CHAPTER 3
THE SACRAMENTO COUNTY JAIL, a curving, eight-story concrete monolith, was designed to make the experience of staying there less than desirable. With gray, echo-inducing walls and fifteen hundred inmates bulging from its claustrophobic six-by-ten cells, it was another California jail stocked beyond capacity.
Phillip Madison had never seen the inside of such a place. Like a scared animal, his eyes darted into every nook and corner of each corridor and room he passed through. The cold, tight handcuffs were squeezing his wrists so hard that his hands were going numb. As if that was not enough, both shoulders ached.
He was taken into the central processing and booking area, where a desk sergeant sat behind a large wire mesh cage. Rusted metal file drawers sat on the worn gray tile floor behind him.
The sergeant handed a manila envelope to Officer Leary, who stood with Madison. “Put your rings in here, along with any other valuables you want to have returned to you or your family.”
Madison hesitated and turned to Leary with a blank look on his face. “What?”
Leary held up the envelope. “Your rings. Take them off and give them to me.”
Madison, still handcuffed, struggled to remove the jewelry.
“Got any other valuables on you?”
“I was fast asleep when you came to my home, for Christ’s sake.”
“Answer the damn question and don’t give me any lip.”
Madison dropped his eyes. “That’s it, officer. Just the rings.”
Leary sealed the envelope and listed the items on the Prisoner Inventory Form. Madison initialed the bottom of the document, and the materials were handed to the desk sergeant for storage.
Madison was handed a pair of orange overalls, the letters CJ, for County Jail, emblazoned across the back in large black letters. His handcuffs were unlocked, and he was given strict orders not to make any unnecessary or sudden moves. He took his new clothes and changed into them under Leary’s guard in a small room off to their left.
Madison was then led to another area where a free-standing taupe-colored Live Scan machine with a built-in computer screen stood against a wall. Leary rolled each of Madison’s fingers over a flat glass surface, much like a photocopier, allowing the machine to record a digitized copy of his prints.
“It’s come a long way since the old ink pad, huh.”
“Been printed before?” Leary asked.
“When I got my medical license, eighteen years ago.” Noting the officer’s inquiring look, Madison said, “Orthopedic surgeon.”
“Oh, yeah? Then let me be the first to officially welcome you to hell, doctor.”
The last time Phillip Madison had his picture taken it was for the California Medical Society’s Surgeon of the Year Award eight months ago. Standing in the cold room against a wall that was incrementally marked with vertical numbers denoting feet and inches, he realized that posing for mug shots was a far cry from the glamour of Dean Porter Studios.
The placard hung from his neck, his name and number lettered in white against a black background. The camera clicked, he turned, it clicked again, and then again. Pictures that would never find their way into the family album. Photos and memories he would keep from Elliott and Jonah, his young children.
The holding cell was encased with steel bars; blotches of black dirt were permanently ground into the gray cement floor, on which thousands of accused offenders had stood and paced, urinated and spat while awaiting their release or transfer to a shared six-by-ten living space.
Several prisoners sat along metal benches that lined the walls. Some of them smelled of alcohol, a couple of urine. One man had an overgrown beard and an anger in his eyes Madison could tell was deep-seated and dangerous. He’d stay as far away from that one as possible.
The other men no doubt sensed that Madison was not one of them...a criminal of a different sort. Of course, the clear nail polish and well-manicured, callus-free hands were definite indications, but it was more than that. The way he carried himself and held his head distinguished him from the others.
Madison counted sixteen prisoners in the cell, all staring at him, all resenting him because they probably could tell that he possessed the very things that had eluded each and every one of them: money and success.
He wondered if they could sense the fear seeping from his pores.
Half an hour later he was removed from the cell and led down the hallway to a pay phone on the wall. Still in a daze, Madison had difficulty recalling the phone number of his attorney and longtime personal friend, Jeffrey Hellman; he called information after having been assured it would not count as his one call, but the number was unlisted. He paced the floor, trying to clear his mind, trying to focus. A moment later, he flashed on the number and made the call.
The phone rang four times and an answering machine clicked on. “You’ve reached the residence of a famous attorney. If this is business related, call me at the office. If you’re calling for one of the family, leave a message and we’ll call you back if it’s constitutionally required.”
Madison cursed under his breath, then left a message.
“Jeffrey, it’s Phil. I’m in trouble. A lot of trouble. It’s about six in the morning, and I’m at the county jail. No, I’m not making a house call. Please get your butt over here as soon as possible and get me the hell out of this godforsaken place.”
Madison was returned to the cell, where he sat down on the hard metal bench. After an hour of desperately replaying the events of the past three months in his head, he finally succumbed to fatigue and closed his eyes.
“—a visitor. Madison, you hear me?”
Madison sat up abruptly. His eyes found a sheriff’s deputy looking at him through the bars. “You talking to me?”
“Get up. Your attorney’s here.”
