“Only for a day or two,” Nadine said. “It belonged to her boyfriend and he forgot it one night.”
“And did she ever threaten you with that gun?”
“No,” Nadine said. “She didn’t.”
Abernathy stared at her, his frustration clear. “You’re under oath, Ms. Overman.”
“Which is why I’m telling the truth,” she said.
Her ability to lie so easily was surprising to Hutch. Or had she been lying to him the other night? She certainly wasn’t under oath at the time. Had he been right when he’d accused her of exaggerating the incident out of grief?
Abernathy didn’t look happy. “So you’re saying that the statement you made to me not two months ago was a lie?”
“Objection. Facts not in evidence.”
“Sustained.”
Abernathy made a show of his irritation, then glanced again at his notes, taking the time to regroup. “Ms. Overman, approximately six weeks ago you called my office and asked to speak to me about the case at bar, did you not?”
“I did,” Nadine said.
“And as a result of that call, we agreed to meet at the Ballinger Restaurant in Wicker Park, did we not?”
“We did.”
“And did we indeed meet?”
“Yes,” Nadine said.
“And what was the topic of conversation during that meeting?”
“It mostly centered around a phone call I received from Ronnie Baldacci about a month before Jenny was murdered.”
Abernathy looked relieved. “And can you tell us about that call?”
“I was at home, going over some paperwork for the Evanston development when Ronnie called my cell phone. We hadn’t spoken in quite a while, so I was surprised to hear from her.”
“And what did she say to you during this call?”
“Well, a lot of it was incoherent. She was obviously drunk.”
Abernathy gave her a tight smile. “Tell us about the coherent parts.”
“The gist of it had to something to do with a play she’d attended a couple nights before. During intermission she had run into Jenny and I got the impression that the two of them had gotten into a fight over Ronnie’s custody case—although this was all coming out in bits and pieces. I had to decipher it as I went along.”
“Did Ms. Baldacci threaten you or Ms. Keating during this call?”
Nadine thought about this. “She definitely called me a few names, but I’m not sure any of it could be considered a threat.”
“What sort of names?”
“To be honest, I don’t recall. The usual assortment, I guess. Like I said, she was drunk.”
Abernathy’s jaw clenched. “Your Honor, may I have the court’s permission to treat this witness as hostile?”
O’Donnell blinked at him. “She seems to be answering your questions openly and honestly, counsel. Request denied.”
“But her answers aren’t consistent with what she—”
“Objection,” Waverly shouted. “How many times do we have to go over these phantom statements my colleague keeps crowing about?”
O’Donnell raised a hand at her. “Calm down, Ms. Waverly, I’m well aware of the problem here.” He turned to Nadine. “Ms. Overman, I’m sure you know of the consequences of perjury.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“So is it your contention that the statements you made two months ago to Mr. Abernathy were untrue?”
“Yes,” Nadine said.
“Would you mind explaining why you made false statements to an officer of the court in the middle of a murder investigation?”
Nadine looked at Ronnie now, and in that moment seemed to be speaking to her, rather than the court. “My only excuse is that I was extremely upset about losing one of my best friends, and in my grief, I said things to Mr. Abernathy that were either overstated or untruthful. And if that means facing some kind of charge, then so be it. I’m not about to lie under oath.”
Abernathy looked as if he were about to burst a blood vessel. “With all due respect, Your Honor, I have to strenuously object to—”
“Stop right there, counsel. It’s sounds to me as if you got the answer to the question you’ve been trying to ask for the last several minutes. I’m sorry if it isn’t what you wanted to hear. Now, unless you have anything further, I’d suggest you call it a wash and wrap this up.”
Abernathy was silent for a very long time, no doubt weighing his options. Then he heaved a defeated sigh. “I’m done with this witness, Your Honor.”
“All right. Ms. Waverly?”
“No questions, Your Honor.”
“Very well, then. Ms. Overman, you’re excused.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
IT WAS A small but significant victory, and Hutch resisted the urge to high-five his friends as Nadine left the witness box and headed for the doorway she had emerged from. More than anything, it was a personal victory, because she was a friend.
Just before she disappeared inside, she threw a wan smile in his direction, as if asking for his approval. He gave her a subtle nod, then she was gone, and he wondered if she would head straight back to her apartment and pour herself another rum and Coke.
When the time was right, when this was over, he would call her and ask if she needed his help. It was hard to read her right now, in this situation, but he sensed that she was adrift—a feeling he knew all too well.
“Who would have guessed it,” Andy murmured. “The bitch has a heart after all.”
“Shut the hell up,” Hutch told him.
________
WHAT HAPPENED NEXT was a surprise to everyone, but its significance didn’t become clear until several minutes later. Just as Abernathy was about to call his next witness, Detective Meyer entered the courtroom, moved quickly up the aisle and gestured to him.
“Your Honor,” Abernathy said, “may I have a moment?”
“A moment. And make it a quick one.”
Hutch watched as Abernathy moved over to the low rail that separated the gallery from the well of the courtroom. Meyer leaned close and whispered in Abernathy’s ear, the ADA’s eyes widening slightly, a small smile crossing his lips. Whatever the news was, it couldn’t be good for Ronnie.
