Trial Junkies (A Thriller) by Robert Gregory Browne Page B

have had her problems with Jenny, but violence was out of character. And the one thing Hutch was any good at was understanding character. His process as an actor required a certain amount of insight into what made people tick—insight he used when preparing for a role.
    And these revelations, along with Matt's steadfast belief in Ronnie, had him back on the fence, wondering which side to choose.
    A large part of him wanted to follow Matt's lead, but what if Matt was wrong?
    Hutch suddenly felt as if he had been confronted with the biggest, most important decision of his life and he wasn't sure he could make it. And for the first time in months he considered going back inside that bar and ordering himself a Jameson's.  
    Just one to take the edge off.
    He put the cigarette back to lips and lit it, inhaling deeply.
    "She needs your help, Hutch. But not just your money. She needs you to believe in her. More than any of us."
    Hutch blew a stream of smoke into the air. "Why me?"
    "That's just the way it is. The way it's always been."
    "Then she went about it all wrong. You both did. I don't like being manipulated, Matt. I get enough of that in L.A."
    "You turned against her so quickly, we didn't think we had a choice. She had to get your attention somehow."
    "She got that when she slit Jenny's throat."
    Matt closed his eyes as if he were trying to center himself, to keep from exploding, lashing out. Then he opened them again and said in a flat, even tone, "We'll be in court first thing Monday morning—me and Andy—sitting on the defense side of the aisle. I'll save a seat for you, if you're interested."
    Then he stepped past Hutch and headed for the parking lot.
     
    T HREE DAYS LATER , as the bailiff called out "All rise," Hutch moved down the courtroom aisle, nodding to Gus, then scanned the crowd until he found Matt and Andy standing in the front row on the right side of the gallery.  
    As promised, there was an empty space next to Matt.
    Hutch filled it, and as they all waited for the judge to appear, he said, "I called Waverly last night. Told her she's got a blank check."
    Matt swiveled his head. "You mean it?"
    "First on the list is getting Ronnie out on bond."
    Matt smiled and shook his hand. "You're doing a good thing, buddy. You won't regret this."
    Hutch hoped to hell he was right.

 
     
     
    — 20 —
     
    M ATT ISAACS HAD seen quite a few trials over the course of his career, and Assistant District Attorney Edwin Abernathy was one of the better song and dance men he'd come across.
    Anyone who has spent time on a jury—or watched a few trials on cable TV—knows that, more often than not, the verdict comes down to one simple thing:  
    Presentation.
    Sure, you've got the evidence, you've got the witnesses, but if things are really cooking, and the parties have prepared, you can sometimes see a well-choreographed performance that's as compelling as good theater. That performance is designed to sway the jury, and a finding of guilt or innocence often depends on the showmanship skills of the attorneys involved.
    Abernathy wasn't a particularly handsome man, but he made up for it with a rich baritone, a hint of style and a carefully nuanced sincerity that seemed unforced and genuine.
    Matt had missed Jury Selection, but he knew the moment Abernathy opened his mouth that Ronnie was in trouble.  
    "Ladies and gentleman, I want to take a moment to introduce myself to you again. Jury selection was a long, tedious process, and I realize most of you only look at me as the guy who asked a lot of personal questions. Some of them pretty invasive."
    He paused, offering them a smile.
    "So let's start over. My name is Edwin Abernathy, and I've been a prosecuting attorney for fourteen years. Signed on with the DA's office straight out of law school and haven't regretted a moment of it."
    Matt didn't doubt that was true. The guy was a senior deputy who had racked up a long string of convictions.
    "My job," Abernathy continued,