CHAPTER 1
The first sign of trouble is a Cedar Heights police cruiser blocking the intersection. A tangle of other emergency vehicles clogs the street halfway down the block. Red, blue, and yellow emergency lights explode like multi-colored flashbulbs, their reflections skittering across the windows of the stout brick bungalows that line Liberty Street. If the cops aren’t at our house, they’re damned close.
A uniformed cop looks over his shoulder and waves us away when I coast to a stop a few feet short of the cruiser. Like hell. I creep closer. The cop glances back and waves me away again. When I stay put, he whirls and advances on us with the blinding beam of his flashlight aimed at our windshield. Crisp autumn air floods in when I open the driver’s side window of my Porsche Panamera and turn on the interior lights.
“Street’s closed, sir,” the cop announces impatiently. “Move along.”
“What’s going on, Officer?”
“Street’s closed.”
There’s a newsflash. I point beyond him and make an announcement of my own. “I live down there.”
Interest flickers in his eyes before a hand shoots to my window. “Driver’s license.”
He gives the car a longer, appreciative look while I wrestle a lambskin wallet out of my back pocket, flip it open, and push it outside.
“Just the license,” he snaps without touching the wallet.
I jerk the license out of its plastic holder and hand it back.
He glances at it. “Georgia?”
“We moved back a few weeks ago.”
“You staying?”
“I plan to.”
“You gotta go to the DMV and get an Illinois license,” he says. “Plates, too.”
“Sure.”
“You got ninety days.”
Who the hell cares? Take it easy, Valenti, I caution myself. Bulletheads like this guy think bullshit rules are all that stand between law and order and chaos. I lock my eyes on the flashing lights dead ahead while he studies the official plastic in his hand.
His eyes narrow. “Your name’s Valenti?”
“That’s right. Tony Valenti.”
He aims the flashlight past me, blinding my fourteen-year-old daughter, Brittany. She shrinks lower into her seat.
“My daughter,” I tell him while easing forward to shield her. “She’s a freshman at Saint Aloysius. We’re on our way home from orientation.”
“What number do you live at?”
“Forty-seven.”
“Wait here,” he says tersely, then turns on his heel to march back to his car with my license in hand.
“What’s going on, Officer?” I shout at his retreating back. He doesn’t break stride until he leans into his cruiser and pulls out a radio microphone. He stares back at us while he talks. I look beyond him to the cluster of emergency vehicles. Jesus. The cops are definitely in our driveway and buzzing around the front porch.
I roll my shoulders to release tension, then give Brittany’s hand a reassuring squeeze. Her scarlet scrunchie is wound so tightly through her fingers that they’re turning white. My eyes drift to the stately old elm trees towering above the damp pavement. Each is rooted precisely five feet from the curb; one per narrow, Chicago-style lot. Their branches wave high overhead to link limbs with their neighbors—much as the mostly Italian immigrants here have done since the trees were saplings. The glow of streetlights shrouded in an early autumn haze struggles to reach the street below. But Liberty Street isn’t especially dark this evening. Porch lights are on as the neighbors drink in whatever drama is unfolding at our house. They’re mostly older now, retired, people of my parents’ generation—grizzled men who wear sleeveless white undershirts and fleshy women in voluminous floral dresses. The residents of Liberty Street are gathered on wooden porches, perched on lawn chairs in their tidy yards, or huddled together along the edges of the pavement.
“What’s going on, Dad?” Brittany asks. “Is Papa okay?”
How do I answer that? Cops. An ambulance. Hardly the makings of a Disney moment, especially knowing that my father—Papa in the vernacular of our fairly traditional Italian family—should be home. The cop tosses the radio into his cruiser and marches back toward us. “I think we’re about to find out,” I tell Brittany.
Bullethead jerks a thumb toward the curb. “Pull it around the corner and park.”
“What’s up?” I ask.
He waves us toward an open spot without answering. I jam the gearshift into reverse to back away from the cruiser, then slam the car into drive and zoom into the open spot, leaving the back end of the Porsche jutting into the intersection. I throw my door open and step into a puddle left behind by an early evening thunderstorm. Cursing under my breath as my shoe squishes every step of the way, I stride straight toward the cop waiting beside his car and say, “I want some answers.”