Abernathy nodded, said something to Meyer, then turned toward the bench. “Your Honor, I’d like to request a sidebar.”
O’Donnell raised a brow, then said to Waverly. “Any objection, counsel?”
Waverly hadn’t seen Abernathy’s face and still seemed to be riding the high of Nadine’s reversal. She got to her feet. “None whatsoever, Your Honor.”
She and Abernathy moved to the bench as O’Donnell cupped his hand over his microphone and leaned toward them, the three speaking quietly. Waverly and Abernathy had their backs to the gallery and their faces couldn’t be seen, but it was easy to see that Abernathy was doing most of the talking.
Waverly grew rigid beside him, then it was her turn to talk. They went back and forth for several minutes, O’Donnell cutting in occasionally, then the two attorneys returned to their tables—
—and Waverly’s expression said it all.
Something very, very bad had just happened.
As Waverly sat, she leaned toward Ronnie and began whispering in her ear. If Ronnie had looked defeated before, she now seemed absolutely devastated, her body sinking deeper into her chair with each word.
The two spoke quietly—and urgently—for several moments as Abernathy threw papers into a briefcase and Judge O’Donnell conferred with his clerk.
Hutch couldn’t imagine what had happened, and he was dying to know. He looked over at Andy, Matt and Gus and they were clearly feeling the same.
“What the fuck…?” Andy whispered.
But before anyone else could chime in, Judge O’Donnell finished with his clerk and said to the jury, “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m going to call a recess as we take this matter into chambers. Please report to the jury room and make sure not to discuss the case with one anothe
r.”
The jurors all murmured agreement, then got to their feet and filed out of the courtroom, several of them glancing at Ronnie. Then O’Donnell stood up and the bailiff called out, “All rise!”
Waverly rubbed a comforting hand across Ronnie’s back as they stood, Ronnie now looking bloodless. Lost. Devastated.
Waverly whispered again into her ear, gave her arm a reassuring squeeze, then joined Abernathy and the judge at a doorway behind the bench.
As they disappeared from view and the spectators began to disperse, Ronnie made a sound and sank into her chair, lowering her head to the table.
People in the gallery turned to stare at her as Hutch moved into the aisle and through the gate, pulling a chair up next to her, putting an arm around her, leaning in close. “What is it? What happened?”
Her voice was barely a croak. “I’m not getting out of this. Not now. There’s no way they’ll ever acquit me.”
“Why? What happened? What’s Abernathy up to?”
She looked at him, her face streaked with tears. “You warned me this might happen, Hutch. On the train last night.”
“What are you talking about?”
“They think they’ve found the murder weapon.”
Something went cold inside. “You mean the knife?”
“Not a knife,” she said, shaking her head morosely. “A pair of grooming shears.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
“GROOMING SHEARS?” HUTCH said. “What the hell are you talking about? Didn’t the autopsy report say Jenny was killed with a knife? She had her throat slit.”
“I think so, but now they’re saying it could have been the scissors.”
Hutch was thrown for a loop. “I’m no forensics expert, but wouldn’t they be able to figure that out when they examined her?”
“I don’t know. Maybe they can’t when the scissors are broken. One of the blades was snapped off at the handle. So it might as well have been a knife.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“I wish I were.”
“Where did they find this thing?”
“In the bushes about a block from the crime scene. Some guy was walking his dog last night and the dog started sniffing and scratching and there it was, covered with dried blood.”
“Four months later? That’s complete bullshit. The cops would’ve searched there already.”
“I know, I know, but…” She trailed off, gesturing helplessly.
“What else did Waverly say?”
“That it looks like it matches the wounds, but they won’t be sure it’s the murder weapon until they run some more tests. She says she’ll try to get the judge to exclude it, but she didn’t sound hopeful. And if that blood matches Jenny’s…” She paused, rose from her chair. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”
Hutch stood up with her. “Easy now. Easy.” He stroked her hair. “First off, even if they get a match, that doesn’t mean they can tie the scissors to you.”
She looked away suddenly, said nothing, and Hutch didn’t miss the implication.
“Are you telling me they can?”
The tears began to well again. “They’re my scissors, Hutch. At least I think they are. I broke a pair and threw them away a couple days before Jenny was killed.”
“Jesus Christ…” he said.
She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “It was Langer, wasn’t it? He planted them in those bushes.”
Hutch nodded. Who else could it be? This had to be part of his sick little game. He had broken into Ronnie’s house or had taken the scissors from her trash and used them to set her up.
But why wasn’t he in court this morning to witness his handiwork? Whatever went on in that twisted mind of his, you’d think he’d want to be here to enjoy the show.
Hutch still wasn’t convinced that Langer had recognized him last night, but what did it matter at this point? The guy had to be stopped. It was time to quit playing amateur detective and take this to the people who could actually do something about it. Make them see what he and the others saw.
He turned to Andy, Matt and Gus, who were now standing at the rail, eyeing them anxiously. He said to Matt, “Do you have that stuff on Langer with you?”
