Robert Browne: Trial Junkies

In short, she was the exact opposite of Ronnie, and her death was a testament to how seriously screwed up the universe truly was.

Matt squeezed Ronnie's hand again, then leaned toward her, keeping his voice low. "Check it out. Third row. Left side."

Ronnie shifted her gaze and felt her heart kick up a notch, surprised to see none other than Ethan Hutchinson sitting close to the aisle, looking much better than he had in, like-forever.

Not that she could tell all that much from this angle. But the last she'd seen of him was a clip on Celebrity Death Watch, when he'd been too zonked to even realize he was on camera. She hated the show, thought it was unnecessarily cruel and invasive, but she'd been riveted to the screen like a rubbernecker at a train wreck, and her heart had broken for the guy.

It didn't help that she'd always had a bit of a crush on him.

She had heard that he had finally gotten his act together, but she had to admit she'd been skeptical-and wrong, apparently. Because here he was. Looking good. Almost like the old Hutch.

Ronnie didn't know why she was surprised to see him here. He had been head over heels for Jenny since the day they met, and she knew there had to be a storm raging inside of him right now.

Because the simple truth of the matter was that Jennifer Keating had not deserved to die. Not by a long shot.

And Hutch had to be feeling it more than any of them.

When the mass was over, when the songs had been sung, the prayers spoken, the memories shared, Hutch breathed a sigh of relief.

Thank God it was behind him now.

He wasn't sure how much more he could take.

He had been touched by the outpouring of love for Jenny, the friends and family who had spoken of their affection for her, telling stories about her childhood, her teenage years, her work in the community, the cases she had tried and won…

And more than once, he wished he hadn't removed his sunglasses. Found himself unable to hold back tears when Jenny's father spoke about the death of his wife, and about the time they had almost lost Jenny to influenza as a child. How grateful he was that she had been spared, if only for a short time.

"She was, and always will be, my little angel," Keating said. "But I take comfort in knowing that she's with her mother now, in the Lord's Kingdom. And I know that one day I'll join them in the arms of God."

Surprisingly, none of the old gang had gotten up to speak, but Jenny's father had never really approved of them. He had apparently decided that her years as an undergrad were to be erased from her history.

Yet Jenny's life, her womanhood, had been defined by those years, and to discard or deny them only proved how little Keating knew about his own daughter. For all of the talk, all of the memories that had been presented here today, none of the people who spoke had captured the essence of who she really was.

Not to Hutch's mind, anyway.

Ten years may have been a long time not to be in contact, yet he felt as if he had known Jenny better than any of them. And if he had returned her calls, if he had gotten together with her for lunch or a drink-or whatever-that instant chemistry they had always shared would have kicked in immediately. That deep understanding of each other that no one else could grasp.

And as he sat there in the pew, listening to the drone of the organ music, Jenny's friends and family getting to their feet around him, Hutch suddenly realized why he hadn't returned her calls.

He had been afraid to. Because Jenny had known him far too well. Could see into him with a razor sharp precision that cut past all the Hollywood bullshit and went straight for the soul.

The life he had been leading was a fraud, one he had lucked into. And there was no doubt in his mind that she would have called him on it. Would have forced him to see himself for exactly what he was-a lost, insecure man in search of something-anything-that would define him as a human being.

Hutch had never set out to be an actor or a celebrity in the first place. Had never studied drama or tried out for any school plays. Had been nothing more than a twenty-one year old pre-law undergrad, trying to figure out what to do with his life, when he was "discovered" at a keg party in University Village by a local casting director hunting for new faces.

His, she told him, was just made for TV.

An arguable comment at best.

At her urging, Hutch auditioned for a supporting role in an upcoming series pilot about a Chicago medical examiner who investigated cold cases. And to everyone's surprise-including his own-he got the part.

Before he knew it, he was on a Hollywood sound stage, completely out of his element, playing the snarky young lab assistant, spouting lines that would make even a third-rate pulp writer wince in pain. But for reasons known only to the Gods, the show was picked up and became an instant hit.

Hutch moved to Los Angeles, where most of the series was shot, and his character got so popular that the storylines started focusing on him rather than the designated star, an old television veteran named Jack Van Parkes.

Needless to say, this made for an unpleasant working situation, but he slogged on simply because he had nothing better to do.

Then, of course, there was the money.

And the fame.

The cars. The women. The booze.

The drugs.

Within a couple years of getting the gig, Hutch was a show business cliche. Had left the show and moved on to features and become a spoiled, over-privileged brat with enough yes men around him to get him believing the hype. And when his first three movies tanked, followed by another three that went straight to DVD, he was too busy getting blitzed to know that his so-called career was on a downward slide.

Then, late one drug and alcohol-fueled night, he turned to the woman lying next to him in bed, her bare ass peppered with traces of the coke he had just snorted off it, and he suddenly realized he had no idea who the hell she was.

Or who he was, for that matter.

Not only had he lost control of his life, he was completely alone. His parents were dead, his friends were bought and paid for, and the only people he had ever really cared about-his old college pals-had long ago given up on him.

All except Jenny.

She had left a message on his voice mail shortly after the incident with the paparazzi. The fistfight outside The Viper Room that had gotten so much airplay. He was so coked out of his mind that night that he couldn't remember any of it, and had awakened in a jail cell that smelled of booze, old urine and industrial antiseptic.

When his manager bailed him out and he collected his belongings at the front desk, he found Jenny's message waiting on his phone. He had no idea how she'd gotten the new number, but Jenny had always been a resourceful woman.

"You can't keep doing this, Ethan. You need help. Please don't ignore me this time."

But he had. Because it hurt too much not to. She was a reminder of everything he had thrown away-and for what? A face on a movie screen? A half dozen cars in his garage? A line of coke on the ass of some flavor-of-the-week starlet?

Looking at it from a distance, it might have seemed like every man's fantasy. But it was a lifestyle that started to consume you after a while. To control you. And once you lose control you're bound to crash.