Douglas Jeffrey Hellman was pacing the floor, running his short, stubby fingers across his full head of dark brown hair. He stopped and glanced around at the small visitation area. He’d been here many times before, consulting with countless clients over the years...some guilty as hell, others—a substantial minority—falsely accused. But for some reason, this morning the room stirred the buried feelings of solitude and depression he’d experienced three years ago when his wife passed away. After her death, he had spent a little time with the bottle, a few weeks in psychotherapy, six months swallowing Prozac, and then some more time recovering from all the medication he’d consumed.
Hellman’s lingering thoughts were disturbed by the sudden metallic dick of a steel door opening.
Hellman sat down in his chair and lifted the phone. On the other side of the glass was his friend—and now, apparently, his client—Phillip Madison. “Phil. What the hell happened?”
Madison pressed the phone closer to his ear. “What’s there to tell?”
Hellman examined his friend’s face: it was drawn, his eyes were puffy and red, and his hair was disheveled. He had never seen him like this. “Tell me everything.”
“There’s not much to it. I was fast asleep when all of a sudden these cops were at my door asking me where I was tonight. I mean last night.”
“And...”
“And what?”
‘“What did you tell them?”
“I told them that I was at home watching television.”
Hellman pulled out a small pad and started to make a note. “Were you?”
“Jeffrey—”
He looked up. “Sorry, Phil. I’ve gotta ask these questions. Just answer them and don’t take any of them personally.”
“Fine. Whatever. Yes. I told them the truth.”
“Did they ask you that before they read you your rights?”
Madison hesitated. “Yeah.”
“Okay, back to last night. Did you go out at all?”
“No, I got home around nine, ate dinner, and took a shower. I got into bed, started to watch the news, and fell asleep.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah, that’s
it.”
“Did you hear anyone out in the garage? Strange noises around the house? Anything?”
“No. And Scalpel didn’t hear anything either. At least, he didn’t bark or get all worked up.”
“What about while you were in the shower?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Phil, I need to know. Think. Did he bark while you were in the shower?”
“No. I don’t think so. I don’t remember, Jeffrey.”
Hellman sighed.
“Look, even if he was barking, if he was downstairs, I might not have heard him. You know the layout of my house.”
“Yeah, yeah, all right.” Hellman tapped his pen on the pad for a moment. “Did you have anything to drink last night?”
“Some wine with dinner. Why, what’ve they got on me? What’s this all about? I didn’t kill anyone.”
“They’re saying you ran down two people last night, around eleven-thirty. They have a witness who provided a description of your car and a partial license plate—”
“‘My car?”
“Yes. That’s why I was asking.”
“It was obviously stolen,” Madison said. “Did they find it?”
“Yeah. In your garage.”
“Oh, come on. That’s ridiculous.”
“Why?”
“Somebody stole my car, killed two people, and returned the car to my garage? That’s insane.”
“Don’t knock it—that’s our story,” Hellman said.
“Our story?”
“The cops have a different version, and believe me, you’ll like ours a whole lot better.”
“They think I did it?”
“There was an anonymous caller. She said she saw someone in a car of your make and model swerving across the road about a block from the accident scene. She said the driver was wearing a baseball cap.”
“Anonymous tip?”
“Yes.”
“Female?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus, Jeffrey. We both know who that was.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t help us right now.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I don’t like the case they have against you.”
Madison slammed a hand on the table. “But I’m innocent, Jeffrey!”
“I know...but it’s up to us to prove it.”
Madison grasped the handset tighter. “I thought I was innocent until proven guilty.”
“Technically, that’s correct. The burden of proof is on the prosecution.”
“Yeah, so?”
“The evidence is damning. I’d say they could very possibly make a case of it.”
“What evidence?” Madison asked, leaning forward and cocking his head.
“Your car. I don’t have anything official yet, but I hear that the left headlight is broken, there are bloodstains on the front end, the grille is dented, and there are clothing fibers on it. The lab’s running tests on it as we speak, but it doesn’t look good.” He studied Madison’s blank face for a moment. “Can you explain the damage to the front end of your car?”
“No. It wasn’t there when I got home. At least, I don’t think it was.”
“Are you sure?”
“I don’t know, Jeffrey.” He shook his head and leaned back in the hard plastic chair. “I don’t inspect the exterior of my car every time I get in or out of it.”
Hellman sighed. “We need a plan. First of all, I’m going to get you out of here. Second, we need help. I’m going to get a private investigator on this and see what he can dig up.” He flipped his notepad closed.
“Great. Let’s get this thing out of the way. I’ve got enough problems without a hit-and-run hanging over my head.”
“Right now, Phil, this hit-and-run is your problem. All the other things are secondary. This is not a joke, and it’s not to be taken lightly. You’re the prime suspect in a double murder case. We’re talking serious jail time here. And at least for now, the evidence points undeniably to you. You’re in deep shit.”
Madison closed his eyes. His deep sigh was audible through the handset.
“But I haven’t gone to work yet. And you’ve got one of the most important things going for you: you’re innocent. We’ll just have to prove it, that’s all.”
