Trial Junkies (A Thriller) Read online

  But as the cab turned onto State Street and found itself stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic, that cheerless, put-upon voice popped uninvited into Ronnie Baldacci's head, and she couldn't help but laugh.

  She was about to miss a funeral, all right.

  Not hers, but that was a mere technicality.

  The driver heard the laugh and glanced at her in his rearview mirror as he gestured to the crush of cars in front of them. "You think this is funny?"

  "I think I'll get out here," she told him, then tossed a ten dollar bill onto the front seat. The meter had already ticked past nine-fifty, so there wasn't much of a tip, but Ronnie wasn't exactly Donald Trump, either. She figured the guy was lucky to get that much out of her.

  Before he could make any snide remarks, she slung her backpack over her shoulder, threw her door open and bolted up the street, hoping to cover the three remaining blocks to the cathedral in record time.

  Ronnie had come straight from work and wasn't really dressed for the occasion. That fat bastard Raymond had refused to let her leave more than half an hour early, so she'd had just enough time to finish blow drying Mimi, Mrs. Bowman's nasty little poodle, before taking a quick pee and jumping into the cab.

  She didn't think too many people would care that she was wearing only jeans, a V-neck and a hoodie, but if they did, screw 'em. The ones who mattered would understand. It was either this or not show up at all—and not showing up wasn't an option.

  Ronnie was sweating and winded by the time she reached the front steps of St. Angela's, which led to a huge, ornate old ragstone structure that made her feel puny and insignificant. An insect at the mercy of the world around her.

  But then most things made her feel that way. Her life was overwhelming in its insignificance, and she'd be lying if she said she'd never considered taking the express route into the great unknown.

  When she read about what had happened to Jenny, she was shocked and mortified and saddened, but just a tiny bit envious, too. Not about the way she had died—nobody wanted that, for chrissakes—but the fact that Jenny no longer had to deal with the multitude of disappointments life had to offer the average human animal.

  Problem was, even in her most self-destructive frame of mind, Ronnie had too many reasons not to follow through on the impulse to do herself in—not the least of which was that she was too much of a coward to do the deed. The idea of physical pain terrified her, and she couldn't see how it was possible to off yourself without it. Something she'd just as soon avoid.

  But there was another, more compelling reason to stay alive. One she had spent the last several months fighting for.

  One she would never stop fighting for.

  Struggling to breathe, she glanced down at her chest and noticed her Canine Cuttery name badge was still pinned above her left breast. She had half a mind to toss it to the sidewalk and stomp it to a fine dust (while imagining it was Raymond's head), but she simply unclipped it and stuck it in her back pocket.

  It would be safe enough there. She'd lost one already and that cheap bastard Raymond had told her he'd charge her for another replacement.

  Jerk.

  Jeez, Ronnie, get a grip. You keep carrying on like this, people are gonna think you're unhappy.

  She laughed again and some nitwit in a business suit looked at her as if she were crazy. She stuck her tongue out at him, then sucked in a deep breath and hurried up the steps of the cathedral and went inside.

  To her dismay, the Mass was already in full swing. The doors creaked loudly as they closed behind her and several heads swiveled in her direction. She glanced around and spotted Matt Isaacs gesturing for her to join him.

  Quickly moving up the aisle, she squeezed in next to him and nodded to Andy McKenna as she sat down. She couldn't remember ever seeing the two of them apart. Especially back in college. If she didn't know they were both avowed heterosexuals—especially Matt—she'd have to wonder.

  "It ain't a date if Ronnie isn't late," Matt murmured.

  "Hey, I'm here, aren't I?"

  He squeezed her hand. "You are indeed. Good to see you, babe."

  "Likewise," she said, squeezing back. "What's it been—two years? Shame it takes something like this to get us all to—"

  Someone shushed her and Ronnie whirled around, looking for the offender. An old woman with a couple extra chins was scowling at her, and Ronnie resisted the urge to flip her off. Instead, she smiled sweetly, then turned her attention to the front of the cathedral, staring blankly at the casket as the priest stood over it, mumbling something in...

  Holy crap, she thought.

  The casket.

  Jenny's casket.

  Despite her morbid interior monologue a moment ago, Ronnie had been having a hard time getting her head around the idea that Jenny was really gone. Ever since she'd heard the news, it had felt like an abstract notion, a concept so surreal that she had found herself unable to feel anything but a kind of detached numbness.

  Until now. Looking at that casket.

  Jesus.

  Not that she and Jenny had been all that close. Some might say they didn't even like each other. But that wasn't strictly true.

  Oh, they'd had their troubles in the past, no doubt about it, but even when you were envious of Jenny, even when you knew that she was as close to perfection as a human being could get, that she had been blessed by all the angels in Heaven—for a while, at least—there was something about the girl that made it impossible to dislike her.

  In short, she was the exact opposite of Ronnie, and her death was a testament to how seriously screwed up the universe truly was.

  Matt squeezed Ronnie's hand again, then leaned toward her, keeping his voice low. "Check it out. Third row. Left side."

  Ronnie shifted her gaze and felt her heart kick up a notch, surprised to see none other than Ethan Hutchinson sitting close to the aisle, looking much better than he had in, like—forever.

