False Accusations

by Alan Jacobson

  “If that’s not enough,” he said, “look at it this way. None of us is going to look after your ass.”

  Jennings looked up at Saperstein with narrowed eyes.

  “Is that a threat? From you?”

  “A statement of fact. Look at it objectively. Do you think anyone here would be willing to do favors for you? Do you think anyone would want to work on any of your cases? And God forbid you needed something done right away. No prosecutor would want to have you on his case. You’d become a liability.”

  “He’s done it to me again,” Jennings said with matter-of-fact levelness.

  “Who? What are you talking about?”

  “Chandler. Hasn’t worked here in years, he’s living on the other side of the country, and he still has more pull than me. Fucking little prick—”

  “Bill,” interrupted Saperstein. “He hasn’t done anything to you. You’re in the right here. Chandler acted inappropriately. You brought it to everyone’s attention, and I guarantee you, it’ll never happen again. You’ve accomplished what any good detective would hope to accomplish. If that’s all you’re after, you’ve done the right thing and served everyone well. If you’re after revenge, then we’re done. I’ve got no sympathy for you.”

  Jennings slammed the door on his way out. Saperstein sat there, not sure if he had gotten his message across. But he knew he had at least given it his best shot.

  CHAPTER 56

  HELLMAN STOOD on the courthouse steps, black wool overcoat covering his dark gray double-breasted suit and red tie. The air was cold with a slight wind that ruffled through his black hair. Microphones were crowding his face.

  “…and the DNA that was found on the beer cans did not match Dr. Madison’s.”

  Questions were shouted from a couple of reporters simultaneously. Hellman picked the one he heard most clearly: something about what the district attorney is going to do now. “In my opinion, this evidence means that the DA and his investigator have to reopen their investigation.”

  Then: “Is the DA going to dismiss the charges against Dr. Madison?”

  “You’ll have to ask Mr. Denton. But I’m confident that within the next few weeks, the DA will drop the charges against my client.”

  “Why not right away?” another reporter asked.

  “Again, it’s not my place to answer for the district attorney.”

  “You said recently that you knew who the driver of the vehicle was. Who was it?”

  “My job is to defend my client, not to accuse or charge someone with a crime. Suffice it to say that I’m confident the police will make an arrest very shortly. Right now, my client is anxious to resume the practice of medicine so he can get back to helping people and serving the public as he has done in such a distinguished manner for the past eighteen years.”

  “How does your client feel right now?”

  Hellman smiled. “How would you feel?”

  The press conference was carried on the evening news and made the front page on several high profile websites: MSNBC, CNN, The New York Times—even the Wall Street Journal sent out a “News Alert” email to its subscribers. Legal analysts stressed the same point: that the charges were not yet officially dropped, but it looked good for Phillip Madison. Aside from issuing a statement that said they were reopening their investigation, the DA’s office had no comment.

  Bill Jennings and his partner, Angela Moreno, arrived at Denton’s office at a little past five. “Detective Moreno,” Denton said, “I ordered sandwiches for us. They’re waiting down at the desk sergeant’s station. If you’d be so kind...” He moved his head in the direction of the door, motioning her out.

  “Why don’t we just call down and have the clerk—”

  “I’d like to talk with Detective Jennings for a moment in private, detective,” Denton said.

  “That’s not necessary, Tim.”

  Denton locked eyes with Jennings. “I think it is, Bill.”

  Moreno, no doubt sensing the tension, rose from her seat. “I’ll go get the sandwiches.”

  As the door closed, Denton walked over and stood face-to-face with Jennings. “I don’t want to hear any more about the cigarette DNA, Bill.”

  “I’ve got nothing more to say on the subject,” Jennings said. “I was assured that it wouldn’t happen again, and I’m satisfied with that. I won’t be reporting it to anyone.”

  “Good to know,” Denton said. He opened the door as a signal to Moreno that their conversation had concluded. He then sat behind his desk and pulled the case file in front of him. “We’re here to draw up a search warrant for Brittany Harding. You get a chance to look over the memo I sent you on what we’ve got so far?”

