False Accusations

by Alan Jacobson

  “Fifteen years ago Ryan Chandler left the Sacramento PD and became an investigator for the DA. They had a suspect in custody in a serial murder case when, all of a sudden, there’s a killing that’s kind of similar in Stockton, where I was working at the time. The Stockton case was assigned to me. Chandler suggested we work together on it, because he thought it was the same killer. Said he was going to get pressure to drop the case against the guy they’d already charged. I didn’t agree. The MO was so different that I thought there’s no way this could be the same guy.

  “Chandler said the MO had changed only because the killer was adapting to what he’d learned in the prior murders. He thought the guy was getting better at what he did and because of that the MO looked different. I thought Chandler was full of shit and I fought his efforts to merge the cases. He kept pushing his theory and pissed me off in the process. I was going through my divorce at the time and didn’t need any more bullshit in my life. I told him to fuck off.”

  Denton, who had only been half listening, realized that Jennings was going to finish his story whether he was paying attention or not. He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his neck.

  “Chandler persisted, and kept working up his case that way. Leaked it to the papers. Reporters from the Bay Area, from Stockton, Sacramento...they started asking questions, following me all over the goddamn place. Do we have a serial killer in Stockton? Is it safe to go out? Is it true that you’re refusing to cooperate with Sacramento authorities in their investigation? How many more people have to die before you take this seriously and cooperate with them? Shit like that. The heat was on. But I wouldn’t back down. Didn’t give Chandler shit. I blocked everything I could. Tied everything up in red tape,” he said with a slight smile.

  He rooted out a cigarette from his sport coat pocket and lit it. Denton was about to object, but realized that getting into an argument over smoking in his office would only prolong the time Jennings would be interrupting his evening.

  “Finally,” puffed Jennings, “Chandler got the FBI involved and convinced them that the cases were related. They drew up a profile that supported his theory about the different MOs.” He took another puff. “Everything got all fucked up. Too many cooks, you know?” He blew a mouthful into the air above him and watched it hang there for a couple of seconds.

  “Five days later another victim went down in Stockton. Two days after that, one in Old Sacramento. The killer’s signature matched the one downtown a couple of weeks earlier, and was pretty damn close to the ones in Stockton. With the help of the profile, Chandler and a dick friend of his in Homicide nailed the guy a couple of days later and got a confession on all the murders.”

  He paused, bowed his head. Blew the smoke down onto his boots. “I fucked up, Tim. Looked real bad. Drew a reprimand from the captain and everything. Chewed my ass real hard. Had I cooperated with Chandler from the start those last two people might not have gotten killed. One was a woman with two little kids. Took me years to get over the guilt.”

  Denton realized that Jennings was near the end of his story. He sat forward to say something, but Jennings interrupted him.

  “Hearing Chandler’s name brought back the memories. The nightmares.” He took a long drag. “That’s the fucking relevance.”

  “We’re all adults, Bill. That was a long time ago. You’ve matured as a person, and as a cop. Look at this as your chance to make up for your past mistakes.”

  Jennings was brooding, silent.

  “It if helps, I’ve known Jeffrey Hellman for years. He and I started out in the Barrister’s Club together twenty years ago. We worked together a lot, planning social functions and lining up speakers. Later, we served as officers in the Bar Association.” Denton stopped, as if reflecting on years past. “He went through some pretty rough times a couple of years ago when his wife died of cancer, but he’s okay. A real good attorney...very sharp. I’ve never known him to do anything unethical. I have a lot of respect for him.”

  “That doesn’t mean that the clients he represents are innocent,” Jennings said.

  “Of course not. But I have more confidence in something Jeffrey tells me than something someone else tells me.” Jennings shrugged as Denton continued: “Just keep a clear head and run things by the book. Get me the strongest case you possibly can.”

  “Madison is guilty, Tim.”

  Denton’s face hardened. “Then let’s nail his ass.”

  CHAPTER 30

  CHANDLER FINISHED interviewing ten people: five board members, Michael Murphy, Ed Dolius, and three clients—all in four days’ time. He had filled his notepad with solid evidence of Harding’s erratic behavior. There were still two weeks before the preliminary hearing.

  Chandler had spoken with Denise nightly since arriving in California; after the third day, she began asking when he was going to return home. Noah missed him, and they had agreed to start trying for a second child four months ago. But there always seemed to be a reason why he could not be home; or Denise had to study for a law school exam; or he came down with the flu. His pledge of “next month; I promise” was in jeopardy. This time, everything had gone according to schedule, except for one thing: as the crucial day approached, Chandler was 2,500 miles away.