  Not that she could tell all that much from this angle. But the last she'd seen of him was a clip on Celebrity Death Watch, when he'd been too zonked to even realize he was on camera. She hated the show, thought it was unnecessarily cruel and invasive, but she'd been riveted to the screen like a rubbernecker at a train wreck, and her heart had broken for the guy.

  It didn't help that she'd always had a bit of a crush on him.

  She had heard that he had finally gotten his act together, but she had to admit she'd been skeptical—and wrong, apparently. Because here he was. Looking good. Almost like the old Hutch.

  Ronnie didn't know why she was surprised to see him here. He had been head over heels for Jenny since the day they met, and she knew there had to be a storm raging inside of him right now.

  Because the simple truth of the matter was that Jennifer Keating had not deserved to die. Not by a long shot.

  And Hutch had to be feeling it more than any of them.

  — 5 —

  WHEN THE MASS was over, when the songs had been sung, the prayers spoken, the memories shared, Hutch breathed a sigh of relief.

  Thank God it was behind him now.

  He wasn't sure how much more he could take.

  He had been touched by the outpouring of love for Jenny, the friends and family who had spoken of their affection for her, telling stories about her childhood, her teenage years, her work in the community, the cases she had tried and won...

  And more than once, he wished he hadn't removed his sunglasses. Found himself unable to hold back tears when Jenny's father spoke about the death of his wife, and about the time they had almost lost Jenny to influenza as a child. How grateful he was that she had been spared, if only for a short time.

  "She was, and always will be, my little angel," Keating said. "But I take comfort in knowing that she's with her mother now, in the Lord's Kingdom. And I know that one day I'll join them in the arms of God."

  Surprisingly, none of the old gang had gotten up to speak, but Jenny's father had never really approved of them. He had apparently
decided that her years as an undergrad were to be erased from her history.

  Yet Jenny's life, her womanhood, had been defined by those years, and to discard or deny them only proved how little Keating knew about his own daughter. For all of the talk, all of the memories that had been presented here today, none of the people who spoke had captured the essence of who she really was.

  Not to Hutch's mind, anyway.

  Ten years may have been a long time not to be in contact, yet he felt as if he had known Jenny better than any of them. And if he had returned her calls, if he had gotten together with her for lunch or a drink—or whatever—that instant chemistry they had always shared would have kicked in immediately. That deep understanding of each other that no one else could grasp.

  And as he sat there in the pew, listening to the drone of the organ music, Jenny's friends and family getting to their feet around him, Hutch suddenly realized why he hadn't returned her calls.

  He had been afraid to. Because Jenny had known him far too well. Could see into him with a razor sharp precision that cut past all the Hollywood bullshit and went straight for the soul.

  The life he had been leading was a fraud, one he had lucked into. And there was no doubt in his mind that she would have called him on it. Would have forced him to see himself for exactly what he was—a lost, insecure man in search of something—anything—that would define him as a human being.

  Hutch had never set out to be an actor or a celebrity in the first place. Had never studied drama or tried out for any school plays. Had been nothing more than a twenty-one year old pre-law undergrad, trying to figure out what to do with his life, when he was "discovered" at a keg party in University Village by a local casting director hunting for new faces.

  His, she told him, was just made for TV.

  An arguable comment at best.

  At her urging, Hutch auditioned for a supporting role in an upcoming series pilot about a Chicago medical examiner who investigated cold cases. And to everyone's surprise—including his own—he got the part.

  Before he knew it, he was on a Hollywood sound stage, completely out of his element, playing the snarky young lab assistant, spouting lines that would make even a third-rate pulp writer wince in pain. But for reasons known only to the Gods, the show was picked up and became an instant hit.

  Hutch moved to Los Angeles, where most of the series was shot, and his character got so popular that the storylines started focusing on him rather than the designated star, an old television veteran named Jack Van Parkes.

  Needless to say, this made for an unpleasant working situation, but he slogged on simply because he had nothing better to do.

  Then, of course, there was the money.

  And the fame.

  The cars. The women. The booze.

  The drugs.

  Within a couple years of getting the gig, Hutch was a show business cliché. Had left the show and moved on to features and become a spoiled, over-privileged brat with enough yes men around him to get him believing the hype. And when his first three movies tanked, followed by another three that went straight to DVD, he was too busy getting blitzed to know that his so-called career was on a downward slide.

  Then, late one drug and alcohol-fueled night, he turned to the woman lying next to him in bed, her bare ass peppered with traces of the coke he had just snorted off it, and he suddenly realized he had no idea who the hell she was.

  Or who he was, for that matter.

  Not only had he lost control of his life, he was completely alone. His parents were dead, his friends were bought and paid for, and the only people he had ever really cared about—his old college pals—had long ago given up on him.

  All except Jenny.

  She had left a message on his voice mail shortly after the incident with the paparazzi. The fistfight outside The Viper Room that had gotten so much airplay. He was so coked out of his mind that night that he couldn't remember any of it, and had awakened in a jail cell that smelled of booze, old urine and industrial antiseptic.

