False Accusations

by Alan Jacobson

  Chandler stood there listening to Gray speak when suddenly the enthusiasm drained from his face. “Jennings? Bill Jennings is on this case?” Chandler squared his shoulders and refocused himself. “Well, regardless of Jennings’s opinions, I’d appreciate it if you’d run the tests.”

  Shaking his head out of frustration, he placed a hand on his hip. “Fine, check with Lou. Can you put me through to him?” Chandler tapped his foot on the floor and waited. “Lou, Chandler. I stumbled onto something that may clear my client. I just ran it by Gray, but he was less than enthusiastic about it... Yeah, would you?”

  Chandler nodded a couple of times. “Fine, get it cleared through the DA. I don’t have to tell you what’s at stake... Thanks, man. I’ll call you in a few days.”

  As he hung up the phone, Leeza spoke. “Saliva? How is that going to—”

  “DNA,” Chandler said. “It’s contained in all our bodily fluids—blood, semen, and saliva. And everyone’s DNA is different, like a fingerprint. If we can identify the DNA in the saliva on the beer cans, it’ll tell us the genetic makeup of that individual—the one who was driving the car and drinking the beer.”

  “If we’re assuming the cans belonged to Harding, why weren’t her fingerprints on them?” Leeza asked.

  “There were a few sets of smudged prints, but nothing we could use to make an identification.”

  “Do you think there’s enough saliva to run the tests?” Madison asked.

  “First we have to see if there’s any on the cans. If she drank the beer, for sure there’ll be enough. If she didn’t drink it, and just poured it out in the sink, we’re shit out of luck. But if she took a couple of swigs while emptying it into the sink...”

  “Then we’ve got her?” Leeza asked.

  Chandler nodded. “I think so. We’ll have to wait and see.” He started to pace the kitchen.

  “But why would she take a swig of beer while emptying it?” Leeza asked.

  “Maybe she likes beer, so she took a few swigs and emptied the rest down the drain. Maybe she drank all of it.”

  “But she wouldn’t drink the beer,” Leeza said. “That’d be taking an awfully big chance.”

  Chandler was shaking his head. “To her, she wasn’t taking any chances at all. Despite the popularity of shows like CSI, the average person doesn’t think like a forensic scientist. And a criminal doesn’t always think everything through—or even know what he or she should be thinking about. And they tend not to be the brightest bulb in the fixture. It probably never crossed Harding’s mind that the police would investigate her, let alone test for saliva on the beer cans and use the DNA to match it to her.”

  “Would the saliva still be usable after this much time?” Madison asked.

  “Sure. After blood and semen, saliva’s the best medium to get DNA from. And aside from fingerprints, DNA’s at least as reliable, if not more so, than conventional forensic tests. For one thing, it’s a more stable molecule than the proteins and enzymes that we’ve used in forensics for years. The problems with DNA come when you have a very small sample to work with, or if the evidence is mishandled. Like if it’s left in direct sunlight in front of a window. But even then, the glass from the window filters out most of the harmful UV. If it’s been stored at room temperature, it should be fine.”

  “Was it?” Madison asked.

  “From what Gray told me, the beer cans were stored properly. You’ve got a well-respected lab here in Sacramento. And saliva generally provides a big enough sample, so if Gray’s right, there should be close to zero chance of contamination.”

  Everyone sat there for a moment, trying to put it all in perspective. Ricky looked at everyone, wondering why they had all fallen silent. “What’th D-DA?”

  “D-N-A,” Madison said. “It’s part of what makes your skin, your bones, your face. It’s sort of like a code that Mom and Dad gave us.”

  He nodded, perhaps understanding some of it, enough to satisfy his curiosity. Then, “Ith that what made me retarded?”

  Madison glanced at Leeza, gave her a look like, how did I step into that one? “That’s what caused the Down syndrome. Yes.”

  “But,” Leeza said, “because everyone’s DNA is different, it makes each of us special. You’re special, just like Phil and Ryan and I are special.”

