False Accusations

by Alan Jacobson

  Denise shook her head, yawned again. “Yeah.”

  “Why don’t we finish this in the morning. You need your sleep—”

  “The cans in his car were from different stores,” she said. “Don’t keep me in suspense. What else?”

  “The two cans that matched were the ones that had Harding’s saliva on them; that lot was delivered to Food & More, where Phil ran into Harding that night. The other four cans were from another lot, which was delivered to a different retailer—Qual-Mart. When Harding’s house was searched, they pulled an unopened can from her refrigerator and an empty can from her recycling bin. Those two cans matched each other—they had the same lot number. They also had the same lot number as the two cans in Phil’s car that had her saliva on them.”

  Denise was nodding. “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning...probably nothing.”

  She looked at him. “Is it nothing, or is it probably nothing?”

  Chandler rubbed at his forehead again. “It could be argued that someone went by her house and pulled a couple of cans from her recycling bin. And that person could then have taken the cans and planted them in Phil’s car along with four cans from a six-pack purchased at Qual-Mart a few days later.” He paused, waved a hand at the air. “But it’s more likely that Harding bought two different six-packs at different times, and still had a couple of cans left in her refrigerator from the last time she went shopping. Like the eggs in our fridge. You go to the market, buy a dozen eggs, and there’s still a few left over from the dozen you bought a couple of weeks ago.”

  Denise was silent for a moment. “Yeah, but if the egg analogy doesn’t apply here,” she finally said, “then you’re saying that Harding may not have done this. Someone could then argue that she was set up or even that Phil did it.”

  Chandler was shaking his head. “I didn’t say that, Denise. I’m convinced Brittany Harding killed those people. Let’s not blow this whole thing out of proportion. You know me, I’m a perfectionist. Everything has to fit just right. She just got beer at two different times. There’s nothing to it.” Chandler rolled over to turn off the light, but Denise grabbed his arm.

  “Wait a minute, Ryan.”

  “What.”

  “Regardless of your opinion, don’t you need to turn this information over to the court?”

  “For what?”

  “You’re supposed to turn over all pertinent information identified during the course of an investigation if it has any ability to aid either the defendant or the State.”

  “Denise, this isn’t anything new, it’s just my interpretation of evidence the police already have locked away in their vault.”

  “So?”

  “So both sides have had the opportunity to study the cans, test them, and go over them with a fine-tooth comb.”

  Denise thought about this for a moment, then shook her head. “I think you’re splitting hairs. But let’s say for a minute that you’re right, and you don’t have a legal obligation. What about a moral obligation? Doesn’t that count for something?”

  “I hate it when you get all self-righteous.” He stretched across his pillow toward the lamp switch, flicked it off. “I really don’t feel like getting into a debate about this.”

  “I can’t help it. This is what I do all day in school.”

  “Well, you’re not in law school right now, I’m not one of your professors, and it’s almost midnight.” He pulled up the covers and let his head fall back onto the pillow. “We’ll talk about this in the morning. You need your rest.”

  “Don’t just cut me off like that,” she said, turning the night table light back on. “This issue has nothing to do with being self-righteous, and it has nothing to do with being in law school. Besides, I’m already awake, Ryan. I want to finish this discussion.”

  Chandler blew a long sigh through his lips. “Okay, fine. Try looking at it from a different perspective. Assume for a minute that the defense hasn’t thought of this lot number discrepancy. For all I know, they may have. But if they haven’t, by bringing it to their attention, I’d be helping Brittany Harding. A lot of the critical evidence against her could be brought into question. The saliva, lip prints, and DNA could be thrown out because the cans would naturally have her identifying marks all over them if someone took them from her recycling bin. At the very least, it could provide just enough reasonable doubt to get her off. If not in this trial, then on appeal. And regardless of what might come up at some later date, they’d never be able to try her again for that crime. Now why would I want to do that? Would justice really be served? Besides, I’d potentially be helping a murderer go free. That’s not me.”

  “But it’s not about you. It’s about justice. It’s not your place to play judge and jury. Do you remember what you used to say? That our judicial system is the best in the world, but that it was full of loopholes?”

  “It is. When a judge would let some asshole go free on a technicality, I’d head for the bathroom and puke.”

  “You’d be tied up in knots for days. And I took the brunt of it.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “You had to find a way of dealing with it so it wouldn’t tear you apart. You accepted the fact that you had to take our system as it was, and work within its confines until new rules were made. You realized that taking the law into your own hands wouldn’t work. Otherwise, where would it leave us? Where would it leave society? If cops had the power to decide who’s guilty and who’s not on the spot and issue a sentence right there on the street, there’d be chaos. Until something or someone changes the system, the best way—the only way—is to turn over all the evidence and let the court do with it as it sees fit. As twelve impartial people see fit.”

  “You sound like such a typical law student.”

  “Actually, I was quoting you. In case you don’t remember, it’s because of those weaknesses in the system that you pushed me to go to law school.”

  “I didn’t push you.”

  “You said one way to change the system was for me to do it from the inside.”

  Chandler sighed and rolled onto his opposite side, away from Denise.

