A House on Liberty Street

by Neil Turner

  “The psychiatrist who wrote this works for the state’s attorney, so he’ll make things sound as bad as he can,” Mike replies.

  Papa’s brow furrows in confusion. “He is the one I talk to after shooting? He was not a bad man. Why he say these things?”

  “He’s not the one you talked to, but they used that man’s report,” Mike replies. “You’ll be talking to another psychiatrist tomorrow. This one is ours.”

  “Why do this again?” Papa asks.

  Mike cocks an eyebrow. “Do we believe what the first guy said?”

  “No,” Papa and I reply in unison.

  “We’ve hired someone else,” Mike explains. “We’ll need to show the court that the prosecution’s psychiatrist wasn’t right.”

  Papa’s questioning eyes look from Mike to me. “These doctors, they no tell the truth, just what lawyers want them to say?”

  Such is the world of expert witnesses, I think before replying, “Something like that.”

  “This is not right! Is court not for truth?”

  “You just answer the doctor’s questions tomorrow as truthfully as you can, Francesco,” Mike says. “Let us worry about the rest. Now—”

  Papa cuts him off. “You answer me, Anthony.”

  “Two people can see the same event differently, Papa. In court, a judge or jury hears both sides of a story and then tries to decide which version is correct.”

  “That is truth in the legal sense of the word, Francesco,” Mike adds. “My job is to make sure I tell the court everything they need to know to arrive at a just decision. I can’t do that without your help. We need to hear your side of what happened that night.”

  I hold my breath while Papa thinks this over. He has so far refused to talk about the shooting. God alone knows why, but he’s an obstinate old cuss when he makes up his mind to be. “Stubborn as an old ass!” Mama said more than once.

  “Peter Zaluski is going to be a witness against you,” I tell Papa in hopes of jolting him out of his reluctance to speak of that night. Zaluski is only listed as a potential witness. If he appears, we assume it will be to testify about how Officer O’Reilly came to be on Papa’s doorstep the night he was shot.

  “Zaluski!” Papa exclaims angrily. “He will tell more lies!”

  “That’s why we need you to tell us everything,” Mike says patiently.

  I lean in. “Tell us about that night, Papa. You were sitting in the kitchen with the Trib and a beer when the cop showed up?”

  He nods slowly, clearly taking himself back in time. “As soon as I see this policeman at door, I know he will be trouble.”

  “Why is that?” Mike asks.

  “He is bad policeman. Angry, always angry. That night, he angry again.”

  “Again?” I ask. “This wasn’t the first time you encountered O’Reilly?”

  “He yells at my Maria. He makes her cry!”

  “When was this?” Mike asks. “What happened?”

  “She see a boy break into swimming pool at night. She call police. This boy, he is police officer’s son.”

  “O’Reilly’s boy?” I ask.

  Papa nods. “The police officer yell at Maria one day on street, call her bad names. He swear at her!”

  “You saw and heard this?” Mike asks.

  Papa nods. “He say his son is in trouble. Is Maria’s fault. He say she not get away with making trouble for his boy.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us about this?” I ask.

  Papa shrugs. “I no think it matter.”

  “Everything matters,” Mike says firmly. “Tell us exactly what happened on September seventeenth, Francesco. The doorbell rang?”

  Papa settles back again, his eyes half-closed as he remembers. “When I open door, policeman try to open screen door. Is locked, so he kick it. He yell at me. Is crazy person!”

  “What about the eviction notice?” Mike asks. “Did O’Reilly tell you he had court documents to serve?”

  Papa nods. “He say I have to take papers he brings.”

  “And did you open the door then?” Mike asks.

  Papa sighs. “I tell him I no open door. He should leave papers in mailbox.”

  “Why didn’t he?” I ask.

  “He say he come to kick me out of house.”

  “Were you afraid of him?” Mike asks. I immediately recognize how pivotal a question this is. Papa, looking a little ashamed as he does so, nods. Mike’s eyes meet mine for a heartbeat before he again locks eyes with Papa. “How long did this go on, Francesco?”

  “One minute. Two minute. Maybe more. Door is breaking.”

  “Why didn’t you just close the inside door?” Mike asks.

