Mortal Crimes 1

by Various Authors

And he certainly wasn’t holding back.

  “Contrary to appearances,” Abernathy continued, “as the evidence will show, the defendant, Veronica Baldacci, is a brutal killer who stalked and harassed Ms. Keating for nearly a month, before luring her from her car and attacking her in a fit of rage. The evidence will show that the defendant, Veronica Baldacci, stabbed her victim fourteen times in the chest and thighs before slitting her throat and leaving her to bleed to death in a vacant lot.”

  He paused to let this sink in, and Matt knew that the image of a broken, bloodied body was forming in the minds of everyone in that courtroom. For some, that image included Ronnie, standing over Jenny with a knife in her hand.

  “That’s what this trial is all about,” Abernathy said. “Evidence, motive and the ability for you, as jurors, to see past any preconceived notions you might have about what a murderer looks like. The defendant may well seem innocent on the surface, but I think that by the time you begin your deliberations, you’ll all agree with the State of Illinois that she’s guilty of murder in the first degree.”

  With a final glance at Ronnie, Abernathy stepped away from the podium and went back to his table.

  Matt looked at the jurors, a diverse mix of Chicagoans, and he knew that the ADA had scored some major points—all in a few simple words.

  That simplicity was the beauty of Abernathy’s opening. He had primed the pump without giving anything away, and it would take all of Waverly’s skill as a defense attorney to reverse his momentum.

  She looked eager to try.

  When Judge O’Donnell—a stern-faced man with heavy jowls—gave her the nod, she shot to her feet. “Thank you, Your Honor.” Then she turned to the jury and said, “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.”

  Several of jurors nodded as others murmured “hello” in response.

  “I’d introduce myself to you again,” she said, “but I don’t think that’s necessary, do you? Who I am is not important, because this trial—this miscarriage of justice—is not about me.”

  Bam, Matt thought. A line drive right out of the box. He glanced at Abernathy, but the prosecutor seemed unfazed.

  Waverly waited a moment, then said, “Defendant. You heard Mr. Abernathy use that term a number of times during his opening statement in reference to my client, Veronica Baldacci. The defendant.”

  She paused, squeezing Ronnie’s shoulder.

  “But, you see, I have a problem with that word. Because labeling the accused the defendant implies that she has something to defend. Yet under the eyes of the law, the accused is not required to defend herself at all. The accused is not required to do or prove anything. The burden of proof lies solely with the prosecution.”

  She paused again, scanning their faces. “Think about that. The State of Illinois must prove that the accused is guilty of a crime. Guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  She moved away from the defense table now, stepping up to the podium.

  “Mr. Abernathy talks of scorn and vindictive behavior, of harassment and stalking and desperation, but his words are nothing more than smoke and mirrors. Attempts to cloud your perception of Ms. Baldacci before you’ve even had a chance to hear the truth. But the truth is, ladies and gentlemen, that none of the evidence the state intends to parade in front of you actually proves that Veronica Baldacci committed a crime. As Mr. Abernathy himself told you, Ronnie Baldacci is indeed innocent until proven guilty, and what you will see and hear over the next few days does not meet that burden of proof. Not even close.”

  Matt and Andy exchanged a grin, and now Hutch turned to them and whispered, “She’s good,” as if to reinforce what they were already feeling.

  “But I won’t lie to you,” Waverly continued. “Some of what you’ll hear will certainly seem damning. The so-called DNA evidence. The phone calls. But as we all know from recent events in the news, DNA evidence can often be tainted. DNA evidence is only as reliable as the people who handle it—some of whom are desperate to close a case. To find a killer.”

  Waverly turned now, gesturing to Ronnie.

  “But as Mr. Abernathy himself said, Ronnie Baldacci does not look like a killer. And why is that? Because Ronnie Baldacci is not a killer. Ronnie Baldacci is nothing more than a good woman struggling to raise a child, doing the best she can to make it in this world. The police came after her because she was an easy target. Because her presence in Jennifer Keating’s life—tangential as it was—made it easier for them to close yet another case in a city where so many murders go unsolved.”

