False Accusations (18 page)

Her expression changed from anger to surprise; she clearly did not expect him to strike back at her so aggressively.

“You’re delusional,” he shouted. “Leave me and my family alone!” He was as taken aback by his tone as Harding appeared to be. Seldom-tapped feelings of anger were speaking, not Phil Madison, surgeon and philanthropist.

Harding took a deep breath; her chest was heaving.

He wheeled around her cart, away from her, down the aisle toward the checkout register.

“You bastard! You’ll pay! I’ll get you for this!” she yelled after him.

Madison hurried to get away from her as quickly as possible. Away from the embarrassment, the confrontation. Out of the market.

“Go home to your retarded brother!” he heard her shout in the distance.

Poor Ricky. How did he get dragged into this?

Madison took a couple of deep breaths to compose himself, then glanced up to see where he was. The checker was looking at him, a young man of perhaps twenty. He appeared tentative, unsure if he should say anything. “Hey, you okay?” he finally asked.

Madison looked up at the man, a bit disoriented. He turned and glanced around behind him. People down the aisle from where he had just come were staring at him. Harding was standing with them, no doubt filling their ears with detailed lies of the nonexistent rape her scheming, deceitful mind had dreamed up.

“How much?” Madison asked, realizing he had to pay in order to get the hell out of there.

“Twenty-one forty-two,” the man said, pointing to the green LED readout.

Madison fumbled for his American Express card.

“Cash only,” the checker said, craning his neck up to the sign above his head. “You’re in the—”

“Yeah, okay,” Madison said, still somewhat shaken, opening his wallet and pulling out a couple of twenty-dollar bills.

“What’s her deal?” the man asked.

“Huh? Oh, she’s got some emotional problems.”

The checker glanced at Harding as he handed Madison the receipt. “Take it easy.”

“I’ll get you for this, you son-of-a-bitch!”

Madison heard her shouting again, behind him somewhere, like a nightmare that returns after you fall back asleep.

She was on line behind him now, three people back as he strode quickly away from the register.

“Who’ve you raped lately?” she asked. “Bastard—I’m gonna make sure you pay!”

Madison managed to keep his head as he walked out into the cold evening air of the parking lot, leaving her screaming behind him.
Some emotional problems
. Understatement of the year.

And Jeffrey thinks I need a shrink.

CHANDLER FINISHED his third cup of coffee and looked up at Madison, who had stopped talking. He was just staring at the table, the lack of sleep apparent on his face.

“Phil?”

Madison sat for another moment, seemingly mesmerized by the pattern of the wood grain on the butcher block table.

“Phil?” Chandler asked. “You okay?”

“Huh?” He looked up. “Yeah, fine.” He forced a smile. “That’s it. That’s the story. They came to my house a few days later and arrested me.”

“And here we are.”

“Here we are.”

“Did you ever speak to Leeza?”

He laughed bitterly. “A couple of days later she called to let me know she and the boys were okay. I told her what had happened, about the bogus evidence they had, and the settlement Jeffrey negotiated, and why we agreed to it. And of course I told her about the picture. She listened to what I had to say, but she didn’t really give much of a response. Said she’d have to think things over, let it all sink in. She wasn’t sure who to believe, if she should believe anyone at all. There was no trust, no common ground. It was very awkward.”

“When was that?”

“I don’t know, a couple weeks ago.”

“Have you spoken to her since then?”

“Yeah. I went by to see the kids. Took them to the park. Jonah wanted to know why they had to stay at his aunt’s house and why they couldn’t see me. It was terrible, Ryan.” He paused, staring at the table again. Tears filled his eyes, but he fought to retain control.

“I call them every other day. Lee doesn’t say much to me. When I was arrested, she drove out to help me with bail. We talked a little. She was still upset that I’d never told her that Harding was even at the house that night. She wanted to know why I didn’t tell her—she was really fixated on that. After all, if I couldn’t trust her, who could I trust? And then the kicker: if I lied about Harding being in the house, how could she know for sure that I didn’t lie about raping her?”

