A House on Liberty Street

by Neil Turner

  “But this is significant,” Mike argues. “We’ll need some time.”

  “You have some time. It’s not as if you and Mr. Dempsey are needed to oversee the work. I’ll send one of my bailiffs along to do that. Let the experts sort things out while you present your case. Assuming we can establish the picture is authentic and that the date and time are accurate, the story it tells is pretty much self-evident. You won’t need a lot of time to show it to the jury and explain its significance.”

  “I need time to think about this,” Mike says. “This may impact our order of witnesses and how we present our evidence.”

  “I’m sorry, Counselor, but we don’t even know if this evidence will come in. I may give you some leeway at the end of your case, but we’re starting on time this morning.”

  Mike is about to say more when I put a hand on his arm and speak up. “Fair enough, Your Honor. Can you extend recess an extra thirty minutes so we can get things organized?”

  Mitton nods. “We can do that.”

  By the end of the recess, Lane Brown has agreed to tackle the job of investigating Brittany’s phone, validating the integrity of the photo, and getting a report to us by nine o’clock tomorrow morning, all for a mere $6,500—money well spent if the picture makes it into the courtroom. Plummer called in a favor from a Chicago PD evidence technician and she has agreed to work with Lane Brown. Unlike the prosecutors, the detective seems to be on the hunt for as much truth as he can find, regardless of its impact on the proceedings. I hope it doesn’t rebound on him. One of the judge’s bailiffs is going along, as well, so we’re all set.

  “Things are looking up,” I say to Mike before we walk back into court.

  “Never count your chickens before they hatch,” he warns me. “I just overheard Dempsey on the phone to Walker. They’re already preparing an injunction to keep the picture out.”

  “Mitton will let it in.”

  Mike nods thoughtfully. “Probably so. If he does, putting Francesco on the stand might not be such a wild idea, after all.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The first witness we call is our psychologist, Dr. Angela Backstrom. Our goal is to reframe the jury’s understanding of Papa to debunk the prosecution’s depiction of him as a homicidal time bomb waiting to explode. When Dr. Backstrom finally leaves the witness stand after a furious cross-examination by Alex Dempsey, I think we’ve made progress. Mr. Rosetti, Mrs. LaSusa, and Mr. Vaccaro follow, adding their voices in support of Doctor Backstrom’s depiction of Papa as a benign and admirable everyman. There’s still the inconvenient fact of him shooting a sheriff’s deputy to confront, but we hope the jury is now puzzled as to why he did so.

  Our next witness is the recently unemployed Peter Zaluski. Mike has decided that it’s safe for me to handle Zaluski when we recall him to the witness stand. I don’t quibble with the former village manager over the chronology and facts of his prior testimony, driving instead straight to the motivations of the village in its dealings with my parents. “Let’s go back a couple of years, Mr. Zaluski. Let’s revisit the months immediately after Titan Development failed in its first effort to condemn and seize the Liberty Street/Independence Park neighborhood for development. Do you remember that period?”

  “Reasonably well,” Zaluski replies.

  “Offers to purchase were made to a number of Liberty Street homeowners in the months following this, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “Is it true that offers were made only to homeowners who played significant roles in contesting the eminent domain effort?”

  “Objection!” Dempsey shouts. “We have no basis to believe Mr. Zaluski was involved in those negotiations.”

  “Counselor?” the judge asks me.

  “Mr. Zaluski just told us that a few of Titan’s opponents sold out in that time frame. I would like to explore the village’s involvement.”

  Mitton nods. “Proceed, Mr. Valenti, but only if the witness has direct knowledge of those events.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” I return my attention to Zaluski. “Do you know who decided which homeowners would receive purchase offers?”

  “Mayor Brown and I were consulted.”

  “Who consulted with you, Mr. Zaluski?”

  “Titan Developments. We were asked to provide a list of the homeowners who had been instrumental in thwarting the eminent domain effort.”

  “Were you told why Titan Developments wanted this information?”

  “Titan wished to remove those homeowners from the picture before their next effort to acquire the parcel for development.”

