Scared silent, p.11
Scared Silent, page 11
“Is that so?”
“Yeah, but we’re struggling with a plan to raise enough money. Can you help?”
He thinks on that for a minute. “I might be able to round up a little funding. How much do you need?”
“Probably around fifty thousand. We’re planning to fundraise, but that’s a pretty steep hit.”
“I’ll see what I can rustle up,” he says after he takes a final bite of his sandwich. “Maybe we can pitch in a few grand. I wish I could do more.”
“Every little bit helps.”
He winks. “Get me reelected and I’ll find more.”
“I can see the campaign posters now, Mr. Mayor: Vote for Mayor Smith and win a park!”
“I have no doubt that your neighbors will rally to your side.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“You have more influence than you think, Tony.”
“Ha! I can’t even get a sixteen-year-old to do what I want. Besides, I don’t know half my neighbors, and I’ll guarantee they don’t know me.”
“You’re wrong there, my friend. I have faith that you and Pat will work things out. The village will get on board as best we can.”
“Thanks.”
He takes a sip of coffee. “I saw where things didn’t go well for you with the kid you’re defending for Harry Hood’s murder.”
“No, they didn’t.”
“My money is on you and Penelope. Haven’t seen you lose a case yet.”
“Then you haven’t been paying attention. We’ve lost a few.”
“None that matter.”
He’s got a point. Mind you, this one does matter, and things aren’t looking good.
“How’s the boy doing?”
I frown. “He was transferred to Cook County Jail over the weekend. We’re worried about how that will go.”
“Tough crowd in there. How’s he handling it?”
“We’ll find out this afternoon.”
19
Thelma Payton calls in a panic an hour later, only minutes before Penelope and I plan to leave the office to visit Denzel.
“You need to get him out of there, Mr. Valenti! They beat him up. He has a couple of black eyes and his lip is split wide open. The poor child is wild with fear. They’re gonna kill him in there!”
My thoughts immediately turn to Judge Saunders. Didn’t we tell the stupid bitch this would happen?
“The guards don’t care,” Thelma continues. “I begged them to keep him safe. A couple of them laughed!”
I gather up my car keys. “We’re on our way.”
“They wouldn’t let me stay,” Thelma says indignantly. “Nobody would say if he’s seen a doctor. What kind of people run that place?”
Animals. “We’ll find out what we can, speak with Denzel, and I’ll call you afterward.”
Penelope and I arrive at the Cook County Jail at California and Twenty-Sixth twenty minutes later. We park and hurry inside. It’s as dreary a place as I’ve ever been. I get a sense of foreboding every time it comes into view, and this afternoon is no different. If despair has a smell, this place reeks of it—a mix of sweat and fear, overlaid with unbridled testosterone that has no constructive outlet. With some ten thousand inmates—many of them hardened criminals—it’s no place for a kid even younger than my daughter.
We wait twenty-five minutes before a guard finally brings Denzel into an attorney-client room. He’s limping, his face is bruised and swollen, and his eyes are filled with rage.
“How could you let this happen to me?” he shouts.
There’s no point telling him we did everything we could to keep him out of this place.
“Who did this to you?” Penelope asks.
“How in hell would I know? Couple of big guys saying, ‘Welcome to the big house.’”
“Why?”
He gives her a look of disbelief. “How am I supposed to know? Maybe because I’m new here.”
Penelope’s eyes are brimming with tears. “I’m so sorry, Denzel.”
It’s an indication of his rage that he doesn’t soften at all; he likes Penelope and has always treated her with kid gloves, even when he’s upset.
He turns his rage on me. “This is how it’s gonna be every day?”
“Not if we can help it.”
“What are you gonna do?”
What am I going to do? Denzel needs to be separated from the general population. I’ll start with the jerks running this place. Maybe threaten a lawsuit. Plead with the prosecutors to intervene. Go hat in hand to Judge Saunders. “We’re on this. There has to be a way to keep you safe.”
“We will keep you safe,” Penelope says with steel in her voice.
She’s as good as her word. First to feel her wrath are the Cook County Sheriff’s Department underlings who run the jail, then the sheriff himself. State’s attorney Timothy Walker gets an earful, as well. At Penelope’s urging, Pat writes a scathing indictment of the jail and sheriff in the Trib, making a point of placing the primary blame for the situation on Judge Saunders’s callous decision to send Denzel to the Cook County Jail in the first place. The article ends with a final shot at Saunders: “How disconnected from reality is a judge who thinks it’s okay to send a fifteen-year-old boy into a jail with thousands of adult criminals?”