Madison shook his head. “I told her that I didn’t lie about the rape, and I told her that I didn’t kill those two people.” He laughed mockingly. “Said she believed me about the murders, because she knows I’m not a murderer. She wanted to be here for me, but she didn’t want to come back because of a crisis. Bottom line was that she needed to resolve things in her mind before we could move on and be together again.”

Both men were silent for a moment. Then, Madison nodded at the vase on the table. “Leeza used to buy fresh flowers every week. While she’s been gone, the flowers died. Just like everything else in my life. Me, my marriage. My family. My career.”

“Phil, come on. Enough of this negative talk.” Chandler tried to meet Madison’s downcast eyes. “Hey, are you there?”

Madison’s voice was low, almost as if he was talking to himself. “It’s so unlike her.”

Chandler grabbed a pad by the edge of the table. “We need a plan of attack. First, I want to make a list of all the people who have something to offer us in support of the assertion that it was Harding who was driving the car. And people who witnessed the public threats she made against you, the fabricated stories, the people who witnessed the erratic behavior—”

“For what?”

“We’re going to build a case against her, to show that it was her who committed the crime, not you. Didn’t you ever watch
Perry Mason
?”

“I guess I was too busy studying.”

Chandler laughed. That statement was probably all too true.

“Isn’t Jeffrey going to be doing this?”

Chandler pulled the cap off a gel pen. “You brought me here to help you. I don’t intend to just sit around on my ass examining physical evidence. Besides, it’ll be a few days before we’ll even know if I’ll be allowed access to it. Meantime, I want to make the most of my time—and my skills. And it gives me a chance to spend a few days with my first love—investigation.”

They made up a list of people for him to visit, a list that was sure to grow as Chandler spoke with those people Madison had identified. He was determined to clear Madison, and the best place to start was with the person who in all probability committed the crime. Chandler’s plan was simple: dig up a ton of evidence, build a strong and compelling enough case, and the jury would have to acquit on reasonable doubt.

But any seasoned investigator knew that simple plans often ran into complications.

PROSECUTOR TIMOTHY DENTON was sitting at his desk with a small halogen light on. Files were piled high around him, almost haphazardly, even though he always professed to anyone who commented on its disarray that he knew where everything was. A half-filled cup of black coffee sat on his desk, left over from this morning.

Detective Bill Jennings walked in without acknowledgment—and sat down heavily on the thinly padded chair in front of Denton’s desk. “I’m exhausted,” he said, popping open a can of Barq’s and throwing his boots up on top of Denton’s desk. He moved a couple of files over with his heel so he had a spot to rest his feet comfortably.

“How’s the investigation going, Detective?”

“Why so formal?” Jennings asked, “You never call me ‘Detective’ unless there’s someone else in the room.”

Closing the law book he had been reading, Denton looked up at Jennings for the first time. “This is a big case, Bill; I’ve got to devote all of my time to it. If we screw this up, I’ll be hearing about it from now until the next election. So...if you have something of substance to say, please, regale me with it; otherwise, get your boots off my desk and your ass out of my office.”

Jennings, not one to mince words, took a swig of Barq’s. “I hear that Ryan Chandler is investigating this case for the defense.”

“Yeah, so, who the hell is Ryan Chandler?”

“Let’s just say that he’s not one of my favorite people.”

“And what possible relevance does this Chandler guy have to this case?”

“‘Relevance. Goddamn lawyer talk. Why’s everything gotta have relevance? Can’t it ever just be personal?” He paused, noticing that Denton was not following him. “It’s relevant because I hate the guy’s fucking guts.” He pulled his boots off the desk, leaned forward, put his Barq’s down.

“Fifteen years ago Ryan Chandler left the Sacramento PD and became an investigator for the DA. They had a suspect in custody in a serial murder case when, all of a sudden, there’s a killing that’s kind of similar in Stockton, where I was working at the time. The Stockton case was assigned to me. Chandler suggested we work together on it, because he thought it was the same killer. Said he was going to get pressure to drop the case against the guy they’d already charged. I didn’t agree. The MO was so different that I thought there’s no way this could be the same guy.

