A House on Liberty Street

by Neil Turner

  “I told him we’d think about it,” he replies.

  The hell we will.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  We’re down to our last full week of trial preparation and still don’t have a concrete plan. Mike has invited himself over on Saturday afternoon to discuss strategy, sweetening the offer with the news that he’s bearing a gift from his sister Sara.

  “What’s the latest on Pat?” he asks as soon as he steps inside.

  “I talked to Plummer this morning. The bullet was a twenty-two. It clipped the bridge of her nose before plowing through her eye. Probably hit glass or the window frame on the way. The brain penetration was fairly shallow. The neurologists say we can’t be sure of anything at this point, but I guess there’s room for a bit of cautious optimism.”

  “Beats the hell out of them being pessimistic, brother.”

  “I suppose,” I mutter. As much as I want to believe everything will turn out fine, I’ve heard enough about head wounds over the past few days to temper my optimism. There’s also the distinct possibility that even if she pulls through, the Pat I know isn’t coming back. I don’t want to dwell on that, so I suggest getting right to work.

  Mike nods before giving me a quizzical look. “You’re talking to Plummer?”

  “Not about our case.” I explain about finding the detective at our home the morning after Pat was shot and how helpful he’s been since. “I guess he’s not all bad,” I conclude sheepishly.

  Mike nods, then settles in at the kitchen table, legal pad and pen at the ready.

  “The screen door still intrigues me,” I say to kick things off. “Mr. Vaccaro next door doesn’t recall ever seeing it damaged.”

  “We’ve been over this,” Mike says. “Nobody can testify with certainty that the door wasn’t damaged before O’Reilly arrived, or that he busted it up.”

  The idea of putting Brittany and/or me on the stand to testify about the door is a non-starter. We’re too close to Papa to be found credible and there’s too many ways Dempsey might use us to muddy the waters. Still. “I’m not ready to let it go yet,” I argue.

  “Get me proof that O’Reilly busted it up and I’ll run with it,” Mike says. When I don’t respond, he changes gears. “Luke reached out to the ex-wife, but she won’t talk. If we decide to put O’Reilly on trial, we’ll pencil her in as a potential hostile witness. Her sister was a little more forthcoming. She’s a possible witness for us.”

  My mind drifts. Plummer told me that Pat is up and about a bit and talking but doesn’t remember the shooting and is having trouble holding a conversation.

  Mike is staring at me when I tune back in. “You hearing me?”

  “Sorry. My mind’s wandering a bit.”

  “You’re back now?”

  “You were telling me about the ex-wife’s sister?”

  “She described O’Reilly as an angry, insecure man whose bullying was fueled by steroids. Unfortunately, that describes more than a few cops.”

  “We’ve got the makings of a case against O’Reilly,” I say with a welcome note of optimism. The odds of a jury buying into Papa’s story about an out-of-control O’Reilly increase as the documents and potential witnesses pile up. O’Reilly’s Cook County Sheriff personnel file revealed a pattern of violent behavior similar to his Cedar Heights days. It also included the revelation that O’Reilly was suspended last year for abusing a teenager while serving an arrest warrant. There’s a history of this guy going apeshit on citizens.

  Mike rolls his eyes. I keep pushing the O’Reilly steroids angle, he keeps throwing cold water on the notion that it matters.

  “Got some good news for you,” he says. “My little sis was so pissed after you got fired that she started a crowdfunding campaign to keep you solvent.”

  “A what campaign?”

  “Crowdfunding, old man,” Mike says loudly and slowly. “It’s something people do nowadays to help folks when misfortune hits.”

  The doorbell pre-empts further explanation.

  “Expecting company?” he asks.

  “Just Penelope Brooks from Butterworth Cole.”

  “She’s still doing work for you?” he asks in surprise. Mike knows how much Butterworth Cole charges. He also knows that I’m about broke.

  “I’ll explain,” I call over my shoulder as I leave the kitchen.

