Free Trial Junkies (A Thriller) by Robert Gregory Browne

and Hutch had no idea who or where the father was, but her 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 —
     
    J URY 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