Trial Junkies (A Thriller) (9 page)

Ronnie was quiet for a long moment, just staring at him, the tears now rolling down her cheeks. She looked like a kid from one of those Feed the Children commercials.

"You're never gonna believe me, are you?"

"Not likely."

"What can I do to change your mind?"

"Not a whole lot."

Another pause. More tears.

"Just tell me this," she said. "What was your first instinct when they arrested me? What did you think?"

"Does it really matter?"

She reached for his arm. "Of course it does. Our first instincts are usually the best ones. You hired a lawyer for me, so you must have thought the police had made a mistake. That I could I never hurt Jenny. I could never hurt anyone."

Hutch remembered Matt saying those very words. But where was Matt now? He hadn't seen or heard from the guy since that night outside the police station.

He hadn't heard from any of them except Nadine, who promised she'd be taking time off work to watch the trial with him, as soon as the jury was selected.

Hutch pulled his arm free. "The thing of it is, any instincts I might have about you are ten years old. All I know is that you quit smoking, you still drink draft beer, you groom dogs for a living, and you haven't figured out what you want to be when you grow up. But what does that tell me? Not a goddamn thing."

"I didn't kill her, Hutch. I swear to you I didn't."

Hutch had to admit this was an Emmy-winning performance. "Trust me, I want to believe you, but it just isn't happening."

"What if I can prove it to you?"

He hesitated. "How?"

She looked for the watch on her wrist and realized it wasn't there. "What time is it?"

"I don't know," he said, wondering why it mattered. "I gave my phone to the guy at the desk—maybe quarter to six or so."

She nodded. "Good, then there's time."

"For what?"

"I need you to do me a favor."

Hutch balked. "Come on, Ronnie, why are we even bothering with this dance?"

"I mean it, Hutch. I want you know why it's impossible for me to have done what they're accusing me of. What
you're
accusing me of. I need you to see what's at stake for me."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I want you to go to my mother's house."

Hutch sighed. "Come on, Ronnie..."

"You don't have to go inside. Just park out front and wait. But get there before seven o'clock."

"You can't just tell me what this is about?"

"No," she said. "You have to see for yourself. If you want to know who I am now and understand why I could never hurt anyone, then you have you do this. Please."

There was that word again.

He hated that word.

"I haven't seen your mother in court," he said. "Does she think you're guilty, too?"

Ronnie's eyes flashed in anger, but she caught herself before going off on him. "I told her to stay home. I don't want her seeing all this. She has enough to worry about."

"So why send me to her house?"

"I told you. You have to see for yourself."

Hutch shook his head. "What exactly do you expect to gain from this, Ronnie?"

"Maybe someone who believes in me. I just want someone to believe."

Someone with cash, no doubt. Despite the publicity, Waverly's firm might not be anxious to shell out much capital on what was ultimately a losing case, especially the kind of money it took to hire a private DNA expert. This was a pro bono charity job and Waverly's time alone was already enough of a financial hit.

Hutch, on the other hand, had money to burn. And in the unlikely event that Ronnie could get him back on her side, he might be willing to part with some of it.

He wanted to tell her to dream on, but his curiosity was piqued. And somewhere in the back of his mind, the reminder that she was once his friend kept niggling away at him like a paper cut.

Should he do as she'd asked? Call her bluff?

"All right," he said. "I'll go to your mother's house. But I doubt it'll do any good. Whatever you're up to, it won't change my mind."

She almost smiled then. Not quite, but he saw traces of one around the edges of her mouth. Wistful but relieved.

"Thank you, Hutch. I knew I could count on you."

— 16 —

"S
O HOW LONG
are we supposed to sit here?" the cab driver asked.

They were parked at the curb just across the street from Lola Baldacci's house, a typical old Chicago bungalow in Roscoe Village that—even at night—looked in serious need of some tender loving care. Most of the surrounding neighborhood had been cleaned up and gentrified during the last decade or so, but apparently the Baldaccis hadn't gotten the memo.

Standing in the shadow of the elevated train tracks, the house boasted fading paint, a badly scarred front door, and concrete steps leading up to the porch that were full of cracks.

The porch light was on and there were no cars in the driveway, which indicated to Hutch that no one was home.

This was a complete waste of time.

So why had he agreed to come here?

He studied the house from the back seat of the cab and said, "Just a couple more minutes and we're history."

The driver nodded. "Not that I mind the meter running. I mean, it's your money. But I hope you aren't getting me involved in some kind of stalker thing."

"That's exactly what I'm doing."

The driver turned now, fully looking at Hutch for the first time. "You're messin' with me, right?"

Hutch smiled. "Right."

The driver grinned and was about to turn back when he stopped himself. "Do I know you?"

Hutch stifled a sigh. How should he play this?

"Not unless you've been to Australia," he said.

"Australia? You don't sound like you're from Australia."

"What does an Australian sound like?"

The driver shrugged. "I don't know. Different. Like an English guy or something."

"My parents were American," Hutch said. "I'm relocating to Chicago next year and I'm thinking about buying this house. I heard the best way to get to know a neighborhood is to park your car at different times of the day and just observe for a while."