The cop yanks the rear door open without a word and motions us in. He’s in front of me in a heartbeat when I try to brush past him. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Our house.”
“You can’t.”
“Why can’t I go to my own damned house?”
“It’s a crime scene. The detective will be here as soon as he can.”
Crime scene? Detective? I stand my ground with my nose within a foot of his. I’ve got maybe an inch on him. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Malice stirs in the wintry blue eyes glaring back into mine. “Get in the car.”
“My father was there when we left,” I retort while looking past him.
“Your old man’s okay.”
I cross my arms and meet his gaze. “Good to know, but I still want to see him.”
“Not yet.”
Pin a badge on these clowns…. I inch close enough to smell mint on the cop’s breath. “Why not?”
His nightstick materializes under my chin. “Because I said not yet.”
My manufactured machismo melts away when the weapon brushes the underside of my jaw. I take Brittany’s arm and steer her back to the police cruiser, where we slide onto the cold, brittle vinyl of the rear seat. The door slams shut. My anger gives way to a moment of frank curiosity; it’s my first time inside a police car. Beyond a battleship-gray grated metal partition that separates us from the front seat, a shotgun stands menacingly at attention against the dashboard. The sour stench of the drunks and whores and other deadwood of Cedar Heights clings to the battered upholstery. This is no place for a corporate attorney and his teenage daughter.
Brittany inches closer. “Can’t you do something?”
Nothing that won’t get me arrested. “Patience, Britts. We’ll know what’s going on soon enough.”
“I’m scared.”
Join the club. A morsel of my recently deceased mother’s matter-of-fact wisdom bubbles forth. “Mama used to say that people take years off their lives worrying about bad things that might happen. Know what?”
“What?”
“Most of it never does.”
“Yeah,” Brittany mutters sullenly. “But sometimes bad shit just happens, right?”
We’ve learned the truth of that over the past few months, haven’t we? I’m debating whether or not to let her profanity slide when I notice a smallish man hustling toward us in a beige suit straight off the rack at Sears or J.C. Penney. With the aid of a sharply receding hairline and a frost-tinged mustache, I peg him for around fifty.
He pauses to speak with the uniformed cop, steps over to open the back door of the cruiser, and waves us out. “Jake Plummer,” he says while extending his hand for a crisp handshake. “I’m the lead detective assigned to the case.”
What case? I wonder.
Plummer turns to Brittany and shakes her hand. She’s as tall as he is, though considerably more slender and graceful—not to mention infinitely better coiffed with her head of thick, shoulder-length auburn hair. “I hear you’re on your way home from school,” the detective says.
She leans a hip on the cruiser’s rear fender and nods.
“Pretty late for school, isn’t it?”
“We had orientation for the freshman class. You know, parents getting to know who the teachers are. Like that.”
Plummer smiles. “That’s ninth grade, right?”
“Yeah.”
“New school for you?”
Her eyes drop to study the pavement. “Yeah.” The move hasn’t been easy on her.
“Starting the year in a strange school is tough,” Plummer says sympathetically. “I’m an Air Force brat, so I know what you’re going through. Sometimes it seemed like I went to a different school every year. Somehow or other, things always worked out.”
Brittany shrugs but says nothing, so he turns back to me. “I need to ask a few questions. Is it just the two of you, or is there a missus or significant other we should be speaking with, as well?”
“She’s in Europe,” I reply stiffly.
The detective cocks an eyebrow. “Whereabouts?”
“She lives in Brussels. Divorce.” That’s new, too.
We both glance at Brittany, who now looks thoroughly miserable. When Plummer’s eyes meet mine again, they carry a silent apology.
“Let’s get on with it,” I suggest.
The uniformed cop, who’s been hovering nearby, takes a step closer. “Want me to take the girl somewhere?”
“That’s up to Mr. Valenti,” Plummer replies.
I wrap an arm around Brittany’s shoulders, draw her close, and wave Bullethead away. “She stays.”
The detective nods. “Just as well. She’ll hear about this soon enough anyway.”
“First off,” I begin, “I understand my father’s okay. Is that true?”
“It is.”
I look past him toward our house. “I’d like to see him.”
“He’s not here.”
My patience with this cat-and-mouse bullshit is wearing thin. “Where is he?”
