All Tony Valenti wanted was a chance to rebuild his shattered life in the refuge of his beloved childhood home. Instead, his father is arrested for murdering a cop, an unseen hand is maneuvering to condemn that very home⌠and now his ex-wife is threatening to take his teenage daughter away.
Determined to defend his father with whatever snippets of the criminal code and courtroom tactics he remembers from law school, Tony recruits a public defender and a local newspaper reporter to help unravel the truth. But nobody witnessed the shooting and Papa isnât talking. As Tony digs deeper and becomes a target himself, his initial bewilderment grows into a towering rage that fuels his drive to get to the bottom of what really happened⌠regardless of the risks and ultimate cost to himself.
Unemployed, short of funds, and desperate to maintain custody of his daughter, Tony is forced to confront his insecurities and limitations as he struggles to surmount one crisis after another. Can he save his father? The family home? Himself?
âCompelling⌠fast-paced⌠a suspenseful and heartfelt thrillerâ SPR Reviews
All Tony Valenti wanted was a chance to rebuild his shattered life in the refuge of his beloved childhood home. Instead, his father is arrested for murdering a cop, an unseen hand is maneuvering to condemn that very home⌠and now his ex-wife is threatening to take his teenage daughter away.
Determined to defend his father with whatever snippets of the criminal code and courtroom tactics he remembers from law school, Tony recruits a public defender and a local newspaper reporter to help unravel the truth. But nobody witnessed the shooting and Papa isnât talking. As Tony digs deeper and becomes a target himself, his initial bewilderment grows into a towering rage that fuels his drive to get to the bottom of what really happened⌠regardless of the risks and ultimate cost to himself.
Unemployed, short of funds, and desperate to maintain custody of his daughter, Tony is forced to confront his insecurities and limitations as he struggles to surmount one crisis after another. Can he save his father? The family home? Himself?
âCompelling⌠fast-paced⌠a suspenseful and heartfelt thrillerâ SPR Reviews
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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 arenât at our house, theyâre 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 driverâs side window of my Porsche Panamera and turn on the interior lights.
âStreetâs closed, sir,â the cop announces impatiently. âMove along.â
âWhatâs going on, Officer?â
âStreetâs closed.â
Thereâs a newsflash. I point beyond him and make an announcement of my own. âI live down there.â
Interest flickers in his eyes before a hand shoots to my window. âDriverâs license.â
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.
âJust the license,â he snaps without touching the wallet.
I jerk the license out of its plastic holder and hand it back.
He glances at it. âGeorgia?â
âWe moved back a few weeks ago.â
âYou staying?â
âI plan to.â
âYou gotta go to the DMV and get an Illinois license,â he says. âPlates, too.â
âSure.âÂ
âYou got ninety days.â
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. âYour nameâs Valenti?â
âThatâs right. Tony Valenti.â
He aims the flashlight past me, blinding my fourteen-year-old daughter, Brittany. She shrinks lower into her seat.
âMy daughter,â I tell him while easing forward to shield her. âSheâs a freshman at Saint Aloysius. Weâre on our way home from orientation.â
âWhat number do you live at?â
âForty-seven.â
âWait here,â he says tersely, then turns on his heel to march back to his car with my license in hand.
âWhatâs going on, Officer?â I shout at his retreating back. He doesnât 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 Brittanyâs hand a reassuring squeeze. Her scarlet scrunchie is wound so tightly through her fingers that theyâre 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 neighborsâmuch 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 isnât especially dark this evening. Porch lights are on as the neighbors drink in whatever drama is unfolding at our house. Theyâre mostly older now, retired, people of my parentsâ generationâgrizzled 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.
âWhatâs going on, Dad?â Brittany asks. âIs Papa okay?â
How do I answer that? Cops. An ambulance. Hardly the makings of a Disney moment, especially knowing that my fatherâPapa in the vernacular of our fairly traditional Italian familyâshould be home. The cop tosses the radio into his cruiser and marches back toward us. âI think weâre about to find out,â I tell Brittany.
Bullethead jerks a thumb toward the curb. âPull it around the corner and park.â
âWhatâs up?â 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, âI want some answers.â
The cop yanks the rear door open without a word and motions us in. Heâs in front of me in a heartbeat when I try to brush past him. âWhere do you think youâre going?â
âOur house.â
âYou canât.â
âWhy canât I go to my own damned house?â
âItâs a crime scene. The detective will be here as soon as he can.â
Crime scene? Detective? I stand my ground with my nose within a foot of his. Iâve got maybe an inch on him. âTell me whatâs going on.â
Malice stirs in the wintry blue eyes glaring back into mine. âGet in the car.â
âMy father was there when we left,â I retort while looking past him.
