Alan Jacobson - False accusations

He was thinking about the times when he and Madison were young teenagers, playing one-on-one basketball at the high school playground. Madison’s height advantage was sometimes too difficult to overcome. But Hellman always proved a worthy opponent, practicing hard and focusing on playing intelligently so as to minimize his friend’s physical advantages. Their competitions were fierce, evidenced by the fact that nothing deterred them-not rain, cold, or darkness.

“…Jeffrey,” Madison was saying.

Hellman shook his head. “I was daydreaming. We were playing ball at McClatchy.”

“I was winning, right?” Madison said. “I always won.”

Hellman smiled as they walked down the hall to meet the detectives. “Same team now. Hell of a combination. Unbeatable.”

They ascended the stairs and were led to the same interview room, where they sat down opposite Coleman and Valentine.

“Let’s talk about that night again,” Coleman said. “September eleventh of this year. You remember our last conversation? You said that you had nothing in your calendar about meeting Brittany Harding that night.”

“You saw my calendar.”

“Yes we did.”

“Maybe, instead of interviewing me again, you should be speaking with some of the people who’ve witnessed this lady’s bizarre behavior. She’s a nut.”

“Is that your medical opinion of Miss Harding?”

“Detective, let’s not play cat and mouse,” Hellman said. “Can we just get down to the nuts and bolts? You said you had new evidence.”

“We do.”

Valentine pulled a couple of papers from the folder that was sitting on the metal table in front of her. She handed one of them to Madison, who tilted it so that Hellman could see.

“Is that a copy of your phone bill, doctor?” she asked.

“My wife pays the bills, I never see them.”

“Is that your telephone number at the top?”

“Yes.”

Valentine handed him another page. “Do you recognize the two phone numbers that are highlighted in yellow?”

Madison instantly remembered. Harding had made two calls from his house before she left that night. How convenient. No, how clever.

Valentine leaned forward. “Doctor?”

“What?” Madison asked, not looking up. “No, I don’t recognize those numbers.”

Hellman was beginning to noticeably sweat.

“You’ll notice those calls were made on September eleventh, at ten-fifteen and ten-sixteen P.M.”

No response from Madison. He was still staring at the paper.

“Those numbers,” Valentine continued, “are local toll calls to the phone numbers of Sue Harding, Ms. Harding’s mother, and Nancy Bonham, her sister.”

“Hmm,” Madison mused, as if the news was intensely interesting.

“Detective,” Hellman said, “if I could have a moment with my client.”

“Wait a minute,” Madison said. “She made a couple of calls one night when she dropped by my house complaining of abdominal pain.”

“So she was at your home that night,” Valentine said.

“Well, if she made these calls on the eleventh I guess the night she came over was the eleventh. She wasn’t a patient. I didn’t keep treatment notes of her visit.”

“Apparently, it was September eleventh, Dr. Madison.” Valentine paused. “Wasn’t it?” she said, locking on his gaze.

“It would appear so.”

“So Harding’s story is taking on some truth,” she said to Coleman.

“What are you talking about?” Madison asked. “What possible reason would I have for making advances to Brittany Harding? I have a wife and two kids. I’m happily married.”

Coleman leaned forward toward Madison. “She’s a looker. Twenty-five, long legs, big tits. You had something she wanted…her job. And she had something you wanted. So you told her that if she wanted to keep her job, she’d have to grease your pole.”

Madison winced at the detective’s street language. “You’ve got it all wrong.”

“Then what happened that night?” Valentine asked.

Madison looked over at Hellman, who nodded for him to tell the story.

“She showed up at my door complaining of abdominal pain. She’d been to some local Quick Care facility where a nurse told her it was nothing to worry about. Brittany said she kept having sharp pains and didn’t know what to do, so she came by my house on the way home.”

Valentine leaned back in her chair. “Is that it?”

“Well, I gave her a brief abdominal exam, which was essentially negative, and I told her she probably had irritable bowel syndrome.”

“Anything else happen?”

“She started to feel better and left.”

“Describe an abdominal exam, the way you did it on Miss Harding that night,” Valentine said.

“The patient’s knees were flexed to relax the stomach muscles, and I placed my hand over her abdomen. I felt for rigidity, masses, and effusion. I made sure there were no aneurysms, and then I palpated the organs and checked for rebound tenderness.”

“How far down on the stomach did you go?”

“I examined the entire abdomen. From just under the rib cage down to the upper groin area.”

“You didn’t go any lower than the ‘upper groin area’?” Valentine asked.

“No.”

“And what happened after the exam?”

“Like I said, she just left.”

“And the phone calls?”

“Oh, she made them just before she left. She said something about not wanting anyone to worry about her not having been home all night. I let my dog into the yard and then went into my den.”

“What about sexual advances?”

“What about them?”

“I’m asking if you made any. You know, ‘Gee, you look incredibly hot tonight. I like your dress, how about-”

“All right, that’s enough,” Hellman said.

“I’ll answer that, Jeffrey.”

“You don’t have to, Phil.”

“It’s okay,” Madison said, turning to Valentine. “Detective, I swear to you. I examined her abdomen, I diagnosed her condition, urged her to get subsequent care from her personal physician if her symptoms returned, and that was it. No innuendoes, no overtures, under tures, comments, inappropriate behavior…nothing.”

“Do you usually examine patients’ abdomens at your home?”

Madison clenched his teeth but remained composed. “No, I don’t. I made an exception because it was someone I knew and she was in a great deal of pain. I’ll never make that mistake again, that’s for sure.”

Valentine sighed. “So that’s it? You were the perfect gentleman, just trying to help out a friend in need? I don’t buy it.”

“You know,” Madison said, “you’re so focused on me. But what about her? Why don’t you ask her how she knew where I lived? She said she pulled it off the Consortium computer. But they only have my P.O. Box.”

“We’re focused on you because you’re the one under investigation. How she knew where you lived is irrelevant. Maybe you gave her your home address and forgot.”

“I wouldn’t do that. But I’ll tell you how she knew. She must’ve followed me home one night. She’s stalking me-”

“Leave the paranoia at home, Doc.”

“Is that all you have?” Hellman asked.

“No. We’ve got one other item to discuss,” she said, motioning for Coleman to hand her the belt from the bag on the floor.

“Ever seen this belt?” she asked, showing it to Madison. It was encased in a plastic bag and tagged with an identification sticker.

“Not that I can recall.”

“Harding was wearing it the night she was at your house.”

“So?” Hellman said.

“So it’s got your client’s fingerprints on it.”

Madison rotated his palms toward the ceiling. “I examined her abdomen, and she was in a lot of pain. I helped her unbuckle it.”