  “Yeah,” Jennings said. “Looks good.”

  Moreno appeared and took a seat next to Jennings; she set the bag containing the sandwiches on the desk.

  “We’re talking about the search warrant for Harding,” Jennings said to Moreno before turning back to Denton. “Do you think we’ll need this warrant or do you think she’ll voluntarily give us the blood and hair samples?”

  “If she’s guilty, why should she contribute to her own prosecution?” Moreno asked.

  Jennings said, “Yeah, but if she’s not guilty, there’d be no reason to refuse a request to give us samples. Why make us go before a judge?”

  Denton was shaking his head. “Without a search warrant, if we ask and she refuses, she’ll have time to hide or destroy incriminating evidence.”

  “Such as a Chicago Cubs cap,” Moreno said.

  “Hellman tells me she’s a nut. I say we go in with a warrant and not take any chances. In the long run, it’ll be easier.”

  They all nodded their heads in agreement.

  Denton grabbed his pen and began to jot notes. “We look for gloves, baseball hats, keys to Madison’s car, beer cans, and any incriminating notes written by her. And we get a sample of her blood and a swab of her cheek.”

  “And if she won’t cooperate?” Moreno asked.

  “Then haul her ass in for contempt of court.” He rubbed the ridges on his forehead. “Anything we’re forgetting?”

  They sat and thought for a moment; the consensus being that there was nothing else, Denton opened the brown bag and tossed them their sandwiches.

  “Let’s get it right this time,” Denton said.

  Armed with his attaché case and a file folder full of papers that included his affidavit, Denton sat in Martin Elegante’s chambers while the judge thumbed through his document. He chose Judge Elegante because he was unfamiliar with the case, and it would be easier to obtain a search warrant from him than from Judge Tyson, to whom he’d gone previously claiming that Madison was the guilty party. Now, faced with having to switch gears just prior to the start of the trial, Tyson would no doubt grill him and Jennings on why they had arrested the wrong man, making a shambles of a prominent physician’s life and career in the process. Denton did not need to hear it.

  Generally thought of as sharp, fair, and relatively easy-going, Elegante was a rotund African-American justice whose portly figure filled out his robes and made him appear formidable and intimidating.

  The judge was sitting and rocking slowly in his large desk chair. It creaked rhythmically under his weight as he swayed back and forth. After quickly scanning through the affidavit, he tossed it onto the desk in front of him. “Mr. Denton,” he announced, in a loud, baritone voice. “Talk to me.”

  “Your Honor, I’m requesting a search warrant on a suspect in our investigation, Brittany Harding.” He placed a hand on the warrant. “Through our investigation—”

  “I’m confused. Didn’t you arrest a doctor on these charges? A...Phillip Madison if my memory serves.”

  “Yes, Your Honor, we did. But DNA testing that was performed on a piece of crucial evidence indicated that Dr. Madison was not the driver of the vehicle.”

  “And you have reason to believe that Miss Harding was the driver?”

  “Yes, sir.”

 
Elegante leaned back in his chair amidst loud creaking. “Go ahead, Mr. Denton. Bend my ear. Let me hear your reasoning.”

  Denton would like to have told the judge about the cigarette DNA, but for obvious reasons, could not. “We have evidence that Miss Harding has attempted to frame Phillip Madison with this crime. She had motive as well as a prior history of extortion.”

  “Let me hear about the motive.”

  “A couple of months ago, Harding accused Madison of rape—a complaint that was later withdrawn on account of a payoff by Dr. Madison. Although the state’s case was weak, with very little proof—she came forward five weeks after the alleged incident, so there was no physical evidence to support her claim—Madison felt that the cost of defending himself would be a wash against a payoff. Not to mention how damaging public disclosure of a rape accusation would be to a prominent surgeon.”

  The judge began tapping the desk with his pencil. “Please, Mr. Denton, get on with it.”