  “Turning your back on me isn’t the answer.” She sat up, leaned on her elbow, and peered over his shoulder. “You need to give them the information, Ryan.”

  “A theory about beer can lot numbers isn’t evidence, Denise.”

  “If you were a defense attorney, wouldn’t you try and introduce it as evidence? The judge would decide if it is or it isn’t. But if he lets it in, a jury just may listen. You said it yourself: it could be enough to create reasonable doubt.”

  “Then let her attorney think of it. That’s his job: I’m not going to be the one to give Harding a get-out-of-jail-free card. Especially when she doesn’t deserve it.”

  “But it shouldn’t be your decision. It can’t be your decision, or the system falls apart.”

  He bit his lip and shook his head.

  Denise awaited a response, but Chandler was quiet. Finally, she reached over and picked up the phone. “If you think these are just the ramblings of a green law school student, call Jeffrey Hellman and ask him what he thinks. Or call the DA who’s prosecuting the case against Harding and ask him.”

  Chandler rolled out of bed and walked over to the window to draw the shade. The streetlights of the city lit up the avenue below with an orange luminescence, as if a setting sun were descending behind the tall buildings.

  “Denise, the Madisons have two young children. Brittany Harding is a sick individual who’s done some horrid things. If she went free because of information I gave her attorney, the Madisons wouldn’t be safe. Their children wouldn’t be safe. If something happened to them, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.” He turned to face her. “Think of Noah asleep in the other room. About our child growing inside you right now, as we speak. How would you feel if someone did something that endangered their lives? That’s what I’d be doing to Phil’s kids.”

  “So
you think the best thing to do is to just let it go. Forget about it, bury it. Be the judge and the jury, all by yourself?” She paused and waited for a response. Chandler was silent. “What this comes down to, Ryan, is would you be able to live with yourself if you don’t turn the information over?”

  Chandler shrugged and stared out the window for along moment. “I don’t know, Denise. I just don’t know.”

  Having just left the OR after nearly nine hours of surgery, Madison was exhausted. The case, which had been referred to him just prior to the revocation of his privileges, required a specific procedure that Madison had pioneered a couple of years ago in northern California. Despite their star surgeon’s uncertain status with the hospital, John Stevens and the rest of the board agreed that transporting the patient to San Francisco for the operation, or bringing in another surgeon for this one specialized procedure, could be more damaging than granting Madison temporary surgical status.

  Stevens also pointed out that with his legal situation having significantly improved, this move was a potential precursor to reinstatement of full privileges.

  Madison walked out into the waiting area, still in his surgical garb, and gave the patient’s family the good news: the operation went well. After asking a few questions, they thanked him and he trudged off down the hallway toward the lounge. Five chairs were haphazardly arranged around an oval table, with a mini refrigerator sitting atop a counter next to the sink. He entered the small room, grabbed a granola bar from the cabinet, and ripped it open. He realized that he was not only exhausted, he was famished as well.

  A moment later, having finished the granola bar, he pulled himself out of the lounge and headed down the hallway toward the locker room to shower and change. Before he could undress, however, a message was handed to him by an orderly who made a quick exit.

  Madison stared at the slip of paper: “The jury is returning with a verdict.” He felt his chest tightening, the air in the locker room suddenly becoming thin and stale. He snatched his cell phone from the locker and dialed Leeza. The machine snapped on. “It’s me, meet me at the courthouse if you get this,” he managed to blurt. He struggled for a deep breath, dialed her cell phone, and left a voicemail message there as well.

  He began to perspire heavily, the weight on his chest squeezing tighter. He stumbled into the restroom five feet away, leaned over the sink and splashed his face with cold water.

  The nausea began in waves, his knees feeling like wet noodles. He stumbled backward into a stall and fell onto the toilet.

  “I want my life back!” he yelled into the dead air. But John Stevens’s voice was echoing in his head. “It’s not over…it’ll never be over.”

  He grabbed his hair and pulled, hoping the pain would overshadow the heightening nausea. Suddenly, a spasm from deep in his neck clamped down on his throat, an uncontrollable urge rising up from his stomach. He whirled off the toilet and, crouching in front of it, heaved, then heaved again, until he filled the bowl with vomit and bile...the rough grains of granola scraping the lining of his esophagus as they surged upward through his throat.

  He knelt over the toilet, the narrow stall a prison, the confining walls moving in on him. He clamped his eyes shut, brushed the hair back off his face, and tried to breathe deeply. But the pressure on his chest was too great. He stood up, grabbed the door to steady himself, and slipped, falling back onto the toilet.

  He tried to take another breath. Tore at his scrubs and ripped open the neck, tearing—clawing—at the material, trying to give himself room to breathe. Reached out, pressed his hands against the walls, the vertigo increasing. Taking rapid gasps of putrid air. Hyperventilating.

  He cupped his hands over his mouth and took several deep breaths, each lungful of carbon dioxide slowing his heart rate, decreasing his dizziness, calming his stomach. He slowly stood, opened the stall door, and walked over to the sink. He splashed his face with water, rinsed his mouth out, and leaned on the countertop, staring at his pale reflection in the mirror. You can do this.