Plummer studies me for a long moment. “Mr. Valenti, your father shot a police officer.”
“He did what?”
“A Cook County Sheriff’s Deputy was sent to serve papers. Your father shot him.”
“Legal papers?” I ask. Inanely, I realize immediately.
He nods again.
“There’s got to be some confusion, Detective. Papa’s never had a legal issue worth mentioning. I doubt he’s even had a parking ticket.”
Plummer calmly stares back at me. “Yet here we are.”
We continue our stare-down while I grapple with what he just told me. If it’s true, only one person can explain it. “I’m a lawyer. When can I see my father?”
The lawyer comment gets the detective’s attention. He glances at his watch. “I’ll be wrapping up here in twenty or thirty minutes but the crime scene folks will be here awhile yet. Go have a coffee or something and come by the station in an hour. No promises about seeing your father, but maybe we can clear up a few things.”
“How’s the deputy?” I finally think to ask.
“Dead.”
CHAPTER 2
We loiter over a couple of apple fritters and Cokes at a Dunkin’ for the next hour, then waste forty-five minutes at the police station waiting for Detective Plummer. When he finally arrives, he escorts us to a squad room ripe with the caustic stench of burnt coffee. A row of four battered beige metal desks occupies one wall; offices line another. The detective leads us to the last desk and waves us into a couple of folding chairs placed in front of it.
My ass is barely on the battered seat before I repeat my demand. “I want to see my father.”
“Patience, Mr. Valenti.”
I ease forward and level my eyes on his. “Why can’t I see him now?”
“I said patience, Mr. Valenti,” he replies tersely. Then he stares me down for several seconds.
I eventually get around to nodding. The cops may tell me Papa’s okay, but I’m anxious to see him with my own eyes. I’ll wait to see what this guy has to say before I go to the mat with him about seeing Papa.
“Okay then,” Plummer says. “Coffee?”
Not the burnt swill I smell. “Got a fresh pot somewhere?”
“I put one on a few minutes ago.” His eyes shift to Brittany. “Soda?”
“Can I have coffee?” she asks weakly. She’s been alternating between bouts of catatonic silence and uncontrolled sobbing since Plummer cut us loose on Liberty Street.
“Sure can,” he says. “Two coffees coming up. Cream and sugar?”
“Yes,” we say in unison. I look around the room after he ambles away. Beefy men in shirtsleeves occupy two of the other desks and a few uniformed cops wander in and out. The stares we attract range from curiosity to outright rancor.
When Plummer returns, he sets three white Styrofoam cups of steaming coffee on his desk. A red stir stick bobs in each. “Someone is on the way over from the Public Defender’s office,” he tells us while he dumps a mound of creamers, sugar packets, and sweeteners in the middle of the desk.
My eyes cut from the condiments to the detective. “A public defender? Why?”
“Your father had enough sense to ask for a lawyer when we brought him in. When my partner told him that his defense will probably run into six figures, your dad said he doesn’t have that kind of money. So we called the Public Defender’s office.”
After my brain catches up to my mouth, I realize that was probably the right call. My knowledge of the criminal justice system can be written on the back of a post-it note. Still, Plummer is mistaken if he thinks his “trust me” schtick is going to wash with me. I don’t see his angle yet, but I’ll sniff it out.
The detective leans back in his seat and crosses his arms. “So, you’re a lawyer?”
I nod while stirring two creamers and two sweeteners into my cup.
“Illinois Bar?” he asks.
I can practice law in Wisconsin or Georgia and even joined the bar in New York for business purposes, but I’ve never worked in Illinois. “No.”
A flash of annoyance flickers in his eyes—probably because he realizes I played him with the lawyer revelation to weasel my way in to see my father—but he says nothing before Brittany interrupts.
“Deano?” she asks.
In a dazzling display of having my head up my ass, I hadn’t thought of the other family member at Forty-seven Liberty Street this evening until Brittany brought it up at Dunkin’.
“Before we go any further, Detective,” I say, “where’s the dog?”
“He was in the backyard when I left.”
“Poor Deano!” Brittany exclaims. “He must be terrified.”
“He’s okay,” Plummer assures her. “The poor old guy was a little agitated, obviously, but he was taking things in stride.”