  “Then I can no get papers. He say I must have them.”

  And there’s the impulsive madman of the prosecution’s imagination, I think dryly. Facing down danger to carry out the orders of law enforcement… at least until he decided to shoot the guy.

  “When did you take out your gun?” Mike asks.

  “When policeman break door. Gun is by door in closet. I hope gun will scare him away.”

  “Did it?” Mike asks softly.

  Papa is growing more and more distraught as the story unfolds. “No. He throw paper inside. Hit me with stick.”

  Mike’s eyebrows rocket up. “He hit you with his nightstick?”

  Papa nods.

  “You kept telling him to leave?”

  Papa nods again.

  “That’s when you shot him?” I ask.

  With shame written all over his face, my father whispers, “Yes. After he hit me again.”

  “Sounds like Papa was provoked,” I say to Mike Williams after my father leaves.

  “Makes the shooting a little more understandable,” he agrees. “No witnesses, though.”

  “None that we’ve found so far.”

  “So far?” Mike mutters grimly. “We’ve been through the discovery materials a thousand times. There’s nothing there.”

  “Papa was there. Put him on the stand,” I suggest as we gather up our papers and briefcases.

  “No way, Tony. Dempsey will eat him alive. We need to take a closer look at who Sheriff’s Deputy Andrew O’Reilly really was.”

  “I’m just a corporate weenie, so tell me how we do that.”

  “You are a corporate weenie,” Mike says with a nasty grin as he dons a well-worn deep green mohair overcoat and opens the door. “I’ll have our investigator look into O’Reilly. We’ll need a copy of his personnel records from the Cedar Heights PD and Cook County Sheriff. I seem to recall a couple of excessive force complaints against him. Let’s peek under that rock.”

  “I’ll request O’Reilly’s personnel records,” I say while I slip into my red Gore-Tex jacket and follow him out of the conference room.

  “The poor sonofabitch,” Mike mutters while we walk. “Francesco must’ve come here with his head full of Hollywood dreams about the good life in America—streets paved with gold, boundless opportunity for everyone. All that glossy bullshit about America that we sell abroad.”

  “I suppose he did,” I murmur.

  “Look what he got. He couldn’t practice his carpentry trade and ended up working his ass off for years at a menial job he could’ve gotten in Italy. Now this.”

  “He had a nice home. A family.”

  Mike chuckles grimly. “Maybe I understand this better than you do, Tony. When my ancestors ‘immigrated’ here, things didn’t work out so well for them, either.”

  “And your point is?”

  Mike lays a hand on my shoulder. “They lied to him about what to expect, then turned around and took away what he managed to scrape together. Now they want to kill him. The dude must be feeling pretty bitter.”

  “So let’s make sure this isn’t the final chapter.”

  “Amen to that, brother,” Mike says as a slow smile crosses his face. “Amen.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The January seventh meeting of the Cedar Heights Village Board has
n’t even begun and we’re already a step behind Peter Zaluski and company. In fact, I’ve prepared for the wrong battle. I’d expected the board to discuss a potential redevelopment plan for Liberty Street tonight, but that discussion is nowhere to be found on the agenda posted in the Village Hall lobby. The board will instead be voting to establish a Tax Increment Financing (TIF) district in support of the Independence Park/Liberty Street Redevelopment Plan. Having no idea what the hell any of this means, I’ve used the village’s Wi-Fi and my laptop to discover that passing a municipal TIF ordinance establishes a prima facie case granting legal authority for condemnation. In other words, a redevelopment plan has already been approved and the village is maneuvering to implement it. In another hour or two, Independence Park and the houses along Liberty Street could be formally condemned. How in hell am I going to keep that from happening?

  I cross Village Hall’s sterile lobby and continue on through a set of double doors that lead into the Council Chamber. The room, which also serves as a community hall when the Village Board isn’t sitting, is nothing if not utilitarian. Banks of fluorescent lights alternate with white acoustic ceiling tiles, bathing everything in a blaze of harsh white light. The walls are vast expanses of institutional eggshell white, on which plaques and notices hang at equidistant intervals. Chunky black speakers hang high in each corner, flanking a stage at the front of the room. The stage reminds me of the one in my elementary school gymnasium. In fact, the whole space reminds me of school gyms, right down to the basketball nets cranked up out of reach at either end. Several tidy rows of straight-backed chrome and fabric chairs for the public are arranged in the center of the room. A portable lectern with a microphone stands at the head of the aisle in front of the stage.

