Read Online Trial Junkies (A Thriller) by Robert Gregory Browne - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert Gregory Browne
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desk—maybe quarter to six or so."
She nodded. "Good, then there's time."
"For what?"
"I need you to do me a favor."
Hutch balked. "Come on, Ronnie, why are we even bothering with this dance?"
"I mean it, Hutch. I want you know why it's impossible for me to have done what they're accusing me of. What you're accusing me of. I need you to see what's at stake for me."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"I want you to go to my mother's house."
Hutch sighed. "Come on, Ronnie..."
"You don't have to go inside. Just park out front and wait. But get there before seven o'clock."
"You can't just tell me what this is about?"
"No," she said. "You have to see for yourself. If you want to know who I am now and understand why I could never hurt anyone, then you have you do this. Please."
There was that word again.
He hated that word.
"I haven't seen your mother in court," he said. "Does she think you're guilty, too?"
Ronnie's eyes flashed in anger, but she caught herself before going off on him. "I told her to stay home. I don't want her seeing all this. She has enough to worry about."
"So why send me to her house?"
"I told you. You have to see for yourself."
Hutch shook his head. "What exactly do you expect to gain from this, Ronnie?"
"Maybe someone who believes in me. I just want someone to believe."
Someone with cash, no doubt. Despite the publicity, Waverly's firm might not be anxious to shell out much capital on what was ultimately a losing case, especially the kind of money it took to hire a private DNA expert. This was a pro bono charity job and Waverly's time alone was already enough of a financial hit.
Hutch, on the other hand, had money to burn. And in the unlikely event that Ronnie could get him back on her side, he might be willing to part with some of it.
He wanted to tell her to dream on, but his curiosity was piqued. And somewhere in the back of his mind, the reminder that she was once his friend kept niggling away at him like a paper cut.
Should he do as she'd asked? Call her bluff?
"All right," he said. "I'll go to your mother's house. But I doubt it'll do any good. Whatever you're up to, it won't change my mind."
She almost smiled then. Not quite, but he saw traces of one around the edges of her mouth. Wistful but relieved.
"Thank you, Hutch. I knew I could count on you."
— 16 —
"S O HOW LONG are we supposed to sit here?" the cab driver asked.
They were parked at the curb just across the street from Lola Baldacci's house, a typical old Chicago bungalow in Roscoe Village that—even at night—looked in serious need of some tender loving care. Most of the surrounding neighborhood had been cleaned up and gentrified during the last decade or so, but apparently the Baldaccis hadn't gotten the memo.
Standing in the shadow of the elevated train tracks, the house boasted fading paint, a badly scarred front door, and concrete steps leading up to the porch that were full of cracks.
The porch light was on and there were no cars in the driveway, which indicated to Hutch that no one was home.
This was a complete waste of time.
So why had he agreed to come here?
He studied the house from the back seat of the cab and said, "Just a couple more minutes and we're history."
The driver nodded. "Not that I mind the meter running. I mean, it's your money. But I hope you aren't getting me involved in some kind of stalker thing."
"That's exactly what I'm doing."
The driver turned now, fully looking at Hutch for the first time. "You're messin' with me, right?"
Hutch smiled. "Right."
The driver grinned and was about to turn back when he stopped himself. "Do I know you?"
Hutch stifled a sigh. How should he play this?
"Not unless you've been to Australia," he said.
"Australia? You don't sound like you're from Australia."
"What does an Australian sound like?"
The driver shrugged. "I don't know. Different. Like an English guy or something."
"My parents were American," Hutch said. "I'm
She nodded. "Good, then there's time."
"For what?"
"I need you to do me a favor."
Hutch balked. "Come on, Ronnie, why are we even bothering with this dance?"
"I mean it, Hutch. I want you know why it's impossible for me to have done what they're accusing me of. What you're accusing me of. I need you to see what's at stake for me."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"I want you to go to my mother's house."
Hutch sighed. "Come on, Ronnie..."
"You don't have to go inside. Just park out front and wait. But get there before seven o'clock."
"You can't just tell me what this is about?"
"No," she said. "You have to see for yourself. If you want to know who I am now and understand why I could never hurt anyone, then you have you do this. Please."
There was that word again.
He hated that word.
"I haven't seen your mother in court," he said. "Does she think you're guilty, too?"
Ronnie's eyes flashed in anger, but she caught herself before going off on him. "I told her to stay home. I don't want her seeing all this. She has enough to worry about."
"So why send me to her house?"
"I told you. You have to see for yourself."
Hutch shook his head. "What exactly do you expect to gain from this, Ronnie?"
"Maybe someone who believes in me. I just want someone to believe."
Someone with cash, no doubt. Despite the publicity, Waverly's firm might not be anxious to shell out much capital on what was ultimately a losing case, especially the kind of money it took to hire a private DNA expert. This was a pro bono charity job and Waverly's time alone was already enough of a financial hit.
Hutch, on the other hand, had money to burn. And in the unlikely event that Ronnie could get him back on her side, he might be willing to part with some of it.
He wanted to tell her to dream on, but his curiosity was piqued. And somewhere in the back of his mind, the reminder that she was once his friend kept niggling away at him like a paper cut.
Should he do as she'd asked? Call her bluff?
"All right," he said. "I'll go to your mother's house. But I doubt it'll do any good. Whatever you're up to, it won't change my mind."
She almost smiled then. Not quite, but he saw traces of one around the edges of her mouth. Wistful but relieved.
"Thank you, Hutch. I knew I could count on you."
— 16 —
"S O HOW LONG are we supposed to sit here?" the cab driver asked.
They were parked at the curb just across the street from Lola Baldacci's house, a typical old Chicago bungalow in Roscoe Village that—even at night—looked in serious need of some tender loving care. Most of the surrounding neighborhood had been cleaned up and gentrified during the last decade or so, but apparently the Baldaccis hadn't gotten the memo.
Standing in the shadow of the elevated train tracks, the house boasted fading paint, a badly scarred front door, and concrete steps leading up to the porch that were full of cracks.
The porch light was on and there were no cars in the driveway, which indicated to Hutch that no one was home.
This was a complete waste of time.
So why had he agreed to come here?
He studied the house from the back seat of the cab and said, "Just a couple more minutes and we're history."
The driver nodded. "Not that I mind the meter running. I mean, it's your money. But I hope you aren't getting me involved in some kind of stalker thing."
"That's exactly what I'm doing."
The driver turned now, fully looking at Hutch for the first time. "You're messin' with me, right?"
Hutch smiled. "Right."
The driver grinned and was about to turn back when he stopped himself. "Do I know you?"
Hutch stifled a sigh. How should he play this?
"Not unless you've been to Australia," he said.
"Australia? You don't sound like you're from Australia."
"What does an Australian sound like?"
The driver shrugged. "I don't know. Different. Like an English guy or something."
"My parents were American," Hutch said. "I'm
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