“Good to know,” I reply, briefly wondering what we’re going to do with the apple of Mama’s eye.
“Yuck!” Brittany blurts with a pucker after she takes a sip of Plummer’s high-test coffee.
The detective drums his fingers on the desk while we watch her dump four more sugars and five creamers into her cup. He turns his attention back to me. “Your father says you’re unemployed. No interest in applying to the Illinois bar so you can take on his case yourself?”
“I’m a corporate guy. I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“Are you thinking of hiring an attorney?”
“Maybe,” I reply with a frown. “I hear public defenders aren’t exactly the cream of the defense attorney crop.”
“I don’t want to waste their time, Mr. Valenti,” Plummer says with a hint of annoyance. “If you plan to hire someone else, do it soon.”
Can I afford to get Papa a real lawyer? Can he afford not to have one? He’s got the house and his pension and there must be some savings. Will that be enough?
As if reading my thoughts, the detective asks, “Do you have any brothers or sisters who can help?”
I shake my head. “My sister died a long time ago. There’s a brother I haven’t spoken to in years.”
“Can you reach him?”
I haven’t spoken to Frankie since the final beating he administered to me in our teen years. That one left me hospitalized for a couple of weeks. Hell, he didn’t even bother to come to Mama’s funeral. Estranged understates the distance between us. “I’m not even going to try,” I tell Plummer.
He nods and moves on. “You know your father’s being evicted from the house?”
A gasp escapes Brittany as we absorb another sucker punch.
“What?” I ask in disbelief.
“The deputy was serving him with an eviction notice.”
“But he owns the house outright!” I argue. “How can he be evicted from his own home?”
“We’re a little fuzzy on what’s going on there. I’ll have someone look into it tomorrow morning. Maybe it has something to do with that eminent domain circus a year or two back?”
He’s referring to an attempt to expropriate the neighborhood to build a shopping center and condos. “All water under the bridge,” I answer confidently. “The developer pulled the plug on the deal.”
Something in Plummer’s gaze suggests skepticism. “Titan Development was behind that proposal, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah. Why?” I ask. “Do you know something I don’t?”
He shakes his head. “Not really, just a passing thought. Given this eviction business, your father might not have the house to help pay for his defense. Something to think about.”
Great.
Brittany hasn’t let go of the doggy bone. “Can we go get Deano?”
“You can swing by when we’re done here,” Plummer replies. “You won’t be able to go inside the perimeter but I’ll give them a heads-up to expect you. Someone will bring the dog out.”
“Thank you!” she says.
I resume my push to see Papa. “When can I see him?”
Plummer’s eyes drift beyond me while he thinks. “Not tonight,” he finally replies. “We’ll see what the public defender has to say.”
My initial instinct is to argue—what with me being a lawyer and all—but I’m way out of my depth here. Turning help away might not be the wisest move.
“And here he is,” Plummer announces.
A tall black man whose lengthy gait suggests athleticism is striding toward us. The hem of his colorful knit sweater ends below the waistband of a well-pressed pair of pleated slacks; a navy-blue windbreaker is slung casually over his shoulder. He’s a sharp looking guy. The slender folio tucked under his left arm is the only indication that he’s here on business.
Detective Plummer extends his hand, which quickly disappears into one the size of an oven mitt. “Mike,” he says to the newcomer. “This is Tony Valenti and his daughter Brittany.”
I look into Williams’s inquisitive, deep-brown eyes. He’s a shade taller than me, probably 6’ 6” or so.
“Michael Williams,” he says in a deep, silky voice as he grasps my hand and pumps once. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Mr. Valenti is the suspect’s son,” Plummer says. “He’s also an attorney.”
The public defender’s alert eyes turn to mine. “What kind of law?”
“Corporate. Not a member of the Illinois bar.”
Williams stares at me. I stare back. His next query isn’t verbalized but I see it in his eyes: Are you gonna be a problem? I’m wondering the same about him.
He rests his ass on the edge of Plummer’s desk. “What have we got, Detective?”
“A dead sheriff’s deputy, a sixty-nine-year-old suspect named Francesco Valenti, male, apprehended with what appears to be the murder weapon. The suspect confessed to the first uniforms on the scene. Pretty cut and dry.”
“Aren’t they all,” Williams mutters wearily.
