Alan Jacobson - False accusations

A knock at the door broke his daydream. The bellman handed him the message; Madison slipped a ten into his palm, never bothering to look at the man, and shut the door. He studied the slip of paper, as if staring at it would suddenly cause new information to appear.

He dialed Leeza’s cell again. Straight to voicemail.

He called Southwest Airlines and booked a seat on their last flight out to Sacramento, which left in one hour. He called a cab, gathered his clothes, called Vince, and told him he had to leave to deal with a family emergency. Then he phoned Hellman and asked him to pick him up at the airport.

As he settled into the taxi, he let his head fall back against the seat. What now?

The flight was agony. He couldn’t get Leeza off his mind, so he obsessed over all the potential scenarios. What if the message was a hoax-he would be coming home and missing the rest of his seminar for nothing. That would be a Brittany Harding tactic. But other than his office staff, no one knew of the seminar, let alone the hotel where he was staying. It was not likely a prank.

Hellman was waiting outside the terminal in his Lexus. Madison tossed his bags into the trunk, explained all that he knew and showed him the crumpled message he had received from the bellman.

Hellman did not know what to make of it either. “Maybe she found out about the settlement, and you weren’t home to explain it.”

“Jeffrey, if that’s it, I’m going to wring your neck. Again, I should’ve told the truth and didn’t, and now it’s come back to haunt me-”

“Hold it, hold it,” he said, waving a hand out in front of the dashboard. “You’re jumping to conclusions. Let’s just wait till we get there.”

Leeza’s van was not in the garage. He opened his front door and everything appeared to be dark. Scalpel came running into the entryway and licked him on the face. Madison walked into the den, looking for a clue of some sort, something to explain what the hell was going on. Leeza usually left notes for him on the desk.

Hellman threw on some lights in the hallway and walked into the kitchen to look around for a message of some sort.

Madison looked down and saw an 8 by 10 photo on his desk. He picked it up. “Jeffrey,” he called, his voice weak and unsteady. “Jeffrey!” he tried again, attempting to muster more force through his choked throat.

He turned the picture over and saw a copy of the settlement check Hellman had sent to Harding’s attorney. “Oh, my God,” was all he could mumble.

“What?” Hellman asked, walking into the room. “What’s the matter?” He must have seen the ashen color of Madison’s face because he sat down next to him. Then his eyes found the copy of the check. “Why do you have-” he started to ask as Madison flipped the picture over in front of it. It was a photo that appeared to depict his client kissing Brittany Harding. “Oh, shit.”

They sat in silence for a moment, both staring at the picture. “Phil, what is this? What are we looking at?”

Madison cleared his throat. “This was taken at the Fifth Street Cafe. She said she’d been on the phone a lot that day and had some kind of sharp pain in her ear. She wanted me to take a look at it, but when I couldn’t see anything, she moved closer. Somebody must have snapped the picture at that moment. The whole damned thing was orchestrated.”

“Why was she laughing?” Hellman asked, still looking at the picture.

“She said it tickled.” He let loose a stifled grunt. “I wasn’t even touching her.”

“But it looks like-”

“I know what it looks like!” Madison bit the inside of his cheek, then said, “Apparently, so did Leeza.” He continued to stare at the picture. “She’s left me, Jeffrey. She’s taken the kids and left me.” He said it matter-of-factly, like no amount of explaining in the world could reverse it. A done deal. Set in stone. Fact.

“Shit, Phil. I’m sorry.” He shifted in his seat. “How the hell did she get this? Where…” he said, as his voice trailed off.

Madison reached for the manila envelope on the desk.

“Don’t touch anything,” Hellman said. “Put the picture down.”

“Why-”

“Just do it. I’m going to have it dusted for prints. I bet I know exactly who sent this.”

“Harding.”

“Had to be,” Hellman said. “Who else would have a copy of the check?”

Madison did not answer.

“Movis Ehrhardt,” Hellman said.

“Who?”

“Harding’s attorney.” He rubbed aggressively at his forehead. “Right before we settled, he said that there was more evidence, but the detectives never said they had anything other than the belt and the phone bill. After you assured me that nothing else had happened, I thought he was bluffing.” There was quiet again in the room. “She never gave the police this picture. My guess is that she was going to turn it over to them if we didn’t pay her off.”

“But-but didn’t we have agreement, a contract?” Madison asked.

“In a perfect world, yes. But she’s a sick individual, Phil.” He sighed. “I’ll get on Movis’s ass Monday morning. File a claim with the bar…”

Madison wasn’t listening. New Orleans had popped into his mind. New Orleans and Leeza, and how nice their trip might have been.

“You’re a goddamned fucking sleazebag, you son of a bitch,” Hellman yelled into the phone.

“Must be Jeffrey Hellman,” Movis Ehrhardt said.

“You’re a double-crossing extortionist.”

“Just let me know when you’re done.”

“Done?” Hellman asked. “I’m just getting started.”

“How about telling me what this is all about?”

“Let’s start with the destruction of a family, you unethical son-of-”

“Whoa, counselor, what the hell are you talking about?”

“Either you or your client sent Madison’s wife a picture that makes it look like he was kissing Harding in a restaurant.”

“And I assume it’s your position that that’s not what he was doing.”

“She was complaining of ear pain. She asked him to take a look.”

“And you think that this picture was sent to Madison’s wife by me?”

“You or your client. And given my past dealings with you, it wouldn’t surprise-”

“Why do you think I had anything to do with it?”

“The picture was accompanied by a copy of the settlement check I sent to you.”

There was no response at the other end. The usually vociferous, answer-for-everything Movis Ehrhardt fell silent.

Finally, Hellman broke the interlude. “Well?”

“I need to look into this.”

“You sound like you already know what happened.”

“Well, I shouldn’t be telling you this, but before my client left here, she asked me for a copy of the check. I thought she just wanted it for her records.” There was silence again. “If she did this, I’m very sorry. Regardless of what you may think of me, I’m really sorry about this.”

“I’m having the picture dusted for prints. If those prints come back a match for you or your client, that money better be returned in certified funds within twenty-four hours of my call-or I’m going to find a way of tying you into this scheme and have you disbarred. I’ll make it my personal hobby.”

“I didn’t have anything-”

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” Hellman said just before he slammed the phone down.

It was one o’clock in the morning and Ryan Chandler was yawning, fighting to keep awake.

“You’ve been talking for hours, Phil, but you don’t even look tired.”

“Dredging all this up has been very…difficult. I miss Leeza and the kids. It’s been almost a month since they left. I can’t tell you what it’s done to me.”