Trial Junkies (A Thriller) (15 page)

Abernathy looked indignant. "Your Honor, as Detective Meyer testified earlier, he has investigated dozens of homicides over the course of his career. If that doesn't qualify him as an expert in criminal behavior, I don't know what does."

The judge nodded. "I'll allow it. You may continue, Detective."

"Thank you, Your Honor." Meyer paused, returning his attention to Abernathy. "So, as I was saying, because of the nature of the assault, we felt it prudent to concentrate on those who were closest to Ms. Keating and might hold a personal grudge against her."

"And what did you find?"

"Nothing substantial. From all accounts, Ms. Keating was a well-loved individual and even her exes held her in high regard. Which left us searching for a motive."

"So you're saying that none of these potential suspects had a reason to want her dead?"

"It didn't seem that way," Meyer said. "Not only that, the majority of them had solid alibis for the night in question, and whenever we hit a dead end, we came back around to Ms. Baldacci."

"Why is that?"

"Because of the phone calls and her mistaken belief that the victim was somehow involved in her custody case. She and Ms. Keating were friends at one time, back in college, so it was our thinking that she may have felt betrayed. And in my experience as a homicide investigator that's a pretty strong motive for murder."

"I see," Abernathy said. "So did you interview Ms. Baldacci?"

"We tried, but we weren't able to contact her. And we got the distinct impression that she didn't
want
to be—"

"Objection," Waverly said. "There's nothing in evidence that suggests that Ms. Baldacci even knew the police were trying to contact her. The witness is once again making assumptions."

"Sustained."

Abernathy shot Waverly a look, then said to Meyer, "How did you attempt to contact Ms. Baldacci?"

"First, we tried calling her, but her most recent phone number had been disconnected. So we went out to her last known address—an apartment near Wicker Park—but were told that she'd moved."

"Any idea where?"

"Not at the time," Meyer said.

"What about her place of employment?"

"That's where things got interesting."

Abernathy feigned surprise. "Oh? In what way?"

"Forensics sent us a list of evidence that was retrieved from the victim's car. When we found out where Ms. Baldacci was employed, one of the items on that list came into sharp focus."

Abernathy nodded. "I'll be going over those items with the forensic specialist. Where is Ms. Baldacci employed?"

"At a pet grooming establishment called The Canine Cuttery."

"Pet grooming," Abernathy repeated. "And did you try contacting her there?"

"We did, but we got an answering machine. The shop was closed for the day."

They were playing it just right, Hutch thought. By concentrating on Ronnie's place of employment but withholding the significance of the mysterious item on the forensics list, Abernathy was using a tried and true storytelling technique to hook the jury. And he was handling it brilliantly.

"So what did you do next?" he asked Meyer.

"We checked public records to see who owned the establishment and contacted a Mr. Raymond Hardwick, who told us the defendant had left work early that day to attend a funeral Mass."

"The victim's funeral?"

"Yes."

"Did you then try to speak to her there?"

Meyer hesitated. "We considered tracking her down at St. Angela's for questioning, but out of respect to the victim's family and friends, we decided to hold off and not create a spectacle."

"I see," Abernathy said. "What did you do then?"

"When we spoke to him earlier, the defendant's employer gave us her current address."

"And where was this?"

"Her mother's house in Roscoe Village. We went there shortly after the funeral in hopes of getting there around the time the defendant arrived home."

"And did you have any luck?"

"No," Meyer said. "She hadn't returned yet."

"So what did you do at that point?"

"We went to the door, identified ourselves, and asked her mother, a Ms. Lola Baldacci, what time she expected her daughter to come home. She said the defendant had gone out with some old college friends and probably wouldn't return until much later that night."

"Was that the extent of your conversation?"

"No. We asked the mother about the defendant's whereabouts four nights earlier."

"And what did she say?"

"That Ms. Baldacci had come home after work, but went out again around nine o'clock."

"Did she know where?"

"No," Meyer said.

"And what time did Ms. Baldacci return?"

"The mother didn't know. She'd already gone to bed by then."

"What about the defendant's son? Was he staying there at the time?"

Meyer nodded. "Christopher. We were told he was asleep by the time Ms. Baldacci left."

"Did you question him at all?"

"No. We didn't want to upset him unnecessarily."

Nice touch, Hutch thought. Meyer wasn't making any enemies with this testimony.

Abernathy was quiet for a long moment, then said, "So at this point, when you decided to seek out Ms. Baldacci at her home, how many days into the investigation were you?"

Meyer made a quick mental calculation. "Four."

Abernathy's eyebrows went up. "Four?"

"Starting from the day immediately following the murder," Meyer said.

"Not exactly what you'd call a rush to judgment, was it?"

Before Meyer could respond, Waverly was on her feet. "Objection," she said loudly, looking more annoyed than Hutch had yet seen her. Abernathy was taking a jab at her opening statement and, unfortunately, all the objections in the world couldn't negate his point.

Judge O'Donnell frowned at him. "Keep the editorializing to yourself, counsel."

"But it's a valid argument, Your Honor."

"Then find another way to make it. Objection sustained."

Abernathy pretended to be upset by the ruling, but to anyone paying attention, he'd already done what he'd set out to do. He thanked the judge and moved on. "So what happened next, Detective Meyer? After interviewing her mother, did you seek the defendant out?"

"Not immediately, no."