Matt patted his satchel. “Right here.”
“Give it to me.”
He frowned. “What are you gonna do?”
“Just give it to me.”
Matt dug around in the satchel as he stepped past the gate and approached them, then handed the file folder to Hutch. “You’re going to the cops, aren’t you?”
“No,” Hutch said. “I’m taking this straight to the top.”
“What?”
Hutch glanced toward the back of the gallery and saw that the bailiff was holding a door open for the departing spectators, one of whom was Nathaniel Keating. Keating gave him that smile again and for a brief moment Hutch wondered if he could have had something to do with the sudden discovery of the knife.
But no, that didn’t make sense. This was all Langer.
As Keating disappeared from sight, Hutch squeezed Ronnie’s shoulder. “Sit tight,” he said. “I’m gonna fix this.”
Then he turned and crossed to a desk near the judge’s bench, where the court clerk was busy gathering some paperwork. “I need to speak to O’Donnell.”
The clerk looked up at him and blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“The judge. I need to talk to the judge.”
She eyed him warily. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hutchinson, but he’s in the middle of—”
Hutch didn’t wait for her to finish. He stepped around her desk and pushed through the door behind it. Heard her calling out to him in alarm as he moved into a short and narrow corridor.
“Mr. Hutchinson—stop! You can’t go back—”
The door closed behind him and he kept moving, heading down the corridor until it opened out into a large room with desks, the judge’s support staff busy behind them. They looked up at him in alarm as he quickly scanned the room, spotting a door with flags on either side of it.
“Can I help you with something?” a young guy in a shirt and tie said, getting to his feet. Probably one of the judge’s clerks.
“No thanks,” Hutch said. “I think I’ve got this.”
Then he beelined it for the judge’s door and pushed it open. Inside was a large room with a massive desk, a wall of bookshelves, photos and commendations and law degrees decorating another wall.
O’Donnell was seated behind the desk, Abernathy and Waverly occupying chairs in front of it. Startled, they all looked up at Hutch as he burst into the room and threw the file folder atop the judge’s desk.
“There’s your killer,” he said. “Not Ronnie. This trial is a waste of time.”
O’Donnell jumped to his feet, looking like a man who had just witnessed a car wreck. “Who the hell are you and what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Then he called toward the doorway. “Ed, get security in here—now.”
Waverly was on her feet, too. “Mr. Hutchinson, get out of here, this isn’t going to—”
“Look at it,” Hutch said, pointing at the file. “His name is Frederick Langer. At least that’s the name he’s using now. He’s been stalking Ronnie for months and sitting in that courtroom every day. We have evidence that he may have killed at least four other women in three different states.”
“We?” Abernathy said, then turned to Waverly. “What’s going on here?”
“Just look at the file,” Hutch said. “We think he may have set this whole thing up to make Ronnie look guilty. The sweatshirt, the scissors—you might even be able to trace the dog hairs back to him.”
O’Donnell’s face was red with rage. “Young man, I don’t know who the fuck you are, but you almost gave me a goddamn heart attack just now, and if you think for a minute that I give a shit about whatever’s in this folder, you’re sadly mistaken. This is a court of law and you have no right to come barging in here like some goddamn psychopath.�
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The judge’s gaze shifted and Hutch heard voices in the doorway behind him. He turned as three uniformed security men, including the bailiff, rocketed into the room and grabbed him by the arms.
Hutch swiveled his head toward Abernathy. “If you care anything about justice or whatever your office is supposed to stand for, then you’ll look at that file. You’re prosecuting the wrong—”
“Get this son of a bitch out of here!” O’Donnell shouted. “Lock him up!”
Hutch struggled as they started dragging him toward the doorway. “Do your fucking job,” he said to Abernathy. “Veronica Baldacci is not a killer.”
“Oh?” Abernathy said, on his feet now. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but I just got a call from the lab with confirmation that not only is Veronica Baldacci a killer, she’s one of the most brutal I’ve ever had the displeasure to meet. I know it, the judge knows it, and so does her attorney. Right Karen?”
Waverly was silent, but the answer was plain on her face.
Abernathy smiled. “So what do you have to say about your girlfriend now, asshole?”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
THEY PUT HIM in a cell downstairs.
He sat there for the rest of the morning and late into the afternoon, convinced that the discovery of the scissors would pretty much seal the deal for Abernathy. Ronnie was toast unless Hutch could get the ADA or the judge or even Waverly to listen to reason.
But he’d pretty much blown any chance of that ever happening.
What the hell had possessed him to barge in on them like that? What weird glitch in his thought process had led him to believe they’d be receptive to the ravings of a post rehab has-been?
Hutch had always been a creature of impulse—impulses that had often gotten him into trouble—and now here he was again, a victim of his own irrational behavior. Worse still, Ronnie would suffer because of it, too.
But he refused to give up. There had to be a way to get her out of this.
The question was how?
With Frederick Langer possibly in the wind, how could they ever prove anything against him? Hell, they didn’t even know where he lived, for chrissakes—and following him had been an exercise in futility, not to mention humiliation.
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