A House on Liberty Street

by Neil Turner

  “Bastards!” I snarl.

  Mike settles back in his seat and gazes up at the ceiling. “There’s a reason we didn’t get anything about her. Why is that?” Without waiting for a reply, he counts off one finger. “Maybe there isn’t a statement.”

  “Phil said—” I begin.

  Mike shoots an annoyed glance my way and starts over. “Maybe there isn’t a statement. Maybe she had nothing new to say and a lazy beat cop didn’t bother writing it up.”

  I hadn’t thought of that.

  Mike counts off a second finger. “Maybe they took a statement and didn’t pass it along to the prosecution.”

  “But they have to,” I protest.

  “They’re supposed to. Not the same thing, my friend.”

  “No shit,” Luke chimes in.

  “Why wouldn’t the cops turn it in?” I ask.

  “Maybe they didn’t think it was important enough to type up,” Mike replies. “Or maybe it said something they didn’t like. Maybe it just didn’t square with everything else they had.”

  “Something damaging to their case?” I ask.

  A smile creases Mike’s face. “Now you’re thinking like a defense attorney! Taking this a step further, maybe the cops don’t want something she said to see the light of day.”

  I look at Luke. “Did you get an address? Are you going this afternoon?”

  Looking a little bemused, he answers, “Yes and yes.”

  “I want a verbal report before you write up the transcript,” Mike says.

  Luke nods, seeming to approve of the order.

  “What do you mean?” I protest. “We need that transcript right away!”

  Mike shakes his head. “No, we need to hear what she says today. We need to be very discrete, gentlemen. If the prosecution gets wind of this, they’ll put her on their witness list and either depose her themselves or demand a copy of her statement to us under reciprocal discovery. Luke here is a very busy guy. It might be a day or two before this overburdened fellow gets a transcript typed up.”

  The light bulb finally flickers to life in my razor-sharp legal mind. “Ah.”

  Mike’s eyes twinkle. “If they’re trying to hide something, I want them to think they’ve succeeded.”

  Dempsey starts the afternoon by trying to get Plummer to agree that Papa is some sort of homicidal menace to society. When Plummer resists the invitation to play into this narrative, Mike whispers an aside that perhaps all the players in the prosecutor’s camp aren’t singing from the same hymnal.

  Mike starts his cross-examination by walking around the defense table and addressing Plummer as if they’re making conversation. “Mr. Dempsey asked you to affirm that Mr. Valenti fits the profile of sociopathic murderers you’ve encountered in your duties as a homicide detective. You disagreed with that assertion. Correct?”

  While Plummer takes a moment to formulate his answer, Mike casts a quick look at the jury. This is the first time today he’s left his seat to approach the witness stand. Several jurors have inched forward, possibly inferring from his approach that this exchange is particularly significant—perhaps more so than any prior testimony. Several hours into the proceedings, this is the first hint of the adversarial police/lawyer drama that television and movies have conditioned them to expect in a courtroom.

  “I’m not a psychologist,” Plummer finally mutters. “I’m not the right person to ask.”

  “I understand that,” Mike replies graciously. He’s taking care not to attack the detective, who comes across as a credible professional whom the jury seems to like. He moves a step closer. “Yet Mr. Dempsey asked you that question, Detective.”

  “Objection!” Dempsey says. “Does Mr. Williams have a relevant question for this witness, or can we move on?”

  “Of course, I have questions for this witness, Your Honor,” Mike says. “I’m probing a topic Mr. Dempsey opened up on direct.”

  “Objection overruled,” Judge Mitton says with an impatient glance at Dempsey. “Proceed, Mr. Williams.”

  “As I was saying,” Mike says to Plummer, “Mr. Dempsey clearly believes that your experience with sociopathic killers allows you to make a qualified determination of whether or not Francesco Valenti fits that mold. When you observed him on the night of September seventeenth and early hours of September eighteenth, did Mr. Valenti strike you as a prototypical sociopathic murderer?”