  My post-Christmas effort to recruit Liberty Street neighbors to do battle with City Hall was a bust. Big surprise that people didn’t line up with me. The denizens of Liberty Street exhibited surprisingly little interest in attending tonight’s meeting—even after I explained their homes might be bulldozed. To say I’d been discouraged after two hours of that would be a gross understatement, so I’m inordinately pleased to see some elderly neighbors in the public seats. Mrs. LaSusa and her husband are here. The Vaccaros are also present. Even Mr. Rosetti is putting in an appearance. Pat has staked out a corner, pen and pad in hand. I walk over to her and explain the significance of the board adopting a TIF ordinance as opposed to the redevelopment plan we expected. She had noticed but wasn’t aware of the implications.

  “What do we do?” she asks. “You’re the expert on this stuff.”

  “Then we’re truly up the creek. To put this in lawyerly terms, what we have here is a classic case of the blind leading the blind.”

  Pat gives me an indulgent smile that carries a gentle reprimand for the self-denigration.

  “When did they slip the redevelopment plan through?” I wonder aloud.

  “After the November fourth board meeting. I’ve got a copy of the minutes. I’ll ask about it.”

  We pause to watch Zaluski’s entrance. He smiles and joshes with a handful of people milling around the seats reserved for village staff. I resist the urge to walk over and smack the smug smile off his face.

  Seven people troop onstage and settle into black executive chairs behind polished honey oak workstations. The desks form a semicircle on the stage, from which the Village Board peers down at the rest of us. My eyes roam around the room and meet those of Mike Williams, who said he might “drop by to watch the show.” He nods. I nod back before I leave Pat and slip into a seat amongst my neighbors.

  His Honor the Mayor introduces Zaluski, Tricia Dix from Three Streams Development, and Hernando Mendoza from the architectural consulting firm Cormier, Marr, and Mendoza. My eyes lift to study this unholy trinity, who represent our opposition for the evening. My reading has taught me that Hector Mendoza is a hired gun specializing in unearthing blight conditions in properties that developers want condemned. Mayor Brown gives the trio a quick wink in greeting.

  Last year’s Cedar Heights High School valedictorian, Jeremy Spencer, earnestly recites the Pledge of Allegiance. The kid looks like the winner of a Howdy Doody look-alike contest who is well on his way to selling vacuum cleaners door-to-door. After we suffer through more civic banality, Mayor Brown calls the meeting to order. A marginally overweight man of average height in his mid-fifties, the mayor radiates the vanilla charm of a small-time politician. I’ve learned from Pat that he’s a petty potentate who considers the village his personal fiefdom and its taxpayers his serfs. Supposedly, little happens in Cedar Heights without his knowledge and consent, which means the scorched earth campaign waged against my parents went forward with His Honor’s blessing. Zaluski isn’t my only enemy at Village Hall.

  While the board takes care of routine business, I read through more of the TIF articles I bookmarked earlier. I tune back in when a trustee gets into a tussle with the mayor over the awarding of a telecommunications contract. Brown seems offended at being challenged.

  A pair of Lilliputian glasses threatens to ski off the nose of Trustee Alvin Smith, the sole African American member of the board, who is sharply turned out in a tasteful charcoal suit, powder-blue shirt, and a fire-engine red necktie. Only a full head of tightly cropped, graying hair betrays approaching middle age. Trustee Smith is staring at the mayor. “Did the fact that an officer of Digital Wizardry is related to the mayor influence the village manager’s recommendation?”

  His Honor turns to Peter Zaluski. “Mr. Zaluski?”

  “That was not a factor in my recommendation,” Zaluski reassures one and all.

  When Smith leans into the microphone again, his steely eyes betray his dislike of the village manager. “Based on what specifics, Mr. Zaluski?”

  “Digital Wizardry offered the best balance of cost-effectiveness and professional ability.”