They get the results they’re after. Denzel is transferred to a lonely cell, where he is isolated from the general jail population. But Timothy Walker and his aunt, Judge Saunders, clearly resent being publicly called onto the carpet by a lowly defense attorney and her reporter friend. I suspect this isn’t over. We’ll have to keep an eye on what’s happening at Cook County Jail—and that’s no mean feat. It’s not as if the warden and his people are going to go out of their way to protect Denzel or to keep us posted about what’s going on within the walls of the jail.
Part II
20
Penelope returns to the office from her honeymoon on May 2nd. It’s been three months since Judge Saunders transferred Denzel’s case to adult court and we’re now less than two months away from trial. As is customary in murder cases, there’s been a considerable lull in the action while the police investigation continues and we lawyers scheme and jockey for position. I’ve only seen Denzel four times since he was attacked. He wanted nothing to do with me for weeks, but eventually realized we were doing what we could to keep him safe.
We haven’t forgotten about him; there just hasn’t been much for Penelope and me to discuss with him while we await his trial. Rana has continued to investigate whenever there is something to look into, but she’s busy with a mountain of cases. I’ve spent many hours trying to hunt down Di and Spike without success.
Penelope and I have been busy with other cases as well. Brooks and Valenti business has been picking up steadily over the past year. We’ve brought more family law into our mix of cases: wills, estates, real estate—steady work that keeps money coming in. We’re busy enough that we’ve offered Sara Williams an intern position for the summer months. Sara, the younger sister of my friend, public defender Mike Williams, is finishing her third year of law school at Northwestern. She’ll help with routine filings, pleadings, and other grunt work.
We carry our coffee cups into the conference room to catch up. Penelope and her partner, Becky Seguin, were married in a civil ceremony three weeks ago. It was well attended by both families and select guests, including me, Brittany, and Pat O’Toole. The newlyweds immediately departed to New Zealand—a hiking and climbing mecca for a couple who inexplicably enjoy that sort of thing.
Penelope explained their choice of destination before they left: “Becky’s an incurable fantasy novel buff. New Zealand has been on her radar since she saw the first Lord of the Rings movie.”
We settle into our usual seats. “Was New Zealand everything you hoped it would be?” I ask.
“Everything I hoped and feared. I think we traced every footstep Bilbo and Gandalf and the gang took in those movies.” Penelope lifts a foot, slips it out of her shoe, and wiggles her toes. “I keep expecting to see my feet stretch and sprout hair.”
I give her a blank look.
“Hobbit feet, partner!”
Ah. Now I get it.
“It was actually a lot of fun.” She holds a finger up to her lips. “Don’t ever let Becky know I said so.”
“Got it.”
Penelope regales me with honeymoon tales for a few more minutes, then dons her serious lawyer face. “So. To work.”
I bring her up to speed. “Discovery has been arriving steadily from the state, and I’ve been told we should receive a substantial new dump this week. I scheduled a meeting with Rana Asadi next week to bring her up to speed on discovery and find out if she’s made any progress. We should probably plow through all the discovery before we meet with Rana.”
“Mom told me there’s been a change of lead prosecutor,” Penelope says. “What’s the story there?”
“Not really sure. He resigned abruptly for some reason. I won’t miss the smarmy SOB.”
“Maybe he was caught up in misconduct of some sort.”
I snort. “I doubt he would get in trouble for that. He’s the type of dodgy prosecutor that goes far with Timothy Walker sitting in the state’s attorney’s office.”
“How cynical of you.”
“With plenty of reason.”
“True. Do you have the name of the new prosecutor?”
I steal a peek at my phone and the email I received from her Friday afternoon. The tone was surprisingly cordial. “Judy Edwards.”
Penelope’s eyes widen and she claps her hands together, yet another of her endearing little quirks. Maybe it’s a thing in Kansas. “Really?”
“I take it you know her?”
“We went to law school together. Now we’re both practicing in Chicago. Small world.”
I paste a stern look on my face. “No socializing with your pal Judy for the duration of Denzel’s case. Fraternizing with the enemy and all that.”
“We don’t see much of each other, actually. Now and again at bar events, that sort of thing. I really like Judy and I think the feeling is mutual. We always say we should get together more often when we run into each other, but…”
“Life gets in the way.”