  The story behind Penelope’s pending arrival is a welcome bit of serendipity. Trustee Smith called me to discuss court action to stop the village’s condemnation proceedings. For obvious reasons, he can’t task a village attorney with the job. Penelope drafts a far better petition than I do, so I called to ask what it would cost to have her prepare the filing, only to learn that Herbert Cumming has fired me as a client. Nice of him to let me know. Penelope apologized and offered her regrets over my demise at Fleiss Lansky.

  “I didn’t say I won’t do it,” she said with a chuckle when I started to say goodbye. “This just means I can’t do it officially and can’t bill you.”

  “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

  “You didn’t ask. I’m offering.”

  “Really—”

  “Don’t argue,” Penelope had ordered me curtly. She gave me her personal email address and told me to send her the pertinent details. That was on Wednesday. She called last night to ask if she could drop off a draft today. She hands me a legal-size envelope when I open the front door. “Here you are, sir. One petition for an injunction. No charge.”

  “Much appreciated. Thanks for coming by on a Saturday.”

  “No problem. I’m on my way out to the burbs to see my brother and his family. You’re on the way.” Her concerned eyes focus on mine. “How’s Pat?”

  She gets the same update I gave Mike.

  “I’ll keep her in my prayers,” she murmurs when I finish. Then she looks up and down the street and says, “Nice neighborhood. Love the trees. I miss that, living in the city.”

  “It’s worth saving,” I quip.

  “Absolutely!”

  “Wanna come in for a beer or something?”

  She shakes her head. “That might be fun, but they’re waiting for me.”

  I pat the envelope and turn to Mike, who has followed me to the door. After introductions, I say, “Penelope has been kind enough to draft a petition asking for an injunction to stop the village from proceeding with the condemnation. Pro bono.”

  “That’s downright decent of you,” he tells her.

  “You won’t report me to the ABA?” she asks with a playful smile.

  “Screw ‘em,” Mike says with an answering grin. “Sounds like you’ve done some good work for Tony and Francesco.”

  Penelope’s eyes cut to me.

  I smile. “She sure has.”

  Her cheeks redden as she says, “Thanks.” Herbert Cumming probably doesn’t dole out much praise.

  “Mike’s little sister has started some sort of funding crowd thing to keep my head above water,” I announce.

  “Crowd-funding,” Mike says with an exaggerated shake of his head. “Twelve-thousand bucks raised, last I heard.”

  “Cool!” Penelope exclaims.

  “Twelve thousand dollars?” I ask incredulously.

  “And she’s just getting started.”

  I turn to Penelope and pat the envelope again. “Sounds like I can afford to pay you for this.”

  She waves my offer aside. “Stop. This is the least I can do after you bailed me out in court.”

  “What are you talking about?” Mike asks.

  “I was floundering in court when we were arguing for the foreclosure injunction,” Penelope replies. She smiles and hooks a thumb at me. “Then this guy gets up and blows the village attorneys away.”

  “Our boy Tony is a courtroom brawler?” Mike muses.

  “I don’t know about a brawler, but he’s really good in a courtroom,” she replies. “Quick on his feet. Smooth as silk.”

  “Interesting,” Mike says thoughtfully.

  “I sho
uld be off to my brother’s,” Penelope says. “Have a look at the petition and let me know if you want anything changed.”

  “Will do,” I reply. “Thanks again.”

  “Happy to help. I feel as if I’m fighting on behalf of the good guys for a change,” she adds with a grin.

  “The mayor and his pals are in deep shit against you and Trustee Smith,” Mike says with a chuckle when the door closes behind Penelope. Then he slaps a hand on my shoulder and meets my gaze. “I gotta tell you, Tony, I’m stretched really thin at work these days and here you are, a courtroom wizard and suddenly a man of independent means with time on your hands.”

  “Independent means, my ass,” I counter with a chuckle. “Thank Sara for me. Give her a hug, a smooch, whatever she wants.”