  “They had a target list, did they?” I ask.

  “Objection!” Dempsey yells. “That’s hearsay! Mr. Zaluski was not privy to—”

  “They did,” Zaluski says while Dempsey is objecting.

  Dempsey furiously demands that Zaluski’s answer be stricken from the record. Judge Mitton merely asks Zaluski to refrain from answering until an objection is either sustained or overruled.

  “Do you have direct knowledge of discussions within Titan Developments at this time, Mr. Zaluski?” I ask.

  “I do not.”

  “Were you involved in any discussions about future efforts to revisit this development plan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s skip ahead to the tax reassessment of the Valentis’ home. You said it came to your attention that Mr. and Mrs. Valenti had made improvements to their home without obtaining the appropriate building permits. Do you remember that testimony?”

  “I do.” Zaluski seems quite happy to cooperate today, which stands in sharp contrast to his efforts to obfuscate and otherwise obstruct Mike’s efforts to get at the truth just last week. Perhaps his target for payback has shifted from Francesco Valenti to Mayor Brown.

  “Can you tell us how that information came to your attention?”

  “Titan gave us a list of improvements and suggested that we have Henry Poindexter in our permits department check to see if building permits were issued.”

  “Why Poindexter?”

  “I didn’t know, I just went along with the request.”

  “And this was done?”

  Zaluski nods. “Yes. Poindexter was sent to inspect the property that week and initiate a reassessment.”

  “Is it unusual to have all that occur in the space of a week?”

  “Very much so.”

  “Why was it done in this instance?”

  “The mayor told us to.”

  “Was the rest of the process leading up to the eviction notice also expedited at the direction of you and Mayor Brown?”

  “It was.”

  “Would it be fair to say that Francesco and Maria Valenti were targeted for punishment because they helped defeat Titan Development’s efforts to redevelop Liberty Street and Independence Park?”

  “Absolutely,” Zaluski replies. “Our goal was to drive the Valentis and others like them out of the neighborhood. Titan planned to bring the redevelopment plan to us again after the main opposition was neutralized.”

  I let Zaluski’s answer hang in the air while I take a sip of water. “Neutralized,” I mutter with distaste. “That’s rather militaristic terminology for the public servants of a village to be using, isn’t it, Mr. Zaluski?”

  He looks somewhat chagrined. “I suppose it is.”

  “Did the administrators of the Village of Cedar Heights believe they were locked in conflict with any citizens who disagreed with Titan Development’s plans for the Liberty Street neighborhood?”

  “Mayor Brown certainly did.”

  “Why do you think that was?”

  “You’d have to ask him.”

  I’m not here to beat up Zaluski. Not anymore. “I have no further questions for the witness.”

  Dempsey declines to cross examine Zaluski. He seems happy to see the backside of him.

  Mike calls the former coroner of the City of Detroit. Coroner Jones has built a second career questioning coroner’s fin
dings he finds particularly egregious. He’s costing us several thousands of my crowd funding dollars to call into question key findings of the Cook County Coroner. It will be money well spent if it works. He’s smooth and authoritative on the stand. The jurors listen carefully. Are they buying? Who knows?

  Mike’s next witness is a doctor with extensive knowledge of steroids and experience treating abusers of steroids. Luke Geffen had looked her up two nights ago and somehow or other managed an interview that convinced her to appear a day later. Mike brings in autopsy toxicology reports confirming that O’Reilly died with startling levels of human growth hormone and anabolic steroids in his system. According to the doctor, the concentrations and mix of substances is indicative of a heavy steroid user at the apex of a stacking episode. She explains that steroid users are especially likely to experience incidents of uncontrollable rage after stacking. Deputy O’Reilly died on a night when he was decidedly susceptible to erratic and violent behavior—behavior to which he was no stranger. Dempsey is unable to blunt the damage on cross.

