform demands to make the repairs.
She turns on me as if she’s face-to-face with the village idiot. “I doubt this is a simple case of bureaucratic tardiness, Tony. Someone’s targeting your family.”
After she leaves, I plunk an imaginary dunce cap on my head, climb into a bottle of bourbon, and ponder the depths of my stupidity and utter worthlessness. Perhaps it would be best for Papa and all concerned if I skipped the bar exam and kept the hell out of the way.
Chapter Eleven
A week later, Penelope Brooks and I stand outside a Daley Center courtroom where we’ll seek an injunction to postpone the foreclosure action. I’m terrified at the prospect of the village winning in its pursuit of the “the public good,” aka the theft of our home. Penelope is trying to calm me down when I spot Pat O’Toole beckoning me from the far end of the corridor. “I’ll be right back,” I tell Penelope before I make a beeline for Pat.
“I’ve only got a minute,” I tell her when I arrive.
“Did you pass?” she asks.
Against my better judgement, I sat for the bar exam. “Yup.”
“Congratulations!”
“Thanks,” I murmur, still uncertain whether or not I’ve done the right thing. When she gives me a curious look and appears ready to probe, I remind her that I’m in a hurry.
“How would you feel if the truth about Amy’s death came out now?” she asks.
“In the Trib?”
She nods.
Sonofabitch! I should have seen through her “old friend” gambit to get close to us. “You’ve been looking for a story angle the last few weeks?”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“I didn’t have to ask, you know,” she snaps after my accusation registers. “You told me enough last week for me to get the rest of this story on my own—if that was what I wanted.”
“I’d like to believe that.”
Pat plants her hands on her hips and stares at me with an expression of disbelief, tinged with a sprinkling of pain. “You don’t trust anyone, do you?”
“Maybe not.” Hank Fraser at Sphinx. My ex-wife Michelle. My brother Frankie. A host of others before them. Why would I?
“You’re planning to take on the world alone?”
“If I have to.”
“Now, there’s a losing proposition if ever there was one,” she says with a mixture of anger and regret.
Don’t I know it. If I’ve learned anything from team sports, business, and marriage, it’s that partners and teammates make any challenge easier to face—at least until they decide to desert you or bury a knife in your back. “You think I want to face this alone?”
“You’d be nuts to try, Tony.”
“Almost as nuts as trusting a damn reporter!”
Pat recoils as if she’s been slapped. Then she’s gone. I’m standing stock still in shock when I notice Penelope urgently summoning me from the doorway to our courtroom.
“Everything okay?” she asks after I hurry back.
I shrug and follow her inside, where we settle in to await the judge. Cedar Heights has dispatched a platoon of four lawyers to argue its case.
“Still nervous?” she asks.
I nod, forcing my mind away from Pat’s betrayal to the matter at hand.
“Don’t be. I think the court’s going to see this our way.”
Penelope submitted a masterful brief arguing for the injunction. We’ve chatted on the phone a few times and met briefly earlier in the week to plan for the hearing. Logic and the law suggest things should go our way. Fear says otherwise.
My gaze drifts across the aisle and lands on a village attorney who immediately tries to stare me down; the preppy punk must think this is a boxing ring or something. I deliver my best look of disdain before turning back to Penelope, who’s been watching.
“Were you that obnoxious right out of law school?” she asks with a smile playing on her lips. She’s in her late twenties and wholesome in a Midwestern country girl way; shoulder length brown hair, a shade over five-feet tall, athletic build but not overly muscular. What sets her off is a pair of enormous chocolate brown eyes and a smile that makes you feel good every time she dials it up.
“I hope not,” I mutter as my thoughts drift back to the confrontation with Pat.
Penelope chuckles. “He’ll lose some of that swagger soon enough.”
A sheriff’s deputy strides into the courtroom. “All rise. Circuit Court of Cook County, County Division, is now in session, the Honorable Judge Marsha Jackson presiding.” A heavyset African American woman about my age sweeps into the courtroom and quickly settles behind the bench. She shoots the sheriff’s deputy a quick smile and winks at her clerk.
“Not your average fire-breathing judge?” I ask quietly as we retake our seats.
“Good judge,” Penelope whispers back.
Our case is announced. Penelope advises the court that she and I will represent Papa.
To our surprise, the punk I’ve mentally dubbed Junior rises across the aisle. “Luke Simpson on behalf of the Village of Cedar Heights, Your Honor. My associates this morning are Tammy Wright, Andrew Goldstein, and Lester Henderson.”