  “I’ll try to get as much as possible done over the next day or so and catch a flight back.”

  “I’m on break from school,” Denise said, “so I’m relaxed and I don’t have to get to bed so early. Don’t screw this up, Ryan. If you’re not home in two days, forget it.”

  Chandler wrapped up as much as he could over the course of the next twenty-four hours, bid farewell to Madison and Hellman, and vowed to return as quickly as possible. He hoped to have access to either the physical evidence or Gray’s report by then so he could begin his own analysis.

  On the six-hour flight home, Chandler made use of his time by organizing and rewriting his notes and data into a cohesive plan. He had all the circumstantial evidence he needed against Harding and a relatively good case, with one exception. He could not place her in Madison’s car on the night of the murders. In fact, he couldn’t place anyone in the car. But even absent direct evidence linking Madison to the act of driving the vehicle, the circumstantial evidence against him was damning: it was his car, no one else’s fingerprints were found; the Mercedes had not been reported stolen, there was no sign of forced entry, and he had no alibi.

  On the other hand, the homeless person who thought he saw a male driving the car could be impeached without too much effort. In court, a few confusing pictures flashed in front of him and he’d have to admit the driver could easily have been a female with her hair pulled up, wearing a baseball hat. The weakness of his testimony would be laid bare in front of the jury.

  Witness aside, he needed to find some way of placing Harding in that car or Madison would be facing a very depressing, uphill battle. There’s got to be something I’m overlooking. I can’t let a good man go down for a violent crime he didn’t commit. With this thought, he closed his eyes to rest.

  The next voice he heard was that of the pilot announcing they would be landing at John F. Kennedy International in ten minutes. He straightened his seatback, stretched his neck, and rubbed his eyes. His mouth was dry. Looking out the window, he saw the familiar lights of the Rockaways flickering beneath him. He was home.

  Denise and Noah greeted him at baggage claim. When Noah saw his father approach, he ran through the crowd of bodies and into his arms. Chandler threw him into the air as the boy laughed devilishly. He gave his son a big hug and a kiss on the cheek, then handed him a box containing a Transformers action figure he had bought on the way to the airport in Sacramento.

  “Cool, Dad!” Noah shouted as he struggled to pry open the plastic packaging.

  Chandler gave Denise a hug with Noah in his arms as they trudged over to the carousel to retrieve his lone suitcase.

  “I missed you guys,” he said.

  “Missed you too, Daddy,” Noah sai
d, freeing the Transformers figure from its shell. “Are you going away again?”

  Denise shot a glance at Chandler.

  “Well, Daddy’s home for a while, but then I’ll need to go back to California again.”

  Denise’s smile reversed into a frown.

  “It’s a very tough case,” he said to Denise. “Phil’s been framed, and it doesn’t look good. I think I know who did it, but I just have to prove it.”

  “So, to get your attention, I have to get accused of murder and hire you to get me off?”

  “By then you’ll be an attorney. First get one of your buddies to defend you, then hire me to get you off.”

  “This isn’t a joke, Ryan.”

  Chandler sighed, the smile melting from his face. “No. No, it’s not. I realize it’s hard on you, but I don’t really have a choice. I can’t let Phil go down.” He looked over at Denise as they settled in front of the carousel. “There’s one thing I never told you about how I came out of my funk. Maybe it’ll help to put things in perspective.”

  The conveyor belt jerked to life. “One night, a few months after I had to accept a disability retirement from the department, Phil found me on a street comer in downtown Sacramento, a block from the station house. I was blitzed, yelling crazy things at anyone who passed. I was so drunk I didn’t even recognize him. He was afraid someone would call the police on me for drunk and disorderly conduct and the press would get all over it. He knew the department would try to distance itself from me to minimize its embarrassment, saying I was retired and no longer a member of the force.

  “So he put me in the back of his car and drove me to his house, where I stayed for the next two weeks. He hired someone, at his expense, to look after me twenty-four hours a day to make sure I didn’t hurt myself or touch any booze. Then he got me an appointment with a shrink he knew.”

  Chandler retrieved his suitcase and they headed off toward the short-term lot.

  “So,” Denise said, “that’s how you started getting therapy.”

  “He saved my life, Denise. I was heading in a bad direction.” He leaned closer to her ear and said, “I would’ve done it with a gun. God knows I’d thought about it enough in those days right before he found me.” Chandler shook his head. “That’s why when this guy calls and tells me he’s in trouble, I’m gonna do whatever I can to help him.”