“I guess so. We’re all so darned busy!”
Which begs an examination of modern life’s priorities. What have things come to when we’re too busy to spend time with friends? I toss my philosopher’s cap aside and get back to business. “The early signals from Judy are positive. Discovery is arriving without us having to raise a stink to get it.”
“Judy will play fair, Tony.”
“Cedar Heights PD will also play this straight.”
“Yup! Chief Plummer has certainly established a new tone over there.”
He has. This is a refreshing change from the BS I’ve experienced in past cases involving the Cook County state’s attorney’s office and the Cedar Heights cops: delayed discovery, buried evidence, lying detectives, and all manner of prosecutorial misconduct.
“Is Judy from Kansas?” I ask.
“Sure is.”
“Well, that explains plenty. You straight shooters from Kansas are pure as the driven snow.”
“Thanks, Cliché Man.”
“Kansas girls. Gotta love ’em.”
“We’re very lovable.”
I chuckle. “We could spend hours citing your many virtues, but we have work to do.”
“Right,” Penelope says with a wan smile. She pulls a file folder off the top of the pile of discovery material and flips it open. “I assume you’ve been looking all this over as it came in?”
“Hell no. I’ve been drinking and golfing and chasing skirts for two weeks.”
“You don’t even golf,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “You have looked at this stuff, right?”
“Of course I have. It won’t hurt to have another look before we meet Rana.”
“She’s coming Tuesday?”
I nod, then recap my investigative efforts. Relaying the results takes all of thirty or forty seconds.
“Tough sledding, partner?”
“Afraid so.”
“I’ll go through everything this week and over the weekend. Let’s meet Monday to discuss it.” Penelope tucks the paperwork back into its file folder and tosses her pen on top, then pushes her chair back and crosses her legs. “So what’s been happening in your world, partner? We haven’t talked in weeks!”
“All is well. Brittany finished her volleyball season.”
“How did it turn out?”
“Not well. They didn’t make it out of their section qualifier. Brittany was pretty bummed. She’s going out for track this spring, which she hasn’t done since we left Atlanta. I’m glad. Keeping busy seems to help.”
Penelope frowns. “How’s she doing, Tony? Still moving forward?”
My partner is referring to the loss of Brittany’s boyfriend almost two years ago—not a particularly long time where grief is concerned.
“Near as I can tell, she’s doing okay. I hope she is—who really knows how someone else is dealing with grief?”
“Anything new in her life I should know about?”
“I don’t think so. She returned from St. Maarten with a new tan worthy of a before and after commercial for the Caribbean. She’s anxious for summer to arrive before it fades. Otherwise, nothing much happening that I know of.”
Penelope laughs. “I wish that was the extent of my problems!”
“I hear you.”
“Hmm. What else is happening away from work?”
I fill her in on my and Pat’s nascent plans to tackle a makeover of Independence Park.
“Brittany mentioned the park project and told me that her daddy plans to build her a swimming pool. I had no idea the plans were so grand!”
I look up in surprise. “When did she tell you that?”
“We chatted for a minute when she called this morning.”
“She said I’m building her a pool, huh?”
“Yup. Not thinking about doing so, partner. Doing it.”
I laugh and shake my head. “I guess everything is decided.”
Penelope’s eyes twinkle. “Gonna be able to keep that promise, Dad?”
“I hope so. I’m jazzed by the idea of tackling the park project. The idea of having a life outside the office is growing on me.”
“Budding rock star, would-be real estate developer—however will the little old Brooks and Valenti law firm fit into your grand plans?”
I shoot her a sideways smile. “Our little law firm is exactly what makes a full life possible. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
“Darn. I’ll have to come up with a ‘shed Valenti’ plan B.”
“You say the nicest things.”
She smiles. “Tell me more. What’s next?”
“A community meeting to find out how committed the neighbors really are.”
“Good luck.” She reaches out and rests her fingers on top of the file folders. “I better dig into whatever has piled up while I was off hobnobbing with wizards and dwarfs and whatnot. When did you last speak with Denzel?’
“A couple of weeks ago.”
“How was he?”
“Hanging in. Still in isolation.”
“Sounds lonely,” she says sadly.
“But safe.”
“I suppose, but can you imagine that at fifteen?”
I think of my daughter and try to imagine her bereft of friends and family. “No, I can’t.”
“We should probably make a point of visiting weekly, just to check in and keep him up to date on how things are developing.”
