Trial Junkies

— 30 -

"Empty your pockets, please. Keys, wallets, cell phones in the tray. Backpacks, briefcases, purses on the belt."

It was a daily ritual-twice a day, if Hutch left the courthouse for lunch. And because Ronnie's trial was getting a lot of play, the security lines would often stretch out the doors and into the courtyard. It usually took a good ten to fifteen minutes to get inside the building.

The guards manning the scanners were very thorough, and courteously mistrustful of everyone who entered: staff, attorneys, spectators and defendants alike.

But they always had a broad smile and a friendly word for Gus, former bailiff and resident trial junkie.

He was one of the boys.

First thing that morning, the second day of testimony, Hutch had approached Gus in the upstairs hallway, just outside the courtroom, asking him a question related to the trial. He couldn't remember now what that question was, but Gus had known immediately that there was something else on his mind.

"I sure hope you're a better actor when the camera's pointing at you."

There weren't many people on the planet who had a genuine twinkle in the eye, but Gus was one of them.

"I'm afraid this is about as good as it gets," Hutch told him.

"Well, at least it pays. I saw the news about you posting bond for the defendant."

"You and a few thousand other people."

"Saw the reporters, too. Coming after you when your cab pulled up outside. Looked like a pack of cheetahs chasing after a gazelle."

"Cheetahs don't usually travel in packs," Hutch said, wondering how he even knew that.

Gus grinned. "I stand corrected, professor."

"So does it bother you?"

"What-the reporters, or you reminding me how little education I've had?"

Hutch shook his head. "Me posting bond."

"Now why would it bother me? It's your money. And it's no secret that you and that little gal are friends. Maybe more than friends if you believe those photos they printed in the papers this morning."

When he saw the Post, Hutch had found himself getting angry all over again, but he played it down.

"Much ado about nothing," he said with a shrug. "Just a thank you kiss."

"I had a young lady thank me like that, once. We went on to raise three kids together-may she rest in peace. But let's not get too far off point. You've got something you want to ask me, and I figure you might as well come out with it."

Hutch hesitated. When you're about to try to get someone to do something a little sketchy, it isn't easy to just come out with it. And when you're trying to get him to get someone else to do something a little sketchy, well, you want to play that tune with a very light hand.

"So what do you think about her?" he asked. "Veronica. You think she's guilty?"

"Well now," Gus said. "I suppose it would be politically prudent of me to tell you it's a bit premature to be asking me that question. I don't have the benefit of being her friend. Or seeing the evidence."

"…But?"

Gus gestured to the closed courtroom doors, which wouldn't be unlocked until five minutes before trial started. There was already a crowd forming, people anxious to get the seats that hadn't been reserved for friends and family.

"I ran that courtroom for nearly three decades and I saw a lot of defendants come and go. You see that many faces, you tend to learn to read them pretty fast."

"Makes sense," Hutch said.

"Damn right. Now I don't have any statistics or science to back me up, but I figure a good eighty percent of the people who sit at that defense table did exactly what the cops and the prosecution say they did. Maybe more. And nine times out of ten, I can predict who's guilty just by looking them in the eye."

"And Ronnie?"

"She ain't no killer, son. I knew that the moment she walked into the courtroom." He checked his watch, then gestured to the doors again. "But if you don't tell me what's on your mind pretty soon, it's gonna have to wait until morning recess. I need to queue up."

Hutch had waited with the crowd many times himself, but now that he was siding with the defense, Waverly was making sure he and the rest of Ronnie's supporters had seats. The courtroom was easily the largest one in the building, but if yesterday's proceedings were any indication, it would be filled to capacity.

Considering Gus's connection to the place, it was a bit surprising he didn't have a reserved seat himself, but maybe he played by the rules-and that could be a bad thing.

"You can sit with us," Hutch said. "Even if you say no to what I'm about to ask you."

Gus was still twinkling away. "So don't keep me in suspense. What's on your mind?"

Hutch took a deep breath and told him. About what he'd thought during Waverly's opening statement. About the encounter with the creep in the restroom, and later that night, on the train. About the book and the photographs and that awful, goosebump-inducing mewling sound.

He told Gus about Matt's idea, a way to find out who this psycho was and run a background check on him. And to Hutch's surprise, Gus didn't blink. Didn't hesitate for a moment.

"Sounds to me like you've got the bug, boy. I warned you it would happen if you stuck around long enough."

"What bug is that?"

"The junkie bug, that's what."

"I told you, I'm here for the one trial. I'm just trying help a friend."

Gus chuckled. "You think Ms. Waverly's the first defense attorney to suggest the real killer might be sitting in the courtroom? You think I haven't spent a good amount of my time speculating about the guy sitting across from me, or the woman three rows over? Or the witness on the stand, claiming he saw the whole damn thing when I know good and well he's lying? Sure, you've got a personal stake in this particular event, but I can see that look in your eye. The excitement when you talk about this fella. You're an addictive personality, my friend, and you're as good as hooked."

Hutch wasn't sure he was ready to cop to that just yet, but he didn't figure it would hurt his cause for Gus to think it.

"Maybe," he said, "but that doesn't answer my question. Will you help us out or not?"

The grin returned. "Hell, I'd be crazy not to. I've had my doubts about the little twerp myself, and I've always loved a good mystery."

Gus couldn't guarantee that his buddies would go along with it, but with the promise of a saved seat, he went back down to the security station to see what he could do. Hutch didn't know what Gus had told them-he doubted it was the truth-but the old guy came back still grinning, giving Hutch a hearty thumbs up.

Everything had been arranged for the lunch recess.

Now here they were, standing in the long post-lunch line to get back inside the building (after once again fighting off a platoon of reporters), the creep not four feet in front of them, dropping his wallet and keys into a tray and his book bag on the belt.

Gus caught the eye of the security man up front, gave him a subtle nod, then waited for their target to pass through the gate, which beeped loudly and unexpectedly.

"Step this way," the guard said, then pulled the creep to the side and started passing a wand over him.

While the creep stood blinking behind those thick black glasses, another guard scooped up the tray with his wallet and keys, then disappeared behind the scanner.

A moment later it was done, and when Gus and Hutch passed through the gate and retrieved their own personal effects, Gus found a small slip of paper neatly folded inside his wallet, which he promptly handed to Hutch.

As they made their way to the elevator, Hutch unfolded it and saw a hastily scribbled note-name, date of birth, and a twelve digit ID number issued by the State of Illinois.

"You get what you need?" Gus asked.

Hutch nodded. "And then some."

A moment later he was on the phone to Matt.