The monitor showed a split screen, with Mather on one side and news anchor Patrick Baud on the other.
“Maurice,” Patrick said, “it’s interesting that the hospital would not take any disciplinary action against Madison for suspicion of rape, but they did suspend him for suspicion of murder.”
Mather smiled; it was the exact question he had recommended that Baud ask him. “Yes, Patrick. It seems that the hospital does not consider rape a reason to discipline its doctors—but that’s a subject of an investigative report. Perhaps we should leave that story to Hard: Edition,” he said, giving a toothy smile for the camera. “This is Maurice Mather reporting for KMRA news.”
Mather kept smiling until Andy gave him the cue that they were off the air. As Andy began breaking down the equipment, Ingle walked over toward Mather.
“Well, there it is, Tom. Your first live remote. Interesting, huh?”
“Yeah,” was all Ingle could manage.
“Any questions?”
Ingle looked down at his shoes and hesitated. “Well, you kind of left out some important stuff.”
“How so?” Mather asked.
“Well,” he said, consulting his notes, “Stevens also said that Madison was one of the finest human being she’d known, and that he’d never even hurt a fly.”
Mather grinned and began to walk back toward the van. Another news truck pulled up in front; its telescoping antenna began to unwind like a giant corkscrew ascending toward the heavens.
Ingle followed at Mather’s heels. “Didn’t Stevens also say that he didn’t know about the rape, and that’s probably why no action was taken against Madison at the time? It had nothing to do with the hospital looking the other way, which is how you made it sound.”
Mather stopped walking and turned to face Ingle. “I believe he said ‘no comment’ when I asked him about the rape.”
“Maurice, he only said that after you pressed him on it. It seemed to me like he didn’t know what you were talking about. And if the hospital didn’t know about it, then what you said—”
“Tom, do you know for sure that the hospital didn’t know about it?”
“Well, I—”
“Do you really think that a doctor like Phillip Madison could be accused of rape, and the hospital wouldn’t be aware of it? Come off it, Tom.” Mather turned away and started back toward the van.
“I’m just saying that we don’t know whether they knew of it or not.”
“We sure as hell don’t know for sure that they didn’t know, do we?”
Ingle hesitated. “No...”
“That’s right, so we didn’t say anything that was factually wrong.”
“But isn’t omitting information just as much of a lie as giving false information?”
Mather turned hard and faced Ingle. “Tom, do you remember that ratings chart I showed you before we left the newsroom? KONE was beating the pants off us. We need to boost our ratings, or we stand to lose some big money. And if we continue to lose more money, then cuts are going to be made—especially with a new GM taking over next month. I don’t intend to lose my job or take a pay cut, do you?” He climbed into the van as Andy finished packing up the equipment. “News sells, Tom, if you know how to present it. We’re under pressure from cable, from blogs, even from comedy shows—people are getting their news from other places. I’m just trying to be more aggressive, that’s all,” Mather said, holding both his hands out in front of him, palms up.
Ingle climbed in, shut the door, and watched the competing news cameraman prepare to set up his live remote shot while the reporter entered the hospital. As he wondered what angle that reporter would choose to take, the KMRA van pulled away and headed back to the newsroom.
CHAPTER 44
CHANDLER AND MADISON were sitting around the conference table watching Hellman pace the room. The law library at Hellman, Mackenzie & McKnight was appointed like the rest of the office. His wife had spared no expense, and it therefore had the flair and professional appeal of the most expensively decorated law libraries of the wealthiest firms in the state. Books lined two of the longest walls, with three large picture windows occupying the other side of the room.
Hellman made another pass in front of Madison. “It had to have been Movis Ehrhardt. That asshole must’ve leaked word of the payoff to the press. I’ll bet he was so pissed off at having to return the money that this was the only way he could get back at us.”
“Sit down, Jeffrey. You’re making me nervous,” Madison said.
“I can’t sit down. I’m all worked up. I think better when I’m pacing.”
Chandler sat up straight in his chair. “I say we forget about Movis Ehrhardt, the press, the protesters, and concentrate on what we’re all here to do: get Phil off, have the case thrown out, and build a case against the real murderer.” He looked at Madison and Hellman for their buy-in to this seemingly obvious suggestion.
Hellman waved a hand. “You’re right. Getting pissed off at everyone isn’t doing us any good. Let’s get the case against Phil dismissed, and then we’ll deal with damage control.”
“Isn’t there something we can be doing while we’re waiting for the DNA results?” Madison asked.
“I’m continuing with my interviews,” Chandler said. “Got a real good one coming up: Brittany Harding.”
“How’d you arrange that one?”
“I told her I was investigating your case, and that I heard about the rape on the news. I said I didn’t want to work for you if you’d done something like that. Since you denied it, I wanted to hear her side of the story, about what she’d been through. Being that she’s probably psychotic, I figured she’d welcome the chance to get her digs in, and I’m giving her that opportunity. We set up a lunch appointment for tomorrow.”
Hellman and Madison looked at each other.
“Now you know why I asked you to hire Ryan Chandler,” Madison said.
Upon leaving the firm’s law library, Chandler was intercepted by the receptionist.