“There’s no question who pulled the trigger,” Plummer continues. “I don’t know why, though, and that’s bothering me. It doesn’t add up.”
No shit. I’m not buying this Papa shot a cop bullshit. The supposed confession to a couple of uniformed cops is a little too convenient for my liking. To purloin and build upon Plummer’s trite phrase, that story adds up like one plus one equals pi.
Williams frowns as he asks Plummer, “Witnesses?”
“We’re canvassing the neighborhood to see if anyone saw the shooting.”
“Local cop?” Williams probes with a cocked eyebrow.
Plummer shakes his head. “Cook County Sheriff’s Deputy named Andy O’Reilly. He was one of ours for a couple of years before he went to the Sheriff’s office ten, eleven years ago.”
Something in Williams’s demeanor shifts, suggesting this isn’t the first time he’s heard the name. “Did you know him?” he asks Plummer.
The detective drums his fingers on the armrest of his chair for a few seconds before answering warily, “To see him, but I never knew the guy well. He lived in town. I’d see him around now and then but we didn’t talk.”
“Why is that?” Williams asks.
“Different circles,” Plummer replies with a shrug. He seems less than grief-stricken over the passing of his former colleague—an odd reaction from a brother officer. Williams doesn’t look heartbroken, either. Who in hell was this O’Reilly character?
Williams studies the detective for a moment before moving on. “Is the suspect going to qualify for a public defender?”
“Looks that way.”
Williams’s curious eyes turn to me. If I were him, I’d also wonder why the father of a corporate attorney needs a public defender. I try to look less ashamed than I feel. Williams breaks eye contact with me, steps away from the desk, and looks down at Plummer. “Where can I talk to Mr. Valenti?”
“I’ve got a room set up,” the detective replies. Then he turns to me. “This may not be suitable for a fourteen-year-old. Have you got a relative who can pick up Brittany?”
“Papa’s all we’ve got here.”
“Friends?” he asks.
“We’ve only been back a few weeks. I haven’t had a chance to reconnect with anyone.”
The corners of Williams’s mouth turn down. “Neighbors?” He doesn’t seem too keen on the idea of having Brittany around, either. Why don’t these guys want her here? Too many witnesses to what they’re up to?
“Nobody she knows,” I reply. “I don’t want to leave her with strangers tonight.”
Brittany finally pipes up to ask me, “Can I stay? I’d rather be with you.” She underscores the plea with the distraught, doe-eyed entreaty she perfected long ago—a gambit straight out of her mother’s playbook. I’ve succumbed to both of them many a time.
Plummer’s gaze shifts to her. “How about I give you something to read and you can wait in one of the offices?”
Brittany’s eyes remain locked on mine while she squeezes the blood out of my fingers. “Please, Dad?”
“She stays with me,” I tell Plummer, hoping to hell I’m making the right choice.
“Fair enough,” he says with a frown. Then he sits up straight, places his hands on the desk, and gets down to business. “Any history of mental instability with your father?”
“None,” I reply.
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. Why do you ask?”
“I’ve got him on suicide watch.”
Brittany stiffens at my side. Suicide? Papa? How ridiculous. Are the cops setting up one of their “suspect died in custody” incidents?
“He’s not in the lockup with the herd?” Williams asks.
“I didn’t want to lock him up with the regulars,” Plummer replies. “He’s in an interview room. I cuffed him so he can’t do anything dumb.”
Williams leans his hands on the desk and stares hard at Plummer. His voice is pure ice when he asks, “Cuffed?”
“For his own safety.”
“Jesus! You’ve had a sixty-nine-year-old man cuffed to a chair for”—Williams glances at his watch—“what? Three, four hours?” Maybe Williams smells the same “died in custody” scenario I’m worrying about.
“For his own safety,” Plummer repeats through clenched teeth.
Williams snorts. “How did you come by that confession, Detective?”
Plummer is on his feet in a heartbeat. His hand shoots toward the bigger man’s chest and his index finger punctuates each word of his response without quite making contact. “Don’t you ever insinuate that crap with me again, Williams. Ever! You got me?”
Cook County has a long history of cops obtaining questionable confessions from suspects before they see a lawyer. It seems to be a sore point for Plummer; there’s quite a temper under that seemingly calm façade. At heart he’s probably just another asshole cop.
