False Accusations

by Alan Jacobson

  Each time he thought of bringing up the topic, he heard Jeffrey’s voice in the back of his mind: It’ll look to her like you’re guilty. She may not understand.

  While that might in fact be the case, he just did not feel right about keeping it from her. Maybe she would feel better about it and would understand if she were consulted about it from the beginning.

  As they were sitting there and Madison was about to broach the subject, Leeza received a call from her sister in Texas. She had not spoken to her in months, and that was that for the evening. Nearly two hours later, she came to bed. Madison was fast asleep, exhaustion winning out over stress. He had not gotten a decent night’s sleep in days.

  The next morning, low, gray clouds hung from the sky. It had unexpectedly drizzled a bit, dampening the Sacramento Herald that had been lying on the step when Madison opened the door.

  He thumbed through the paper, skimming the front page and catching up on some current events before turning to the sports and business pages. Suddenly, his eyes settled on a column by Carrie Anson. The headline struck him like a brick across the forehead:

  When Your Doctor is Accused of Rape

  He swallowed hard; felt a bit lightheaded. He began to read: “Rape is a disease in our society, one which occurs not only in dark, back streets and alleys, but now seems to pervade even the safest of places: our doctor’s office...”

  Madison felt a rumbling deep inside his gut. “...When a woman places trust in her doctor, a prominent member of the medical community who has received numerous state and national awards, we must wonder just how safe we are when that door closes and clicks shut...” He started to skim, and caught key phrases: “...heading up a popular local nonprofit agency...had made overtures to her in public and now this tragic event. How could this happen in our community...”

  Leeza walked into the kitchen to make the kids breakfast. She would want the newspaper when he was done with it.

  Anything interesting?” she asked as she poured the pancake mix into the bowl.

  “Hmm? Oh, nothing. The usual.” Remembering he had wanted to re-up his subscription to the Bee and cancel the Herald, he closed the paper, buried the front page under the Metro and Living sections, and then gave her a kiss. “See you around six, right after rounds, okay?”

  “Sounds good,” she said, pouring a couple of dabs of batter onto the skillet.

  He left and drove off. Dialed Hellman and caught him in his car on the way to the office.

  “Have you seen the Herald?”

  “That’s what you called about?” Hellman asked.

  “I take it you haven’t read it.”

  “It’s sitting on the seat here next to me.”

  “Pull over and read Carrie Anson’s column. Page two. Call me right back.”

  Thirty seconds later, Madison’s phone rang. He tapped his Bluetooth. “Yeah.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Pay them the money, Jeffrey.”

  “Phil, I can go after them for this article. This is libelous.”

  “Jeffrey, I’ve had enough. Even if you get them to print a retraction, they didn’t mention any names. What are they gonna say, the doctor we didn’t mention didn’t really do it? Are they going to say they made it up? No. Will they say we’re sorry we wrote the story, that there have been no formal charges filed against anyone? It’ll look like someone threatened them with a lawsuit, which is exactly what you’d be doing.”

  “Phil—”

  “Pay them the money, Jeffrey. Get her out of my life.”

  “I’ll see if I can get the figure down a bit. I’ll get her to sign a release, and something stating that she’ll refrain from filing any further complaints against you—”

  “Whatever…just get it done and get her out of my life. I’ll put the money together and have a cashier’s check in your office by two o’clock.”

  The law offices of Hellman, MacKenzie& McKnight were ornately decorated, and dated back to a time when it was a sole practitioner’s office, before Hellman expanded into the adjacent suite and took on two partners. The atmosphere was lavish: forest greens and burgundies, with rich golds woven in between. The walls were papered with a velvet-textured paisley; the chairs were hand-embroidered needlepoint, and the desks were cherrywood.

  Hannah Hellman had been partners with Leeza Madison in a small but successful interior decorating company when she and Jeffrey decided to get married. After the firm expanded into the new office space, the Hellmans spent many an evening poring through decorator books, playing with color chips, and matching everything down to the floor tile used behind the reception desk. Hannah had insisted that Jeffrey have input on all the selections. Together, they gave the standard office space life, a personality, an atmosphere.

  When Hannah died of ovarian cancer three years ago, she left behind a few snapshots, a five minute video a friend had once recorded at a party, and the memories of decorating the law office. Since they had only begun to renovate their house, the office decor was the only substantive daily reminder of her personality, of the evenings spent collaborating on a theme that would become her living legacy.

  Although the firm’s partners had more than once brought up the logical idea of moving into larger quarters in the Welles Tower across the street, he had put them off each time. He could not abandon Hannah. There was something special about feeling her presence every morning of every day.

  He strode into the office, nodded to Theresa, and picked up his messages. He pondered the phone call to Movis Ehrhardt...a call Hellman did not want to make; but, his best friend had felt that this was the most prudent way of putting the matter to rest. And, given the circumstances, he did not have any better solutions to offer.

  He called Ehrhardt and began the tedious process of negotiating, trying his best to stoop down to the charlatan’s level so they could be on common ground. They finally agreed on forty thousand dollars, a sum that was better than fifty thousand, but which was still exorbitant, and still extortion—no matter how you sliced it. The deal all but done, Hellman wanted one last dig. “That newspaper column was a cheap shot.”