I nod. “And to beat our heads against the wall some more by asking him to give up Spike.”
“That would be nice. It’s the oddest thing that Denzel is so determined to protect this man.”
“No secret,” I reply. “It’s called fear.”
“I wonder what it’s going to take to prompt him to talk?”
“Maybe he’ll come around when he sees us getting our tails kicked at trial.”
Her frown deepens. “It might be too late by that point.”
“Exactly my concern.”
21
The denizens of Cedar Heights, at least those few of us crazy enough to have signed up to restore Independence Park, are gathered in the community room at the village hall. The space also serves as the council chamber and is often configured as a gymnasium. Banks of fluorescent lights alternate with white acoustic ceiling tiles high overhead, which, coupled with the eggshell-white walls, makes for a somewhat harsh institutional setting. But hey, it’s functional. And free!
We’ve circled a bunch of chrome-and-fabric chairs to lend the meeting an informal air. The atmosphere is considerably more congenial than it was the last time I was in this room two years ago for the culmination of my battle to save Liberty Street and Independence Park from the village and its developers. Now, we’ve returned to spearhead an effort to return the park to what it should be: a gathering place for the families that live nearby.
Personally, I’m on a mission. I have been ever since Brittany’s declaration that happy families frolicking in the park would help put the lurking ghost of Bobby Harland behind her. Couple that with the memory of the Donahue kids peering through the fence at the wrecked swimming pool and I’m determined to see this through.
The crowd is a mix of familiar and new faces. Our next-door neighbors of fifty years, Mr. and Mrs. Vaccaro, are here with their daughter, Sandy, and her husband, Phil Russo. Another of the original Liberty Street homeowners, Mr. Rosetti, who moved to Florida, is here with his niece and her husband, whom he sold his home to when he left for the sunny south. Neighborhood fixtures Mr. and Mrs. LaSusa are also in attendance. No surprise there; Mrs. L. has been the neighborhood gossip going on forever. Maggie and Derek are also here, sans children. Pat has come, of course, along with her sister and brother and their spouses. Brittany is seated with them. Independence Park has meant a lot to many people over the years. We’re all anxious to resurrect it for a new generation of children. Another dozen or more people constitute the new faces, many of who I’ve seen around the neighborhood but haven’t yet met. That’s about to change.
“Yeah, but we’re struggling with a plan to raise enough money. Can you help?”
He thinks on that for a minute. “I might be able to round up a little funding. How much do you need?”
“Probably around fifty thousand. We’re planning to fundraise, but that’s a pretty steep hit.”
“I’ll see what I can rustle up,” he says after he takes a final bite of his sandwich. “Maybe we can pitch in a few grand. I wish I could do more.”
“Every little bit helps.”
He winks. “Get me reelected and I’ll find more.”
“I can see the campaign posters now, Mr. Mayor: Vote for Mayor Smith and win a park!”
“I have no doubt that your neighbors will rally to your side.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“You have more influence than you think, Tony.”
“Ha! I can’t even get a sixteen-year-old to do what I want. Besides, I don’t know half my neighbors, and I’ll guarantee they don’t know me.”
“You’re wrong there, my friend. I have faith that you and Pat will work things out. The village will get on board as best we can.”
“Thanks.”
He takes a sip of coffee. “I saw where things didn’t go well for you with the kid you’re defending for Harry Hood’s murder.”
“No, they didn’t.”
“My money is on you and Penelope. Haven’t seen you lose a case yet.”
“Then you haven’t been paying attention. We’ve lost a few.”
“None that matter.”
He’s got a point. Mind you, this one does matter, and things aren’t looking good.
“How’s the boy doing?”
I frown. “He was transferred to Cook County Jail over the weekend. We’re worried about how that will go.”
“Tough crowd in there. How’s he handling it?”
“We’ll find out this afternoon.”
19
Thelma Payton calls in a panic an hour later, only minutes before Penelope and I plan to leave the office to visit Denzel.
“You need to get him out of there, Mr. Valenti! They beat him up. He has a couple of black eyes and his lip is split wide open. The poor child is wild with fear. They’re gonna kill him in there!”
My thoughts immediately turn to Judge Saunders. Didn’t we tell the stupid bitch this would happen?
“The guards don’t care,” Thelma continues. “I begged them to keep him safe. A couple of them laughed!”
I gather up my car keys. “We’re on our way.”
“They wouldn’t let me stay,” Thelma says indignantly. “Nobody would say if he’s seen a doctor. What kind of people run that place?”