Williams backs down immediately. “Sorry, Detective. I know better.”
The fire in Plummer’s eyes subsides as quickly as it flared. “You know that’s not my style,” he mutters as he settles back into his seat.
“I know,” Williams replies contritely. “I was out of line. Sorry.”
“Fair enough,” Plummer replies with a curt nod. Then he turns to me. “I’m concerned about your father’s emotional state. I want you to observe through the mirror and tell us what you think.”
“I should be in the room with him,” I reply. Plummer and Williams both shake their heads. I slide to the edge of my seat. “That’s my father you have penned up in there, Detective.”
“I know,” he replies. “He’s not ‘penned up,’ he’s in custody.”
“Semantics,” I retort. “I want to make sure he’s okay and that you guys haven’t been screwing around with him.”
The detective slaps a palm against his fingertips in a “time out” gesture. “I’m not going to debate this. Either accept what’s on offer or go home.”
“You told me to come here to see him!”
Plummer’s eyes turn to ice. “No I didn’t! I said you might get a chance to see him, Mr. Valenti—after you informed me that you’re a lawyer and conveniently forgot to mention that you can’t practice in Illinois. I could hardly say no. Besides, I realize this can’t be an easy situation for you.”
Horseshit! Whatever this guy’s game is tonight, empathy has nothing to do with it.
Perhaps intuiting my thoughts, the detective rests his elbows on the desk and leans over them while he fixes a stare on me. “Let me make things clear to you, Mr. Valenti. Your father is the prime suspect in a capital murder investigation. The only people who get access to the prisoner at this stage of the game are cops, prosecutors, and defense attorneys licensed to practice in the State of Illinois. As you are none of the above, you’re not speaking with your father tonight. Understood?”
“This is bullshit!” I retort in a mixture of frustration and helpless anger.
Plummer points at the door. “I’ve had enough of this. Get out.”
We glare at each other, but I don’t budge.
Williams steps in. “Let’s not lose sight of why you wanted Mr. Valenti here, Jake. I’d like to hear what he has to say about his father’s demeanor.”
Plummer sighs and meets my gaze. “Are you going to accept my conditions?”
Not trusting myself to utter a civil reply, I clamp my lips shut and nod. What the hell else can I do?
“For what it’s worth, I think this will be easier for your father if you’re not in the room,” Williams says.
I don’t answer him, either.
Plummer stands. “I’m gonna go make sure the room’s ready.”
Williams steps in front of me after the detective leaves. “I’m not thrilled to have you along tonight, Mr. Valenti.”
“Why?”
“Your father didn’t do himself any favors talking to the police earlier. I need him focused on me when I’m with him. If he sees you, he’s likely to blurt out more that the police don’t need to hear.”
I square my shoulders in a corporate power move to signal that I’m about to impose my will. “I’m going to do whatever I can to help my father.”
“I understand and respect that,” he responds with a nod. “I’m glad you want to do what’s best for your father. So do I.”
I let the comment go, maintain eye contact, and wait for him to fold.
Williams shakes his head with a bemused expression. “You trying that ‘first person to blink loses’ bullshit with me?”
I feel the color rising in my cheeks after he calls my bluff. Now what?
“Do you have any experience in criminal law?” he asks.
“Just what I remember from law school… but two heads are generally better than one.”
“Sometimes that’s so, sometimes not.”
“I intend to be involved.”
He looks resigned. “I think the best thing you can do for your father right now is to let me handle things. We can’t afford any missteps in a potential death penalty case.”
I’m shocked into momentary silence. Illinois did away with the death penalty years ago. “A death penalty case?”
Williams nods grimly. “Looks like he killed a first responder.”
“But Illinois abolished the death penalty.”
“The Republicans brought it back this year,” he informs me with a look that telegraphs his awe with my legal expertise. “You missed that?”
“I’ve been out of state,” I murmur sheepishly.
“Folks can get the needle for killing a kid, a first responder, or for multiple killings.”
The death penalty revelation fuels my determination to have a say in things. “All the more reason for you not to be cozying up to the cops. You’re supposed to be here to help Papa, not grease the skids for Plummer.”
Williams’s eyes smolder while he bites back whatever angry retort is on his lips. Then he shakes his head and sighs. “Look man, you’re confused. You’re angry. You’re scared. I get it.”
