Alan Jacobson: False accusations

“You sound like such a typical law student.”

“Actually, I was quoting you. In case you don’t remember, it’s because of those weaknesses in the system that you pushed me to go to law school.”

“I didn’t push you.”

“You said one way to change the system was for me to do it from the inside.”

Chandler sighed and rolled onto his opposite side, away from Denise.

“Turning your back on me isn’t the answer.” She sat up, leaned on her elbow, and peered over his shoulder. “You need to give them the information, Ryan.”

“A theory about beer can lot numbers isn’t evidence, Denise.”

“If you were a defense attorney, wouldn’t you try and introduce it as evidence? The judge would decide if it is or it isn’t. But if he lets it in, a jury just may listen. You said it yourself: it could be enough to create reasonable doubt.”

“Then let her attorney think of it. That’s his job: I’m not going to be the one to give Harding a get-out-of-jail-free card. Especially when she doesn’t deserve it.”

“But it shouldn’t be your decision. It can’t be your decision, or the system falls apart.”

He bit his lip and shook his head.

Denise awaited a response, but Chandler was quiet. Finally, she reached over and picked up the phone. “If you think these are just the ramblings of a green law school student, call Jeffrey Hellman and ask him what he thinks. Or call the DA who’s prosecuting the case against Harding and ask him.”

Chandler rolled out of bed and walked over to the window to draw the shade. The streetlights of the city lit up the avenue below with an orange luminescence, as if a setting sun were descending behind the tall buildings.

“Denise, the Madisons have two young children. Brittany Harding is a sick individual who’s done some horrid things. If she went free because of information I gave her attorney, the Madisons wouldn’t be safe. Their children wouldn’t be safe. If something happened to them, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.” He turned to face her. “Think of Noah asleep in the other room. About our child growing inside you right now, as we speak. How would you feel if someone did something that endangered their lives? That’s what I’d be doing to Phil’s kids.”

“So you think the best thing to do is to just let it go. Forget about it, bury it. Be the judge and the jury, all by yourself?” She paused and waited for a response. Chandler was silent. “What this comes down to, Ryan, is would you be able to live with yourself if you don’t turn the information over?”

Chandler shrugged and stared out the window for along moment. “I don’t know, Denise. I just don’t know.”

Having just left the OR after nearly nine hours of surgery, Madison was exhausted. The case, which had been referred to him just prior to the revocation of his privileges, required a specific procedure that Madison had pioneered a couple of years ago in northern California. Despite their star surgeon’s uncertain status with the hospital, John Stevens and the rest of the board agreed that transporting the patient to San Francisco for the operation, or bringing in another surgeon for this one specialized procedure, could be more damaging than granting Madison temporary surgical status.

Stevens also pointed out that with his legal situation having significantly improved, this move was a potential precursor to reinstatement of full privileges.

Madison walked out into the waiting area, still in his surgical garb, and gave the patient’s family the good news: the operation went well. After asking a few questions, they thanked him and he trudged off down the hallway toward the lounge. Five chairs were haphazardly arranged around an oval table, with a mini refrigerator sitting atop a counter next to the sink. He entered the small room, grabbed a granola bar from the cabinet, and ripped it open. He realized that he was not only exhausted, he was famished as well.

A moment later, having finished the granola bar, he pulled himself out of the lounge and headed down the hallway toward the locker room to shower and change. Before he could undress, however, a message was handed to him by an orderly who made a quick exit.

Madison stared at the slip of paper: “The jury is returning with a verdict.” He felt his chest tightening, the air in the locker room suddenly becoming thin and stale. He snatched his cell phone from the locker and dialed Leeza. The machine snapped on. “It’s me, meet me at the courthouse if you get this,” he managed to blurt. He struggled for a deep breath, dialed her cell phone, and left a voicemail message there as well.

He began to perspire heavily, the weight on his chest squeezing tighter. He stumbled into the restroom five feet away, leaned over the sink and splashed his face with cold water.

The nausea began in waves, his knees feeling like wet noodles. He stumbled backward into a stall and fell onto the toilet.

“I want my life back!” he yelled into the dead air. But John Stevens’s voice was echoing in his head. “It’s not over…it’ll never be over.”

He grabbed his hair and pulled, hoping the pain would overshadow the heightening nausea. Suddenly, a spasm from deep in his neck clamped down on his throat, an uncontrollable urge rising up from his stomach. He whirled off the toilet and, crouching in front of it, heaved, then heaved again, until he filled the bowl with vomit and bile…the rough grains of granola scraping the lining of his esophagus as they surged upward through his throat.

He knelt over the toilet, the narrow stall a prison, the confining walls moving in on him. He clamped his eyes shut, brushed the hair back off his face, and tried to breathe deeply. But the pressure on his chest was too great. He stood up, grabbed the door to steady himself, and slipped, falling back onto the toilet.

He tried to take another breath. Tore at his scrubs and ripped open the neck, tearing-clawing-at the material, trying to give himself room to breathe. Reached out, pressed his hands against the walls, the vertigo increasing. Taking rapid gasps of putrid air. Hyperventilating.

He cupped his hands over his mouth and took several deep breaths, each lungful of carbon dioxide slowing his heart rate, decreasing his dizziness, calming his stomach. He slowly stood, opened the stall door, and walked over to the sink. He splashed his face with water, rinsed his mouth out, and leaned on the countertop, staring at his pale reflection in the mirror. You can do this.

Feeling stronger, he stood up and squared his shoulders.

He strode back into the locker room to change and saw the crumpled message lying on the floor. He pulled the tom shirt over his head, dressed, and walked out the door.

It took Madison ten minutes to drive from Sacramento General to the courthouse, nearly running three red lights along the way. He left his car in the lot and sprinted across the street. As he neared the doors, he felt himself become suddenly short of breath again. He stopped, put his hands on his knees, and panted like a dog, gulping mouthfuls of air. He stood there, hunched over, as several attorneys in dark suits pushed past him.

A moment later, he stood up and wiped the perspiration from his forehead, passed through the metal detectors, and headed for the elevator. He burst through the doors of the courtroom just as the judge looked over toward the foreman of the jury. A few heads turned to the back of the room, where Madison stood looking for a seat. He found one in the last row and quietly slipped into the chair.

“Mr. Foreman, have you reached a verdict?”

“We have, Your Honor.” The short, rotund man in his fifties handed a piece of paper to the bailiff, who brought it to the judge.