by Neil Turner
Dempsey makes a half-hearted and unsuccessful attempt to repair the damage. How do you rehabilitate a witness who just told the court that she lies under oath when it suits her?
Mike and I decide that we’re happy to leave the jury with this picture of the victim in mind for the evening. The suggestion that the prosecution willingly allowed and may have coached a key witness to commit perjury is bonus material. We have an engineer from the manufacturer of the screen door who can testify to its strength and the force needed to mangle it. We’ll put him on the stand in the morning with the damning pictures of the door’s destruction to refresh the jurors’ memories.
Judge Mitton agrees to recess for the day after we assure him that we’ll finish tomorrow. I wonder if we will. The matter of the photo on Brittany’s phone needs to be resolved and we expect to hear from Sandy Russo. There’s also the possibility that Papa will testify. We’re undecided about putting him on the stand, but it seems ever more likely as the trial unfolds.
“Now what?” Brittany asks me while Mike walks away to call his office.
“Mike still thinks we should consider a plea deal. Probably second-degree murder.”
“I’m hearing a lot of ‘Mike thinks’ these days,” Pat says. “What does Tony think?”
“Tony’s a corporate lawyer,” I quip.
Pat crosses her arms and levels an unamused gaze on me. “He’s also co-counsel in his father’s trial. What do you think?”
“The corporate lawyer thinks we should be able to do better than that. Maybe manslaughter—especially if we can get Sandy Russo to corroborate Papa’s version of events and Judge Mitton admits the picture from Britt’s cell phone.”
“And has the corporate lawyer had that discussion with the public defender?” Pat asks.
“Not exactly.”
“The reporter,” Pat says with a hint of a smile, “thinks the corporate lawyer should make his views known to the public defender post-haste as the reporter thinks the corporate lawyer has a good case to make to the public defender.”
I smile back at her. “The corporate lawyer will take the reporter’s views under advisement.”
“The corporate lawyer better listen, buster,” she concludes with mock ferocity.
“The European chick agrees with the reporter,” Brittany adds with a grin as Mike returns.
We’re discussing where to go for a quick bite when Luke Geffen calls. I listen to Mike’s side of the conversation. “You gave her the court order? Wow… tell me what she said… no shit… that’s some stubborn woman… no, don’t bother… I’ll take this to the judge.” Mike hangs up and tells me that Sandy Russo read Judge Mitton’s order to provide a statement to a representative of Papa’s defense team, threw it back in Luke’s face, and screamed “Screw you!”
Mike shakes his head and turns back to the courthouse. “Let’s go see the judge before he leaves for the day. He needs to have Sandy Russo brought in. I want her declared a hostile witness before she gets on the stand.”
We send Pat and Brittany on their way. Judge Mitton grants Mike’s request twenty minutes later.
“I’ve got to spend some time tonight on another case,” Mike tells me as we leave the courthouse. “Can you get with Francesco and talk to him about testifying? Walk him through how things played out that night and see if his story changes from what he told us at Christmas. We need to know what he’s going to say. I don’t think he’s coachable.”
I can’t argue with his reasoning and agree to go, stopping along the way for a bite at a sub shop while I prepare for the chat. I want to be sure Papa understands the risks of testifying. Once I feel ready, I head to the jail. Papa listens carefully while I explain the potential downsides. “Mike says Alex Dempsey will come at you hard if you testify,” I warn him when I finish.
“He will try to trick me. I know this.”
“He’ll do his best to make you look bad in front of the jury. If he can, things could go very badly.”
Papa shrugs. “It will be as it should be.”
What the hell does that mean? “Sometimes I almost get the feeling that you don’t care which way this goes, Papa.”
He studies me for a long moment. “You listen now, Anthony. I no tell you this before, I tell only Maria.”
Some sixth sense warns me that I’m about to hear something I was never meant to know and will probably wish I’d never heard.
“This is not first time I kill a man, Anthony.”
I’m speechless as his intense eyes bore into mine.