“But?” I snap back.
“Plummer’s right. You can’t be in the same room as your father right now. It isn’t done.”
I nod tersely. Bitching and arguing hasn’t gotten me anywhere to this point. I’m done wasting my breath.
“I’m surprised he has you here at all,” Williams continues.
I shrug.
“What happened at your house seems cut and dry, yet something is niggling at Plummer. If he’s nothing else, Jake is a fair-minded man, a cop who is interested in getting things right. He must sense that he doesn’t have the whole story. That could be a rich vein for us to mine. Park your anger and keep your eyes and ears open for clues as to what’s on his mind.”
Is this guy for real? “Like there’s a cop on the planet who’s interested in a damned thing besides getting a conviction.”
“Don’t confuse good street cops and detectives with prosecutors, Mr. Valenti,” he shoots back. “Those of us who practice criminal law don’t make that mistake.”
My finely tuned lawyerly instincts warn me that I may be talking out of my ass again.
Plummer’s return spares me further humiliation.
“You folks ready?” he asks.
We all nod. He leads us out of the squad room and into the hall. We follow in silence until he stops outside the first of two adjacent doors. Both are labeled Interview Two. Brittany and I are ushered inside a cubbyhole with a wooden bench along one wall and the viewing side of a two-way mirror on the other. When we sit down, our noses are within two feet of the glass. Brittany’s trembling hand slips into mine when Williams and Plummer walk into the next room.
Francesco Valenti, my father and alleged cop killer, is shepherded into the interview room. It’s as if someone let the air out of him. The collar of Papa’s prison-issue shirt seems at least two sizes too large. He looks wilted—inches shorter than his true 5’10” height; even his olive Mediterranean complexion seems bleached. His eerily vacant eyes look first to Plummer and then to Mike Williams, who is a stranger to him. The detective settles into a straight-back chair and gestures for my father to sit. Papa sinks into a chair across the table, appearing to leak a little more air as he does.
Williams steps forward. “I’m Michael Williams from the Public Defender’s office, Mr. Valenti. I’m here to assist you.”
“You asked for a lawyer earlier,” Plummer explains. “Mr. Williams is a criminal defense attorney.”
“I wanted my Anthony,” Papa answers, his voice barely audible through the cheap speaker hanging in the corner of the viewing room. I’m stung by the disappointment in his eyes when he asks, “Why he no come?”
“Your son isn’t licensed to practice in Illinois,” Plummer informs him. “Mr. Williams is here to protect your interests.”
Williams steps in. “Mr. Valenti, my job is to advise you and make sure you’re afforded all of your rights. Did the first police officers to arrive at your house read you your rights before they questioned you?”
Papa shakes his head no. “They not do that until we come here.”
Excellent! That invalidates his so-called confession.
Williams, who appeared momentarily taken aback by Papa’s fractured English—even after almost fifty years in America—leans in closer, “You understand what your Miranda rights are?”
“I know about this,” Papa replies.
True enough. Papa loves his cop shows.
“I need to be sure, Mr. Valenti,” Williams presses. “This is a serious matter. They should have told you that you have the right to remain silent, that anything you say can and will be used against you, and that you have the right to an attorney.”
“I understand,” Papa retorts with a flash of irritation. “I did what they say. I shoot the policeman.”
Brittany goes rigid at my side while my stomach twists like a towel being wrung out. Papa did shoot the cop? Why? Where in hell did the gun come from?
Williams settles back and sighs in exasperation. “I was about to say that you don’t have to answer questions about that.”
“It no matter,” Papa announces. “Now they will kill me—an eye for an eye. This is the way of things.”
“Well, I guess we’re done,” Williams mutters to Plummer.
No shit. The horse isn’t just out of the barn, it’s already somewhere in the next county.
After the detective nods in agreement, Williams kneels in front of Papa. “I or someone else from my office will see you at bond call tomorrow. Do you have any questions, Mr. Valenti?”
Papa’s reply is a disinterested shake of his head.
Plummer summons a uniformed cop into the room. “Take Mr. Valenti back to his cell and keep him in a paper suit tonight. Understood?”
“Yeah,” the officer replies as he jerks Papa to his feet.