  She stared intently at the jurors now.

  “As you’ll soon discover, this is a classic rush to judgment. The kind of move only the most cynical and lazy law enforcement officers make. And because of that cynicism, because of that laziness, Jennifer Keating’s real killer remains at large.”

  She gestured to the gallery.

  “For all we know, he could be sitting in this courtroom today, or watching on TV, or reading about it online or in the papers. And he knows the one thing that I know. What the police and prosecutor should have known, and what every one of you will soon know once Mr. Abernathy has finished presenting his case.” She paused, staring intently at the jurors. “That Veronica Baldacci is not guilty.”

  As Waverly returned to her seat, Matt smiled inwardly. It was a brilliant strategy. If you convict Ronnie Baldacci, the real killer will go free. A powerful deterrent to anyone with an itchy trigger finger.

  Whether or not the jury would buy this strategy was difficult to say, however, and as Matt studied their faces, he got nothing from them.

  Judge O’Donnell said, “Thank you, Ms. Waverly,” then turned to the prosecutor. “Mr. Abernathy, please call your first witness.”

  Abernathy nodded and got to his feet. “Your Honor, the state calls Detective Jason Meyer to the stand.”

  And so it begins, Matt thought.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  THEY KEPT THE cop on the stand for nearly three hours before breaking for lunch.

  Detective Meyer had that subtle swagger that so many of these guys carry like a well-worn accessory. His every expression, his every mannerism, sent an underlying message to the courtroom—I’ve seen it all and I know the truth.

  Hutch had studied a number of cops over the years. Had met a few in his drunk and disorderly days, had done a couple ride-alongs while preparing for roles, and he recognized that familiar attitude of superiority. Had noticed it the first time he saw Meyer, outside The Monkey House, as Meyer slapped the cuffs on Ronnie, saying the words that had been like a punch to the gut.

  We’re charging you for the murder of Jennifer Keating.

  Meyer was big and hard-bodied, about six-three or so, with broad swimmer’s shoulders. Not a guy you wanted to square off against. Physically or mentally. Not that he struck Hutch as a mental giant, but he seemed to carry a tenaciousness of spirit that didn’t give him room to back off, no matter what the circumstances. And if you got too smart for your own good, he’d simply stare you down until you shut the fuck up.

  After quickly running through Meyer’s credentials, Abernathy got straight to the heart of the matter. “Detective, please tell us how you first became involved in this case.”

  As Meyer spoke, his tone was infused with a solemn authority. He was the grown-up here and the courtroom was full of clueless children who needed to sit back and listen. “We got a call-out at approximately eleven p.m.,” he said. “A DB in Dearborn Park, discovered by an apartment owner walking his dog.”

  “DB?”

  “Dead body.”

  The prosecutor nodded. “Go on.”

  “So my partner Charlie Mack and I headed out that way and found the victim in the middle of a vacant lot on Clark street. She had multiple stab wounds and a severe throat laceration.”

  “And you were able to identify her as Jennifer Keating?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “Her car was parked at the curb and her purse and driver’s l
icense were inside.”

  “And once you determined this, what did you do next?”

  “Detective Mack waited for the crime scene techs to arrive while I briefed the responding officers and we started canvassing the neighborhood, looking for any possible witnesses to the crime.”

  “And did you find any?”

  “Just one. A Ms. Rita Culberson, who told me she was awakened at approximately 10:40 p.m. by what she thought was a scream. She lives in an apartment with a window that faces the lot.”

  “Did she see anything?”

  “No, but her statement gave us an approximate time of death and helped us work out a timeline.”

  Hutch knew he should be paying attention here—Meyer was a critical witness, after all—but he found himself quickly tuning the guy out. Kept thinking about something Waverly had said during her opening statement.

  For all we know, he could be sitting in this courtroom today.

  Meaning the killer, of course. The real killer.

