Alan Jacobson: False accusations

Seaver and his two men arrived at the massive five-car garage and blasted open the side door with their shoulders. Against the wall was a large, midnight blue Mercedes S600.

“Engine’s still a little warm,” Seaver said, his left hand hovering in front of the grille.

The other men swarmed around the car. “Left headlight’s busted and there’s a dent on the front fender.” He craned his neck under the car and pointed his flashlight. “There’s some blood, I think…hard to tell.”

Seaver walked over to view the front end of the vehicle and saw the license plate: 2CUTWEL. He smiled. “Looks like we got our man.”

At the house, Jennings was pounding on the door; he had already rung the bell five times in frantic succession. The front porch light snapped on. An eye could be seen peering through the lens in the middle of the large, ornately carved wooden door. It opened six inches and a powerfully large black Labrador poked his snout through, growling, fighting against his owner’s knee to get out.

“Phillip Madison?” Bill Jennings asked.

Their suspect was a shade over six-foot-two with dark, slicked-back hair and broad shoulders. He was dressed in jeans and a UCLA alumni T-shirt. “What’s going on?”

“Police,” Jennings said. “Please get hold of your dog and move aside, sir. We’ve got a warrant to search your premises.”

“A warrant?” Madison slipped his hand under the Labrador’s collar and moved back a step. Jennings entered and Officer Connor, wearing thick leather gloves, grabbed the dog by the nape of the neck and strapped a muzzle on him. The animal bucked and swung his head wildly, slamming into Madison and throwing him against the wall.

“What are you doing? What the hell’s going on here?”

Connor slipped a pronged choke collar over the dog’s head and tied the leash to the iron railing outside the front door. The Labrador yelped and dropped to the ground, writhing while pawing at the restraint secured to his snout.

Three police officers followed through the door and fanned out inside the home. “I have a search warrant for your premises,” Jennings repeated amidst the commotion.

“For what?”

“Where were you around eleven-thirty last night?”

“Where was I? Home, in bed, watching TV. Why?”

“Anyone else here? Wife, kids…”

Madison clenched his teeth. “My wife and kids are…away. No one else is here.”

“So you were alone?”

“Yeah. Look, what’s the problem? I don’t-”

“Did you lend your car to anyone today?”

“No. Would you just tell me what’s going on?”

As they spoke, Seaver walked in through the open front door. He nodded to Jennings. “We’ve got him.”

Jennings stepped toward Madison. He spun him around and placed his arms behind his back, shoving him up against the wall. Snapping handcuffs on his wrists, he said, “Phillip Madison, you’re under arrest for the murders of Otis Silvers and Imogene Pringle. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right-”

“This is insane! I want to talk to my attorney.”

“You’ll get your chance. If you can’t afford one, which I doubt judging by the spread you’ve got here, one’ll be appointed for you.”

Jennings escorted Madison out of his house and down the marble steps, where a police car was pulling up.

“Get in the car,” Jennings said as he opened the rear door.

As he placed Madison into the backseat of the cruiser, Seaver took Jennings aside. “We found a busted headlight, a dent in the fender and grille, and probably blood spatter around the left front wheel. Hood’s warm.”

An officer walked into the hallway and presented Jennings with an empty bottle of 1994 Opus One. “Found it on the table in the kitchen.” He was holding it with a handkerchief so as not to smudge the fingerprints.

“Mark it and get it to Saperstein for dusting.” Jennings turned to Seaver. “I want a PAS before you pull away,” he said, referring to the Preliminary Alcohol Screening test. “After this many hours, I’m sure everything’ll be out of his system. But do it anyway, just in case. And get me every pair of shoes the good doctor owns. Even though our witness didn’t see it, he might’ve gotten out of his car at the scene, or even a few blocks away. I want the soles analyzed. If there’s anything on his shoes that’s indigenous to that area, I want to know about it. And see if you can find that baseball hat.”

Madison watched from the car as a couple of officers walked into his house with boxes. He overheard “busted headlight,” and “blood.” He couldn’t hear anything else they were saying, but one thing was clear: he was in deep trouble.

The Sacramento County jail, a curving, eight-story concrete monolith, was designed to make the experience of staying there less than desirable. With gray, echo-inducing walls and fifteen hundred inmates bulging from its claustrophobic six-by-ten cells, it was another California jail stocked beyond capacity.

Phillip Madison had never seen the inside of such a place. Like a scared animal, his eyes darted into every nook and corner of each corridor and room he passed through. The cold, tight handcuffs were squeezing his wrists so hard that his hands were going numb. As if that was not enough, both shoulders ached.

He was taken into the central processing and booking area, where a desk sergeant sat behind a large wire mesh cage. Rusted metal file drawers sat on the worn gray tile floor behind him.

The sergeant handed a manila envelope to Officer Leary, who stood with Madison. “Put your rings in here, along with any other valuables you want to have returned to you or your family.”

Madison hesitated and turned to Leary with a blank look on his face. “What?”

Leary held up the envelope. “Your rings. Take them off and give them to me.”

Madison, still handcuffed, struggled to remove the jewelry.

“Got any other valuables on you?”

“I was fast asleep when you came to my home, for Christ’s sake.”

“Answer the damn question and don’t give me any lip.”

Madison dropped his eyes. “That’s it, officer. Just the rings.”

Leary sealed the envelope and listed the items on the Prisoner Inventory Form. Madison initialed the bottom of the document, and the materials were handed to the desk sergeant for storage.

Madison was handed a pair of orange overalls, the letters CJ, for County Jail, emblazoned across the back in large black letters. His handcuffs were unlocked, and he was given strict orders not to make any unnecessary or sudden moves. He took his new clothes and changed into them under Leary’s guard in a small room off to their left.

Madison was then led to another area where a free-standing taupe-colored Live Scan machine with a built-in computer screen stood against a wall. Leary rolled each of Madison’s fingers over a flat glass surface, much like a photocopier, allowing the machine to record a digitized copy of his prints.

“It’s come a long way since the old ink pad, huh.”

“Been printed before?” Leary asked.

“When I got my medical license, eighteen years ago.” Noting the officer’s inquiring look, Madison said, “Orthopedic surgeon.”

“Oh, yeah? Then let me be the first to officially welcome you to hell, doctor.”

The last time Phillip Madison had his picture taken it was for the California Medical Society’s Surgeon of the Year Award eight months ago. Standing in the cold room against a wall that was incrementally marked with vertical numbers denoting feet and inches, he realized that posing for mug shots was a far cry from the glamour of Dean Porter Studios.