Animals. “We’ll find out what we can, speak with Denzel, and I’ll call you afterward.”
Penelope and I arrive at the Cook County Jail at California and Twenty-Sixth twenty minutes later. We park and hurry inside. It’s as dreary a place as I’ve ever been. I get a sense of foreboding every time it comes into view, and this afternoon is no different. If despair has a smell, this place reeks of it—a mix of sweat and fear, overlaid with unbridled testosterone that has no constructive outlet. With some ten thousand inmates—many of them hardened criminals—it’s no place for a kid even younger than my daughter.
We wait twenty-five minutes before a guard finally brings Denzel into an attorney-client room. He’s limping, his face is bruised and swollen, and his eyes are filled with rage.
“How could you let this happen to me?” he shouts.
There’s no point telling him we did everything we could to keep him out of this place.
“Who did this to you?” Penelope asks.
“How in hell would I know? Couple of big guys saying, ‘Welcome to the big house.’”
“Why?”
He gives her a look of disbelief. “How am I supposed to know? Maybe because I’m new here.”
Penelope’s eyes are brimming with tears. “I’m so sorry, Denzel.”
It’s an indication of his rage that he doesn’t soften at all; he likes Penelope and has always treated her with kid gloves, even when he’s upset.
He turns his rage on me. “This is how it’s gonna be every day?”
“Not if we can help it.”
“What are you gonna do?”
What am I going to do? Denzel needs to be separated from the general population. I’ll start with the jerks running this place. Maybe threaten a lawsuit. Plead with the prosecutors to intervene. Go hat in hand to Judge Saunders. “We’re on this. There has to be a way to keep you safe.”
“We will keep you safe,” Penelope says with steel in her voice.
She’s as good as her word. First to feel her wrath are the Cook County Sheriff’s Department underlings who run the jail, then the sheriff himself. State’s attorney Timothy Walker gets an earful, as well. At Penelope’s urging, Pat writes a scathing indictment of the jail and sheriff in the Trib, making a point of placing the primary blame for the situation on Judge Saunders’s callous decision to send Denzel to the Cook County Jail in the first place. The article ends with a final shot at Saunders: “How disconnected from reality is a judge who thinks it’s okay to send a fifteen-year-old boy into a jail with thousands of adult criminals?”
They get the results they’re after. Denzel is transferred to a lonely cell, where he is isolated from the general jail population. But Timothy Walker and his aunt, Judge Saunders, clearly resent being publicly called onto the carpet by a lowly defense attorney and her reporter friend. I suspect this isn’t over. We’ll have to keep an eye on what’s happening at Cook County Jail—and that’s no mean feat. It’s not as if the warden and his people are going to go out of their way to protect Denzel or to keep us posted about what’s going on within the walls of the jail.
Part II
20
Penelope returns to the office from her honeymoon on May 2nd. It’s been three months since Judge Saunders transferred Denzel’s case to adult court and we’re now less than two months away from trial. As is customary in murder cases, there’s been a considerable lull in the action while the police investigation continues and we lawyers scheme and jockey for position. I’ve only seen Denzel four times since he was attacked. He wanted nothing to do with me for weeks, but eventually realized we were doing what we could to keep him safe.
We haven’t forgotten about him; there just hasn’t been much for Penelope and me to discuss with him while we await his trial. Rana has continued to investigate whenever there is something to look into, but she’s busy with a mountain of cases. I’ve spent many hours trying to hunt down Di and Spike without success.
Penelope and I have been busy with other cases as well. Brooks and Valenti business has been picking up steadily over the past year. We’ve brought more family law into our mix of cases: wills, estates, real estate—steady work that keeps money coming in. We’re busy enough that we’ve offered Sara Williams an intern position for the summer months. Sara, the younger sister of my friend, public defender Mike Williams, is finishing her third year of law school at Northwestern. She’ll help with routine filings, pleadings, and other grunt work.
We carry our coffee cups into the conference room to catch up. Penelope and her partner, Becky Seguin, were married in a civil ceremony three weeks ago. It was well attended by both families and select guests, including me, Brittany, and Pat O’Toole. The newlyweds immediately departed to New Zealand—a hiking and climbing mecca for a couple who inexplicably enjoy that sort of thing.
Penelope explained their choice of destination before they left: “Becky’s an incurable fantasy novel buff. New Zealand has been on her radar since she saw the first Lord of the Rings movie.”
