Trial Junkies

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 -

Jury 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.

Hutch left the courtroom before the jury was even dismissed for the day. He walked for a while, then caught a train, which he rode for nearly two hours. Then, a little past four o'clock, he hailed a cab and went to the apartment in Lincoln Park.

As he stepped through the lobby doors, the doorman, a cheerful, elderly guy named Maurice, moved to his desk and waved an envelope at him.

'Fella dropped this off for you,' he said. 'I'd tell you what's in it, but I haven't had a chance to steam it open.'

Maurice had been manning this post for a good thirty years and Hutch had known him for more than half that. When Hutch was thirteen, Maurice had given him a baseball signed by several of the Cubs, including hall-of-famer 'Ryno' Sanberg. Hutch still had that ball in a glass display case in his condo in Los Angeles.

He smiled. 'You want me to go away for a while, give you a little extra time?'

'Nah,' Maurice said. 'Guy didn't look all that interesting anyway, and I'm too lazy to break out the kettle.'

'He happen to mention his name?'

'Matt something. Said he'd been trying to get hold of you but didn't have your private number. Couldn't get your agent to give it up.'

Hutch wasn't surprised. He was very careful about maintaining his privacy these days and let his agent field any inquiries. Since Matt was with the media, it was likely that any messages he left were immediately round filed and forgotten about.

'I played dumb,' Maurice continued. 'Told him your name didn't sound familiar, but he wasn't buying. Said he was a friend of yours and left the envelope anyway.'

Hutch took it from him and turned it in his hands before tearing it open. Inside was a business card-Matthew W. Isaacs, Chicago Post-with a note scribbled on back:

Call me.

A phone number was written underneath this.

'See? What'd I tell you?' Maurice said. 'Not worth firing up the kettle.'

Hutch smiled and thanked him, then pulled his phone out and dialed as he walked toward the elevator.

Matt picked up after the second ring. 'Isaacs.'

'It's Hutch. What's up?'

'You're a tough man to get hold of.'

'I have my reasons.'

'No shit,' Matt said with a laugh. 'I've been out of town on assignment for the last few weeks, but our crime watch editor says you've been in the courtroom every day since they started jury selection. Says you had some pretty strong words about Ronnie.'

Hutch's gut tightened. 'Are we on the record right now?'

'Come on, man, give me some credit. I feel pretty bad about how we left it the night Ronnie was tagged, so I'm hoping you'll let me buy you a drink. Non-alcoholic, of course.'

Hutch had no problem with that. He'd always respected Matt, despite any differences of opinion.

'When and where?' he asked.

'You free now?'

Hutch was at the elevator and stopped just short of pressing the call button. 'I was about to climb in bed with a harem of starlets, but I think they'll give me a rain check.'

'Yeah? Ask 'em if they'll give me one, too.'

— 18 -

Hutch ordered a root beer, then looked at Matt and said, 'Where's your wing man?'

It was just after five p.m. and The Monkey House was oddly devoid of college students, most of whom were on summer break.

Hutch and Matt sat across from each other at a corner table, Hutch trying to remember the last time he'd seen Matt without Andy McKenna hovering somewhere nearby. He hated terms like bromance, but thought it might be appropriate when it came to the Curmudgeon Twins.

'He's working late tonight,' Matt said. 'Some kind of accounting emergency, I guess.'

Hutch smiled. 'I read his script, you know. When I was back in L.A.'

'Oh?' Matt's eyebrows shot up. 'Believe it or not, he hasn't said anything about it since that night. Guess I dodged a bullet.'

'I haven't talked to him yet. Been a little distracted.'

'Haven't we all,' Matt said. 'Thing any good?'