Robert Browne - Trial Junkies

"But I won't lie to you," Waverly continued. "Some of what you'll hear will certainly seem damning. The so-called DNA evidence. The phone calls. But as we all know from recent events in the news, DNA evidence can often be tainted. DNA evidence is only as reliable as the people who handle it-some of whom are desperate to close a case. To find a killer."

Waverly turned now, gesturing to Ronnie.

"But as Mr. Abernathy himself said, Ronnie Baldacci does not look like a killer. And why is that? Because Ronnie Baldacci is not a killer. Ronnie Baldacci is nothing more than a good woman struggling to raise a child, doing the best she can to make it in this world. The police came after her because she was an easy target. Because her presence in Jennifer Keating's life-tangential as it was-made it easier for them to close yet another case in a city where so many murders go unsolved."

She stared intently at the jurors now.

"As you'll soon discover, this is a classic rush to judgment. The kind of move only the most cynical and lazy law enforcement officers make. And because of that cynicism, because of that laziness, Jennifer Keating's real killer remains at large."

She gestured to the gallery.

"For all we know, he could be sitting in this courtroom today, or watching on TV, or reading about it online or in the papers. And he knows the one thing that I know. What the police and prosecutor should have known, and what every one of you will soon know once Mr. Abernathy has finished presenting his case." She paused, staring intently at the jurors. "That Veronica Baldacci is not guilty."

As Waverly returned to her seat, Matt smiled inwardly. It was a brilliant strategy. If you convict Ronnie Baldacci, the real killer will go free. A powerful deterrent to anyone with an itchy trigger finger.

Whether or not the jury would buy this strategy was difficult to say, however, and as Matt studied their faces, he got nothing from them.

Judge O'Donnell said, "Thank you, Ms. Waverly," then turned to the prosecutor. "Mr. Abernathy, please call your first witness."

Abernathy nodded and got to his feet. "Your Honor, the state calls Detective Jason Meyer to the stand."

And so it begins, Matt thought.

They kept the cop on the stand for nearly three hours before breaking for lunch.

Detective Meyer had that subtle swagger that so many of these guys carry like a well-worn accessory. His every expression, his every mannerism, sent an underlying message to the courtroom- I've seen it all and I know the truth.

Hutch had studied a number of cops over the years. Had met a few in his drunk and disorderly days, had done a couple ride-alongs while preparing for roles, and he recognized that familiar attitude of superiority. Had noticed it the first time he saw Meyer, outside The Monkey House, as Meyer slapped the cuffs on Ronnie, saying the words that had been like a punch to the gut.

We're charging you for the murder of Jennifer Keating.

Meyer was big and hard-bodied, about six-three or so, with broad swimmer's shoulders. Not a guy you wanted to square off against. Physically or mentally. Not that he struck Hutch as a mental giant, but he seemed to carry a tenaciousness of spirit that didn't give him room to back off, no matter what the circumstances. And if you got too smart for your own good, he'd simply stare you down until you shut the fuck up.

After quickly running through Meyer's credentials, Abernathy got straight to the heart of the matter. "Detective, please tell us how you first became involved in this case."

As Meyer spoke, his tone was infused with a solemn authority. He was the grown-up here and the courtroom was full of clueless children who needed to sit back and listen. "We got a call-out at approximately eleven p.m.," he said. "A DB in Dearborn Park, discovered by an apartment owner walking his dog."

"DB?"

"Dead body."

The prosecutor nodded. "Go on."

"So my partner Charlie Mack and I headed out that way and found the victim in the middle of a vacant lot on Clark street. She had multiple stab wounds and a severe throat laceration."

"And you were able to identify her as Jennifer Keating?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"Her car was parked at the curb and her purse and driver's license were inside."

"And once you determined this, what did you do next?"

"Detective Mack waited for the crime scene techs to arrive while I briefed the responding officers and we started canvassing the neighborhood, looking for any possible witnesses to the crime."

"And did you find any?"

"Just one. A Ms. Rita Culberson, who told me she was awakened at approximately 10:40 p.m. by what she thought was a scream. She lives in an apartment with a window that faces the lot."

"Did she see anything?"

"No, but her statement gave us an approximate time of death and helped us work out a timeline."

Hutch knew he should be paying attention here-Meyer was a critical witness, after all-but he found himself quickly tuning the guy out. Kept thinking about something Waverly had said during her opening statement.

For all we know, he could be sitting in this courtroom today.

Meaning the killer, of course. The real killer.

It had taken Hutch a while to come around to the idea that Ronnie had been unjustly accused. He'd still had some lingering doubt when he walked into the courtroom this morning, especially after the ADA had done his thing. But Waverly's performance had been magnificent, managing to sum up in only a few words what had taken Hutch weeks to realize: that, just as Ronnie had suggested, he should trust his initial instincts. That the wrong person was on trial here.

He could admit to himself now that he'd gone a little crazy over Jenny's death. The funeral had set him on edge and in the days following the arrest he had allowed himself to fall prey to the prosecution's propaganda.

He didn't much like himself for it. Ronnie had deserved better from him. And he hoped that in the days to come he could somehow make up for it.

But if Ronnie wasn't the killer, who was?

It was a question that gnawed at Hutch. Who would want Jenny dead?

For all we know, he could be sitting in this courtroom today.

Instead of listening to Meyer recite the facts as he saw them, Hutch let his mind and eyes wander, glancing around the gallery, sizing up the various spectators.

There was the man in the far right corner on the prosecution's side, a button-down type who, for all Hutch knew, may have known Jenny quite well. May have worked with her at the law firm. May even have shared a drink or two with her, dreaming about getting her into bed.

May even have succeeded.

Or been rejected.

Then there was the seedy looking guy in the third row right, with the two-day stubble and the frayed collar. He seemed to be killing time between sessions of his own trial, and Hutch had no idea why he was here or what his relationship to Jenny might be. Was he a friend of hers? A former client? Was he yet another trial junkie? How exactly did he fit in?

But why limit this guessing game to men? What about the woman who sat directly across from Hutch and defined the word battle-ax? She was overdressed and wore too much make-up, neither of which disguised the fact that she had a face that looked as if it had been smashed by a quite few frying pans. Her frown was so unyielding, the crease between her brows seemed to have been tattooed in place.

Why was she here? Could she be the killer, enjoying the spectacle of her handiwork? She certainly looked as if she could wield a knife with the best of them.

Or what about Jenny's father, Nathaniel Keating? He had come here every day without fail, sitting not in the front row but in the far right corner, his face stony and humorless as he watched the proceedings. He had never once acknowledged Hutch's presence here, but Hutch wasn't surprised. They had only met twice, and the old man had never liked him. Keating was the kind of guy who needed to control everyone around him and had considered Hutch a bad influence on his child. Jenny and her father had argued many times when she'd failed to take his advice, and Hutch knew that she had always been a little afraid of him.