âYour old manâs okay.â
I cross my arms and meet his gaze. âGood to know, but I still want to see him.â
âNot yet.â
Pin a badge on these clownsâŚ. I inch close enough to smell mint on the copâs breath. âWhy not?â
His nightstick materializes under my chin. âBecause I said not yet.â
My manufactured machismo melts away when the weapon brushes the underside of my jaw. I take Brittanyâs 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; itâs 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. âCanât you do something?â
Nothing that wonât get me arrested. âPatience, Britts. Weâll know whatâs going on soon enough.â
            âIâm scared.â
Join the club. A morsel of my recently deceased motherâs matter-of-fact wisdom bubbles forth. âMama used to say that people take years off their lives worrying about bad things that might happen. Know what?â
âWhat?â
âMost of it never does.â
âYeah,â Brittany mutters sullenly. âBut sometimes bad shit just happens, right?â
Weâve learned the truth of that over the past few months, havenât we? Iâm 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. âJake Plummer,â he says while extending his hand for a crisp handshake. âIâm the lead detective assigned to the case.â
What case? I wonder.
Plummer turns to Brittany and shakes her hand. Sheâs as tall as he is, though considerably more slender and gracefulânot to mention infinitely better coiffed with her head of thick, shoulder-length auburn hair. âI hear youâre on your way home from school,â the detective says.
She leans a hip on the cruiserâs rear fender and nods.
âPretty late for school, isnât it?â
âWe had orientation for the freshman class. You know, parents getting to know who the teachers are. Like that.â
Plummer smiles. âThatâs ninth grade, right?â
âYeah.â
âNew school for you?â
Her eyes drop to study the pavement. âYeah.â The move hasnât been easy on her.
âStarting the year in a strange school is tough,â Plummer says sympathetically. âIâm an Air Force brat, so I know what youâre going through. Sometimes it seemed like I went to a different school every year. Somehow or other, things always worked out.âÂ
Brittany shrugs but says nothing, so he turns back to me. âI 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?â
âSheâs in Europe,â I reply stiffly.
The detective cocks an eyebrow. âWhereabouts?â
âShe lives in Brussels. Divorce.â Thatâs new, too.
We both glance at Brittany, who now looks thoroughly miserable. When Plummerâs eyes meet mine again, they carry a silent apology.
âLetâs get on with it,â I suggest.
The uniformed cop, whoâs been hovering nearby, takes a step closer. âWant me to take the girl somewhere?â
âThatâs up to Mr. Valenti,â Plummer replies.
I wrap an arm around Brittanyâs shoulders, draw her close, and wave Bullethead away. âShe stays.â
The detective nods. âJust as well. Sheâll hear about this soon enough anyway.â
âFirst off,â I begin, âI understand my fatherâs okay. Is that true?â
âIt is.â
I look past him toward our house. âIâd like to see him.â
âHeâs not here.â
My patience with this cat-and-mouse bullshit is wearing thin. âWhere is he?â
Plummer studies me for a long moment. âMr. Valenti, your father shot a police officer.â
âHe did what?â
âA Cook County Sheriffâs Deputy was sent to serve papers. Your father shot him.â
âLegal papers?â I ask. Inanely, I realize immediately.
He nods again.
âThereâs got to be some confusion, Detective. Papaâs never had a legal issue worth mentioning. I doubt heâs even had a parking ticket.â
Plummer calmly stares back at me. âYet here we are.â
We continue our stare-down while I grapple with what he just told me. If itâs true, only one person can explain it. âIâm a lawyer. When can I see my father?â
The lawyer comment gets the detectiveâs attention. He glances at his watch. âIâll 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.â
âHowâs the deputy?â I finally think to ask.
âDead.â
A House on Liberty Street by Neil Turner is a crime thriller that follows the story of Tony Valenti, who breaks every barrier to get his father justice and save his childhood home.Â
The story is narrated from the point of view of the protagonist, Tony Valenti. The plot moved with a steady pace in the first half of the book and picked up during the second half when the court proceedings start. The suspense aspect of the story was not overly done, and yet, the story remained interesting as new facts and evidence got discovered. Overall, the plot played a secondary role here as the story was entirely dependent on the characters. The ups and downs were in sync with the character's emotions.
The author has done a fantastic job of creating characters that are so real that this book could have been the story of any of us. My favorite character is definitely Pat, hands down! She is connected with her roots and believes in making her town a better place rather than leave home in search of a better place. The author brilliantly executes Tony's character development. His transformation from being a rash and impulsive person to a responsible and empathetic man is praise-worthy. His inner conflict and emotional turmoil have been captured so beautifully that I had no option but to root for him until the end.
The author vividly describes the setting of the story. He manages to blend the surroundings and the changing seasons into the plot to carry the story forward. The only drawback is that the descriptions sometimes seemed a bit lengthy and unnecessary. That made me skim over a few paragraphs to get back to the story.
The book is professionally edited, and I didn't find any errors. Apart from a few cuss words necessary to maintain the feel of the story, there is no kind of mature content. More than a crime thriller, this is a story of a man who fights a corrupt system with the help of a few honest and determined friends and becomes a ray of hope for people. I highly recommend this book if you like legal thrillers and courtroom dramas.