  “So he paid her off, but then Harding sent a copy of the agreement and a copy of the check to, Madison’s wife—which violated their agreement. Madison’s attorney insisted that Harding return the money. Then, a few days prior to the hit-and-run, Harding and Madison ran into one another in a supermarket and she went off on him, calling him a rapist and threatening to get even and make him pay. A grocery checker witnessed the incident.”

  “This checker is available to testify as to what he saw?”

  “That’s my understanding, Your Honor.”

  Elegante nodded for him to continue.

  “We don’t have a witness who can place Harding in the car, but we do have beer cans that were found in the vehicle after the accident, and a DNA signature was lifted off it. Those beer cans were the same brand that the checker will testify to having sold to Harding the night she had the altercation with Madison. We also have proof that two years ago, Harding extorted a prior employer, using a similar MO, for fifty thousand dollars.”

  “What kind of proof?”

  “I have a video the victim made without Harding’s knowledge.”

  “Do you have it with you?”

  Denton nodded and opened his attaché case.

  “Let’s see it, counselor.”

  Denton pulled it out and handed it to Elegante, who inserted it into his PC to the left of his desk. The judge watched intently; he did not divert his attention until it ended—and even then, he continued to stare at the screen as he leaned back in his seat. “A real model citizen,” Elegante boomed. He turned to Denton and motioned for him to continue.

  “It’s the prosecution’s belief, Your Honor, that Harding blamed Madison for the loss of her job. That, coupled with her failure to extort money from him on the rape charge, drove her to seek other forms of revenge—such as creating trouble for him with his wife by sending her a copy of the check and settlement agreement. But it was too easy and the effects too personal. She wanted something that would publicly humiliate him and destroy his reputation. And that’s why she framed him with murder.

  “Even if he was found not guilty, his career and his life would be destroyed.” Denton paused to catch his breath and summarize. “I thus have reason to believe, Your Honor, that sufficient motive exists here...and that the DNA on the beer cans found in Madison’s car will match that of Brittany Harding.”

  “Very well, Mr. Denton, I’ll buy it. In my opinion, you’ve got reasonable grounds.” Elegante looked again at the document. “This appears to cover everything you related to me. Your warrant is granted,” he said, scribbling his signature across the document. “Let’s hope the second time’s a charm.”

  Jennings and Moreno arrived at the home of Brittany Harding, a one-story house built nearly thirty years ago.

  They parked in her driveway behind a tan Honda Civic and trudged up the cement path, taking note of how well the grass and shrubbery were maintained. It was in stark contrast to the landscaping of many of the other homes in the neighborhood, where cars parked on the front lawn were not an unusual sight.

  Harding answered the door dressed in jeans and an oversized sweatshirt.

  “Miss Harding?” Jennings asked.

  “Yes…”

  “I’m Detective William Jennings and this is Detective Angela Moreno,” he said, holding up his badge. He did not pause long enough for her to speak. “We have a search warrant for your premises. May we come in?”

  Harding took the document and looked at it. “What’s this about? I don’t understand,” she said, frantically scanning the paperwork and standing her ground, blocking the doorway.

  “The warrant gives us the right to search your premises, Miss Harding. Can we come in?”

  She did not move, her eyes still transfixed on the document:

  Jennings cleared his voice. “You really don’t have a choice in the matter, miss. Please step aside.”

  She looked at him with a furrowed brow.

  Jennings stepped forward and squeezed past her as Moreno followed, politely asking her to stay out of their way while they carried out their orders.

  “Do I need an attorney? Should I call my attorney?”

  “I can’t advise you on legal matters, miss, but if you have an attorney you’re certainly within your rights to call him.”

  She ran into the kitchen and grabbed her cell phone. A moment later, Jennings heard Harding talking, and even though he and Moreno were in the other room, he heard every word of Harding’s side of the conversation. As they waited, they began to poke around the adjacent living room.