“You wonder why I no worry about what will happen to me now. You listen. If I die, maybe is judgment of what I do two times now. I no get punish first time, maybe this time I be punish for both, capisci?”
“No, I don’t capisci, Papa. When did you shoot someone? Who? Why? How the hell don’t I know about this?”
He doesn’t appreciate my interruption. “I say you listen to me, Anthony!”
I sit back and cross my arms.
He rests his forearms on the table. “In Orsomarso, my Papa have gun in house to hunt the rabbits, shoot wolves and badgers when they come.”
“Is this why you didn’t want guns in our house? Mama told me something happened in Italy that put you off guns.”
Papa is visibly annoyed, probably because Mama told me more than she was supposed to, or maybe because I’ve interrupted him again. Whatever the reason, the anger lines quickly dissolve into melancholy before he gathers himself to continue. “After my Papa die, bad men from cosche come to our house. Papa, he no like them, he no pay them, he no work for them. They no like this but Papa mind own business and do the woodwork for village, so they no bother him.”
“Who are these people, Papa?”
“What is called in America the mafia, in Calabria is Ndranghet. In our village is cosche, the local people who are Ndranghet. After Papa die, they come, they want money to not bother us. If Mama no pay, they will kidnap my sister Alessandra to make Mama pay.”
I didn’t even know he had a sister. “Jesus, Papa. I never knew any of this. What did your mother do?”
“Mama do like Papa, she no pay and tell them go away.”
“What happened?”
Papa’s eyes narrow. “They take my sister.”
Jesus Christ! “I’m sorry, Papa.”
Pain swims across Papa’s face as the memories wash over him. When he continues, his voice is haunted. “I take gun to hunt Cosche and find Alessandra. I find her at farm, they rape her and lock in barn with animals. I try to take her home. A man try to stop us. I shoot him and we run away.”
“Then what did you do?”
“Mama and Alessandra go to hide with cousin at monastero in Abruzzo—you say the monastery, I think. I go with them, but I no stay.”
“Why not?”
“I no spend life hiding from Cosche filth! Mama and Alessandra more safe if not with me. The Cosche, they try to find me. If they do, I die.”
“So you came to America?”
“Yes.”
“And your sister and mother? What happened to them?”
“Alessandra still in Abruzzo. Has husband and four children. My Mama, she die many years ago.”
“Have you seen your sister, Papa? Do you write?”
He shakes his head sadly. “Is not safe for her. I hear sometime from cousins, have picture of her and family.”
I’ve never seen the picture. “Surely it’s safe to see her now?”
“If I no go to jail, maybe I go. Maybe Cosche no look for me no more.”
We sit in silence for a minute or more before Papa looks up to meet my gaze. “So, Anthony, maybe God punish me now.”
Neither of us believes in the traditional Catholic God, but maybe Papa is thinking of Karma or fate or something along those lines. I finally understand why he seems resigned to whatever fate awaits him in Judge Mitton’s courtroom, yet I can’t believe the cosmos intends to exact its pound of flesh for what Papa has done. His sister’s kidnapper a
nd rapist deserved his fate. From what Papa has told us about what happened on September seventeenth, Andy O’Reilly brought about his own demise. But that’s just my opinion. What are the odds a jury will agree?
How the hell can we put him on the stand now? He’s as honest as the day is long and will tell the truth if he’s asked a question that even hints at past violence. We sure as hell aren’t going to introduce the killing in Italy, but if the prosecution unearths it on cross, we’re screwed.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The picture on Brittany’s phone is under discussion in Judge Mitton’s chambers early Friday morning. The judge is reading the report produced by Lane Brown and police evidence technician Kyung-Soon Cho, who have determined that the photo and time stamp of Brittany in front of our screen door is authentic. Lane has attached the original phone invoice and activation record to confirm that the phone in evidence was sold to Brittany on September thirteenth, was activated the same day, and that she has been using it every day since. Records from her cell phone service provider and backups from her phone to the cloud helped with authentication. All in all, very impressive work by Lane and Cho in less than a day.