"Why not?"

"Because while I was speaking to Mrs. Baldacci, Detective Mack made a discovery."

"Oh? What sort of discovery?"

"He thought he saw something in the defendant's garbage and decided to investigate."

"And this was inside the house?"

"No," Meyer said. "The trash receptacle in the alley. The next day was collection day and the can had already been taken out."

"How did you know it was the defendant's trash?"

"Because it sat directly behind the house, had the address painted on it and there were several pieces of junk mail inside addressed to Lola Baldacci."

Abernathy frowned. "Don't you need a warrant to go through someone's trash?"

Meyer shook his head. "Under the law, once it hits the alley, all privacy rights are waived and it's considered public property. No search warrants necessary. Besides, the trash receptacle had been knocked on its side and half its contents were spilling out. That's why my partner saw what he saw."

"And what
did
he see?"

Meyer gestured to the prosecution table. "I believe you have it right there."

Abernathy turned and took a clear plastic bag from the table. He held it up for everyone to see. "Is this the item?"

"Yes."

"Your Honor, I'd like to enter this into the record as people's exhibit one." Abernathy looked at Meyer. "And would you please tell the court what it is?"

Even though Hutch knew what was coming, he couldn't deny the power of Meyer's words, or the visual that went along with them:

"A black hooded sweatshirt covered with the victim's blood."

— 25 —

A
S SHE SAT
in the courthouse lockup, Ronnie Baldacci couldn't quite believe how shitty this day had been. One of the worst of her life.

Despite the jitters, the lack of sleep, the missing appetite—it had started out pretty well. When Waverly broke the news this morning that Hutch had finally come to his senses and the paperwork for her release was being prepared, Ronnie's spirits had lifted. Hutch's sudden turnabout gave her nearly as much joy as the thought of her impending freedom.

In her rational mind, she knew there were a lot more important things to worry about than an old college crush, but she wasn't exactly thinking rationally these days. She didn't care about Hutch's money, but for some unknown reason, his opinion about her guilt or innocence was all-important to her. For some unknown reason, she couldn't bear the thought that...

Oh, who was she kidding?

There was nothing unknown about it.

Time to stop lying to herself and finally admit that this wasn't any crush. She had been hung up on the guy for nearly a decade. Had wanted him back in college and all the years since, her heart soaring when she saw what a success he had become, and breaking when he'd started his downward slide. If she'd had any guts at all, she would've tried to help him, would've called him up with a "Hey, guess who?"—assuming he'd even take her calls.

But Ronnie had never been the gutsiest girl in the room.

Far from it.

And while she was admitting things, she might as well cop to the fact that she had only married her ex Danny because he had reminded her so much of Hutch. The same good looks and easy smile. The same naturally athletic body. The ability to get her motor running by the slightest brush of a hand.

And for a while she'd felt satisfied and happy.

Then she realized Danny had been sticking his key in someone else's ignition, and that was the end of that.

So it was back to Hutch. The memories. The fantasies.

In college, she used to watch them from afar—Hutch and Jenny—and envy the hell out of her. It was no surprise that someone so smart and beautiful and downright bewitching had managed to snare the golden boy of their little group, but that hadn't stopped Ronnie from hoping for a break up, even if it meant she'd be the rebound girl. She may not have been the beauty queen Jenny was, but she had a decent face and a pretty good bod, and had turned more than a few heads in her time. Unfortunately, none of those heads much interested her.

Oh, she'd slept with her fair share—a girl has her needs, after all—but every time she closed her eyes she imagined it was Hutch lying against her, nuzzling her neck, scraping his teeth along her earlobe. Then she'd open them again and realize who she was in bed with, and couldn't wait for him to finish up and get the hell out of her room.

Pretty pathetic, when you thought about it, but then Ronnie more or less
defined
pathetic.

So, yeah, with the news about Hutch and freedom only hours away, the day had started out pretty damn good. But any optimism she might have felt was quickly squelched once the trial started and reality set in.

When Detective Jason Meyer took the stand.

T
HE NIGHT HE
arrested her, Meyer had been a thuggish prick. Had sat her down in an interview room and given her a hard, soulless stare, telling her she might as well face it, that she was in very deep doodoo unless she cooperated and answered all of his questions.

"The court likes defendants who own up to what they've done," he'd said. "You tell us what happened in your own words, you might only be looking at a manslaughter beef. But if you make things difficult for us, we'll go all out. Murder One. And we've got the evidence to prove it."

At first Ronnie had balked. Had figured she had nothing to fear and had freely answered his questions about where she'd been the night of Jenny's murder, and the nature of their relationship. But as it became more and more clear that he didn't believe her, that he really
did
think she was a killer, she had stopped talking altogether, refusing to answer any more questions. She knew from her experience in Sedona that cops have a way of twisting every word to their advantage. Of making you look and feel guilty, even when you've done nothing wrong.

And Meyer was no different.

When she asked for a lawyer, he had immediately said they were taking a break and had shut off all recording equipment, including the video camera that had been pointed at her from a corner of the room. Then he got to his feet and spent the next hour hovering over her, berating her, telling her a lawyer wouldn't do her an ounce of good, that he'd beat a confession out of her and tell the prosecutor she'd slipped and fell in the bathroom. That she was a little piece of nothing, a brutal murderer who didn't deserve the usual protections provided by the law.