  I’m up next, this time to trot out O’Reilly’s personnel files. The records and witnesses from the Cedar Heights PD and the Cook County Sheriff’s office show that he had a penchant for abusing suspects and other members of the public. Dempsey does his best to temper the damage. By the time we break for lunch, the jurors must be thinking Papa is a pretty good guy compared to Andy O’Reilly. When I share this thought with Mike, he agrees but notes, “Unfortunately, it doesn’t excuse Francesco shooting him.”

  I recall Molly O’Reilly to the stand when court reconvenes. Mike and I debated the merits of bringing Molly’s sister, Fiona Novak, to the stand before I attempt to shred Molly, but decided that Fiona might be an effective counter if Dempsey manages to rehabilitate Molly or has withheld some key point he hopes to spring on us at the last minute. If her answers to my first couple of innocuous questions are any indication of what’s to come, Molly O’Reilly intends to fight back this afternoon. Suits me fine.

  “When we last spoke, you told us that you divorced Andy O’Reilly on grounds of mental and physical abuse. Is that correct?”

  “No, it’s not,” she snaps. “You misrepresent the facts.”

  I pick up a copy of the court records from their divorce proceedings and hand them to her. “Is this an official copy of the papers from your divorce?”

  She refuses to touch the papers. “They’re not true.”

  “What isn’t true, Mrs. O’Reilly?”

  “Andy wasn’t abusive.”

  I take a step closer to the witness box. “You swore he was when you filed for divorce.”

  “Well, I needed to say that to get support, didn’t I?”

  “You’re telling us that you’ll lie when it suits your purposes or to get what you want?”

  “Of course, I do. How else—”

  “Objection, Your Honor!” Dempsey shouts to shut her up. “Counsel is asking leading questions.”

  “Given Mrs. O’Reilly’s prior testimony, I’ll allow Mr. Valenti some latitude to do so.”

  I turn back to the ex-Mrs. O’Reilly. “You were explaining when and why it’s okay to lie in court.”

  “Everybody knows you gotta say stuff like that to get what you’ve got coming to you.”

  “Do you know what perjury is, Mrs. O’Reilly?”

  She snorts. “Yeah, legal mumbo jumbo that doesn’t mean anything. Everyone lies in court.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Andy always said so. So does everyone else. Cops have to lie in court—that’s the only way to get around lawyers like you.”

  I notice Dempsey deflating before I cock my head to the side. “Did you rehearse your prior testimony with the prosecutor’s office, Mrs. O’Reilly?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Once? Twice?”

  “Until I was sick of it,” she says in exasperation.

  I arch my eyebrows and step back as if I’m utterly shocked and scandalized by her answer. With all the wide-eyed disbelief I can summon, I ask, “They knew you were going to lie on the witness stand?”

  “Objection!” Dempsey snaps. “We assumed our witness was being truthful with us. I resent the implication that we would knowingly allow a witness to perjure herself on the stand!”

  “Do you have a specific objection, Mr. Dempsey?” Judge Mitton asks.

  “Defense counsel is insinuating that our team is guilty of gross misconduct. He has no grounds to do so.”

  The judge cocks a skeptical eyebrow at Dempsey for the briefest of seconds and then turns back to me. “Do you wish to file a formal accusation of misconduct against Mr. Dempsey?”

  I make a show of pondering the judge’s question for several seconds. “Not officially, no. I don’t think it’s necessary at this point, but we’ll reserve the right to do so.”

  “As you wish, Counselor.”

  I take a sip of water to let my “unofficial” accusation sink in. In my experience, no witness has ever worked so hard to impeach herself. It’s hard to believe Molly O’Reilly did so without the prosecutors knowing she would. If I were a juror, I’d be mighty pissed with the prosecution right about now. “So, now you want us to believe that Andy O’Reilly never hit you?” I ask after a suitable interval.

  “What happens in my home stays in my home. It’s none of your business.”

  “Your Honor?” I plead.

  “Please answer the question, Mrs. O’Reilly.”

  She looks daggers at the judge and then me. “He might have slapped me a time or two.”

  “Once or twice, Mrs. O’Reilly?” I ask. “Just a simple slap? Is that your testimony?”