“Mr. Chandler, I just took a call for you. I didn’t want to interrupt your meeting, so I took a message.” She handed him a slip, and after barely taking the time to read all the words, he body-slammed the front door on the way out of the office.
“Who called?” Hellman asked.
“Lou Palucci. He tried reading Mr. Chandler on his cell, but it went to voicemail. He wanted me to tell him that the lip print analysis was ready.”
Hellman reached over and gave Madison’s shoulder a squeeze. “It’s okay to breathe, Phil,” he said. “We’ll know the results soon enough.”
Blowing past the thirty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit signs at near fifty, Chandler made it to the Department of Justice in under ten minutes—just as Gray was preparing to leave for a late lunch.
“They are likely not Madison’s,” Gray said as he brushed a lock of stringy hair off his face.
Chandler was still trying to clip the visitor’s pass on his shirt, but was having a tough time of it. “What kind of probability match would you give it?”
“It was only a partial,” he said, offering him an enlarged copy of the print. “I’d give it a seventy percent probability that we’re dealing with someone else.”
“Seventy percent,” Chandler said, looking at the swirling lines on the printout. “Seventy percent...not enough to get them to drop the charges. This helps, but we’re gonna need the DNA in order to get him off.”
Gray shrugged and glanced at his watch. “Look, you got what you wanted. Mind if I go to lunch now?” He pushed past Chandler and headed out of the lab.
Chandler yelled a thank-you through the rapidly closing door, and then left with his escort. While the results bolstered the argument for Madison’s innocence, they did not go far enough. For the prosecution to drop its case, he would need to produce clear and convincing evidence that his friend and client was free of all guilt and that someone else was responsible. And although he was gaining momentum, he was still far from being able to do th
at.
In the late afternoon, a collect call for Detective Jennings came through to the station from a person who lived in Del Morro Heights. An hour later, Jennings and Detective Moreno swung by to meet with Clarence Hollowes, the homeless man who had witnessed the hit-and-run.
“I was walking by this Giants store over by the mall,” Hollowes said, chewing on a piece of gum supplied by Moreno. “And, I saw this hat there, a black job with a white design.” He paused, eyeing the female detective. “Got anything else to eat?”
Moreno pulled a couple of fives from her pocket. “Buy yourself a sandwich, Clarence.”
“But first tell us about this hat,” Jennings said. “What kind of design was art it?”
“Take me to the store, an’ I show you.”
The mall, a fifteen-minute drive from Hollowes’s neighborhood, was teeming with shoppers. They pulled up in front of the San Francisco Giants store and Moreno took their witness inside.
“That’s it, right there. That’s the hat.”
“Chicago Cubs?”
“That’s the hat I seen.”
Moreno pulled it from the rack and turned to Clarence. “Are you a Giants fan?”
“No ma’am. Dodger blue, through and through.”
Moreno grabbed a Dodgers hat and brought them both to the register. As they walked out of the store, Clarence fingered the bill of the cap and carefully shaped it before placing it on his head.
Moreno shoved a few dollars into his palm. “Use that money for dinner.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, throwing his right hand up to the bill of his new hat.
She smiled. “C’mon, we’ll drive you back to the neighborhood.”
Denton, at the courthouse on an unrelated case, ran into Hellman in the hallway. They made small talk before Hellman informed him of the new information pertaining to the Cubs logo.
“Brittany Harding is from Chicago,” Hellman said.
Denton waved a hand in the air as if he were trying to make Hellman’s words disappear. “We have our man,” he said. “And unfortunately for you, he’s your client. Cubs fan or not.”
When Chandler arrived home, he found a message from Denise scrawled out on a piece of paper that was left on his desk by Leeza. She wrote under it, “Remember—validate her feelings.”
The message indicated that Denise’s doctor’s appointment was three days away. Before calling her, Chandler phoned American Airlines and booked a flight, a red-eye leaving in twenty-four hours, arriving in New York the morning of her appointment.
He dialed Denise, who answered with a monotone, “Hello, Ryan. You didn’t need to call me, I left a message.”
“I did need to call. To say I’m sorry.” He paused, but she didn’t respond. “I wasn’t thinking clearly. You must be scared, with your family history and all. I booked a flight that leaves tomorrow night.”
“I am frightened, Ryan. Of what it could mean. And what if I’m pregnant...” Her voice trailed off.
He could tell she was on the verge of tears, and probably had been since he had last spoken to her a few hours ago. He rubbed his temples, took a deep breath.
“Then we’ll face it together,” he said. He felt terrible; he had never seen her like this. In all the years he had known her, she had never appeared so vulnerable. Perhaps it was because she was married now, with a young child...the mothering instinct overpowering everything else of significance.
“I love you, Denise. Whatever comes our way, we’ll deal with it together. As for this lump, I understand it’s a terrible thing to have to deal with, no matter what it turns out to be. But I’m telling you everything’s going to turn out okay, I just know it.” He was not sure what gave him the authority to make that assertion, and he knew it might not be what she wanted to hear. But right now, it was all he could do to hold things together—if not for her, then for himself.