  “They must be very good to warrant a premium of fifteen percent more than the other bids,” Smith retorts. “What makes these folks fifteen percent better?”

  “Bid details are confidential.”

  When Smith continues to demand details, Zaluski’s eyes appeal to the mayor for help.

  “This has gone on long enough,” His Honor says. “The village employs Mr. Zaluski to carry on the business of Cedar Heights, not to be a punching bag for the political aspirations of board members.”

  “I’m merely asking for the information I need to cast an informed vote on the matter before us,” Smith retorts. The exchange reminds me that Smith is rumored to be considering a run for mayor in the next village election.

  “Discussion of this matter is closed,” Mayor Brown proclaims with a rap of his gavel. “Please call the vote, Madam Clerk.”

  Trustee Smith objects loudly as the motion is polled and passed by a vote of five-to-one. The mayor doesn’t vote; he’s only called upon to break a tie.

  Brown makes a show of consulting the agenda. “We’ll now hear a report and recommendations from the Planning Commission. This relates to the urban renewal study commissioned to assess the Independence Park/Liberty Street Redevelopment Plan.”

  It’s show time. A buzz circulates through our corner of the public seats.

  “Village Manager Peter Zaluski will present the report,” the mayor continues. “Tricia Dix and Hernando Mendoza will assist. All three will be available to answer questions afterward.” He pauses to smile at his demolition team and then turns a beatific countenance upon the citizens present. “I understand some of you folks wish to speak to this matter?”

  A few heads bob up and down.

  “Excellent!” he says. “As you’re recognized, please proceed to the podium and state your name and address. Who would like to go first?”

  I pop to my feet and claim the point position. Mayor Brown beams at me.

  “Tony Valenti,” I announce. “Forty-seven Liberty Street.”

  A flicker of distaste registers in His Honor’s eyes. “Our time for discussion is finite, so we’ll
limit questions to one per person.”

  “As I understand the TIF laws you propose to use in this matter,” I begin, “the village must adopt a redevelopment plan before commissioning the study we’ll hear about tonight. Is that correct?”

  The mayor nods warily. “That’s correct. Do you have a question?”

  “When was this redevelopment plan approved? I haven’t seen a copy of it or any mention of its passage on the village website.”

  Brown hands off. “Mr. Zaluski?”

  “The redevelopment plan was initially adopted two years ago,” Zaluski tells us. “After an extensive review, we determined that it remains viable.”

  “When was that decision made?” I ask.

  His Honor shakes his head and tells me, “You’ve already asked your question. Please be seated.” After I sit, he somberly studies the voters. “The village spent considerable time and expense preparing the original redevelopment plan for the Independence Park/Liberty Street project. After establishing that we are still legally able to utilize that plan, we concluded that it would be fiscally irresponsible not to do so. Mr. Zaluski will highlight the findings of the Planning Commission’s report.”

  Zaluski rises. “Our plan calls for an exciting makeover of the Independence Park environment. When complete, the village will gain a new shopping center and several midrise condominium buildings.”

  Zaluski nods at Tricia Dix of Three Streams Development, who flips the cover page off an easel to unveil an artist’s rendering of a futuristic multi-level complex where Independence Park now stands. It’s flanked by a quartet of handsome condominium structures that replace the houses on Liberty Street. It looks great, albeit with no artistic license spared to spruce up the setting. Unless they bulldoze a few more residential streets, the area surrounding the proposed development won’t be the upscale neighborhood depicted in the drawing.

  “Not only will this development significantly improve the aesthetics of this area,” Zaluski continues, “redevelopment will bring the village sorely needed new tax dollars. It will also enhance adjacent property values.”

  From what I’ve gleaned in my eminent domain studies, most of the communities pushing these projects end up offering developers sweetheart deals to locate in their jurisdiction. All too often, those municipalities end up eating the financing guarantees they offer to bankroll the commercial portions of the projects. Generous tax exemptions are granted to corporations for up to ten years. The developers unfailingly bluster and threaten relocation if their tax exemptions aren’t extended every time they’re due to expire. The individual condo owners who buy into these projects generally receive no tax breaks. Big surprise, that.