“I guess young Luke needs to start drying out behind the ears sooner or later,” Penelope says softly. “This could be our lucky day.”
Junior leads off. “We wonder if the Court is aware that Mr. Valenti is incarcerated.”
“The Court is aware of that,” Jackson replies curtly. “Tell me, Mr. Simpson, do you offer that information to enlighten the Court or is the disclosure made purely for its prejudicial value?” Without waiting for an answer, the judge tu
rns her attention to Penelope. “Miss Brooks, I’ve read your motion and supporting brief. For the record, you’re seeking an injunction to stay proceedings in an eviction and foreclosure action.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Do you have any oral argument to make at this time?”
Penelope shoots a sideways glance across the aisle. “Perhaps after the Court hears from the village?”
“Fair enough.” Jackson turns back to Junior. “You have more for me this morning?”
Thoughts of my blowup with Pat recede as I watch the developing drama.
Junior rises, straightens his lapels, and marches to an easel I hadn’t noticed. He dramatically throws back the cover sheet to reveal a photo enlargement of our damaged garage. “We have been forced to take action to prevent further waste to the property, Your Honor. As you can see, the premises are sadly in need of repairs—repairs that Mr. Valenti has not seen fit to effect despite village demands that he do so. The value of the subject property declines every day this situation is left to fester.”
Penelope stands. “Objection!”
“Grounds?”
“Assumes facts not in evidence, Your Honor.”
Jackson looks to Junior. “Mr. Simpson?”
“The pictures and the defendant’s neglect are evidence enough, Your Honor.”
“Might I remind counsel that I’m the finder of fact in this courtroom?” Judge Jackson replies sharply. She glares at Junior for a moment longer before she turns back to us. “Has the garage been repaired?”
“Not yet,” Penelope replies.
Jackson’s eyes narrow. “Am I missing something, Miss Brooks?”
“There’s a story behind that,” Penelope begins.
Jackson glares down at her. “This is not story time, Miss Brooks.”
Penelope freezes like a deer in oncoming headlights.
As the seconds tick by and the judge begins to grow impatient, I get to my feet. “If I may, Your Honor?”
“Yes, Mr. Valenti?” she says while Penelope settles back into her seat.
I pick up a copy of the building permit application and pass it across to Junior. Then I identify the document for the judge. “The estimated cost of the garage repairs is $3,748.76.”
The judge pulls out her copy of the papers supporting Penelope’s motion. “I’ve got a copy here. Are you familiar with this document?” she asks Junior.
“I am not, Your Honor.”
“You do represent the Village of Cedar Heights?” I ask him.
“I do,” he mutters.
Jackson’s eyes swing back to me. “Mr. Valenti?
“May I ask opposing counsel a few questions, Your Honor?”
“By all means.”
“Is that a village document?” I ask Junior with a nod toward the permit application dangling from his fingers.
“It appears to be,” he replies before all but flinging the document back at me.
I accept the paper graciously and am the very voice of reason when I ask, “Did you happen to notice the date on it?”
“No.”
“It’s dated May seventeenth, Counselor,” I say in my best Mr. Reasonable Lawyer voice. Then I figuratively place my foot on his throat. “Did you know that the plaintiff’s contractor has called several times and is still waiting for the village to authorize that building permit?”
“I’m sure there’s an explanation,” Junior mutters through clenched teeth.
“Oh, I’m sure there is, Counselor, but I doubt we’re going to hear it here this morning. I can’t imagine why it should take several months to approve a building permit for something as simple as fixing a hole in a wall. Has it occurred to anyone at the village that if this permit had been issued in a timely manner, there would be no grounds for the eviction notice?”
“Taking that thought a step further,” Jackson interjects with an edge in her voice, “if the eviction notice hadn’t been issued, Francesco Valenti wouldn’t be in jail this morning and Deputy O’Reilly would be alive.” She lets Junior and his cohorts stew for several seconds before she turns back to me. “Do you have anything further, Counselor?”
Damned right I do. “Is the village aware of any encumbrance on the subject property beyond its own tax lien?” I ask Junior.
“No.”
“I’m not a real estate appraiser, but can we agree that this property is worth more than, say, $20,000?”
“I suppose that’s a reasonable assumption,” Junior replies with a weary nod.
“So, we’ve got less than $4,000 worth of repairs to be made and a total tax bill of approximately $10,000, including penalties and interest due,” I say. “A tax sale of $20,000 or so should comfortably cover the entire risk to the village.”
“I can’t say,” he retorts with a poisonous scowl, going from weary to surly in a heartbeat.