"Yeah? Well, I hope the asking price is reasonable, because this place is a dump. Plus you got the L tracks right overhead. That can't be pleasant."

"Beats Australia," Hutch said.

"Oh? How's that?"

"No kangaroos."

The driver chuckled and turned back around, then reached for his rear view mirror and adjusted it slightly, to get a better view of his passenger.

Hutch had seen that look a hundred times before, the guy thinking he knows you from somewhere but he's unable to place you.

Sooner or later it would come to him, but Hutch hoped the cab ride would be over before that happened.

You'd think that most actors would be thrilled to be recognized, but that feeling wears off pretty fast. Especially when you've had your dinner at your favorite restaurant interrupted by an overenthusiastic fan who gets upset when you politely ask her for a little privacy.

She can't understand why you don't want to sign her napkin or her menu or the dimple above her right ass cheek. She's your biggest fan and she's spent a lot of money on you. Bought all your movies. Downloaded your TV shows off the Internet.

After a while you stop being polite. Or you do what the megastars do—stay home most of the time. Eat in and invite your family and friends over.

For the big names it isn't just a matter of vague recognition. Everybody and his brother knows exactly who you are.

A few years back, Hutch had been on the threshold of that kind of stardom but never quite got there—unless you counted all the tabloid fodder. Now he was happy to be a has-been, an also-ran, a burn-out. The guy who reminds them of somebody they once knew. Maybe a distant cousin or something. A former co-worker they used to see in the lunch room.

Most encounters he had with the public these days were friendly—like the one with the deputy at the courthouse. But every time he was recognized by someone, his gut immediately tightened. You never knew where it would lead. And you could never be sure if you were dealing with a genuine member of the public, a psycho, or some tabloid jerk trying to suck you dry.

Hutch checked his cell phone. It was closing in on seven o'clock and he figured he'd already given this a lot more time than it deserved.

He had no idea what Ronnie wanted to show him, and he didn't much care anymore. His curiosity had waned.

He was about to tell the driver to take him home, when a Chevy sedan rolled up the street and pulled into the Baldacci driveway. The car, a ten year old Malibu, was much like the exterior of the house—worn and in need of some serious body work. As it came to a stop, the engine rattled and died, and the driver's door creaked open.

A weary-looking woman of about fifty-five—whose dyed brown hair failed to disguise her age—climbed out, slung a purse strap over her shoulder, then reached back inside, saying, "Come on. Let's go get some supper."

And all at once Hutch realized why he was here.

He watched as a boy of about five grabbed hold of her hand and climbed out after her. A gangly, tow-headed kid who couldn't have been more than three feet tall, and was the spitting image of his grandmother.

And of his mother—Ronnie.

"Can we have mac and cheese?" the boy asked.

"You gonna help me make it?"

He smiled. "Uh-huh. But I want bow ties instead of curly cues."

"You got it, sweetie. Bow ties it is."

She was a clever one, Ronnie. Wanting Hutch to see the boy first hand. Wanting to slam the message home with a clear and convincing visual.

This is why
, she was telling him. This was why she could never hurt anyone. Because this child, this boy, was her life. And to do anything to destroy that life—and the boy's along with it—would not only be foolhardy, but unconscionable.

Ronnie had made no mention of being a mother, and Hutch had no idea who or where the father was, but her message to him had been received as intended.

He watched as the two worked their way up those broken steps, the boy stopping a moment to poke his toe into one of the cracks. His grandmother gave him a loving pat on the head, then took hold of his hand again and pulled him toward the front door.

As they went inside, Hutch sat there, trying to absorb what he'd just seen.

Then he turned to the driver and said, "Okay, I'm done. Let's get the hell out of here."

— 17 —

J
URY SELECTION WAS
wrapped up early the following day, with the trial phase scheduled to begin Monday morning at nine a.m. sharp.

Hutch sat in his usual spot on the prosecution side of the gallery, watching as the final panel was selected, still thinking about what he'd seen the night before.

Ronnie didn't once turn to look at him. She was again dressed in a business suit, keeping her eyes on the jury members as they were sworn in. Her stage was the defense table and they were her only audience.

Still, her words tumbled through Hutch's brain.

I need you to see what's at stake for me
.

Her message had been powerful. No question about it. Seeing that small boy, a child any parent would cherish—would die to protect—had certainly done what she had intended it to: create doubt in Hutch's mind.

But was it reasonable doubt?

Hutch may not have been a member of the jury, but he figured it didn't hurt to follow the same standard they were being sworn to. And when it came down to it, having a child did not necessarily mean that you were incapable of murder. A lot of killers had children. A lot of killers ruined their children's lives along with their own. And some killers even
killed
their own children.

Did they have any less at stake than Ronnie?

No.

So the thought that she was guilty of this crime
despite
having a son who loved and needed her was not entirely unreasonable. And any way you sliced it, she was at least guilty of crass manipulation. It reminded Hutch of some of the desperate Hollywood hustlers he'd had to deal with over the years, and the thought grated.

Was last night's show the act of an innocent woman, or was it a calculated ploy to get him on her side and open up his checkbook?

Maybe both.