  I hold my breath. This may be a critical moment in the trial. While Mike is confident that Plummer will not make that assertion, asking the question is still an extremely high-risk, high-reward proposition. The jury will expect Plummer to support the prosecution’s claim. If he doesn’t, not only does the learned doctor look like a paid shill for the prosecution, the credibility of Dempsey will take a hit. If Plummer falls in line, Mike will have to find a way to undo the damage. While I’ve come to think he’s not such a bad guy, my money is on Plummer being in the tank for the prosecution.

  “Not when I spoke with him,” the detective says.

  I’ll be damned. Is Plummer actually on the side of justice?

  “Have you had occasion to speak with Mr. Valenti since that night?” Mike asks.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Thank you, Detective. That’s all I have for Mr. Plummer at this time, Your Honor. The defense reserves the right to recall this witness.”

  “Does the prosecution have anything further to ask Detective Plummer at this time?” Mitton asks Dempsey.

  He doesn’t, so the judge dismisses Plummer and adjourns for lunch. We should be hearing from Peter Zaluski this afternoon.

  Over lunch, I make a final play to be allowed to cross-examine him. “I want a piece of that son of a bitch!”

  Mike shakes his head. “Hell, no!”

  “The prosecution calls Peter Zaluski to the stand,” Sylvia Perez announces when court is called back into session.

  I work very hard to keep my expression neutral as the village manager takes the stand. It won’t do to have Papa’s son looking like a deranged sociopath while Zaluski is testifying.

  After establishing that he is the Cedar Heights Village Manager and has been for the past several years, Perez invites Zaluski to tell the jury about the events that put Deputy O’Reilly on our front step on the evening of September seventeenth. Zaluski surprises us by starting with Titan Development’s first attempt to acquire Liberty Street and Independence Park via eminent domain.

  “Is there something about that time period I don’t know about?” Mike asks me anxiously. “Did Francesco have a run-in with anybody?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “There was no question that the village would have been well-served had that project proceeded,” Zaluski says. “But Mr. Valenti and his friends had other ideas. They disrupted our plans at every turn. They even imported agitators to stir up trouble in the community.”

  “The hell?” Mike whispers.

  “No idea,” I reply. Maybe he means Teresa Keebler-Jones? “Ask for specifics on cross.”

  “In the end,” Zaluski says sadly, “Mr. Valenti and his cohorts prevailed, although a few of them did cash in a few months later. The neighborhood has been in steep decline ever since.”

  “Was that the last conflict between Mr. Valenti and the Village of Cedar Heights?” Perez asks.

  “Unfortunately, not,” Zaluski replies. “It came to our attention some time ago that Mr. Valenti made improvements to his home without obtaining the necessary building permits. This allowed him to hide the improvements from the village to keep his property taxes artificially low. When this came to light, we reassessed the property and sent Mr. Valenti a bill for unpaid property taxes and penalties. He refused to pay.”

  The sonofabitch is relishing the opportunity to deliver a little payback to my father. When Zaluski pauses for a sip of water, I realize that he’s coming across as a dedicated public servant intent on doing what is best for the village. I’m not buying. Zaluski would have to be an unusually naïve
character not to have seen what Titan was up to.

  “Mr. Valenti’s neighbors began complaining last summer that the side of his garage was damaged and had become an eyesore,” he continues. “This is detrimental to the neighborhood. The last thing we want is honest Cedar Heights taxpayers footing the bill for their neighbor’s house repairs and maintenance, so we sent demands for Mr. Valenti to complete the repairs. He couldn’t be bothered to do so. We had no choice but to initiate foreclosure proceedings.”

  “Your next step was eviction?” Perez asks.

  “It was. I’m afraid Deputy O’Reilly was serving an eviction notice when Mr. Valenti decided to murder him.”

  “Objection,” Mike snaps. “Assumes facts not in evidence.”

  Perez rolls her eyes, a stunt that does not escape Judge Mitton. “We can do without your histrionics, Miss Perez.” The judge then returns his attention to Mike. “What facts are those, Counselor?”