  “You got it, brother. Now, as I was saying, you sound like every public defender’s wet dream. How about you take on a little more of the trial lawyering?”

  “Such as?”

  “Let’s expand on my previous request. Argue a few more motions. Handle a witness or two or three.”

  “I’m not sure I have the chops to get up in criminal court without screwing up and sending my father to jail, or worse.”

  “Penelope says you do and I remember you bragging on how you kicked ass in moot court at law school. Don’t sell yourself short, man. Believe in yourself.”

  He means well, so I smile and nod. The fortune cookie platitudes bounce harmlessly off the towering walls of self-doubt that surround me. I can probably handle some minor witnesses to take some pressure off Mike, but I won’t let him make the mistake of handing me anything critical to our hopes.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I awaken Sunday morning to find a legal pad in my lap, right where it was when I fell asleep on the couch last night. The scribbling on the pad is a list of the pros and cons of putting Sheriff’s Deputy O’Reilly on trial. There’s no question that he was guilty of bullying my parents, a score I have no way to settle. Putting him on trial is the only retribution open to me, a realization that gives me pause. I can’t allow a subconscious desire for revenge to color my assessment of the best way to defend Papa. I set the notes aside and pore over the discovery materials from the state’s attorney yet again. Nothing new there.

  My thoughts turn to Pat, who has never been far from my mind over the past week. I haven’t heard from Brook Atherton since I asked him to talk to Pat’s mother about adding me to her hospital visitor list. A call to the nurse’s station confirms it hasn’t been done, so I decide to take matters into my own hands and call Pat’s cell phone. The woman who picks up isn’t Pat. With a sinking feeling, I suspect I’m speaking to her mother.

  “May I speak to Pat?”

  “Who is this?” she asks.

  “Tony Valenti.”

  Mrs. O’Toole’s reply is a dial tone. The phone rings two minutes later while I’m adding milk to a cup of coffee.

  “Tony?”

  “Pat?”

  “Did you just call?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mom!” Pat snaps before covering the phone so I don’t hear what comes next. A moment later, sounding weary and exasperated, she says, “I got your flowers. Why haven’t you visited? Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay,” I reply while relief floods through me. She sounds pretty much like herself.

  “So, why haven’t you come?” When I hesitate, not wanting to precipitate a dust-up between her and her mother, Pat quickly intuits the reason. “Jesus Christ, Mom! I told you I wanted Tony to visit. You didn’t put his name on the list, did you?”

  I can’t hear Mrs. O’Toole’s reply.

  “I’ll tell the nurses to let you in,” Pat tells me. “Get your ass down here, Valenti.”

  I can’t help but grin. Yup, that’s our Pat.

  When I arrive on her ward forty minutes later, a nurse tells me that Pat’s asleep, orders me not to wake her, and then directs me to wait in the hallway outside the closed door of her room. A diminutive, rail-thin Black man with a close-cropped head of snow-white hair sits on the floor. I notice a cleric’s collar when he looks up at me.

  “Here to see Pat?” he asks.

  I nod.

  He gets to his feet to shake my hand. “Reverend Alvin Jakes. If I’m not mistaken, you’re Tony Valenti?”

  I return his handshake a little uneasily. How does this guy know who I am?

  “Pat has mentioned you.”

  She hasn’t mentioned Jakes to me. “Are you from Pat’s church?”

  “Lord, no!” he chortles. “My congregation is in Lawndale, Mr. Valenti. Has she mentioned the work she does with us there?”

  “She hasn’t.” Lawndale is one of Chicago’s longest suffering Black neighborhoods.

  “We’re working to reclaim the community. Pat has chronicled the work and championed the effort every step of the way. I don’t think we could have kept the funding going without her turning a spotlight on Lawndale whenever the effort has flagged.” He pauses to chuckle. “She’s also held a few political feet to the fire as needed. Our girl even takes a regular turn wielding a hammer and paintbrush on a regular basis.”

  Why am I not surprised?

  “I heard your phone call,” Jakes says. “Don’t be too hard on Pat’s mother. This has scared the heck out of her.”