  “You’re the one who gave me the idea of checking for the DNA,” Chandler said. “You may’ve saved your brother’s life.”

  Ricky smiled.

  “How long till we get those results from the lab?” Madison asked Chandler.

  “It’s faster than it used to be, but their lab’s understaffed. Big time. I wouldn’t expect an answer for a few weeks.”

  Leeza leaned forward. “Weeks?”

  Chandler nodded. “I probably shouldn’t answer for them. Could be less. But that’d be my guess.” He sat there staring at his plate. “You know, there is one other thing we could check. If she did take a drink, she would’ve left a lip print.”

  “A what?” Madison asked.

  “A lip print. The pattern of the skin on our lips is different, in much the same way fingerprints are individual. It’s not a well-known or often-used forensic, but in certain situations it could be very revealing. And it’s a whole lot faster to do than DNA.” He picked up the phone again, dialed Palucci, and asked him to dust the can for a lip print as well.

  “You know,” Madison said after Chandler had hung up, “when I saw her in the market, she had a six-pack in her cart.”

  “Why didn’t you mention that before?” Chandler asked. “That’s a very important detail to leave out.”

  “I didn’t think of it ’til just now.”

  “Do you remember the brand?”

  “The cans were gold and black, with some white on them, I think,” he said, looking up at the ceiling as he tried to recall their appearance.

  “Millstone Draft?”

  Madison pointed at Chandler. “That’s it.”

  “Why is that so important?” Leeza asked.

  “If we can find someone else who saw that brand of beer in her cart, and at least one of the beer cans has her lip print on it as well as saliva that contains her DNA, then we’ve got a very strong case for them having accused the wrong person.”

  Chandler gave Madison’s shoulder a squeeze. “The good guys are starting to make a comeback.”

  Chandler met with Hellman later in the afternoon and informed him of what he had set in motion. Hellman was as enthusiastic as Chandler. His mind was miles ahead on the legal details, mentally preparing the pre-trial motions as they spoke. Chandler also told him that Bill Jennings was on the case and that they’d had problems in the past.

  Hellman looked up from his legal pad. “What kind of problems?”

  Chandler recounted the history of the case in Sacramento and its effect on their relationship. “He took it very badly. He behaved like an asshole and then wasn’t enough of a man to admit it after the fact. We ran into each other one day when I was downtown, seeing Phil, actually, for an exam—and he said that he’d heard about what had happened to my back. Called me a cripple and said that I deserved it for making his life miserable.”

  “You think he’s still got it out for you?”

  “I haven’t seen or spoken to him in years. Unless he went through an epiphany, he’s not one to let go of something like that.”

  Hellman sighed, arose, and stared out his office window. Off to his right were the buildings of Old Sacramento, erected when California was hosting the Gold Rush and forming the beginnings of organized state government. Although he was looking directly at the historical city, he was not seeing it. He was mulling over what Chandler had just told him.

  Finally, Hellman turned around to face his investigator. “I don’t think it’ll have an impact on the case. He hasn’t done anything inappropriate, and if he has an ounce of common sense, he’d be reluctant to risk compounding his past blunders with a brand new screw-up in this case.”

  Chandler
nodded. “I’ll watch out for anything that doesn’t smell right. Last thing I want to do is make Phil’s situation worse because of my involvement. Just the opposite.”

  “I’d tell you to get the hell out of town if I thought this posed a real threat.”

  With that, they chose to focus on all the positives that had occurred during the day, and what lay ahead: the arraignment in Superior Court.

  At the crime lab, Madison was escorted to a tiny room where a technician swabbed his inner cheek with a long, wood-handled Q-tip. As she snapped the top closed over the sample, she explained that she had captured skin cells for purposes of performing a DNA analysis.

  Madison knew full well why he was there. It wasn’t just that his DNA was going to be compared to the DNA in the saliva he hoped they would find on the beer cans…it was that his future and fate hung in the balance.

