Alan Jacobson: False accusations

“No. It wasn’t there when I got home. At least, I don’t think it was.”

“Are you sure?”

“I don’t know, Jeffrey.” He shook his head and leaned back in the hard plastic chair. “I don’t inspect the exterior of my car every time I get in or out of it.”

Hellman sighed. “We need a plan. First of all, I’m going to get you out of here. Second, we need help. I’m going to get a private investigator on this and see what he can dig up.” He flipped his notepad closed.

“Great. Let’s get this thing out of the way. I’ve got enough problems without a hit-and-run hanging over my head.”

“Right now, Phil, this hit-and-run is your problem. All the other things are secondary. This is not a joke, and it’s not to be taken lightly. You’re the prime suspect in a double murder case. We’re talking serious jail time here. And at least for now, the evidence points undeniably to you. You’re in deep shit.”

Madison closed his eyes. His deep sigh was audible through the handset.

“But I haven’t gone to work yet. And you’ve got one of the most important things going for you: you’re innocent. We’ll just have to prove it, that’s all.”

Madison was looking down at the table and did not appear to be listening.

“Phil. Phil, listen to me.”

Madison rolled his eyes upward, toward Hellman. “I’m listening.”

“We’re going to get you cleared, okay?”

“Call Ryan Chandler,” Madison said.

“Who?”

“Ryan Chandler. A former patient of mine. He used to be a cop with the Sacramento Police Department. You won’t find anyone better.”

“Phil, no offense, but this is my area of expertise. Let me handle who we choose as the PI. We need someone good, someone I know I can trust.”

Madison locked eyes with his friend. “Jeffrey, just call him.”

Hellman sighed and opened up his notepad again. “Fine.”

“He’s in New York, you’ll have to get his number.”

Hellman stopped writing and looked up. “New York? You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m serious. Trust me. Get him on the case.”

“But Phil-”

“Call him. Do it for me.”

Hellman pondered it a long moment, then said, “I’ll call him. But if he doesn’t measure up, he’s outta here.”

The municipal courthouse was housed in a modern complex of attached buildings on H Street in downtown Sacramento. Arranged around an adjacent three-level parking structure, it occupied an entire city block. People scurried in and passed through the metal detector, where two guards stood properly accoutered with sidearms, primed to act in the event of a crisis.

Hellman took the elevator up to the third floor, where he met Madison in a private cubicle near the courtroom.

“All we’re here for is the arraignment. He’ll read the charges against you, and we’ll discuss bail. Then we get a date for the preliminary hearing.”

“Sounds like a party,” Madison said wryly.

“Phil, no matter what you’re feeling, you have to remain calm and look confident.”

“Easy for you to say. You didn’t just spend a day in the county jail.”

“When you’re in that courtroom,” Hellman continued, ignoring Madison’s comment, “don’t look down at the table and don’t act depressed. Keep your head up, seem interested in what’s going on, and look the judge in the eyes when he addresses you. Got it?”

“Got it.”

They walked into the courtroom, which was well lit, with several rows of movie theater-style spectator seats crammed close together.

The Honorable Leonard Barter strode into the courtroom from a door off to the side of the bailiff’s desk. “All rise,” the bailiff said. “Court is now in session.”

The judge took his seat, pushed aside a few files, and gave the bailiff a short, almost imperceptible nod.

The man began reading the first case from the docket. Hellman’s mind snapped out of his preparatory stupor once he heard Madison’s name. Standing across the aisle was Timothy Denton, the seasoned prosecutor who had made a name for himself over the years with the best conviction record in the DA’s office. Never one to turn down a challenge, he seemed to thrive on high-profile cases.

Barter glanced over at a document, then looked at the defendant. “Mr. Phillip Madison-”

“ Doctor, Your Honor,” Hellman said.

Barter removed his glasses and glared down at Hellman. “ Doctor Phillip Madison. Detectives Jennings and Moreno have supplied me with the charges against you. Have you reviewed them with your attorney?”

“Yes.”

“You’re charged with two counts of vehicular manslaughter, which resulted in the death of Imogene Pringle and Otis Silvers. If convicted, the sentence would be a two- to six-year term for each victim. You’re also charged with two counts of hit-and-run, and one count of failure to render proper roadside assistance.”

“Your Honor,” Hellman said, “Dr. Madison requests bail.”

Barter turned his gaze toward the prosecutor. “Mr. Denton?”

“Your Honor,” he said, shaking his head, “this is a double murder. The defendant is accused of running down two people in cold blood. The woman was a single mother of two. Further, the defendant, a physician himself who could have rendered emergency medical assistance, left the scene of the accident. The people ask one million dollars.”

Madison leaned forward, his eyebrows rising with his voice. “A million dollars?”

“Mr. Hellman,” Barter said, “please ask your client to keep his remarks to himself.”

Hellman was already admonishing Madison in his ear by the time the judge had spoken.

“Sorry, Your Honor. Dr. Madison is…a little out of his element. The figure took him by surprise.”

“Well, make sure he doesn’t have any more surprises. Your job is to prepare your client so that he knows what to expect when he walks into this courtroom. I trust you’ll be more thorough next time.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Hellman said, clenching his jaw. “I will.”

“Now, do you have an opinion on bail?”

“Yes sir, I do. Dr. Madison is a respected member of the medical community with a reputation that many physicians never achieve. He’s saved countless lives over the years, and is well rooted in the community. He serves as president of the Consortium for Citizens with Mental Retardation and has responsibilities to that agency. Dr. Madison has a wife and two children and does not pose even the slightest of flight risks. We request bail in the amount of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“Very well, Mr. Hellman, Mr. Denton. I see no risk of flight. There is no prior history of criminal activity, am I correct?”

Denton and Hellman nodded.

“Very well. Bail is set at five hundred thousand dollars.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Hellman said.

The judge rapped his gavel on the desk and moved to the next file in front of him.

Hellman gathered his papers together.

“Now what?” Madison asked.

“Now we get to work.”

“Stop it! Cut it out, Noah! Noah, I asked you not to do that,” Ryan Chandler yelled across the room.

“Ryan,” Denise said, “get off your butt and do something about it. He’s just ignoring you.”

“Denise, I am doing something about it.”

She looked up from her law book and removed her glasses. “I meant something effective,” she said as Noah, the four-year-old bundle of energy, ran by with the golden retriever plodding after him.

“You’re the one who wanted a kid,” he said as he walked into the adjacent playroom and started the DVD player.

A ball flew by his head; he ducked and it hit the armrest of the couch next to him: “Look, Noah- Cars,” Chandler said, pointing to the television where the Pixar logo had appeared.