Trial Junkies

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They found her body in Dearborn Park.

She had been left to die in a vacant lot on Clark Street, lying in a pool of her own blood, multiple stab wounds to her chest and abdomen, her face slashed, her throat slit ear to ear.

Hutch hadn't seen or spoken to Jenny in nearly ten years, but she had never been far from his mind. And the thought that some mad man had mutilated the woman he had once loved-still loved, if you wanted the God's honest truth-sent him rushing to his trailer to relieve himself of the Spanish omelet the craft service had served for breakfast.

Hutch hadn't received any phone calls about this. No old college pals breaking the bad news in a distant, halting voice. Chances were pretty good that most of them would hear about it exactly the way he had-a simple, unassuming headline on the opening page of the Chicago Post website:

LOCAL ATTORNEY STABBED TO DEATH

Hutch was a Chicago native and surfed the Post daily, but this was the kind of story he would usually pass over on his way to the sports page. He was living and working in Hollywood these days and had decided long ago that it was best to ignore such things. He had a pretty good life here and was still selfish enough to want to tune out any outside interference. No point in upsetting the balance he had struggled so hard to regain these last few months.

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