Robert Browne: Trial Junkies

Monica sided with Nadine and Tom, while Matt and Andy were both outraged that they could even think one of their friends was a stone cold killer.

"Jenny and Ronnie may have had their problems," Matt said, "but Ronnie would never hurt anyone. It just isn't in her nature."

When Nadine reminded them about the incident with Ronnie's mom, they had reacted with the same skepticism Hutch had shown earlier. An accident, nothing more.

Matt turned to Hutch. "So where do you come down on this? Are you falling for this bullshit?"

Hutch, now firmly on the fence, wasn't sure how to answer him. He wanted to believe in his friend, but the truth was, he hadn't seen her in ten years. A lot could happen to a person in that amount of time.

He was certainly a testament to that.

Much to Matt's disgust, Hutch had remained noncommittal. And in the days just prior to arraignment, the police department and prosecutor's office started privately leaking information while publicly denying it.

"A little bit of pre-trial jury persuasion," Waverly had called it.

And it was persuasive.

Hairs found at the crime scene. A black INCUBUS sweatshirt with Jenny's blood on it found in Ronnie's trash. A flurry of phone calls from Ronnie to Jenny just prior to the murder.

If you wanted to taint a jury, this was just the kind of evidence to do it with. And while it might seem like a stretch that Ronnie would be stupid enough to leave incriminating evidence in her own trash, Hutch thought she was just scattered and impulsive enough to do exactly that. People do the damnedest things in the face of panic.

By the time of the arraignment, he was no longer on the fence. The evidence against her was simply too overwhelming, and he was now convinced that Nadine and Tom and Monica had indeed been right. That, as painful as it might be to admit, Ronnie really had done this.

She had stabbed Jenny to death.

Brutally.

Without mercy.

He didn't want to believe that his friend was a killer-the mere thought of it filled him with remorse-but what choice did he really have? What was the point in refusing to see the truth, as heartbreaking as it might be?

And as this realization set in, as he accepted that truth, Hutch once again felt rage growing inside him.

Three days later, he had sat in the arraignment, staring heatedly at the back of Ronnie's head, wanting more than anything to press the barrel of a gun against it and pull the trigger. The thought that he had shown this woman sympathy, had actually stood there chatting with her the night Jenny's funeral-had even found himself attracted to her-made him sick to his stomach.

He had immediately withdrawn his financial support, and had expected Waverly's firm to drop the case. But with the growing publicity, they must have smelled opportunity, and continued representing Ronnie pro bono.

Hutch had gone back to his life in L.A., only to see the pilot he'd shot shit-canned by the network. He did a couple of minor guest shots on CSI and Criminal Minds , auditioned for a three-episode arc on The Mentalist that never materialized, and spent the rest of the time waiting.

Waiting for this day to come.

So now here he was, nodding thanks to the security screeners and working his way down the crowded hallway to courtroom 128, where jury selection was about to begin.

State vs. Veronica Baldacci.

Murder One.

The bitch should be roasted alive for what she's done.

The moment Hutch saw her sitting at the defense table, all dolled up for the proceedings, he thought of Jenny and how much he had loved her.

And he once again wanted blood.

It wasn't until the third day of jury selection that Ronnie asked to see him.

The process had been long and boring and Hutch had almost bailed a few times, but convinced himself to stick it out. He wanted to see everything there was to see here. Watch as every member of the jury pool was questioned by the prosecutor, by Waverly, and even the judge.

He made a game of it, starting his own mental scorecard, trying to figure out who would secure a permanent seat in the box.

The guy with tattoo on his neck?

Not a chance.

The old lady who kept blowing her nose in the middle of the prosecutor's questions?

Nope.

What about the professional "dancer" with the platinum blonde hair who claimed to have a PhD in psychology?

Not likely.

There were, however, a couple of potential jurors Hutch thought were perfect for the defense-a woman of about thirty, with a subtle motherly vibe, and a sixtyish father of three who kept looking at Ronnie as if his heart was breaking. They both struck Hutch as no-brainers, and he hoped the prosecutor-a burly guy named Abernathy-would quickly bump them.

But to his surprise, Waverly did it first. For cause.

And the "dancer" got the nod from both parties.

So much for Hutch's instincts.

Earlier that morning he had looked around the courtroom and saw that he wasn't the only one here for the duration. Next to the usual reporters and family and friends, the place was full of what were commonly known as court watchers or trial junkies. People with nothing better to do, hooked on the promise of courtroom drama. Most of them middle-aged or older. Retirees, drop-outs, medical cases.

Hutch figured he was kind of a retiree himself. Had money in the bank, a place to live, and a desire to do nothing but sit here and see Jenny get her justice.

"I guess that makes me something of a trial junkie, too," he told one of the regulars, who had introduced himself as Gus. About sixty-five and built like an ex-marine, he was once a bailiff in this very courthouse.

Gus shook his head. "You been here-what? Two, three days now? Some of these people been coming here every day for years. Treat it like a job."

"Never mind, then," Hutch said. "It's just the one trial for me."

"Mmm-hmm. I've heard that before. You just be careful you don't get hooked."

Hutch almost smiled. Replace one addiction with another, he thought.

Maybe it would help him stop smoking.

The trial junkies came and went as the jury selection droned on. Another regular was a much younger man than usual, maybe twenty-five or so, who kept to himself. A pasty-looking guy, with thick black-rimmed glasses and a crewcut, who always had a book bag slung over his shoulder and spent his time during breaks buried in the pages of a book.

If Hutch were casting a movie, he'd immediately hire this guy to play the weird neighbor or the creepy stalker. But in truth, he was probably just another lonely soul, looking to fill his time with other people's problems.

When they broke for lunch that third day, Karen Waverly brought Hutch a note from Ronnie.

Hutch and Gus were sitting on a hallway bench, eating vending machine sandwiches-purportedly roast beef-when she approached and said, "You probably don't want hear this, but my client wants a face-to-face."

Hutch couldn't say he was all that surprised. He'd figured it would happen sooner or later, with Ronnie seeing him sitting there in the gallery every day.

He stared at the folded slip of paper in Waverly's hand, then took it from her and opened it. There was only one word written across it in flat black ink:

Please

Suddenly overcome by both anger and regret, Hutch crumpled the note and tossed it to the floor.

How dare Ronnie play with him like this.

"You could get a hefty fine for that," Gus told him. "Littering on government property."

"I can afford it."

Gus seemed to sense the tension and got to his feet, saying, "See you inside."

Then he shuffled off toward the courtroom.