“You know the answer as well as I do, Counselor,” I shoot back. “The Village of Cedar Heights is in no danger of losing money in this matter. Is there some other reason you’re so anxious to get your hands on this property?”
Junior glares back at me but doesn’t reply. I wonder if he’s growing as incensed with Peter Zaluski’s bullshit as I am.
“Does the village have any further argument?” Judge Jackson asks.
Junior shakes his head.
Jackson scribbles some notes before again fixing the Cedar Heights attorneys in her sights. “I’m vacating the eviction notice and suspending foreclosure action for a period of one-hundred and eighty days.”
Judge Jackson next turns her attention to us. “I’m aware of your client’s circumstances, but property taxes must be paid. This ruling is conditional on payment of all tax arrears and penalties. Deliver proof of same to this court within ten days.”
Penelope stands. “Thank you, Your Honor.”
Jackson nods at Penelope and then locks her gaze on me. “See that those taxes are paid, Counselor. I will not be pleased to find this matter being litigated in my courtroom again.”
The six-month stay is at least double what I dared to dream. I have no wish to antagonize the judge at this point. Reasoning that a verbal reply is neither required nor expected, I merely nod.
Village Attorney Andrew Goldstein gets to his feet. “Might not a hundred and eighty days be overly generous, Your Honor?”
Jackson gently bounces a pencil on her blotter. “If Mr. Valenti’s home was in another village, perhaps so, but he lives in Cedar Heights, Counselor. Who knows how much longer it will take for that building permit to work its way through Village Hall?”
“I think we can assure the Court that the permit will be expedited,” Goldstein responds with an oily smile that reminds me of Zaluski’s.
“Pity it should take a court hearing to get your people off the dime, Counselor,” Jackson replies.
Goldstein plows ahead. “I suggest the injunction be amended to thirty days, conditional on the village issuing the building permit within seventy-two hours.”
“I’ve already ruled, Counselor,” the judge replies. “But I’m sure Miss Brooks and Mr. Valenti appreciate your efforts to correct a past wrong. I’ll include your seventy-two-hour commitment in my ruling.” With a rap of her gavel, Judge Jackson dismisses us. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say she’s pleased with the outcome.
Penelope falls into step beside me as we leave the courtroom. “Thanks for bailing me out, Tony. You were great in there.”
“You were doing fine,” I lie. Some lawyers are great in a courtroom, others do their best work behind the scenes writing masterful briefs and motions that give the rest of us the material to stand up and argue our cases. Without Penelope’s brief and research, I would have been lost in there—an actor with no lines.
I spot Pat as soon as we reach the hallway. She’s talking to a man who is scurrying to reach the same elevators we’re heading toward.
“Need to talk to your friend again?” Penelope asks with a knowing smile when she notices me watching.
“I do,” I reply as I hurry ahead. Pat’s in reporter mode with notebook and pen in hand, unsuccessfully maneuvering to block her target’s path to the elevator. I break into a jog when the man turns his head and I recognize Peter Zaluski. He sees me coming and warily watches my approach as he reaches the elevator. Pat stands aside.
I park myself three feet away. “I want a word with you.”
“Who are you?” he asks.
“Tony Valenti, of the Liberty Street Valentis. You remember my parents, hot shot?” All the helplessness and rage that has been building within me over the past month wells up and threatens to explode. I step a little closer. “Do you realize what you’ve done to my family, Zaluski? My mother died recently, in no small part due to the stress you put on her by pushing your shopping center boondoggle. Now your bullshit has gotten a police officer shot.”
Zaluski is backed up against the elevator doors. His expression has progressed from annoyance to alarm. I inch closer until I’m towering over him. I can barely suppress the urge to wring the bastard’s neck.
“No, Tony!” Pat cries. She grabs my arm and pulls me away as a ding announces the arrival of the elevator. Zaluski backs in without breaking eye contact. His eyes reflect a myriad of emotions as the doors close: fear, bewilderment, pique—all tinged with a hint of anger.
Pat looks aghast at me. “What were you doing?”
I wanted to intimidate the bastard. I want Zaluski to understand that he’s not facing off with Mama and Papa this time. I want him nervous and afraid and looking over his shoulder at night—not that I want to articulate any of that with the way Pat is studying me. “I guess I just lost it a little when I saw him,” I reply. “What the hell was Zaluski doing here?”
Pat stares at me for a long moment, then steps into a second elevator without a word. With her goes the afterglow of our court victory—as if it were nothing more than a puff of smoke in a stiff wind.