Plummer’s eyes flare. “Gently!” he admonishes the cop.
I watch in disbelief as Papa shuffles out of the interview room.
Brittany’s fingers tighten their grasp on mine and her voice quivers when she asks, “What’s wrong with Papa? He looks awful!”
He looks awful? That’s the least of our worries—he just said he shot a cop. No, I can’t accept that. There has to be some other explanation. Getting back to Brittany’s question, I’m not sure how to reply. Do I tell her that maybe her grandfather has grown weary of the world? His home of almost fifty years is being taken away from him, he just watched cancer devour his wife, his daughter Amy has been dead over fifteen years, and he’s estranged from his eldest son. As for me, I’ve just returned from Atlanta, but maybe that isn’t much of an incentive for Papa to carry on. No surprise, I suppose—I’ve been absent for most of the past two decades, physically and emotionally. Maybe Papa’s playing out the string, anxious to join Amy and Mama.
Plummer opens the door and summons us out of our cubicle. “Well?”
“He’s whipped,” I announce.
His eyes search mine intently. “Enough to do something crazy to himself?”
I finally understand what he meant about the paper suit. Aside from a possible self-inflicted paper cut or two, Papa won’t be able hurt himself. “No,” I reply with a little less certainty than I had a few minutes ago.
The detective picks up on my hesitancy. “You’re sure?”
I nod. “The Catholic Church forbids it.”
Plummer raises his eyebrows and calls bullshit on my logic. “I’m not sure they encourage parishioners to shoot police officers, either.”
Good point. Maybe the paper suit isn’t such a ridiculous idea, after all.
Plummer hands me two business cards—his own and another with the address of the Cook County Criminal Courthouse. “We’ll take him down for bond call around one tomorrow afternoon.”
Williams, who has been watching silently, turns a questioning gaze on me when Plummer walks away. “You coming to bond call?”
“I’ll be around. I’m not giving the cops a free ride to railroad Papa.”
“You’ve really got it in for the police, don’t you?” he notes with what seems to be genuine curiosity. “Do you have some history with the law that I should know about?”
“No record, if that’s what you’re suggesting. Don’t forget that I’m also an officer of the court.”
Williams nods and wordlessly walks toward Plummer, who is waiting for us. I take Brittany’s hand and trail Williams.
A cop appears in the doorway at the end of the hallway. “Peter Zaluski’s on the phone for you again, Detective.”
Plummer sighs heavily. “What the hell does he want now?”
“Says he needs to speak to you.” The cop glances at me before adding, “about this.”
“Christ!” Plummer curses. “Get a number and I’ll call back when I’m done.”
I briefly wonder who Peter Zaluski is. Then my thoughts turn to the more pressing matter of where we’ll sleep tonight. “Can we go back to the house now?” I ask Plummer.
“Not tonight. They’ll be bagging and tagging evidence for a few hours yet.”
So, a hotel for tonight. Just tonight? “What about tomorrow?” I ask.
“I imagine we’ll be done by morning.”
“What about the eviction notice?” That scares the hell out of me. We’ve got nowhere else to go and we sure as hell can’t afford to live in a hotel.
Plummer rubs his chin. “Hadn’t thought about that.”
“Have you got any objection to us going home tomorrow? You’re in control of the house, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, I guess I am. If our people are done, you can go home in the morning.”
“Good,” I say in relief before pivoting to the other concern that just cropped up. “Who’s Zaluski and what does he have to do with Papa?”
Plummer rolls his eyes. “Don’t ask.”
Oh, I’m asking. “Is he the Chief of Police or something?”
“Nope. He’s the village manager.”
The cops are after Papa. It sounds like the village is after his house and no less than the village manager has his finger in the mix. It’s not enough that I already feel like a drugged mouse trying to navigate a maze; now they have to blindfold and spin me twenty times to make sure I can’t tell up from down or right from left? “What’s he got to do with this?”
“It’s nothing,” Plummer replies. “Forget it.”
Like hell I’ll forget it. I add Village Manager Peter Zaluski to my mental checklist of people and things to investigate. If nothing else, a checklist might organize the puzzle pieces of fear and suspicion that are ricocheting around my skull.
I take Brittany’s hand. “Let’s go pick up Deano and get a room.”
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