Trial Junkies

— 50 -

"What the hell happened?" Andy said. "I dropped you off almost an hour ago."

He, Matt and Gus were waiting for Hutch in the hallway outside the courtroom. The doors were still closed and the crowd wasn't happy about it. There seemed to be more people here than ever, no doubt drawn by the recent turn of events in Arizona.

Hutch kept his head down as he approached his friends, hoping none of the reporters in the crowd would pay any attention to him. Up until now he'd felt fairly safe in the courthouse, but that would change if anyone leaked that he'd been questioned by the police. And he wouldn't put it past Meyer to do just that.

Ronnie, Waverly and Abernathy were now in Judge O'Donnell's chambers, trying to decide how Danny Tillman's death-and the publicity surrounding it-might affect the proceedings. Waverly would likely ask for a mistrial, claiming that the jury would be swayed by the news coverage, but Hutch doubted her request would be granted. The judge would remind her that the jury had been instructed several times to stay away from the news, and that would be that. The trial would continue.

"Well?" Andy said.

"I'll fill you in on all the gory details at lunch," Hutch told him, then looked around. "No Tom and Monica today?"

Matt shook his head. "Tom's gotta do some prep work for the upcoming semester and Monica's website crashed. She's been up all night with her tech crew trying to get it back online."

Andy smirked. "Can't have all those ladies sitting around bare-assed with nothing to do."

"What about Langer?" Hutch asked. "You seen him this morning?"

"No sign of him," Andy said. "I'd check the men's room, but if he's in there, I don't want to interrupt his morning session."

Gus glanced at his watch. "Not like that boy to be late. He's usually the first one in line."

Hutch wondered now if Langer had recognized him in that alleyway. It would explain the absence. He said to Gus, "Did Matt and Andy clue you in on what happened last night?"

"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.

Now the ADA moved to the easel and flipped the piece of art board over to reveal an enlargement of a computer calendar. The heading read THE LAW OFFICES OF TREACHER amp; PINE, and below this, the week of April fifteenth was displayed with squares representing Monday through Friday. Each square had notations typed in, and in the lower bottom corner of the board were the words, STATE'S EXHIBIT A.

Hutch assumed that this was the printout of Carlene Harding's calendar that had been entered into evidence yesterday.

Abernathy quickly confirmed that assumption. "Mr. Hardwick, I have here a blow-up of the calendar of phone calls that was provided to us by the victim's secretary, Carlene Harding. I'm going to call out some dates and times, and ask you to check the payroll report of Ms. Baldacci's attendance to see if it shows a corresponding date and time. A perfect match isn't necessary. Whatever comes close."

"All right," Hardwick said, looking down at the papers in his hands.

Pulling a laser pointer from his pocket, Abernathy shone a red beam toward the first square on the calendar, which held the notation: V. BALDACCI 11:55 A.M.

Abernathy called out the date and time and Hardwick checked the sheet. "The closest I have is a clock-out at 11:30 that morning."

Abernathy pointed the beam at the next square, this one showing three V. BALDACCI notations. "What about twelve fifteen, one twenty-two or four forty-three p.m. on Tuesday, the seventeenth of April?"

"I show a clock-out at noon that day, a return at one forty-five and a final clock-out at four-thirty p.m."

This went on for several minutes, and even though he had been warned that this was coming, Hutch's stomach dropped each time Abernathy pointed to a notation and got confirmation of a corresponding clock-out from Hardwick. By the end of that week in April-the week Jenny had been killed-there had been several calls, all of them clustered around Ronnie's extended lunch breaks or the end of the work day.

Knowing this was all part of Langer's sick game didn't make Hutch feel any better, and he could see by the looks on the jurors' faces, their glances toward Ronnie, that the testimony was making an impact.

Worse still, Ronnie's body language signaled her defeat. She was no longer able to look at the jurors or even sit up straight. Hutch wanted to shout at her, don't let them see your pain, but the twin blows of Danny Tillman's death and this morning's interrogation had left her incapable of fighting.

It was at that moment that Hutch realized just how much Ronnie meant to him now. Not as a substitute for Jenny and not merely as a friend, but as someone he had grown to care about in a way he thought he'd never again experience.

Was it love? He couldn't be sure. But it was close. Very close. And to see her looking so forlorn and defeated broke his heart.

When Abernathy was done with his laser pointer, he put it away and said, "Mr. Hardwick, are you familiar with the Dumont Hotel?"

Hardwick nodded. "Yes, of course. It's one of the oldest in Chicago."

"Do you know where it's located?"

"Yes," Hardwick said.

