Trial Junkies

— 9 -

The trial of Veronica Baldacci started nearly four months later, on a day that would go down as one of the hottest in Chicago's history.

Hutch was assaulted by the stifling heat the moment he climbed out of the cab in front of the courthouse. Within seconds, even his sweat was sweating, and he couldn't wait to get through those lobby doors and into an air conditioned courtroom.

There was a crowd of TV and newspaper reporters waiting outside. Ever since Ronnie's arrest, the story had become the Next Big Deal, and the moment they found out that a bonafide down on his luck movie star had once been college housemates with both the victim and the accused, the vultures suddenly got interested again, looking to pick Hutch's carcass clean.

When his manager Corey suggested that this was a perfect way for Hutch to elicit sympathy and rehabilitate his career, Hutch had nearly put him through a wall.

He wasn't about to trade on Jenny's memory like that.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" he'd said. It had taken everything he had to keep from leaping out of his chair and diving across the table. "I mean, seriously-are you fucking kidding me?"

Corey wore L.A. like a badge of honor-perfect haircut, expensive suits, sunglasses molded to his face, bluetooth receiver clipped to his ear. They were lunching at Emilio's, in Beverly Hills, and sat on the patio. They had chosen a table close to the street so Corey could check out the aspiring actresses who wandered by on a regular basis, hoping to get noticed. He seemed to notice quite a few.

"Look, Ethan, you need this. With the pilot taking a nose dive, you got about as much chance of snagging a part as my sister's Lamaze instructor. So you'd better wise up, my friend, and exploit the shit out of this."

Hutch had fired him on the spot. Stood up right there, tossed his napkin on the table and left.

He had no interest in boosting his profile or snagging any parts, now or in the immediate future. So Corey was an appendage he didn't need.

Not with the trial coming.

Now here it finally was, and Hutch wasn't three feet out the cab door when the vultures descended. He stayed calm, but he knew he had to move quickly, or it would be impossible to get inside the courthouse.

Charting a course for the lobby doors, he bore down and moved forward like a dolphin set upon by a pod of killer whales.

"Ethan. Ethan!" one of the reporters called. "Is it true you were sleeping with Ms. Keating?"

"Ethan!" another shouted over the first. "How long have you known Veronica Baldacci?"

Hutch ignored them and stayed on course, hurrying up the courthouse steps as they moved alongside, in back, and in front of him, pointing their cameras and extending their microphones.

"Ethan! Are you here in support of Ms. Baldacci?"

This was the question that finally made Hutch lose his rhythm, just as he was reaching the lobby doors.

How the hell could anyone ask him that?

As the doors opened in front of him, he turned, not sure which reporter had fired the missile, but determined to set him straight.

The crowd got quiet with anticipation and he said, "I want to make one thing very clear. I am not here to support Veronica Baldacci. As far as I'm concerned, the bitch should be roasted alive for what she's done. And that's the last I'll have to say on the subject."

A flurry of follow-up questions came at him, but Hutch ignored them and went into the building, reveling in the feel of the cool, refrigerated air.

But he was still burning up inside.

Are you here in support of Ms. Baldacci?

Fuck you, Hutch thought.

Fuck. You.