Trial Junkies (A Thriller) (19 page)

Everything had been arranged for the lunch recess.

Now here they were, standing in the long post-lunch line to get back inside the building (after once again fighting off a platoon of reporters), the creep not four feet in front of them, dropping his wallet and keys into a tray and his book bag on the belt.

Gus caught the eye of the security man up front, gave him a subtle nod, then waited for their target to pass through the gate, which beeped loudly and unexpectedly.

"Step this way," the guard said, then pulled the creep to the side and started passing a wand over him.

While the creep stood blinking behind those thick black glasses, another guard scooped up the tray with his wallet and keys, then disappeared behind the scanner.

A moment later it was done, and when Gus and Hutch passed through the gate and retrieved their own personal effects, Gus found a small slip of paper neatly folded inside his wallet, which he promptly handed to Hutch.

As they made their way to the elevator, Hutch unfolded it and saw a hastily scribbled note
—
name, date of birth, and a twelve digit ID number issued by the State of Illinois.

"You get what you need?" Gus asked.

Hutch nodded. "And then some."

A moment later he was on the phone to Matt.

— 31 —

O
THER THAN THE
post-lunch subterfuge at the security gate, the bulk of the day was uneventful.

Before Waverly's cross-examination of Detective Meyer could even begin that morning, there was a flurry of defense and prosecution motions, no doubt cooked up in the middle of the night by the two sleepless legal teams.

The jury was sent away as the parties had argued over things that Hutch didn't completely comprehend. Once the legalese started flying, he had turned inward, and judging by the looks on the faces of Andy and Monica, they'd done the same. Monica got up twice to use the ladies room and took her time returning.

Tom and Gus were the only ones who seemed to be following along, and Hutch had made a mental note not to ask them about it later. Legal maneuvers didn't do much for him. He was far more interested in the drama of confrontation, attorney against witness, and he wished they'd put that smarmy fuck Meyer back on the stand so Waverly could have a go at him.

He was reminded, not for the first time, that there was a vast difference between a real trial and what you see on TV.

Hutch spent much of this time studying the creep, who sat not twenty feet away, watching the trial with the rapt attention of a child mesmerized by his favorite cartoon show. As the lunch hour had grown closer, he realized he had butterflies in his stomach in anticipation of what he and Gus had planned.

He was relieved when it all went smoothly.

The afternoon session was more of the same—a fresh new flurry of legal motions, Waverly and Abernathy getting quite heated at times. And Hutch once again found himself sneaking glances at the creep, who now had a name:

Frederick Langer.

It sounded pretty innocuous, but at this very moment, Matt was chasing down as much information as he could find on Langer, and he and Hutch and the others had made plans to meet at the Lincoln Park apartment to discuss what Matt had discovered.

Hutch had no idea if their little attempt at playing detective would amount to much of anything, but his gut led him to believe that there was definitely something off about this guy, far beyond what he'd seen and heard on the L last night.

His suspicion was solidified when he realized that Langer's rapt attention had shifted from the proceedings—

—to Ronnie herself.

His gaze was fixed on her as she sat at the defense table, watching the attorneys argue vigorously before the judge.

Hutch recognized that look immediately. It was the same expression he'd seen on the faces of teenage girls as he walked the red carpet at a premiere, or the Emmys. A kind of impassioned worship that, while completely unfounded, was as powerful as a drug and potentially as dangerous—to the object of their affection, that is. Hutch had often wondered what would have happened to him if those screaming girls had ever been let loose.

And what, he wondered, was behind Langer's fascination with Ronnie?

Was he enthralled by the thought that this woman might very well be convicted of a crime he had committed? Or was he imagining her laying face-up in an alleyway, her broken body peppered with knife wounds?

H
UTCH HAD SPOKEN
only briefly with Ronnie that morning. Although it came with the territory, he was still a little angry and embarrassed by the way the press had played up their kiss.

But Ronnie wasn't fazed by it.

"They've already printed enough lies about me," she'd told him. "What's one more? I'm just happy to be free."

"I'm not sure free is the right word. They're probably camped out in your front yard by now."

"And the alley," she'd said with a nod. "Don't forget the alley. I got up to take a pee in the middle of the night and saw some bastard digging through my trash. When I shouted at him, he pointed a camera at my window and started flashing away."

"Jesus," Hutch murmured.

"And when Andy came to pick me up, I was worried we might not make it to the car. We just put our heads down and kept walking."

"That's the only way to do it. Or never come out of your house."

"If only I had that choice."

They had let that percolate a moment, then Hutch said, "I've been thinking, maybe you need to come out to Lincoln Park for a while. You and Christopher and your mom."

She looked surprised. "Seriously?"

"There's plenty of room for all three of you and I've got a doorman who'll be more than happy to keep the riff-raff out, or call the cops if he has to. There's even underground parking, so we can get you to court without having to run the gauntlet."

She had smiled then. "Boy, when you commit, you commit."

"Let's just say I feel bad for doubting you all these months."

"You've already done enough, Hutch."

He shrugged. "So let me do a little more."

H
E HADN'T TOLD
her about his suspicions regarding Frederick Langer, or what he and Gus were planning for the lunch hour. He doubted she even knew who Langer was. Most of the time she had her back to the gallery, and if she
did
turn around, Langer was merely one in a sea of faces.