Alex Dempsey tosses his copy of the report aside. “Nothing here proves Brittany Valenti was in physical possession of that phone on September seventeenth or any other day. For all we know, the phone was spirited away to be tampered with—possibly without her knowledge.” Dempsey pauses and stares us down. “No way does that phone belong in our courtroom. We’ll be filing an injunction within the hour to suppress any and all images purported to have originated from that phone.”
Mitton glances up at Dempsey. “You’re not forgetting who’s going to rule on that injunction are you, Counselor?”
“With all due respect, Your Honor, our office is prepared to appeal to the appellate court if you rule against us.”
The judge taps the report. “These folks seem to know their stuff. You’re kidding yourself if you think you’re keeping this evidence out, no matter who you appeal to.”
“We’re not even sure who these two so-called experts are,” Dempsey retorts.
“One of them is a veteran Chicago PD evidence technician,” Mike scoffs. “Don’t try to tell me you haven’t worked with her.”
Dempsey wordlessly fixes his gaze on the judge.
Mitton turns to Mike. “Will you be putting these folks on the stand?”
“Of course,” Mike replies before his eyes swing to Dempsey. “I’ll enjoy watching you rip into the competence of an experienced police technician, Alex. Just think of all the defense attorneys who will use the attack to undermine the competence and credibility of all police evidence techs. Your boss and FOP friends should love it, too.”
Dempsey’s expression morphs from anger to angst in a heartbeat.
“Do you honestly think you’re going to impeach the testimony of these folks and discredit the picture?” Mitton asks him.
“We’re going to try.”
“You’re not going to waste time in my courtroom doing so. I want both sides to stipulate to the authenticity of this photo. We’re not going to drag this trial out while you try to suppress evidence, Mr. Dempsey.”
“My office won’t agree to that.”
“The evidence will take us where it will, whether you and your boss like it or not,” Mitton retorts. “The jury will assess the credibility of the evidence and what weight to afford it. That’s how our system works.”
“State’s Attorney Walker feels very strongly about this, Your Honor. He’ll file for an emergency stay if you allow this evidence in. Perhaps we’d all be well-served by a short delay so we don’t jeopardize the case.”
The judge shrugs. “Do what you will, Mr. Dempsey. I’ll review your petition before court this morning if you get it here within the next fifteen minutes. Otherwise I’ll look at it during recess, but I’m telling you here and now that I will let this in. If another court reverses that decision, so be it. In the meantime, I want this photo stipulated to so we can move things along and to save you the embarrassment of trying to discredit a police technician in open court.”
Dempsey hesitates.
“I assume you have Mr. Walker on speed dial?” Mitton asks. “Call him and hand me the phone.”
“Mr. Walker,” the judge says several seconds later. “Yes, he has… no, I’m not going to hold things up… you’ll be free to appeal… we’re going to stipulate to that, Counselor.” Mitton scowls while he listens and then growls, “I didn’t ask for your opinion, Mr. Walker. We’re going to stipulate… have at it… good day.”
“Let’s get to work,” the judge says after he hangs up.
I spend fifteen minutes with an engineer from the storm door manufacturer to establish that the steel frame is, in fact, highly resistant to bending. “It’d take a damned strong guy some time to do that!” he marvels as I linger beside the picture of the door and detail the damage done to it. Sylvia Perez asks a couple of perfunctory questions and quickly abandons her effort at cross examination. What’s she going to do? Argue that for some reason or other our particular screen door was uniquely pliable?
Mike calls Fiona Novak as our next witness. She confirms the story of taking her sister to emergency after Andy O’Reilly beat her up and of filing the police report, then goes on to paint an unflattering picture of her ex-brother-in-law.
Sylvia Perez gets to her feet and marches toward the witness stand to begin her cross-examination. “Why now? What’s motivating you to dance on your brother-in-law’s grave today?”