  “That’s all it says,” Harding said. “I don’t know...must have something to do with Madison.” There was silence for a moment, then “But what the hell does this mean? What are they looking for?”

  Jennings heard the sound of pages turning and papers rustling. Then Harding apparently found the correct spot because she continued: “Blood and hair samples, gloves, baseball caps...”

  Moreno passed by the kitchen on her way into the bedroom.

  Following another moment of silence, Harding’s voice rose in anger. “I can’t afford that... A public defender? Are you serious?”

  Jennings came down the hallway with an empty can of Millstone Premium Draft in a plastic bag, pulled from the garage recycling bin, and a Chicago Cubs hat hanging from a pencil; he placed the hat into an evidence bag with Moreno’s assistance. He walked into the kitchen, past Harding, who had ended her call. Her face was a uniform shade of reddish pink, the kind of flush that arises from anger rather than from health and vigor.

  Jennings opened the refrigerator and pulled another can of Millstone Premium from one of the shelves.

  “What do you want with the beer...and my hat?”

  “Miss Harding,” Moreno said, “we’re also going to need a sample of your DNA.”

  “What do you need my DNA for?”

  “We’re under court order,” Moreno said. “We do what we’re told to do. That’s all I can tell you. We’re going to do a cheek swab and a blood draw.”

  Harding stood there, stunned, and for perhaps the first time in her adult life, speechless.

  “Please open your mouth,” Moreno said, holding out the elongated cotton swab. “May I?” she asked softly, with reassurance in her voice. Harding turned and gave Jennings a dirty look, then swung her face back to Moreno.

  The detective rubbed the soft tip against the inside of Harding’s cheek, then placed the sample in its protective case.

  Jennings motioned to the police phlebotomist who was waiting outside with the blood draw paraphernalia. The latex-gloved woman entered and took the syringe and vial out of a small pouch and placed it on the kitchen counter.

  Harding looked down at the needle as the phlebotomist placed the rubber strip around her arm and tied a quick knot.

  A tear dropped from her cheek as the woman stabbed her vein with the needle. “That god-damned son of a bitch. I’ll get him for this.”

  CHAPTER 57

  HELLMAN RAISED A GLASS OF champagn
e over dinner. He had invited them over after learning, earlier in the day, that Denton was going to drop the charges against Madison and arrest and charge Brittany Harding with the murders.

  “Congratulations,” Hellman said. “To smooth sailing from this point forward.”

  Madison clinked his glass against Hellman’s. “Thanks for giving me my life back. I guess time will tell what kind of effect this whole episode has had on my career.”

  “If Harding’s trial goes well, and she’s brought down in convincing fashion, with some luck you may be able to resume some sort of normal practice.”

  “How do you convict someone unconvincingly?”

  Hellman chuckled. “Believe me, there are ways—the judge loses control of the courtroom, there are surprise juror issues like misconduct or conflicts of interest, the police or crime lab are put on trial for procedural blunders or conspiracies, things of that sort.”

  “You know,” Leeza said, “it’s sad, really, when you think that all the people who doubted you before now feel the need to call and tell you they knew you were innocent all along.”

  “We’ve gotten about twenty calls so far,” Madison said.

  “Seems like people prefer going with the flow. It’s rare people buck the tide, stand up for someone he or she believes in,” Leeza said, looking at Hellman. “Thanks.”

  “Practice was getting boring. I needed something to spice it up. Maybe I should be thanking you.”

  “So what happens now, to Harding?”

  “Now that the DNA’s been a confirmed match, they’re running it through a different method just to make sure. Denton looked bad once: he doesn’t intend to look bad twice. He said he wants to go into this trial with as much foolproof ammunition as possible.”

  “You think the jury will convict her?”

  “With everything we’ve given him, Denton’s got enough to make a compelling case of it. I think there’s a good chance she’ll go down.” He looked at Madison, afraid to broach the subject, but realizing he had to, sooner or later. “How would you feel about testifying at her trial?” He couched it as a casual question, as if Madison really had a choice.