  Feeling stronger, he stood up and squared his shoulders.

  He strode back into the locker room to change and saw the crumpled message lying on the floor. He pulled the tom shirt over his head, dressed, and walked out the door.

  CHAPTER 70

  IT TOOK MADISON ten minutes to drive from Sacramento General to the courthouse, nearly running three red lights along the way. He left his car in the lot and sprinted across the street. As he neared the doors, he felt himself become suddenly short of breath again. He stopped, put his hands on his knees, and panted like a dog, gulping mouthfuls of air. He stood there, hunched over, as several attorneys in dark suits pushed past him.

  A moment later, he stood up and wiped the perspiration from his forehead, passed through the metal detectors, and headed for the elevator. He burst through the doors of the courtroom just as the judge looked over toward the foreman of the jury. A few heads turned to the back of the room, where Madison stood looking for a seat. He found one in the last row and quietly slipped into the chair.

  “Mr. Foreman, have you reached a verdict?”

  “We have, Your Honor.” The short, rotund man in his fifties handed a piece of paper to the bailiff, who brought it to the judge.

  Madison, still weak from the surgery and his panic attack, felt his heart begin to race. There was a hollow sensation in his stomach that he attributed to nerves, however, rather than hunger. He glanced at the members of the jury, trying to read their expressions. Most were staring blankly at the judge, purposely avoiding the gaze of those in the packed gallery. Calvino opened the folded paper and glanced at it.

  Madison took a deep, uneven breath, and closed his eyes.

  “On count one of the charges, murder in the first degree, how do you find?”

  The foreman’s attention was cemented on the judge.

  “We find the defendant guilty.”

  A roar erupted from the crowd in the packed courtroom; Calvino banged his gavel and shouted for order. Madison’s heart stopped momentarily as dizziness and elation descended upon him simultaneously.

  “On count two, murder in the first degree, how do you find?”

  “Guilty.”

  Another rumble, more gavel banging, hand shaking, and backslapping at the prosecution table. Tears flowed freely from Madison’s eyes as he buried his head in his hands and wept.

  “Nooo! I’m innocent!” Harding was on her feet, writhing and flailing as one guard restrained her while another slapped handcuffs on her wrists. “Idiots!” she shouted at the jury, craning her neck to face them. “Go to hell, all of you...” she continued to scream as they dragged her away.

  Madison felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned, saw Hellman, and buried his face in his friend’s chest. And wept uncontrollably.

  After taking a few minutes to compose himself, Madison left the courtroom through a back entrance to avoid the press and to find Leeza so he could share the good news with her.

  Denton saw the reporters gathered at the exit. Plastering a broad smile on his face, he made his way toward the throng of camera crews and reporters. Instantly, microphones descended upon him, the news people shoving the handheld devices in front of his face to capture his comments. As he began to answer questions, he spotted Maurice Mather off in the distance, who had just completed a brief interview of Jeffrey Hellman.

  “I want to thank all the members of the media for their support and understanding throughout this long ordeal,” Denton said. “I’d also like to thank the jury for their fine work under difficult conditions. And of course, I’m indebted to the district attorney, who again supplied me with the staff and unending support I needed to obtain this victory for the people of the State of California…”

  CHAPTER 71

  THE PARTY THAT FOLLOWED on Friday night was held in the Madisons’ home. The children were allowed to sleep in their parents’ bedroom, on the third floor, so as to have as quiet an environment as possible. A baby-sitter was hired t
o care for them for the evening.

  Everyone in the medical community who had worked with Madison at one time or another had been invited. A couple of hospital administrators showed up, including John Stevens, as well as friends, neighbors, his parents—and of course Ricky. Music played and liquor flowed freely, as did people’s emotions. Drinks were being raised in toast every five minutes, preceded by the clanging of spoon against glass. Following each speech, everyone would drain their beverages and resume their conversations until the next tribute interrupted the chatter.

  Streamers were shot off, and even a few fireworks were launched into the cold night air. Choruses of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” erupted at various times during the night. As the evening progressed, Madison felt the weight of his troubles drifting away on an ocean of Scotch.

  At two in the morning, people began filtering by to offer congratulations on their way out.

  Madison raised his glass and banged it hard with a spoon. He swayed a bit to the side, steadied himself on the wall to his right, and looked out amongst his guests. He focused his thoughts and attempted to speak clearly. “I would be remiss if I didn’t thank two people who stood beside me and kept me sane during the most difficult and trying time of my life. My wife, Leeza, and my longtime friend, Jeffrey Hellman.” A roar went up from the remaining fifty or so guests, some of whom were so blitzed that they would have cheered a toast to the local cow for providing milk.

  When the last guest had departed, Madison looked at the clock in his study: it was a few minutes past three in the morning. The place was a mess, with half-empty glasses littering tables, cabinets, bookshelves...just about every horizontal surface was occupied.

  He took a deep breath, gazed into his own glass, and, in a stupor, reflected on the recent turbulence of his life...and considered what lay ahead for him in the coming months.