  “It hasn’t been established that Mr. Valenti murdered anyone, Your Honor. We’ve heard no evidence about what prompted events that evening. Mr. Zaluski certainly doesn’t know—unless he was there?” Mike concludes with a sidelong glance at the village manager.

  “I was attending my son’s Little League playoff game,” Zaluski replies indignantly.

  Mike dismisses him without asking about his claim that Papa had been an agitator two years ago. We want him off the stand. The sonofabitch has turned out to be an effective witness for the prosecution.

  “It’s getting late, Counselor,” Judge Mitton tells the prosecutor. “We can take a fifteen-minute recess and come back or we can adjourn for the weekend. I would prefer to hear from another witness or two if possible, assuming you can wrap up by five.”

  Dempsey nods. “I would like to call one more witness today, Your Honor.”

  Mitton nods back. “Court is recessed for fifteen minutes. Let’s all be back in place at three forty-five.”

  “Five bucks says we’re gonna finish with the grieving widow,” Mike says. “Too bad we didn’t end with Plummer. That would have been a good takeaway for the jury.”

  Luke Geffen arrived during Mike’s cross-examination of Zaluski and is waiting patiently in a seat directly behind us. As soon as the judge sends the jury on its way, Mike spins his chair around to face Luke.

  I do likewise and blurt, “Did you find her? What did she tell—”

  Mike slaps an index finger across his lips and cuts his angry eyes towards the prosecution table. “Quiet.”

  His concern is underscored when I look up and find Dempsey leaning toward us. Mike gets to his feet. “Let’s take this outside, gentlemen.”

  After gathering our coats and briefcases, we follow Mike out. He leads us thirty feet away from the courthouse doors before he stops and turns to Luke. “What have you got for us?”

  “I found Mrs. Russo. She wasn’t happy to see me but resigned herself to talking. She didn’t realize I was working for the defense when she agreed to talk.”

  “Tell me you told her the truth,” Mike says sharply.

  Luke smiles. “Of course, I did. Eventually.”

  Mike’s eyes twinkle. “What did Mrs. Russo tell you before you were able to rectify that unfortunate misunderstanding?”

  “Not much,” Luke replies, dealing a crushing blow to my desperate hope that Sandy would ride to Papa’s rescue.

  “Anything useful?” Mike asks.

  “She told the police what she heard and reminded me that she hadn’t been able to see the actual shooting through the hedge. When I asked her if she’d heard the shooting, she nodded and gave me a funny look, like I should have already known that.”

  “And then?” I ask hopefully.

  “She asked who I was working for.”

  “So much for the happy ending,” Mike grumbles.

  Luke answers with a grim smile. “I managed to ask if she’d be willing to give us a statement before she slammed the door in my face.”

  “Shit!” I mutter.

  “We’ve got an ear witness,” Mike says. “If Sandy Russo heard everything Francesco told us was going on, this could be significant.”

  “And if she didn’t, or doesn’t admit she did?”

  “Not many upstanding citizens are willing to perjure themselves in a murder trial, Tony.”

  That’s probably true of the Sandy Vaccaro I grew up with, but the Sandy Russo I’ve experienced over the past few months certainly isn’t the same girl, so who knows? “There’s something going on with her. She’s scared of something.”

  Mike shrugs. “Time will tell.”

  “What should we do about her?”

  “Tough call. One option is to say nothing and add her to our witness list after the prosecution rests.”

  “But we don’t know what she’s going to say.” Even I know that a good lawyer never asks a question in court unless he or she knows what the answer will be. Putting Sandy Russo on the stand would be the epitome of recklessness.

  “Exactly,” Mike agrees. “Another option is to barge into Judge Mitton’s courtroom screaming bloody murder because the cops buried Sandy Russo’s statement. The good judge will order them to produce whatever they’ve got and will slap sanctions on the prosecution if they’re hiding something. If they are hiding something, whatever it is has to help us, right?”

  “And if it doesn’t?” I counter.

  Mike shakes his head and chuckles. “If it doesn’t, Suzy Sunshine, it probably won’t hurt us. If it’s not exculpatory, why hide it? You can bet your gloomy ass they’d be using it if it helped their case.”