  CHAPTER 39

  THE SACRAMENTO Superior Courthouse was a city block long and a city block wide. Its 1980s cement-textured facade stood out against the trees and cars that lined the streets. People flowed into and out of the building, well-dressed attorneys in dark suits, white shirts, and red ties toting their leather attaches while chatting animatedly about everything from plea bargains to Sunday’s football scores.

  Judge Cecil Tyson was assigned to preside over the arraignment in Department 17, third floor. The hallways were wide and well lit, with flat, padded black benches opposite the entrance to each courtroom. Double wood doors with small blacked-out rectangular windows provided an effective barrier against those people who sat in the corridor and waited their turn in the witness chair. On the wall, next to each set of doors, was a corkboard with typed papers listing the schedule of cases for the day.

  Inside, the courtroom was relatively large, the size of a small auditorium. Walnut-stained wood dominated the decor, lining the walls from floor to ceiling, and covering the desks, judges’ bench, and handrails in the imposing and impressively appointed room. Spotlights, recessed into the towering ceiling, flooded the room with slightly less than adequate light. There were no windows. The spectators were treated to padded movie theater-style seats, creating a deceivingly relaxed atmosphere.

  Crowding the first two rows were representatives of the press, sketch pads and pencils at the ready, notepads and digital recorders on their laps. Off to the left and in the last two rows of the galley were representatives of Kindness for the Homeless, a nonprofit organization whose members had a reputation for making their opinions known in a loud and intimidating manner when anything political or controversial occurred involving their cause. The NAACP had sent a couple of representatives as well, to set the table for documenting yet another case of racially motivated violence against African-Americans.

  Madison and Hellman sat at the defendant’s table, set off to the left of the room’s center. The judge’s bench, towering above everything else and positioned like a crown jewel set against the back wall, stretched ten feet across. There was no doubt that this was the hub of all that spun from this courtroom.

  “Remember, when he asks you to enter your plea,” Hellman whispered into Madison’s ear, “look him in the eye and speak in a confident voice. Tell him the truth. Everything about your demeanor should say that you’re not guilty and that they have the wrong man.”

  The Honorable Cecil Tyson ascended the steps to his bench and sat down. Tyson was a thin, frail man of seventy-three years, who looked ten years older. But the counsel who made the common error of thinking that old Judge Tyson was a pushover had something coming—and it was not pleasant. It was best to be congenial and respectful, perhaps more so than usual, due to his sensitivity over his age. Fresh, slick attorneys who did not yet know the court and its judges made the mistake of trying to be too aggressive, feeling they could push him a bit, put one over on him, or pursue a line of questioning that was already ruled inappropriate. Tyson was still sharp and cantankerous. He did not like to be taken advantage of.

  His Honor opened up a file and pulled a document from it. He placed his reading glasses on the tip of his broad, pockmarked nose. “I have here Information number 12762, which resulted from the preliminary hearing,” he said, waving the document in the air.

  The Information, the Superior Court’s version of the charging document that was presented during Madison’s arraignment in Municipal Court, was filed by the district attorney and outlined the charges against the defendant. In filing the Information, the Municipal Court judge had indicated that he had found that sufficient evidence existed to establish probable cause that the defendant had committed the crime.

  “Dr. Madison,” Tyson said, “this document has been served to your attorney. Have you had a chance to review it?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Very well. You’re charged with one count of vehicular manslaughter, resulting in the death of Otis Silvers; and one count of second-degree murder with an abandoned and malignant heart, resulting in the death of Imogene Pringle.”

  Hellman cleared his throat. “Your Honor, defense waives formal reading.”

  Tyson nodded, removed his glasses, and set the paper aside. He looked down at Madison. “Dr. Madison, do you understand the charges against you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you understand that if convicted you could be sentenced to fifteen years to life in prison?”

  He stared Tyson right in the eyes and cleared his throat, prepared to speak with authority in his voice. There was none. A weak “Yes, Your Honor” escaped.

  “Then how do you plead, sir?”

  He cleared his throat again. Forcing air straight up from his lungs to the back of his throat, he squared his shoulders and said, “Not guilty.”