  When his manager bailed him out and he collected his belongings at the front desk, he found Jenny's message waiting on his phone. He had no idea how she'd gotten the new number, but Jenny had always been a resourceful woman.

  "You can't keep doing this, Ethan. You need help. Please don't ignore me this time."

  But he had. Because it hurt too much not to. She was a reminder of everything he had thrown away—and for what? A face on a movie screen? A half dozen cars in his garage? A line of coke on the ass of some flavor-of-the-week starlet?

  Looking at it from a distance, it might have seemed like every man's fantasy. But it was a lifestyle that started to consume you after a while. To control you. And once you lose control you're bound to crash.

  Which was exactly what Hutch had done.

  More than once.

  "I NEED A drink," Nadine said.

  Hutch had forgotten she was sitting next to him. He looked at her now and saw that her eyes mirrored his, red and full of tears.

  "You okay?" he asked.

  "I'll live, but only if I can get my hands on a rum and Coke. Old man Keating opted for a private burial, so a bunch of us are heading over to The Monkey House instead. You game?"

  The Monkey House. Their old hangout near UIC. Hutch couldn't remember the last time he'd been inside the place, but he wasn't sure if tagging along was a good idea. He reached into his pocket, brought out his AA coin and showed it to her. The one that said KEEP IT SIMPLE.

  "Six months sober," he told her. "And I'd like to keep it that way."

  "So order a club soda."

  "I hate club soda."

  "A root beer, then. A glass of water. I don't care as long as you come with."

  "I thought I was persona non grata with you guys."

  She shrugged. "So now's your chance to prove you're not a complete asshole."

  "You assume far too much."

  "Hell, most of us figured you wouldn't even bother showing up today, so you're already ahead of the game." She paused. "Look, all I know is that Jenny loved you, and I'm pretty sure she'd like to see us all back together again. This'll give us a chance to celebrate her life the way she'd want us to."

  Hutch thought about it a moment, that sense of nostalgia coming back to him, stronger than ever. He glanced around and saw a few of his old friends huddled together near the cathedral entrance—Ronnie, Matt, Andy... And now Monica Clawson heading up the aisle toward them, her arms outstretched for a bear hug.

  Then Ronnie caught his eye, giving him a bright smile and a waggle of her fingers. She was dressed pretty casually for the occasion and looked a little frazzled, her dark hair even wilder than he remembered it. But she was refreshingly real—the exact opposite of ninety-percent of the women he knew in Hollywood—and he'd always had a soft spot for her.

  It would be good to talk to her after all these years.

  It would be good to talk to all of them. Make him feel just a little bit closer to Jenny. The Jenny who wasn't included in today's Mass.

  "Well?" Nadine asked. "Are you in or out?"

  Hutch slipped the coin back into his pocket and nodded. "Root beer it is."

  — 6 —

  DESPITE ITS NAME, The Monkey House was your typical Irish pub, located in the heart of University Village.

  Stepping inside was like stepping through a portal into the past. The place had a kind of worn, old world feel to it, accompanied by the nearly overpowering smell of stale beer. You half expected to see a bunch of weathered old coots bellying up to the bar.

  But, as always, it was packed with college students, many of whom were under the legal drinking age—not that it mattered. In the name of commerce, management had always been pretty lax about checking IDs.

  They all looked like babies to Hutch. He sometimes felt as if he had aged thirty years in less than a decade.

  On the cab ride over, as he watched the city streak by, he had started to reconsider this little excursion. Had wonder
ed if he was making a mistake by accepting Nadine's invitation. While Ronnie and Nadine seemed happy to see him, he doubted Matt or Andy or any of the others would be all that thrilled about making room for him at the table.

  He was a stranger to them now, no longer part of their world, and he knew they must resent him for his failure to stay in contact. He hadn't helped matters much by quickly exiting the church after promising Nadine he'd catch up with them. But he'd needed to be alone. Wanted to walk the streets for a while and reacquaint himself with the city he loved.

  Then halfway through the cab ride, he had almost told the driver to turn around and take him to the apartment in Lincoln Park. His parents had left him the place and he had decided to stay there tonight rather than grab a late flight out. It had sat dormant for years and he had been meaning to sell it for some time now, but it was the one small piece of his folks—and the city—that he still had left, and he was reluctant to let it go.

  There was a time when he had dreamed about moving into the place with Jenny. He had just finished a movie in France—a miserable experience for everyone concerned—and was back in L.A. feeling a little lost and a lot lonely, and had thought about chucking it all and giving Jenny a call.

  But he was only halfway serious. He had been two weeks away from shooting another movie and he knew that Jenny was involved with someone—a guy from the Chicago District Attorney's office. He may not have kept in contact with her, but he did keep tabs. His life never felt complete without knowing how she was getting on, and he'd freely admit to occasional Google searches to find out. She was a fairly well-regarded corporate attorney and he was never surprised by the number of hits he found.

  But he hadn't called—then, or in all the months that followed. And as he rode in the back of that cab, he kept wishing there was a way to take it all back, to erase all of the mistakes he'd made.

  This wasn't possible, of course, but maybe meeting up with his old friends was a way to make up for some of it. To atone for his sins.