“Chandler said the MO had changed only because the killer was adapting to what he’d learned in the prior murders. He thought the guy was getting better at what he did and because of that the MO looked different. I thought Chandler was full of shit and I fought his efforts to merge the cases. He kept pushing his theory and pissed me off in the process. I was going through my divorce at the time and didn’t need any more bullshit in my life. I told him to fuck off.”

Denton, who had only been half listening, realized that Jennings was going to finish his story whether he was paying attention or not. He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his neck.

“Chandler persisted, and kept working up his case that way. Leaked it to the papers. Reporters from the Bay Area, from Stockton, Sacramento...they started asking questions, following me all over the goddamn place.
Do we have a serial killer in Stockton? Is it safe
to
go out? Is it true that you’re refusing
to
cooperate with Sacramento authorities in their investigation? How many more people have
to
die before you take this seriously and cooperate with them?
Shit like that. The heat was on. But I wouldn’t back down. Didn’t give Chandler shit. I blocked everything I could. Tied everything up in red tape,” he said with a slight smile.

He rooted out a cigarette from his sport coat pocket and lit it. Denton was about to object, but realized that getting into an argument over smoking in his office would only prolong the time Jennings would be interrupting his evening.

“Finally,” puffed Jennings, “Chandler got the FBI involved and convinced them that the cases were related. They drew up a profile that supported his theory about the different MOs.” He took another puff. “Everything got all fucked up. Too many cooks, you know?” He blew a mouthful into the air above him and watched it hang there for a couple of seconds.

“Five days later another victim went down in Stockton. Two days after that, one in Old Sacramento. The killer’s signature matched the one downtown a couple of weeks earlier, and was pretty damn close to the ones in Stockton. With the help of the profile, Chandler and a dick friend of his in Homicide nailed the guy a couple of days later and got a confession on all the murders.”

He paused, bowed his head. Blew the smoke down onto his boots. “I fucked up, Tim. Looked real bad. Drew a reprimand from the captain and everything. Chewed my ass real hard. Had I cooperated with Chandler from the start those last two people might not have gotten killed. One was a woman with two little kids. Took me years to get over the guilt.”

Denton realized that Jennings was near the end of his story. He sat forward to say something, but Jennings interrupted him.

“Hearing Chandler’s name brought back the memories. The nightmares.” He took a long drag. “
That’s
the fucking relevance.”

“We’re all adults, Bill. That was a long time ago. You’ve matured as a person, and as a cop. Look at this as your chance to make up for your past mistakes.”

Jennings was brooding, silent.

“It if helps, I’ve known Jeffrey Hellman for years. He and I started out in the Barrister’s Club together twenty years ago. We worked together a lot, planning social functions and lining up speakers. Later, we served as officers in the Bar Association.” Denton stopped, as if reflecting on years past. “He went through some pretty rough times a couple of years ago when his wife died of cancer, but he’s okay. A real good attorney...very sharp. I’ve never known him to do anything unethical. I have a lot of respect for him.”

“That doesn’t mean that the clients he represents are innocent,” Jennings said.

“Of course not. But I have more confidence in something Jeffrey tells me than something someone else tells me.” Jennings shrugged as Denton continued: “Just keep a clear head and run things by the book. Get me the strongest case you possibly can.”

“Madison is guilty, Tim.”

Denton’s face hardened. “Then let’s nail his ass.”

CHANDLER FINISHED interviewing ten people: five board members, Michael Murphy, Ed Dolius, and three clients—all in four days’ time. He had filled his notepad with solid evidence of Harding’s erratic behavior. There were still two weeks before the preliminary hearing.

Chandler had spoken with Denise nightly since arriving in California; after the third day, she began asking when he was going to return home. Noah missed him, and they had agreed to start trying for a second child four months ago. But there always seemed to be a reason why he could not be home; or Denise had to study for a law school exam; or he came down with the flu. His pledge of “next month; I promise” was in jeopardy. This time, everything had gone according to schedule, except for one thing: as the crucial day approached, Chandler was 2,500 miles away.