  The judge’s slight frown clearly indicated that he was unimpressed: undoubtedly, Madison’s response was expected and routine. Hellman placed a hand on Madison’s shoulder and gave it a slight squeeze. The reporters in the first couple of rows scribbled furiously on their notepads.

  “Very well,” Tyson said as he replaced his reading glasses. “Dr. Madison, your trial is set for Monday, February fifteenth. All pretrial motions and matters should be filed by...January twenty-first, and disposed of by February first.” He looked down at the two attorneys. “Is there anything unusual that I should suspect or prepare for?”

  Denton stood. “Your Honor, the People request that the trial date be calendared for no earlier than March fifth. We need adequate time to prepare all the evidence, complete our tests, and appropriately conclude our investigation.”

  “Your Honor,” Hellman said, trying to muster all the sugar he could in his voice, “my client has a right to a speedy trial. His practice is a shambles while he stands accused of a very heinous crime. He is innocent, and delaying the declaration of his innocence is damaging to his reputation.”

  ‘The judge raised his eyebrows. “Mr. Denton.”

  “Your Honor, the criminalist assigned to this case who collected the physical evidence is out ill with ulcerative colitis. Someone else has been assigned to the case and is completing the workup, but it’s possible that not all the tests were run that will be needed to complete our case for the People.”

  “This is all very interesting, Mr. Denton.” Tyson leaned forward in his seat. “But in my opinion, you have adequate time to make your case against Dr. Madison. I don’t feel that it’s necessary to detain the doctor any longer than necessary. Since he’s innocent until proven guilty, I will give him the benefit of the doubt on this one. The trial will begin February fifteenth. Have your house in order by that time.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  Tyson looked over at his clerk and nodded. She opened the large book and thumbed through it. “Judge Calvino is available.”

  “Very well. Judge Calvino will preside.” He rapped his gavel, and the people at the tables in front of him dispersed. Denton tossed Hellman a dirty look, as if he had just banished him to overtime hell for at least the next four weeks. He was now going to have to put his nose
to the grindstone in order to be properly prepared.

  Hellman, on the other hand, was stunned, still standing and facing Tyson, who was busy shuffling paperwork. Drawing Judge Calvino was a blow to Madison. Although he had known it was a possibility, the chances of drawing Calvino were slim.

  Calvino had taken the bench in 1974, and had himself gone through a personal tragedy several years ago when his wife Vivian was struck by a drunk driver while crossing a street at dusk. The defense had argued that with the sun preparing to set, even a completely sober driver could not have seen or avoided his wife. The jury took two days to decide in favor of the defendant.

  Calvino was furious, failing to comprehend how they could overlook the fact that the driver had three glasses of beer half an hour before he began his joyride. He was not the same judge afterward, three times being reprimanded for giving inappropriate instructions to the jury on murder trials. Following his wife’s death, he seemed to wage a personal vendetta against all defendants in his courtroom; they were guilty unless proven innocent—and there was no place for reasonable doubt. He admitted as much during a rare argument Hellman had with him in his chambers after his remarks to the jury resulted in a quick conviction—one that Hellman appealed and later won.

  Calvino’s most recent time on the bench had been less turbulent. Circulating rumors had him undergoing counseling, which helped him deal with his wife’s death—something he had never accepted nor come to grips with. During the past several months, in demeanor he was more like the judge he had been before the incident: temperamental, sometimes even petulant—yet overall, relatively evenhanded.

  But the past bothered Hellman, as he was keenly aware of the fact that Madison’s case contained similarities to the one involving Vivian Calvino’s death. He could not help but feel that this was a bad omen, but one which he was not going to share with Madison. Madison’s contempt for the judicial system was a topic they had debated for years, and this certainly would not help matters. In fact, Calvino’s case had been debated by them once at a barbecue, when Madison vehemently argued that the judge should have been relieved of his duties since he was no longer an impartial purveyor of justice...a view shared by many more qualified experts at the time.