Trial Junkies (A Thriller) (16 page)

It was all bluff, of course, but the man had terrified her, and it had taken every ounce of internal fortitude she could muster to keep from breaking down right there in that claustrophobic little room.

Meyer was nothing short of a bully, and she wasn't about to give him even an inch of satisfaction.

Not one inch.

The Detective Meyer in court, however, was a completely different animal. Well-mannered, professional, a bit full of himself but charismatic and likable just the same.

The jury loved him. She could see it in their faces. Some of the women had that same look that
she
got whenever she was around Hutch.

And that didn't bode well for Ronnie Baldacci.

During the lunch break she had been so distraught that she had sat weeping in her cell. She had never been big on tears—it took a lot to get the waterworks running—but the moment the door clanged shut behind her, someone turned the faucet on full force and she collapsed to her bunk, unable to hold them back.

She was only halfway through her first day of trial and she knew that this jury—those women—were going to convict her. Meyer and that smug little ADA were already painting her as some kind of obsessive nut case and she knew it was working.

But by the time her lunch break came to an end, she had told herself not to be so pessimistic. Had wiped her eyes and put on her brave face and even smiled at the jury as they filed into the courtroom.

None of them smiled back.

Then, toward the end of the day, when the ADA brought out that black hoodie, Meyer claiming it was the one she had worn while stabbing Jenny repeatedly, she was once again convinced that she was doomed. That she would be convicted of murder and would spend the rest of her life away from little Christopher—who would surely be sent to Arizona to live with Danny.

And if that happened, she'd never see or hear from him again.

No visits. No phone calls. No letters.

So maybe
shitty
was the wrong word to describe her day.

Shitty
was inconsequential compared to this.

This day was so far beyond shit that she couldn't find an adequate way to express just how bad it was.

But at least Hutch believed her now, and she'd be free for a while. Could spend some time with Christopher before they locked her up for good.

And as she sat there in her cell, waiting for Hutch to post bond, and for the guard to tell her that she was free to go, Ronnie had a sudden thought.

What if she walked out that door and never came back? Grabbed Christopher and disappeared off the face of the earth?

Go to Italy maybe. France. Brazil. Ecuador.

It sounded like yet another Ronnie Baldacci fantasy.

But maybe she could make this one come true.

— 26 —

T
HE BAILBONDSMAN WAS
a guy named Leon Johnson who looked as if he could snap you in two just by thinking about it. He reminded Hutch of a young Ving Rhames—an actor he'd long admired and had always wanted to work with—and he figured this was about as close as he'd ever get.

He was sitting in Johnson's office about three blocks from the courthouse, a pre-fab two-room suite that had been sublet from a local dentist. Hutch could hear the whine of a drill coming from one of the other rooms.

Johnson's desk was a metal monstrosity that took up most of the real estate, but Johnson himself made it look like furniture built for dwarves.

"You understand how this works?"

"Yes," Hutch said.

"Once you sign these papers and hand over a check, I don't want you coming back bitchin' about it. You lay down two hundred large, you better be damn sure you know what that means."

"I know what it means."

"So tell me."

"It means I don't get the money back. That this isn't a deposit or collateral for a loan, it's a nonrefundable fee that I'll never see again."

Ten percent of Ronnie's bail, was what it was. And for that amount, Johnson—or more likely his insurance carrier—would pony up the two million needed to spring her. It was also, coincidentally, the exact amount Hutch had been paid per episode during the last two seasons of
Code Two-Seven,
minus agent and managerial fees.

Almost criminal, when you thought about it.

"You also understand," Johnson said, "that if she decides not to show up for court, I
will
hunt her down and throw her ass back in the can."

The thought of being manhandled by this guy gave Hutch a little shiver. He figured most of Johnson's clients probably made the decision not to run the moment they saw the size of his biceps. And his chest. Neck. Forearms. Hands.

"That won't be a problem."

Johnson snorted. "I've heard that before."

"She's got no reason to skip," Hutch told him. "She's not guilty."

"I've heard that one, too."

T
WO HOURS LATER
, Hutch, Matt and Andy waited as Waverly escorted Ronnie out of the judge's private elevator into the underground parking lot—an escape route that was often used by high-profile defendants.

After a quick round of hugs and a few tears, they hustled Ronnie into the back of Andy's Mustang. Hutch climbed in next to her and they drove in near silence to the house in Roscoe Village, circled the block twice to make sure there weren't any reporters around, then pulled up to the curb.

"You guys want to come in?" Ronnie asked.

Hutch shook his head. "You spend time with your family."

"
You're
my family, too."

"Your son doesn't need a bunch of strangers stomping around his house. Spend some time with him, eat a decent meal and get some sleep for once. Andy'll pick you up in the morning."

She looked at him for a long moment, a trace of tears in her eyes. "Thank you, Hutch. Thank you so much."

Without warning, she threw her arms around him and kissed him square on the mouth. Hutch stiffened with surprise, then went with it, kissing her back.

Then she pulled away, looking slightly embarrassed as she got out of the car and crossed the sidewalk to the front steps.