We settle into our usual seats. “Was New Zealand everything you hoped it would be?” I ask.
“Everything I hoped and feared. I think we traced every footstep Bilbo and Gandalf and the gang took in those movies.” Penelope lifts a foot, slips it out of her shoe, and wiggles her toes. “I keep expecting to see my feet stretch and sprout hair.”
I give her a blank look.
“Hobbit feet, partner!”
Ah. Now I get it.
“It was actually a lot of fun.” She holds a finger up to her lips. “Don’t ever let Becky know I said so.”
“Got it.”
Penelope regales me with honeymoon tales for a few more minutes, then dons her serious lawyer face. “So. To work.”
I bring her up to speed. “Discovery has been arriving steadily from the state, and I’ve been told we should receive a substantial new dump this week. I scheduled a meeting with Rana Asadi next week to bring her up to speed on discovery and find out if she’s made any progress. We should probably plow through all the discovery before we meet with Rana.”
“Mom told me there’s been a change of lead prosecutor,” Penelope says. “What’s the story there?”
“Not really sure. He resigned abruptly for some reason. I won’t miss the smarmy SOB.”
“Maybe he was caught up in misconduct of some sort.”
I snort. “I doubt he would get in trouble for that. He’s the type of dodgy prosecutor that goes far with Timothy Walker sitting in the state’s attorney’s office.”
“How cynical of you.”
“With plenty of reason.”
“True. Do you have the name of the new prosecutor?”
I steal a peek at my phone and the email I received from her Friday afternoon. The tone was surprisingly cordial. “Judy Edwards.”
Penelope’s eyes widen and she claps her hands together, yet another of her endearing little quirks. Maybe it’s a thing in Kansas. “Really?”
“I take it you know her?”
“We went to law school together. Now we’re both practicing in Chicago. Small world.”
I paste a stern look on my face. “No socializing with your pal Judy for the duration of Denzel’s case. Fraternizing with the enemy and all that.”
“We don’t see much of each other, actually. Now and again at bar events, that sort of thing. I really like Judy and I think the feeling is mutual. We always say we should get together more often when we run into each other, but…”
“Life gets in the way.”
“I guess so. We’re all so darned busy!”
Which begs an examination of modern life’s priorities. What have things come to when we’re too busy to spend time with friends? I toss my philosopher’s cap aside and get back to business. “The early signals from Judy are positive. Discovery is arriving without us having to raise a stink to get it.”
“Judy will play fair, Tony.”
“Cedar Heights PD will also play this straight.”
“Yup! Chief Plummer has certainly established a new tone over there.”
He has. This is a refreshing change from the BS I’ve experienced in past cases involving the Cook County state’s attorney’s office and the Cedar Heights cops: delayed discovery, buried evidence, lying detectives, and all manner of prosecutorial misconduct.
“Is Judy from Kansas?” I ask.
“Sure is.”
“Well, that explains plenty. You straight shooters from Kansas are pure as the driven snow.”
“Thanks, Cliché Man.”
“Kansas girls. Gotta love ’em.”
“We’re very lovable.”
I chuckle. “We could spend hours citing your many virtues, but we have work to do.”
“Right,” Penelope says with a wan smile. She pulls a file folder off the top of the pile of discovery material and flips it open. “I assume you’ve been looking all this over as it came in?”
“Hell no. I’ve been drinking and golfing and chasing skirts for two weeks.”
“You don’t even golf,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “You have looked at this stuff, right?”
“Of course I have. It won’t hurt to have another look before we meet Rana.”
“She’s coming Tuesday?”
I nod, then recap my investigative efforts. Relaying the results takes all of thirty or forty seconds.
“Tough sledding, partner?”
“Afraid so.”
“I’ll go through everything this week and over the weekend. Let’s meet Monday to discuss it.” Penelope tucks the paperwork back into its file folder and tosses her pen on top, then pushes her chair back and crosses her legs. “So what’s been happening in your world, partner? We haven’t talked in weeks!”
“All is well. Brittany finished her volleyball season.”
“How did it turn out?”
“Not well. They didn’t make it out of their section qualifier. Brittany was pretty bummed. She’s going out for track this spring, which she hasn’t done since we left Atlanta. I’m glad. Keeping busy seems to help.”
Penelope frowns. “How’s she doing, Tony? Still moving forward?”
My partner is referring to the loss of Brittany’s boyfriend almost two years ago—not a particularly long time where grief is concerned.