  I’m unable to muster much empathy.

  “The important thing now is that you’re here,” Jakes says. Then he tells me that he’s been following the tale of our neighborhood. “I’ve also been following the news about your father ever since Pat told me she knew him,” he adds soberly. “I say a prayer for y’all every day.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Uh-huh. I did some time as a younger man, so I know something of what your daddy’s going through. Getting caught up in our justice system is no treat. If there’s anything I can do for you folks, be sure to let me know.”

  The reverend’s good heart moves me deeply. “Thanks again.”

  “Just doing the Lord’s work as best I know how.”

  I nod at the door. “How is she?”

  “Getting better by the day.”

  The nurse I’d spoken to marches past us and into Pat’s room. Two minutes later, she steps out and smiles at Jakes. “She’s awake. You can go in now, Reverend.”

  “Thank you,” Jakes replies graciously. When the nurse frowns at me for taking a step to follow, the reverend takes my elbow. “Tony’s with me, Alva. Pat’s real eager to see him.”

  His endorsement wipes the frown from her face.

  “Thanks,” I murmur as he draws me inside.

  “I’ll leave you two to visit,” he whispers before he slips out with a parting wink. It’s hard to feel anything but positive in the presence of his mischievous grin and twinkling eyes. I didn’t even mind when he characterized my profession as “trafficking in American justice” and likened us to practitioners of the oldest profession. All said with a smile, of course.

  “Is that you, Tony?”

  “It’s me,” I reply while stepping into Pat’s field of vision. A bundle of wires and tubes snakes away from the bed to a bank of monitors and equipment that tower above her. She studies me with her remaining eye. A thick bandage covers the left side of her face, held in place by strands of gauze wrapped around her head.

  She looks me up and down. “You’re really okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says with a frown. “Mom means well but she can be a little overbearing.”

  “Just looking out for you,” I reply diplomatically.

  This prompts a sad smile. “I’ve been worried about you.”

  “I’m good. Do you remember what happened?”

  “I remember you making coffee and recall hearing the window break. Then I woke up in the hospital. Who was shooting at us?”

  “I don’t know. You need to stay away from me once you’re out of here.”

  “The hell I will,” she says. Then she seems to lose focus. When
her eye settles on mine a moment later, I can tell she’s lost the thread of our conversation.

  “I’m serious, Pat. You should avoid me until the cops figure out what’s going on.”

  “This probably has something to do with the village. I’m not going to let those bastards run me off.”

  I smile. “I’ll have to run you off myself?”

  “You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Valenti,” she retorts with a weak return smile.

  My thoughts stray to what might have been if the bullet had been a fraction more accurate and resolve to be part of whatever life fate has in store for Pat, playing whatever role she wants me to.

  “It hurts,” she says wearily as she settles back onto her pillow. “Did you know that shockwaves from bullets cause nasty concussions?”

  I shake my head and settle into a chair beside the bed. “You’ve got a concussion?”

  “Maybe two. I had a cut and an enormous goose egg on the back of my head when they brought me in.”

  It all comes back now—Pat toppling over the table and crashing onto the tile floor.

  “When they think I’m asleep, Mom and Dad talk about what the doctors and nurses tell them. I forget half of it, but I remember enough to know I’m getting better.”

  “So Reverend Jakes tells me.”

  She smiles. “You met the Reverend?”

  “I did.”

  “I love that man,” she says quietly. When she falls silent, I’m not sure if she’s lost the thread again or if she’s simply thinking about Reverend Jakes.

  Her eye is only half-open when Nurse Alva bustles back into the room five minutes later and gives me a look of disapproval when she sees how tired Pat is. “Time for meds and a nap.”

  “At least they don’t poke me in the ass,” Pat mutters while the nurse sticks a needle into her IV line. When Nurse Alva tries to shoo me out, Pat’s hand inches out from under the covers to rest on mine. “Let him stay until I’m zonked out.”