  It had taken Hutch a while to come around to the idea that Ronnie had been unjustly accused. He’d still had some lingering doubt when he walked into the courtroom this morning, especially after the ADA had done his thing. But Waverly’s performance had been magnificent, managing to sum up in only a few words what had taken Hutch weeks to realize: that, just as Ronnie had suggested, he should trust his initial instincts. That the wrong person was on trial here.

  He could admit to himself now that he’d gone a little crazy over Jenny’s death. The funeral had set him on edge and in the days following the arrest he had allowed himself to fall prey to the prosecution’s propaganda.

  He didn’t much like himself for it. Ronnie had deserved better from him. And he hoped that in the days to come he could somehow make up for it.

  But if Ronnie wasn’t the killer, who was?

  It was a question that gnawed at Hutch. Who would want Jenny dead?

  For all we know, he could be sitting in this courtroom today.

  Instead of listening to Meyer recite the facts as he saw them, Hutch let his mind and eyes wander, glancing around the gallery, sizing up the various spectators.

  There was the man in the far right corner on the prosecution’s side, a button-down type who, for all Hutch knew, may have known Jenny quite well. May have worked with her at the law firm. May even have shared a drink or two with her, dreaming about getting her into bed.

  May even have succeeded.

  Or been rejected.

  Then there was the seedy looking guy in the third row right, with the two-day stubble and the frayed collar. He seemed to be killing time between sessions of his own trial, and Hutch had no idea why he was here or what his relationship to Jenny might be. Was he a friend of hers? A former client? Was he yet another trial junkie? How exactly did he fit in?

  But why limit this guessing game to men? What about the woman who sat directly across from Hutch and defined the word battle-ax? She was overdressed and wore too much make-up, neither of which disguised the fact that she had a face that looked as if it had been smashed by a quite few frying pans. Her frown was so unyielding, the crease between her brows seemed to have been tattooed in place.

  Why was she here? Could she be the killer, enjoying the spectacle of her handiwork? She certainly looked as if she could wield a knife with the best of them.

  Or what about Jenny’s father, Nathaniel Keating? He had come here every day without fail, sitting not in the front row but in the far right corner, his face stony and humorless as he watched the proceedings. He had never once acknowledged Hutch’s presence here, but Hutch wasn’t surprised. They had only met twice, and the old man had never liked him. Keating was the kind of guy who needed to control everyone around him and had considered Hutch a bad influence on his child. Jenny and her father had argued many times when she’d failed to take his advice, and Hutch knew that she had always been a little afraid of him.

  But was it possible he had killed his own daughter?

  That didn’t seem likely.

  Then there was Hutch’s new friend Gus. He was also sitting in back today, looking like the harmless old coot he seemed to be. But then millions of television viewers thought Jack Van Parkes was a harmless old coot, and Hutch knew that wasn’t true. Jack Van Parkes was a horn dog of the highest magnitude who had a thing for high school girls, and had spent a considerable amount of his residuals paying off angry parents.

  So was Gus also hiding something? Hutch barely knew him, so anything was possible.

  And what about his old friend Andy McKenna? Sitting just two seats over, watching Meyer testify with rapt attention. On the night of Jenny’s funeral, Matt had mentioned that Andy had a thing for her, and everyone had gotten a good laugh out of it.

  But what if it wasn’t all that funny to Andy? What if he had propositioned Jenny and been turned down?

  Was he capable of slicing her up in retaliation?

  Hutch sighed, wishing he had a cigarette, letting his focus return to Meyer, who was now telling the jury about his visit to Jenny’s law firm, and the questioning of Jenny’s secretary that had led him to pull the phone records detailing Ronnie’s calls.

  “And the records showed that these calls came from Ms. Baldacci?” Abernathy asked.

  “Not all of them. Several originated through a hotel switchboard, indicating that a house phone was used.”

  “Which hotel?”

  “The Dumont, which is directly across the street from the victim’s office building.”

  Abernathy nodded. “How did you establish that they came from the defendant?”