Madison was looking down at the table and did not appear to be listening.
“Phil. Phil, listen to me.”
Madison rolled his eyes upward, toward Hellman. “I’m listening.”
“We’re going to get you cleared, okay?”
“Call Ryan Chandler,” Madison said.
“Who?”
“Ryan Chandler. A former patient of mine. He used to be a cop with the Sacramento Police Department. You won’t find anyone better.”
“Phil, no offense, but this is my area of expertise. Let me handle who we choose as the PI. We need someone good, someone I know I can trust.”
Madison locked eyes with his friend. “Jeffrey, just call him.”
Hellman sighed and opened up his notepad again. “Fine.”
“He’s in New York, you’ll have to get his number.”
Hellman stopped writing and looked up. “New York? You’re kidding, right?”
“No, I’m serious. Trust me. Get him on the case.”
“But Phil—”
“Call him. Do it for me.”
Hellman pondered it a long moment, then said, “I’ll call him. But if he doesn’t measure up, he’s outta here.”
CHAPTER 4
THE MUNICIPAL COURTHOUSE was housed in a modern complex of attached buildings on H Street in downtown Sacramento. Arranged around an adjacent three-level parking structure, it occupied an entire city block. People scurried in and passed through the metal detector, where two guards stood properly accoutered with sidearms, primed to act in the event of a crisis.
Hellman took the elevator up to the third floor, where he met Madison in a private cubicle near the courtroom.
“All we’re here for is the arraignment. He’ll read the charges against you, and we’ll discuss bail. Then we get a date for the preliminary hearing.”
“Sounds like a party,” Madison said wryly.
“Phil, no matter what you’re feeling, you have to remain calm and look confident.”
“Easy for you to say. You didn’t just spend a day in the county jail.”
“When you’re in that courtroom,” Hellman continued, ignoring Madison’s comment, “don’t look down at the table and don’t act depressed. Keep your head up, seem interested in what’s going on, and look the judge in the eyes when he addresses you. Got it?”
“Got it.”
They walked into the courtroom, which was well lit, with several rows of movie theater-style spectator seats crammed close together.
The Honorable Leonard Barter strode into the courtroom from a door off to the side of the bailiff’s desk. “All rise,” the bailiff said. “Court is now in session.”
The judge took his seat, pushed aside a few files, and gave the bailiff a short, almost imperceptible nod.
The man began reading the first case from the docket. Hellman’s mind snapped out of his preparatory stupor once he heard Madison’s name. Standing across the aisle was Timothy Denton, the seasoned prosecutor who had made a name for himself over the years with the best conviction record in the DA’s office. Never one to turn down a challenge, he seemed to thrive on high-profile cases.
Barter glanced over at a document, then looked at the defendant. “Mr. Phillip Madison—”
“Doctor, Your Honor,” Hellman said.
Barter removed his glasses and glared down at Hellman. “Doctor Phillip Madison. Detectives Jennings and Moreno have supplied me with the charges against you. Have you reviewed them with your attorney?”
“Yes.”
“You’re charged with two counts of vehicular manslaughter, which resulted in the death of Imogene Pringle and Otis Silvers. If convicted, the sentence would be a two- to six-year term for ea
ch victim. You’re also charged with two counts of hit-and-run, and one count of failure to render proper roadside assistance.”
“Your Honor,” Hellman said, “Dr. Madison requests bail.”
Barter turned his gaze toward the prosecutor. “Mr. Denton?”
“Your Honor,” he said, shaking his head, “this is a double murder. The defendant is accused of running down two people in cold blood. The woman was a single mother of two. Further, the defendant, a physician himself who could have rendered emergency medical assistance, left the scene of the accident. The people ask one million dollars.”
Madison leaned forward, his eyebrows rising with his voice. “A million dollars?”
“Mr. Hellman,” Barter said, “please ask your client to keep his remarks to himself.”
Hellman was already admonishing Madison in his ear by the time the judge had spoken.
“Sorry, Your Honor. Dr. Madison is...a little out of his element. The figure took him by surprise.”
“Well, make sure he doesn’t have any more surprises. Your job is to prepare your client so that he knows what to expect when he walks into this courtroom. I trust you’ll be more thorough next time.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Hellman said, clenching his jaw. “I will.”
“Now, do you have an opinion on bail?”
“Yes sir, I do. Dr. Madison is a respected member of the medical community with a reputation that many physicians never achieve. He’s saved countless lives over the years, and is well rooted in the community. He serves as president of the Consortium for Citizens with Mental Retardation and has responsibilities to that agency. Dr. Madison has a wife and two children and does not pose even the slightest of flight risks. We request bail in the amount of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
“Very well, Mr. Hellman, Mr. Denton. I see no risk of flight. There is no prior history of criminal activity, am I correct?”
Denton and Hellman nodded.
“Very well. Bail is set at five hundred thousand dollars.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Hellman said.
The judge rapped his gavel on the desk and moved to the next file in front of him.
False Accusations Page 3