CHAPTER 45
RITTANY HARDING was more attractive than Chandler had envisioned. She was taller than he had thought—about five foot eleven, he figured. The blackmail picture he had seen of her had not done her justice.
Her perfume was light but distinct, her makeup minimal and strategically applied to emphasize her striking features—lip gloss and some rouge to showcase her prominent cheekbones.
She had suggested Frank Fat’s, an upscale Pan-Asian restaurant located downtown. Since Chandler was paying, he reasoned that she chose a place that she would not normally go to on her own when she was picking up the tab.
The interior was richly decorated, with golds, blacks and blood reds the dominant color theme. The hostess showed him to the table where his guest was already sitting and waiting.
“Miss Harding,” Chandler said, extending his hand as he sat down.
“Please, call me Brittany,” she said with a big toothy smile, extending a limp hand in response.
“Brittany.” Chandler smiled back, his eyes inadvertently locking on the sheer, form-fitting outfit she was wearing.
The waitress came over and handed them two menus, quickly reciting the specials they were showcasing for today. Most of the patrons were business executives having “Capitol Power lunches” while negotiating deals, networking, finalizing contracts, or drumming up new business.
“You aren’t a Sacramento native, I take it,” Chandler said, trying to start their relationship off on a light note.
“My mother’s Japanese, my father’s American. I grew up in Chicago, can’t you tell?”
Chandler flashed a coy smile. “Well, I did detect a little Midwestern dialect. What brought you out here?”
“Long story. Let’s just say I’d moved in with this guy when I was twenty, around the time when my father’s job transferred him to Sacramento. My parents and little sister moved and I stayed behind. My situation went from bad to worse, and I followed them out here. That was about four years ago.”
They chatted for another minute, then picked a couple of dishes off the menu and placed their order with the waitress.
“So you said on the phone that you wanted to talk to me about Phillip Madison.”
Chandler let his face turn serious. “My dad once taught me there are two sides to every story. Between the rape and the murder, I’m trying to unravel exactly what happened.”
“Well, about the murder, I don’t know how I can help you. Not that I want to. I’d actually take great pleasure in seeing Phillip Madison behind bars.”
Chandler wished he had that comment on tape. “I figured we’d just chat a bit. Maybe you can be of help, maybe not. After all, you did work with him.”
“We didn’t exactly have a good relationship, you know. I’m sure he’s told you.”
“No, I got your name from someone else at the Consortium. Dr. Madison didn’t review the entire list of people I’m meeting with.” Actually, the truth.
“Well, I’m sure he could give you a mouthful.”
Chandler took a drink of his ice tea. “Why’s that?”
“He raped me and then denied it. I had evidence of it, too. He was so guilty that he had his attorney call my attorney and offer to pay me off. To keep quiet.”
“I didn’t know that,” Chandler said. He crinkled his eyes and forehead as if he were having second thoughts about his client. “Ten me what happened.”
“Oh, he’s got some fancy lawyer. Tried to make it tough on me. Said he’d bring out things in my past, make my life hell. He promised me that testifying in court would be an experience I’d regret the rest of my life. He’d make it feel as if I was on trial instead of his client.”
Chandler reasoned that it was probably Movis Ehrhardt, not Hellman, who had told her that that would be one possible approach of the defense...no doubt what Ehrhardt would do if he were in Hellman’s shoes. “So you decided on an out-of-court settlement,” Chandler said.
Harding nodded, a slight tear appearing in the corner of her eye. “I didn’t have a choice.”
“That’s exactly what I would’ve done if I were in
your shoes.”
She looked up and met his eyes. “Really?”
“Of course.” He wanted to gain her confidence and then move on to more important and pertinent matters. “Tell me, did you ever know Phil Madison to drink?”
“He drank like a fish whenever we’d go out for dinner.”
“What would he drink?”
“Beer. Why’s that important?”
“It may not be. I’m just gathering information.” He knew that Madison did not drink beer—he was a wine person. For Chandler, it was yet another reason why planting the six-pack in the car meant that whoever had framed Madison didn’t know him very well. Although drinking preferences did not have significant evidentiary value in court, Chandler considered the information helpful.
“He ever drink and drive while you were with him?”
She pulled out a cigarette. “A few times.” Fumbled with it between her fingertips.
“Doesn’t California have a law about smoking in restaurants?”
“Holding it helps me relax,” she said as she placed the cigarette in her mouth.
Their soup came, followed by the main course; Chandler continued to pepper the meal with more questions about Madison.
“So how’d you hear about the hit-and-run?”
“It was all over the papers,” she said. “His arrest was like a dream come true. The bastard is finally getting what he deserved.”
“So you think he did it?”
She laughed as he poured her some tea. “Who doesn’t? I mean, his fingerprints were the only ones in the car, his empty beer cans were in the backseat, their blood was all over his car, and he didn’t have an alibi.”
“Just because someone doesn’t have an alibi doesn’t automatically make him guilty.”
She glanced around the table, then shook her head and pulled another cigarette from her purse. “No, but it leaves the door wide open.”
He was leading the conversation where he wanted it. “It was eleven-thirty. There aren’t many people who have alibis for that time of night. I bet you don’t have one for that night.”
False Accusations Page 22
