Robert Browne - Trial Junkies

"They told me that you and Ronnie followed our boy on the train. Found him stalking some poor girl in a restaurant."

"They tell you about the other women?"

"They did indeed. And if Matt's right, we've got a very serious situation on our hands. We need to take it to the police. If you want, I could talk to the boys downstairs, maybe even get the judge involved."

"Not until we've got something solid."

Hutch thought about those two cops staring at him from across the table. They didn't seem all that interested in solid evidence.

He looked down the hallway and saw Nathaniel Keating huddled with his two bodyguards. Keating caught Hutch's gaze and smiled, ever so slightly, as if he knew exactly what Hutch had just been through.

Hell, he was probably the one egging the cops on.

Gus said, "Matt tells me you lost Langer somewhere in the Fulton River District. What do you bet he's squatting in one of the old meatpacker's warehouses out there?"

"Makes sense when you look at all his credit card purchases," Matt said. "A lot of them originated nearby."

Gus nodded. "If he doesn't show up in court, maybe we can go down there tonight, start poking around. Who knows, we might get lucky."

"Or we might get dead," Andy told him. "Guy's a fuckin' psycho."

Hutch thought about Langer's switchblade pressed against his throat and certainly didn't disagree.

As Hutch had predicted, the judge denied the motion for a mistrial and court was in session by ten-thirty that morning.

At Waverly's request, the jury was polled to make sure none of them had watched the news or read the papers. As they all swore under oath that they hadn't, Hutch looked each one of them in eye, trying to determine who was-and wasn't-telling the truth.

Unlike Detective Meyer, however, he didn't have a built-in lie detector. And his faith in humanity had not quite reached the level of Judge O'Donnell's. To Hutch's mind, there was a subtle but unmistakable current of electricity running through that jury box, and he suspected that one or more of them had heard the news about Ronnie's ex-husband.

An easel, sporting a blank piece of art board, stood near the podium, angled for maximum visibility. Apparently the ADA was planning a little show and tell.

Abernathy's first witness was Raymond Hardwick, who was sworn in and introduced to the court as the owner-operator of The Canine Cuttery.

Hardwick looked about forty-five and was slightly overweight, but was groomed to the point of fastidiousness. His thick eyebrows-easily his most animated feature-were neatly tweezed and sculpted into perfect, symmetrical arches. He wore a crisp green shirt, a leather jacket and black stovepipe jeans that somehow worked despite his bulk, and he spoke with a faint British accent that was about as real as the tan he sported.

Hutch knew that Ronnie didn't think much of the man, but on first impression, he didn't strike Hutch as a guy with an axe to grind.

"Mr. Hardwick," Abernathy said from the podium, "how long have you owned The Canine Cuttery?"

Hardwick took a moment to respond. "I believe it's been… let me think now… close to fourteen years. But I worked there for nearly a decade before the previous owner died."

"So then it's safe to say that you're an expert in the art of pet grooming?"

Hardwick laughed. "I prefer the term stylist. But, yes, I'm a graduate of the Manhattan Academy."

Hutch heard a few snickers behind him in the gallery, but Hardwick didn't seem to notice.

Abernathy said, "Can you tell us what's typically involved in… styling a dog?"

"I'm not sure there's such a thing as typical when it comes to my profession. The Cuttery is a high-end establishment and we take special care of our clients."

"Just give us a general description of what's involved."

"Well, it all depends on the client, of course. His or her size, temperament and needs. But the stylist will usually give the client a shampoo and cut and, if necessary, trim the nails, clean the ears."

"And what type of tools are normally used?"

"Well, there are shedding and dematting rakes, brushes and combs, and hair cutting tools, of course-electric clippers and a good pair of shears."

"So in using these tools during the course of a day, is it uncommon for stylists to get hair on their clothes?"

"Oh, Lord, no. I must spend half my income on lint rollers."

More snickers-heard by the judge this time, who gave the people in the gallery an admonishing look, quickly shutting them up.

"Mr. Hardwick," Abernathy said, "can you tell us how many employees you have?"

"There are six stylists in addition to myself, and a young girl who shampoos the clients and does general clean-up."

"And during the month of April of this year, was Veronica Baldacci one of those stylists?"

"Yes."

"So do you think it's reasonable to assume that, in the course of her duties, Ms. Baldacci had the same problem with dog hair that you did?"

"Oh, of course. Probably more, in fact."

"Why is that?"

"Well," Hardwick said, "she was always a bit wardrobe challenged. I'm not quite sure she knows exactly what a lint roller is."

Laughter rippled through the courtroom, and Hardwick seemed quite pleased with himself. But the smile on his face disappeared when Waverly shouted over the noise. "Objection!"

"Settle down," O'Donnell told the crowd. "Settle down." And as they did, he added, "The objection is sustained-the jury will ignore the witness's last statement." He eyed Hardwick sternly. "Mr. Hardwick, we'll have no more jokes at the defendant's expense in this courtroom. Is that understood?"

"Your Honor, I meant no offense. I was simply answering the-"

"Is that understood?"

Hardwick stiffened. "Yes. Of course."

Abernathy checked his notes. "Let's take a moment to look at Ms. Baldacci's history with you as an employee. How long did she work for you?"

"Approximately two months."

"And during her employment, did she ever take any time off?"

"Yes. Quite a bit, actually."

"Were these absences full days, partial days…"

"A couple of full days," Hardwick said, "but usually partial. Half an hour or so here and there to extend her lunch hour. To be frank, I was becoming quite perturbed by it, because it wasn't time she had earned."

"So this was unpaid leave?"

"Oh, most definitely. She hadn't been with the shop long enough to accrue any paid vacation."

"Did you keep a record of this?"

"Yes," Hardwick said. "All employees are required to clock in and out using a computerized time card system."

"And how does that work?"

"We have a station near the employee entrance that's dedicated to time-keeping. Each employee is assigned a PIN number for privacy, which they key into the computer to clock in and out. Every two weeks the data is transferred to our payroll service for processing."

"Am I correct in assuming that the software allows you to print out payroll reports, including the dates and times the employee clocked in and out?"

"Yes," Hardwick said.

Abernathy moved to the prosecution table and picked up a sheet of paper. "On the third of last month you responded to a subpoena from the State requesting such a report in regard to the defendant, did you not?"

"I did."

Abernathy turned to O'Donnell. "May I approach the witness, Your Honor?"

"You may."

Abernathy moved to the witness box and handed the sheet of paper to Hardwick. "Mr. Hardwick, is this the report we requested?"

Hardwick studied it a moment. "Yes."

Abernathy moved back to the prosecution table, picked up another sheet of paper and crossed to the court clerk. "Your Honor, I'd like to enter this document into the record as State's Exhibit B."

"So entered," O'Donnell said.