  “Yeah.”

  I hand her a copy of the domestic abuse complaint Molly’s sister made on her behalf. “Do you recognize this?”

  “Garbage,” she snarls. “Bullshit from my sister.”

  “Please refrain from using profanity in my courtroom,” Mitton orders her.

  “Was your sister mistaken, Mrs. O’Reilly?” I ask. “Did she not take you to the Emergency Department at Maywood Hospital for treatment after your husband beat you and your son?”

  “We had a little fight, okay?”

  “Did you suffer contusions?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Cuts and bruises, Mrs. O’Reilly.” I hand her a copy of the Emergency Department record of their visit and then pass a copy to the clerk for distribution to the jurors. How in hell Luke Geffen can be nine places at once is beyond me but I’m glad he gets around so efficiently. “This is the hospital’s official record of your visit. I believe you required stitches.”

  “Maybe a couple.”

  “Eleven, and two broken teeth?”

  “Maybe. I don’t really remember.”

  “And one broken and two cracked ribs?”

  “Said I don’t remember, didn’t I?” she snarls.

  “Could your foggy memory be a result of the concussion the emergency room doctor diagnosed?”

  “Okay, so he beat the crap out of us. You happy now?”

  “This was the last straw for you, wasn’t it, Mrs. O’Reilly? You filed for divorce within a week of this incident.”

  “Yeah.”

  As much as I hate to humiliate her any more to demonstrate how often Andy O’Reilly resorted to violent behavior, I’m not done yet. “We heard testimony earlier about your ex-husband’s steroid use. Were you aware that he used steroids?”

  “Pretty obvious to everyone, wasn’t it?” she replies sarcastically. “He wasn’t exactly a little guy when we got married, but he was twice as big by the time we got divorced.”

  “We also heard that he did things like pyramiding and stacking to get better results from his steroid use. Did you witness that?”

  “Yeah, he made me inject him with the damned stuff sometimes.”

  “Did you notice a change in his behavior after the stacking incidents?”

  “Jesus God, yeah. I was scared to be around him for a f
ew days after he did that. We’d go to my mother’s until he wound down.”

  “Was he especially abusive after stacking?”

  Her eyes flash. “Didn’t I just say that?”

  “If I were to tell you that your ex-husband ripped a screen door to shreds, what would you say?”

  “Objection,” Dempsey says. “Do we have to listen to defense counsel’s storytelling?”

  “You do,” Mitton retorts. “Proceed, Mr. Valenti.”

  I uncover the post-shooting photo of the screen door. “On the night Deputy O’Reilly was killed, a screen door at the scene of his shooting was almost ripped out of its frame. Is this something you can imagine him doing in a temper in the day or two immediately following one of his steroid stacking sessions?”

  She pauses before answering; perhaps realizing that an honest answer will be a damning indictment of her ex-husband. She elects to tell the truth but does so with a snarky codicil. “Yeah, he could do that. It wouldn’t surprise me at all—but he couldn’t have done it after your father pumped him full of bullets, could he?”

  “He could have done it before he was shot, couldn’t he?”

  She shrugs. “’Spose he could.”

  “Last question, Mrs. O’Reilly.”

  “About time,” she grumbles.

  “According to the custody provisions of your divorce agreement, your son is supposed to spend Tuesdays with his father. September seventeenth was a Tuesday. Is it true that you didn’t allow Andrew Junior to visit his father that day because you knew Andy Senior had just stacked steroids?”

  “Yeah.”

  I give silent thanks to Fiona Novak for that revelation and add, “You couldn’t expose the son you loved to Andy O’Reilly that night, could you?”

  Her shoulders sag when she mutters, “No.”

  “Because you were afraid of what he might do to Andy Junior. Right?”

  “Right,” she admits with a poisonous look at me.

  “I have nothing else for this witness, Your Honor,” I say. Except contempt. My feelings shame me. It’s not as if I don’t know what being beaten black and blue does to your soul. I should be feeling a little pity for Molly O’Reilly, not the opposite.