"And how far is it from your salon?"

"Just a few blocks. I don't know the exact distance."

"Have you ever walked there on your lunch hour?"

"Not to the hotel itself," Hardwick said. "But there's a little sushi place on the same block that I sometimes go to."

"And how long does it take you to get there?"

Hardwick shrugged. "Depends on how fast I'm traveling, but I'd say about ten or fifteen minutes at the most."

"Ten or fifteen minutes," Abernathy said, then thanked Hardwick and turned to Waverly. "Your witness, counsel."

As if to demonstrate that Abernathy's show and tell was much ado about nothing, Waverly didn't get up from her chair. Instead, she flipped open a legal pad and glanced at it.

"Mr. Hardwick, on the subject of dog hair on your clothes, can you think of anyone other than pet stylists who might be subject to this problem?"

"Well, most dog owners, for one," he said. "Dogs shed quite a bit during the course of the average day."

"And how many dog owners would you say there are in the Chicago area alone? Thousands? Millions?"

"Objection," Abernathy said. "Calls for speculation."

"Question withdrawn." Waverly made a quick notation on the pad, flipped the page, and switched gears. "Mr. Hardwick, when Ms. Baldacci clocked out for those extended lunch hours, did she ever tell you why she needed the extra time?"

"She said she had personal business to take care of."

"Did she ever elaborate on the nature of that personal business?"

"No," Hardwick said.

"So you have no way of knowing where she went during her time off?"

"No," Hardwick said.

"Do you have any way of knowing whether or not she walked to the Dumont Hotel?"

"No," Hardwick said.

"In fact, you yourself testified that the walk to the Dumont takes about ten or fifteen minutes. When you went to the sushi restaurant nearby, did you ever need to take an extended lunch hour to get there and back?"

"No," Hardwick said.

"So isn't it possible that the show and tell you and Mr. Abernathy just put on was much ado about nothing?"

"Objection," Abernathy shouted.

"Sustained."

Waverly scribbled something on the legal pad again, then flipped the page and continued. "What about my client's demeanor at work? Was she ever uncooperative or did she show any anger toward you or her follow employees?"

"Not anger, no. And she was never uncooperative. But I did sometimes get the impression that I wasn't her favorite person in the world."

"And why did you get that impression?"

Hardwick shrugged. "Just a feeling I had. I have strict rules and I'm sure there's quite a bit of talk behind my back, but I'm there to run a business, not win a popularity contest."

"Did she ever threaten you or anyone else in the salon with bodily harm?"

"No," Hardwick said. "Not that I'm aware of."

"Did you consider her dangerous in any way?"

"No, not at all," Hardwick said.

"And during the two months she worked for you, did she ever once mention her ongoing custody battle with her ex-husband? Or the name Jennifer Keating?"

"No," Hardwick said. "Beyond work concerns, she didn't really talk to me much at all. She simply did her job."

"So did you ever confront her about these extended lunch hours and express your unhappiness about them?"

"Yes."

"And when was this?"

"I believe it was the day Ms. Keating was laid to rest. Ronnie asked to leave an hour early to attend a funeral and I told her I'd give her thirty minutes and nothing more. That if she wanted a career at the Cuttery, I expected her to do her full eight hours every day from there on out."

"And how did she react to this? Did she protest or complain? Get into an argument with you?"

"No," Hardwick said. "Although I can't imagine she was too happy about it. She did express concern about being late for the funeral, but I stood my ground and she went back to work."

Waverly paused, seeming to mull something over, then said, "Mr. Hardwick, they say an attorney should never ask a question she doesn't already know the answer to, but you strike me as a man of integrity who takes great pride in telling the truth. So I think this next question is worth the risk."

Hardwick straightened in his chair, obviously surprised and pleased by the flattery.

"You worked with Ms. Baldacci nearly every day for two months," Waverly continued. "So when you learned about her arrest for murder, what was your very first reaction? The very first thing that came to mind?"

"Objection."

"I'll allow it," O'Donnell said.

Hardwick hesitated, glancing at Ronnie, then returned his gaze to Waverly. "Well… to be perfectly honest, I couldn't quite believe it."

"And why is that?"

"At the risk of sounding foolish, I work with animals every day and I've learned over the years that people are very much like their canine counterparts. There are those who bite and those who get bitten. And despite what she may have thought of me personally, Ronnie never struck me as the kind who bites."

This, Hutch thought, was the most accurate characterization of Ronnie he'd heard. Hopefully the jury would take it to heart, as well.

Waverly dropped her pen to the legal pad. "Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Hardwick. I have no further questions."