  “Hold on, counselor. I had nothing to do with that. I don’t even know if my client did, either.”

  “And I’m just supposed to believe that because you’re an honest guy.”

  “You should be talking to the paper and the columnist, not me.”

  “I’d rather talk to you, because I already know where the story came from.”

  “Well, let’s just say, for fun, that suppose my client had a friend who was a columnist and she had innocently mentioned her ordeal to that person. If that person chose to write about it, well, that’s the way it goes. But timing is everything.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “You’ve got quite a vocabulary, counselor. Between your comments yesterday and today, one might think that I was a pretty despicable individual.”

  “Socrates said it was wise to know oneself.” Hellman felt a bit better, but it still had not changed the facts of the situation.

  Hellman laid out the conditions of the agreement, which prevented Harding from being the source of any further newspaper articles, from disclosing their agreement, and from having any contact with Madison or his family. In all, he had listed fifteen different terms.

  Ehrhardt did not object to any of the provisions—for a cool thirteen grand, his take on the forty thousand, he was not going to do anything that jeopardized his fee.

  His client did not care either; she got what she wanted: revenge, and money—and not necessarily in that order.

  The attorneys faxed each other back and forth, and in three hours, the contract was signed.

  The check was messengered over.

  And the dirty deed was done.

  CHAPTER 25

  LIFE WAS MOST definitely sweeter for the Madison family. They were a little lighter in the bank account, but whoever said that money could not buy happiness did not know the dilemma that Phillip Madison had
been facing in recent weeks. He came out of his shell and started to settle into a routine of normalcy, enjoying a sense of safety he had not known in almost two months.

  Leeza had periodically attempted to ask him about the complaint, and why it had been withdrawn. Each time there was either a convenient interruption or Madison managed to fob her off with a general comment about the lack of merit of Harding’s accusations. When she finally pressed him on the details, he responded by telling her that since there was no proof of anything, the police had nothing left to pursue. It was a logical conclusion, and it seemed to satisfy her.

  They barely had much time to enjoy their renewed stability, as Madison had to attend a seminar in San Diego on November 14 on advances in total hip replacement prosthetics. It was a $1,200 continuing education seminar that he had paid for six months ago. He invited Leeza to come along with him, but she was unable to arrange for a baby-sitter for the weekend.

  He promised to make it up to her. In fact, he told her to plan a mini vacation to New Orleans, where they had gone a few years ago and had the time of their lives. She booked it the minute he left for the airport on Friday afternoon.

  That evening, Madison returned to his hotel room and threw his seminar binder on the bed. He was exhausted, having listened to eight hours of boring recitation. At least it included PowerPoint slides and video to break up the monotony.

  He stretched and started to change into something more comfortable for dinner with his old medical school buddy, Vince.

  He had not seen Vince since the last seminar in San Diego, and he missed his company. Still, he dreaded the question Vince never failed to ask: So, Phil, what’s new in your life?

  As he unbuttoned his shirt, he noticed that the message light on his room phone was flashing. “Probably Leeza,” he said as he dialed the front desk.

  “Yes, Dr. Madison, we do have a message here for you, from your wife,” the attendant said.

  “Yeah, what is it?”

  The attendant paused. “Well, sir, perhaps you should come down and read it for yourself.”

  “That’s okay—I’ve gotta get to dinner. Just read it to me.”

  “It may be personal—”

  “That’s fine,” Madison said, “just read the message.”

  “It came in at ten-fifteen this morning.”

  “Yeah, and...”

  “And, well, it says, ‘You goddamned lying bastard. I’m moving out. Don’t bother calling.’”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t want to read it—”

  “Please have someone bring it to my room immediately.” He hung up the phone and dialed the house. It was six o’clock; the message came in eight hours ago, meaning that she could be long gone by now. But why? With something so important, why hadn’t she called him on his cell? Because she didn’t want to talk to me.

  He sat there, the inane, monotonous ring coming every other second. Voicemail. Leave a message? Yes. “Lee, honey, it’s me. I got a very strange message at the front desk just now, and I don’t know if it’s some kind of sick joke or not, but please call me soon as you get this. I love you.” After trying her cell phone and leaving the same message, he sat down and rubbed his temples. What the hell is this all about?

  A knock at the door broke his daydream. The bellman handed him the message; Madison slipped a ten into his palm, never bothering to look at the man, and shut the door. He studied the slip of paper, as if staring at it would suddenly cause new information to appear.

  He dialed Leeza’s cell again. Straight to voicemail.

  He called Southwest Airlines and booked a seat on their last flight out to Sacramento, which left in one hour. He called a cab, gathered his clothes, called Vince, and told him he had to leave to deal with a family emergency. Then he phoned Hellman and asked him to pick him up at the airport.

  As he settled into the taxi, he let his head fall back against the seat. What now?