They arranged for Andy to take her straight to Hutch's apartment after court, and when the reporters got a clue and realized she wasn't coming home, her mother would wait for them to disperse, then pack a few necessities, grab her grandson and follow. Hopefully, their nosy neighbor wouldn't be paying much attention.

Hutch knew that sooner or later the media would find out where Ronnie was staying—which would fuel even more rumors about them—but with a fifteenth floor apartment, at least nobody would be pointing cameras toward the bathroom window.

The afternoon was cut short when the judge, looking like he'd much rather be vacationing in Bermuda, decided to take the arguments into chambers. The current point of contention was a defense motion asking the court to allow Waverly to question Detective Meyer about a number of his previous cases—a motion Abernathy strenuously objected to—and Waverly had come armed with enough supporting case law to keep them all busy for quite some time.

For all his cries of boredom, Hutch was disappointed when they shut down early. His daily routine had been interrupted and he wasn't quite sure what to do with himself. He briefly considered following Langer, who had left the moment the gavel fell, but decided that this probably wasn't a wise idea until they knew exactly who they were dealing with.

Waverly had invited Ronnie into chambers and wanted to meet with her after court, so Ronnie told the others there was no point in sticking around.

Monica suggested they go for a drink, but Hutch declined, telling them he'd meet them at his apartment later that evening. After his visit with Nadine last night, he'd nearly had a lapse in judgment, and hanging out in a bar was probably not a wise thing to do.

He said to Andy, "You'll be back for Ronnie, right? Help her pack her things and bring her to my place?"

Andy smirked. "No, I thought I'd leave her here for the night."

"Anybody ever tell you you're a world class smart ass?"

"It's come up once or twice."

When they were gone, Hutch asked Gus what
he
did to fill the void at times like this.

"What else?" The old guy said with a  shrug. "Find another trial."

— 32 —

A
FTER SPENDING THE
rest of the afternoon watching an assault trial that was nearing its foregone conclusion (judging by the faces of the jurors and defense attorney, that is), Hutch had called it a day and gone straight home to take a much needed nap.

The Lincoln Park apartment was a spacious three-bedroom co-op, with high ceilings and wooden floors, that had been Hutch's family home for as long as he could remember. The park, the conservatory and the lake were directly across the street, and just two blocks behind the building was a variety of restaurants and bars, a grocery store, a pharmacy, two dry cleaners and a romper stomper preschool.

It was an insular world and there was no real reason to ever leave it—a sentiment his parents had clung to until the day they died. The irony of their death was that the plane crash that killed them had been the start of their first vacation in nearly fifteen years.

Hutch himself had been so anxious to get out of Lincoln Park that he fled the moment he graduated from high school, even though his college of choice was only a few miles away.

The same had been true for many of his friends. All but Monica and Tom had been raised in Chicago, but they'd chosen to abandon their family homes in favor of independence. By their second year of college they were all rooming in a large, rundown house on Miller Street, and asserting that independence with loud and unbridled enthusiasm.

Except for stints at grad school, only Hutch had moved away from the city after college. Yet here he was now, once again living in the family home. The home he'd been unwilling to let go.

There was certain irony in that as well.

After his nap, he smoked a cigarette and looked around, thought about the condition of
Matt's
apartment, then spent the next two hours cleaning the place up. He hadn't yet removed all of the protective plastic that had covered the furniture for years—dust tarps that had been placed there shortly after his parents' funeral. There were at least two loads of dirty dishes in the sink, and a fair amount of dirt tracked across the Oriental rug in the living room.

By the time Maurice called up to tell him that the first of his visitors had arrived, the place was spotless, with fresh sheets on the beds, a stack of laundered towels in the hall closet, and the faint smell of Lysol in the air. There was also a feast of sandwiches, pasta and pizza on its way from Rocco Ranalli's, just down the street. He had ordered more than they'd need, but figured he wouldn't encounter any resistance when it came time to dole out the leftovers.

At seven p.m. the doorbell rang and Andy stood in the hallway with Ronnie in tow. She immediately went to Hutch and pulled him into a hug, once again whispering "thank you" in his ear. And judging by her body language he was starting to believe his get-out-of-jail-free card may have bought him a lot more than he had anticipated.

He had to admit he didn't mind the heat of her breath, and the feel of her breasts crushed against him, the faint aroma of lavender on her skin. But he hadn't sprung her from jail to buy her affection, and had no real desire to prove the tabloids right.

Or Nadine.

Her admonition popped into his brain:  
stop letting your dick do your thinking for you,
and just as Andy gave him an
attaboy
look, he gently extricated himself from Ronnie's embrace and led them into the living room.

"Food's on the way," he said.

Ronnie sighed. "Good, I'm starving. I was so wound up in court today I couldn't eat lunch."

"What happened when you guys went into chambers?"

"The judge finally allowed Waverly to bring in some of Meyer's old cases. She says she'll crucify him tomorrow, during cross."

"Why his old cases?" Hutch asked. He gestured to the sofa and chairs atop the newly vacuumed rug and they all sat.

"To show a pattern of false arrest and prejudice against women. He's got a nice smile in court, but he's a first class misogynist and I'll be happy to see the looks on the faces of all those female jurors when they finally realize it."