Hutch gave her a wave goodbye, and as they pulled away from the curb, Matt—who sat up front next to Andy—craned his neck to look at him, a slight smile on his face. "So how does it feel to be the knight in shining armor?"

If he was any kind of knight at all, Hutch thought, it was a tarnished one.  

But he nodded.  

"Not bad," he said. "Not bad at all."

— 27 —

N
ADINE DIDN'T SEEM
surprised to see him.

After they left Ronnie's house, Matt had asked Hutch if he wanted to grab a bite to eat, but Hutch had declined. Told them to drop him off back at the courthouse instead.

Grabbing a beef from a nearby sandwich shop, he caught the train to Kenwood, where he knew Nadine kept an apartment in an old condominium her firm had bought and refurbished.

He didn't know if she'd be home, and didn't bother to call, but he figured if he came up dry, at least he'd get a nice little train trip out of it.

Hutch had always enjoyed riding the train. Back in college he'd grab whatever book he'd been assigned to read and jump on the L, losing himself in the clatter of the wheels as he rode back and forth for hours—crowded, empty, he didn't care. This was his way of grabbing some alone time, away from campus and the house on Miller Street, and the noise of the people he lived with.

These trips grew more and more frequent during their senior year, and Hutch knew it was his way of preparing himself—and maybe everyone else—for the inevitable parting of the ways that comes after graduation. Even though most of the gang had plans to stay in Chicago (or return after grad school), Hutch knew that their little bubble would start to burst the moment they tossed their caps into the air.

Jenny had sensed him pulling away and they'd fought about it, but neither of them had known at the time that he'd be gone before the semester was over.

Their last night together had ended in an argument. Hutch telling her he was moving to L.A. for the show and Jenny devastated, as if she hadn't known this was coming. As if she hadn't
encouraged
him to try out after the casting agent handed him her card.

She had wanted him to postpone the move until they finished school, then they could go out to the coast together, find a place to live. But Hutch had no interest in finishing, wanting to get on with his life
now
, not later.

She'd called him selfish and cruel and that probably wasn't far from the truth—but what choice did he have? Once the show started shooting he'd be needed on the set.  

Couldn't she understand that?

The next day he was gone. Called a cab for the airport shortly after she left for school, not a word spoken between them. He left a note, promising to call, that he'd be back for graduation and make arrangements for her to move in with him.

But none of the promises were kept, and he never spoke to her again.

And now he never would.

Where were you, Ethan?

Why didn't you return my calls?

Yeah, Hutch, why didn't you return her calls?

You stupid fool.

A
S LUCK WOULD
have it, Nadine immediately answered the security buzzer, then let him into the lobby.

When he got off the elevator, she was waiting in her open doorway, giving him that wry look that was so much like Jenny's that it nearly made his throat lock up.

It didn't help that she was wearing a faded red and gray
UIC Flames
T-shirt that looked just like the one Jenny wore the last time he saw her.

Who knows, maybe it
was
Jenny's. The girls were always swapping clothes back then.

"I wondered when you'd decide to drop by," she said. "Are you here to convince me what a misguided fool I am?"

"I guess you've heard I switched teams."

"Oh, I've heard, and so has the rest of the world."

Hutch had no idea what she was talking about, and the look on his face must have reflected this.

Nadine looked surprised. "You haven't seen it, have you?"

"Seen what?"

She gestured and he followed her into the living room. Her apartment was small and modestly furnished, modern in style, but not quite what he had expected for a real estate developer.

Maybe her demands were few. He knew of at least one obscenely rich comedian who still lived in a one bedroom walk-up in West Hollywood and drove a fifteen year-old Volvo. Of course the guy owned the apartment building, but that wasn't the point.

Nadine moved to her coffee table, grabbed the open Macbook waiting there and showed it to him.  

"Welcome back to the limelight," she said.

On screen was a garish and all-too-familiar website—
The Gab Bag
—one that had been virulently anti-Ethan Hutchinson during the worst parts of his extended lost weekend. The page was laid out like a typical New York tabloid, a headline screaming—

FORMER TV STAR HOOKS UP WITH KILLER!

Just below this was a series of grainy rapid-fire telephoto shots of Hutch and Ronnie in the back seat of Andy's Mustang, lit up by a nearby street lamp, engaged in what looked like a very passionate lip lock. They were both clearly identifiable.

"What the fuck?" Hutch said.

Nadine snorted softly. "My sentiments exactly."

"This isn't what you think it is."

"Does it matter?"

Hutch felt anger creeping up on him. "How the hell did they get this? We dropped Ronnie off less than two hours ago and there wasn't a reporter in sight."

"Read the blog entry. Apparently her neighbor is an amateur photographer. He saw something going on across the street and grabbed his camera. Probably pissed his pants when he realized what he had. Gab Bag pays five grand for photos like this."

"Son of a bitch," Hutch said.

"Gotta love the Internet, don't you?"

Hutch just stared at the web page. He didn't really give a damn about the photos, but he had real issues with the vultures who made money invading people's privacy. He'd felt the sting of it more times than he could remember.