  The flight was agony. He couldn’t get Leeza off his mind, so he obsessed over all the potential scenarios. What if the message was a hoax—he would be coming home and missing the rest of his seminar for nothing. That would be a Brittany Harding tactic. But other than his office staff, no one knew of the seminar, let alone the hotel where he was staying. It was not likely a prank.

  Hellman was waiting outside the terminal in his Lexus. Madison tossed his bags into the trunk, explained all that he knew and showed him the crumpled message he had received from the bellman.

  Hellman did not know what to make of it either. “Maybe she found out about the settlement, and you weren’t home to explain it.”

  “Jeffrey, if that’s it, I’m going to wring your neck. Again, I should’ve told the truth and didn’t, and now it’s come back to haunt me—”

  “Hold it, hold it,” he said, waving a hand out in front of the dashboard. “You’re jumping to conclusions. Let’s just wait till we get there.”

  Leeza’s van was not in the garage. He opened his front door and everything appeared to be dark. Scalpel came running into the entryway and licked him on the face. Madison walked into the den, looking for a clue of some sort, something to explain what the hell was going on. Leeza usually left notes for him on the desk.

  Hellman threw on some lights in the hallway and walked into the kitchen to look around for a message of some sort.

  Madison looked down and saw an 8 by 10 photo on his desk. He picked it up. “Jeffrey,” he called, his voice weak and unsteady. “Jeffrey!” he tried again, attempting to muster more force through his choked throat.

  He turned the picture over and saw a copy of the settlement check Hellman had sent to Harding’s attorney. “Oh, my God,” was all he could mumble.

  “What?” Hellman asked, walking into the room. “What’s the matter?” He must have seen the ashen color of Madison’s face because he sat down next to him. Then his eyes found the copy of the check. “Why do you have—” he started to ask as Madison flipped the picture over in front of it. It was a photo that appeared to depict his client kissing Brittany Harding. “Oh, shit.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, both staring at the picture. “Phil, what is this? What are we looking at?”

  Madison cleared his throat. “This was taken at the Fifth Street Café. She said she’d been on the phone a lot that day and had some kind of sharp pain in her ear. She wanted me to take a look at it, but when I couldn’t see anything, she moved closer. Somebody must have snapped the picture at that moment. The whole damned thing was orchestrated.”

  “Why was she laughing?” Hellman asked, still looking at the picture.

  “She said it tickled.” He let loose a stifled grunt. “I wasn’t even touching her.”

  “But it looks like—”

  “I know what it looks like!” Madison bit the inside of his cheek, then said, “Apparently, so did Leeza.” He continued to stare at the picture. “She’s left me, Jeffrey. She’s taken the kids and left me.” He said it matter-of-factly, like no amount of explaining in the world could reverse it. A done deal. Set in stone. Fact.

  “Shit, Phil. I’m sorry.” He shifted in his seat. “How the hell did she get this? Where...” he said, as his voice trailed off.

  Madison reached for the manila envelope on the desk.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Hellman said. “Put the picture down.”

  “Why—”

  “Just do it. I’m going to have it dusted for prints. I bet I know exactly who sent this.”

  “Harding.”

  “Had to be,” Hellman said. “Who else would have a copy of the check?”

  Madison did not answer.

  “Movis Ehrhardt,” Hellman said.

  “Who?”

  “Harding’s attorney.” He rubbed aggressively at his forehead. “Right before we settled, he said that there was more evidence, but the detectives never said they had anything other than the belt and the phone bill. After you assured me that nothing else had happened, I thought h
e was bluffing.” There was quiet again in the room. “She never gave the police this picture. My guess is that she was going to turn it over to them if we didn’t pay her off.”

  “But—but didn’t we have agreement, a contract?” Madison asked.

  “In a perfect world, yes. But she’s a sick individual, Phil.” He sighed. “I’ll get on Movis’s ass Monday morning. File a claim with the bar...”

  Madison wasn’t listening. New Orleans had popped into his mind. New Orleans and Leeza, and how nice their trip might have been.

  CHAPTER 26

  “YOU’RE A goddamned fucking sleazebag, you son of a bitch,” Hellman yelled into the phone.

  “Must be Jeffrey Hellman,” Movis Ehrhardt said.

  “You’re a double-crossing extortionist.”

  “Just let me know when you’re done.”

  “Done?” Hellman asked. “I’m just getting started.”

  “How about telling me what this is all about?”

  “Let’s start with the destruction of a family, you unethical son-of—”

  “Whoa, counselor, what the hell are you talking about?”

  “Either you or your client sent Madison’s wife a picture that makes it look like he was kissing Harding in a restaurant.”

  “And I assume it’s your position that that’s not what he was doing.”

  “She was complaining of ear pain. She asked him to take a look.”

  “And you think that this picture was sent to Madison’s wife by me?”

  “You or your client. And given my past dealings with you, it wouldn’t surprise—”

  “Why do you think I had anything to do with it?”

  “The picture was accompanied by a copy of the settlement check I sent to you.”

  There was no response at the other end. The usually vociferous, answer-for-everything Movis Ehrhardt fell silent.

  Finally, Hellman broke the interlude. “Well?”