  “During the witness interview. Ms. Keating’s secretary told us that Baldacci identified herself and insisted on being connected to Ms. Keating’s line. The secretary made a notation on her calendar each time the defendant called.”

  “Did she give you any indication as to why Ms. Baldacci was trying to contact the victim?”

  “She told us that the defendant’s husband had filed for sole custody of their son and that the firm was representing him. She said that Baldacci was under the mistaken impression that the victim was one of the attorneys involved.”

  “And was she?”

  “Objection,” Waverly said from her chair behind the defense table. “I’m curious to know who exactly is testifying here—Ms. Keating’s secretary or Detective Meyer?”

  “Your Honor,” Abernathy said patiently, “Detective Meyer is simply trying to recount the investigation for us, and part of any good investigation involves questioning those who may have pertinent information. We fully intend to put Ms. Keating’s secretary on the stand, and defense counsel will be free to cross-examine either of these witnesses as she sees fit.”

  The judge mulled this over for all of two milliseconds, then nodded. “Overruled.”

  Abernathy continued on as if there had never been an interruption. “So was Ms. Keating one of the attorney’s involved in this custody case?”

  “No,” Meyer told him. “The husband was represented by an attorney in another department.”

  “I see,” Abernathy said. “So these phone calls were largely a waste of time.”

  “It appears that way.”

  “And how many of them were there?”

  “Nineteen.”

  Abernathy’s eyebrows went up. “Nineteen? Over what time period?”

  “Throughout the month of April,” Meyer said. “The number of calls escalated toward the last week.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “That most of the calls were made a day or two prior to the attack on Ms. Keating. And the majority of those came from the Dumont.”

  “And did you find this significant?”

  Meyer nodded. “It indicated to us that the defendant may have been stalking Ms. Keating and the sudden increase in volume seemed to suggest that Baldacci was growing more and more—”

  “Objection,” Waverly said, getting to her feet this time. “I think we can all see where this is going, Your H
onor, and I doubt very seriously that there’s any significant correlation between the frequency of phone calls and the caller’s emotional state. Any testimony of that nature would be purely speculative and highly prejudicial, especially in light of the fact that Detective Meyer is neither a mind reader nor an expert in psychology.”

  “Sustained,” the judge said immediately.

  Waverly gave Abernathy a tight smile, then sat back down.

  It was a good move, Hutch thought, if a little late. It was obvious that the prosecutor was hoping to establish that Ronnie had grown more and more frantic in the days just prior to the murder, and while the logic didn’t necessarily connect, that thought had already been planted in the minds of the jury. Had Waverly jumped in a handful of seconds earlier, she may have prevented this from happening.

  It suddenly occurred to Hutch just how crucial the timing was in a trial of this kind. A tiny mistake like this could change the whole dynamic of the beast, and he hoped Waverly would be a little quicker on her feet in the future.

  He and Matt exchanged a look and he knew that Matt was thinking the same thing.

  They waited for Abernathy to continue, but the ADA glanced at his watch and said, “Your Honor, it’ll be a while before I’m finished with this witness and I’m thinking now may be a good time to break for lunch.”

  Of course it would, Hutch thought. Leave the jurors mulling over those phone calls as they eat their Big Macs.

  “You read my mind,” Judge O’Donnell said, then turned to the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, I want to remind you that you’re not to discuss this case with anyone, including each other. You’re also reminded not to read any newspapers or watch any news programs during the lunch hour. And I expect you all to be back in your seats and ready to proceed by one-thirty this afternoon. Understood?”

  The jurors nodded, several saying, “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Good,” O’Donnell said. “We’re adjourned for lunch.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “MIND IF WE join you? Or is this table pro-defense only?”

  Hutch looked up, surprised to see Monica Clawson and Tom Brandt approaching their booth. He, Matt and Andy had taken one that faced the entrance of a crowded bar and grill called The Jury Box, which was located about a block from the courthouse. Matt had suggested the place, and Hutch figured it would be a nice change from his usual vending machine sandwich.