Fiona draws back in her seat. “Pardon me?”
Perez fixes a contemptuous glare on the witness. “You hated Andrew O’Reilly, didn’t you?”
“Objection,” Mike calls out. “Fiona Novak’s relationship with or feelings toward Mr. O’Reilly were not explored during our direct examination.”
“Objection sustained,” Judge Mitton says. “Restrict your questioning to the topics opened during direct testimony, Counselor.”
“Her motivations for attacking the victim are certainly pertinent,” Perez retorts. “She’s had nothing to say about any of this until today. We’d like to know why she’s changed her tune.”
After pondering Perez’s statement for a moment, Mitton has a question of his own. “Does Mrs. Novak’s testimony today contradict an earlier statement given in the course of your investigation?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Your Honor,” Perez replies.
Mike glances at me and whispers, “Do you know where she’s going with this?”
“Hopefully to hell in a hand basket.”
Mitton relents. “I’ll permit you to probe that topic very briefly, Miss Perez. The prosecution had the chance to call Mrs. Novak as a witness and did not, so you’ve limited yourselves to what you can explore. I won’t allow you to circumvent that decision now.”
“Understood.”
“One last thing, Miss Perez,” the judge says sternly. “You will not treat witnesses boorishly in my courtroom. Is that understood?”
Perez nods and rephrases her question. “In an earlier statement to police, you chose not to volunteer any of these stories you’ve come up with this morning. Why did you withhold this information when you were questioned?”
“The topic never came up.”
“What did come up?”
“Not much of anything. I was asked when I had last seen or spoken with Andy. That was pretty much it.”
“How did you answer that question?”
“The last time I saw or spoke with Andy O’Reilly was the day my sister was granted her divorce. I tagged along to help in case he decided to attack her again after court.”
“Your Honor,” Perez exclaims in exasperation, “I didn’t ask Mrs. Novak why she went to court with her sister. Please have her last sentence stricken from the record, beginning with ‘I tagged along.’”
“Is that comment in her original statement?” Mitton asks.
“No.”
“I can corroborate that, Your Honor,” Mike adds.
“Thank you, Counselor,” Mitton says with a grateful glance at Mike. “Please strike the last sentence as requested by Miss Perez,” he tells the court reporter before turning back to the witness. “Mrs. Novak, please answer only the questions asked.”
“Sorry,” Fiona Novak says. She doesn’t look overly apologetic.
Perez takes a step toward the witness box, shoots a knowing glance at the jury, and says, “You didn’t volunteer information to the police but now you suddenly tell all to the defense. Why is that?”
“The police officers I spoke with knew Andy O’Reilly. I assume they didn’t ask because they didn’t want that information on the record. Now that—”
Perez cuts her off. “Why did you decide to come forward at this late date with derogatory information about the victim of this crime?”
“As I was about to say,” Fiona replies tartly, “my nephew was understandably upset over the death of his father. I saw no need to pile on by exposing him to the ugly truth about Andy. I was trying to protect him.”
“Very noble,” Perez sneers, “but here you are today slinging mud about his father.”
“You asked ‘why now?’”
“I did,” Perez replies sarcastically. “Please do tell us.”
Fiona glares back at her. “My initial inclination was to protect Andy Junior from the truth about his father. When I saw on the news that Andy’s police records would come out in court, I realized that the truth couldn’t be hidden. I already knew Andy Junior had been arrested for shooting Pat O'Toole at the Valenti house a few weeks ago—”
“Objection!” Dempsey roars from the prosecution’s table. “Assumes facts not in evidence. Even if true, the identity of a minor charged with a crime cannot be disclosed.”
Pat beckons me and I slide back to listen. “The Trib and WGN broke the story and reported the kid’s name an hour ago. He’s being tried in adult court.”
I scoot back to the defense table while Mike and Dempsey argue about the objection. While Dempsey is taking a turn, I tell Mike what I’ve just learned while the clerk hands an envelope to the judge. Mitton glances at it and sets it aside.