  Can’t counter that logic.

  “Whatever way we decide to go, we’re not going to do anything today. I need to ponder our options and the upside and downside of each. I want you guys to do the same.”

  Luke nods. I nod.

  Mike turns to me. “You’ll be cross-examining the ex-Mrs. O’Reilly if she turns out to be the final witness of the day.”

  I turn to him in surprise. “She’s supposed to be your witness.”

  “You can handle it. We need to get you into the game.”

  I worry that the jury’s takeaway for the weekend will be me screwing the pooch on cross.

  Sure enough, Dempsey calls Molly O’Reilly to the stand after the recess. O’Reilly’s ex can’t be more than forty or so years old, yet with thinning hair the color and texture of frayed twine, a thick waistline spilling over the waist of a pair of knockoff designer jeans, and a face as weathered as tree bark, she looks like she’s at least fifty—and a hard-living fifty at that. Even so, I suspect Molly O’Reilly had once been an attractive woman. When she throws back her shoulders and strides to the witness stand with her head held high, it’s difficult to imagine her as anything other than someone in control of her own fate. After establishing that the O’Reillys were married for seventeen years and that the love of her life had left behind an adoring fifteen-year-old son that the good officer doted on, Dempsey asks the widow if she recalls the fateful night of September seventeenth.

  The jury leans closer to hear Molly O’Reilly answer in a voice barely above a hoarse whisper. “I’ll never forget,” she says tragically. “Never. It’s the nightmare police wives live in fear of.”

  “How did you learn of the death of your husband?” Dempsey asks with a false intimacy that would do a daytime talk show host proud.

  “A couple of police officers,” sniffle, sniffle, “came to my door the next morning and broke the news to me.”

  Dempsey dwells on the drama a moment longer, then takes his witness on a quick spin through the halcyon days of her marriage to Andy O’Reilly. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” he says while handing her more tissues. “How are you and your son managing?”

  This question prompts another outburst of sniffling. “I don’t think we’ll ever get over this.”

  Dempsey stands back while his witness dabs at her eyes with her Kleenex prop. He lets her perform for a full ten seconds while he monitors the j
ury’s reaction, then thanks her “for allowing us to intrude on your grief. You’ve been very helpful. I’m sure I speak for everyone in this courtroom when I wish you and your son Godspeed in the difficult days ahead. You can go now, Mrs. O’Reilly,” he adds before pausing to look at us. “Unless the defendant’s attorney wishes to question you?”

  Quite a performance. What does Molly O’Reilly stand to gain by trying to bullshit the court about her late ex-husband and their rocky relationship? Maybe she’s worried about collecting on all of his death benefits. The bigger question is what Dempsey’s game is. Surely he knows the truth about the O’Reillys.

  Mike leans close. “Be careful with this.”

  I meet his gaze and nod. “Just enough to pop the balloon.” Then I get to my feet and look across the courtroom at Molly O’Reilly. “Were you and Andy O’Reilly living together on the night he was shot?”

  The widow fidgets for a moment and then looks at Dempsey. “No.”

  “Were you still married to Andy O’Reilly at the time of his death?”

  “No.” She ventures a nervous glance at the jurors, a couple of whom avert their gaze.

  Just to make sure the jury doesn’t leave for the weekend thinking Molly O’Reilly carried a torch for “the love of her life” right to the bitter end, I ask one more question. “Did you divorce Andy O’Reilly over a year ago on grounds of physical and verbal abuse?”

  She answers, “Yes,” in a near whisper that seems more evasive than tragic. The jurors are staring at her with far less empathy than they’d shown a few minutes ago. My work is done.

  When Dempsey declines the opportunity to re-cross his witness, I worry that he’s got an unseen card up his sleeve that he’s going to play when we least expect it. Judge Mitton sends Molly O’Reilly on her way without noticeable warmth and excuses the jury for the weekend.

  “How much time will you need Monday morning to finish your case-in-chief?” he asks the prosecutor in a not-so-subtle hint to move things along after the weekend.