“Near as I can tell, she’s doing okay. I hope she is—who really knows how someone else is dealing with grief?”
“Anything new in her life I should know about?”
“I don’t think so. She returned from St. Maarten with a new tan worthy of a before and after commercial for the Caribbean. She’s anxious for summer to arrive before it fades. Otherwise, nothing much happening that I know of.”
Penelope laughs. “I wish that was the extent of my problems!”
“I hear you.”
“Hmm. What else is happening away from work?”
I fill her in on my and Pat’s nascent plans to tackle a makeover of Independence Park.
“Brittany mentioned the park project and told me that her daddy plans to build her a swimming pool. I had no idea the plans were so grand!”
I look up in surprise. “When did she tell you that?”
“We chatted for a minute when she called this morning.”
“She said I’m building her a pool, huh?”
“Yup. Not thinking about doing so, partner. Doing it.”
I laugh and shake my head. “I guess everything is decided.”
Penelope’s eyes twinkle. “Gonna be able to keep that promise, Dad?”
“I hope so. I’m jazzed by the idea of tackling the park project. The idea of having a life outside the office is growing on me.”
“Budding rock star, would-be real estate developer—however will the little old Brooks and Valenti law firm fit into your grand plans?”
I shoot her a sideways smile. “Our little law firm is exactly what makes a full life possible. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
“Darn. I’ll have to come up with a ‘shed Valenti’ plan B.”
“You say the nicest things.”
She smiles. “Tell me more. What’s next?”
“A community meeting to find out how committed the neighbors really are.”
“Good luck.” She reaches out and rests her fingers on top of the file folders. “I better dig into whatever has piled up while I was off hobnobbing with wizards and dwarfs and whatnot. When did you last speak with Denzel?’
“A couple of weeks ago.”
“How was he?”
“Hanging in. Still in isolation.”
“Sounds lonely,” she says sadly.
“But safe.”
“I suppose, but can you imagine that at fifteen?”
I think of my daughter and try to imagine her bereft of friends and family. “No, I can’t.”
“We should probably make a point of visiting weekly, just to check in and keep him up to date on how things are developing.”
I nod. “And to beat our heads against the wall some more by asking him to give up Spike.”
“That would be nice. It’s the oddest thing that Denzel is so determined to protect this man.”
“No secret,” I reply. “It’s called fear.”
“I wonder what it’s going to take to prompt him to talk?”
“Maybe he’ll come around when he sees us getting our tails kicked at trial.”
Her frown deepens. “It might be too late by that point.”
“Exactly my concern.”
21
The denizens of Cedar Heights, at least those few of us crazy enough to have signed up to restore Independence Park, are gathered in the community room at the village hall. The space also serves as the council chamber and is often configured as a gymnasium. Banks of fluorescent lights alternate with white acoustic ceiling tiles high overhead, which, coupled with the eggshell-white walls, makes for a somewhat harsh institutional setting. But hey, it’s functional. And free!
We’ve circled a bunch of chrome-and-fabric chairs to lend the meeting an informal air. The atmosphere is considerably more congenial than it was the last time I was in this room two years ago for the culmination of my battle to save Liberty Street and Independence Park from the village and its developers. Now, we’ve returned to spearhead an effort to return the park to what it should be: a gathering place for the families that live nearby.
Personally, I’m on a mission. I have been ever since Brittany’s declaration that happy families frolicking in the park would help put the lurking ghost of Bobby Harland behind her. Couple that with the memory of the Donahue kids peering through the fence at the wrecked swimming pool and I’m determined to see this through.
The crowd is a mix of familiar and new faces. Our next-door neighbors of fifty years, Mr. and Mrs. Vaccaro, are here with their daughter, Sandy, and her husband, Phil Russo. Another of the original Liberty Street homeowners, Mr. Rosetti, who moved to Florida, is here with his niece and her husband, whom he sold his home to when he left for the sunny south. Neighborhood fixtures Mr. and Mrs. LaSusa are also in attendance. No surprise there; Mrs. L. has been the neighborhood gossip going on forever. Maggie and Derek are also here, sans children. Pat has come, of course, along with her sister and brother and their spouses. Brittany is seated with them. Independence Park has meant a lot to many people over the years. We’re all anxious to resurrect it for a new generation of children. Another dozen or more people constitute the new faces, many of who I’ve seen around the neighborhood but haven’t yet met. That’s about to change.