  Fatigued from boredom and stiff from incessant sitting, Chandler started the shower, hoping it would allow him to unwind before going to bed. While he waited for the water to reach a tepid temperature, he walked over to Denise and hugged her tightly, drawing her body close and enveloping it. He gave her a long kiss. She smiled and ran her fingers through his thick light brown hair.

  She marveled at how some couples could be away from each other for days at a time when one of them had a job that required frequent trips out of town. Her mind flashed on her life before Chandler, when she worked as a software engineer at a large mainframe company, all-job-and-no-play, the ultimate career woman. No time for men or family. It seemed like a lifetime ago, she told him.

  “And when you graduate from law school, you’ll enter the rat race again.”

  “We’ll see. It all depends on what I do with the degree. That’s why I want to get pregnant now, try to time it so I’m all done by the time I pass the bar.”

  Chandler gave her another kiss, told her to hold the thought, and walked into the roomy stall that was decked out with glass-block walls, a tile seat, and massaging showerhead. Savoring the wet heat against his taut back muscles for a couple of minutes, he then turned around and stood facing the nozzle as the water rained down on his scalp. He leaned against the wall and flexed his tired neck. The warmth was soothing, comforting.

  As he adjusted the spray to a beating pulse, he felt a gentle brush against his buttocks, five fingers cupped around each side...squeezing lightly at first, then more aggressively. Relaxing into Denise’s hold, he felt her breasts press into his back. He turned around and pulled her close.

  She placed her arms around his neck, the hot water drumming against his lower back and buttocks. He kissed her, his tongue moving in and out of her warm mouth, exploring and groping and rolling around her tongue, teasing it.

  Denise gently pulled on Chandler’s neck and moved him around so he was sitting on the tile seat in the corner of the stall. They moved rhythmically, matching the pulsing beat of the water, until both felt the building grasp and sudden release.

  As they toweled off, she fell silent.

  “What’s on your mind?” Chandler asked.

  She shook her head, bringing her thoughts back to the present. “Wondering what we just created.” Denise wrapped her hair in a towel, turban style, and slipped on her white silk robe. She lay down on the bed, on top of the down comforter, and put her legs up and over a pillow. “I bet it’s a girl.”

  “How can you be so sure it even worked?”

  “I can tell.”

  Chandler pursed his lips and nodded. “Okay…assuming you have some special power to know this, a girl would be fine with me,” he said. “But I’d be happy with another boy too.”

  Denise joked that if it were up to him, he would have nine boys, enough to field an entire baseball team.

  Chandler laughed, realizing that she was right. “But even if we had a girl,” he said while towel-drying his hair, “I’d teach her how to play ball, too.”

  She adjusted the pillow beneath her neck. “Just as long as you let me dress her up, do her hair, take her shopping for clothes...”

  “Sounds like you’re talking about playing with your favorite doll.”

  “Absolutely.” Denise reminded him that he was lucky to have made it home at the right time, or they might well have had to wait another month—a situation that had already caused them enough anxiety.

  “It’s all water under the bridge now.”

  “Or sperm in the canal,” she said with a chuckle.

  CHAPTER 31

  “THE PROSECUTION REFILED the complaint.”

  Madison had just returned from dropping Chandler at the airport when he received a call from Hellman.

  “Re-filed the complaint—what the hell does that mean?”

  “It means that the charges against you have been modified. For the worse.”

  “Why’d they modify them?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” Hellman said. “But if I had to guess, the prosecutor, Denton, is trying to take advantage of a high-profile case to move up the ladder. I’ve known him for years, and I wouldn’t rule it out.”

  Madison, standing at the desk in his study, closed his eyes and did not reply.

  “They’re bringing more serious charges,” Hellman said. “First set outlined during the arraignment were those filed by the investigating detectives. The prosecutor has revised them upward.”

  “What, four to twelve years isn’t enough? What are they asking for now, my firstborn?”

  “Phil—”

  “No, seriously. How many years of my life do they want, fifteen?”

  “Denton has refiled for one count of vehicular manslaughter—which you knew about—and one count of second degree murder. With malice.”

  “Which means what?”

  “Under these circumstances, murder carries a sentence of fifteen years to life.”

  Madison fell silent. He found the chair behind him and eased into it slowly, trying to absorb all this.

  “I really should’ve told you this face-to-face.”

  Madison cleared his throat. “What did you mean by ‘under these circumstances’?”

  “Malice means that you acted out of abandonment with a malignant heart.”

  “Malignant heart?”

  “The medical examiner found that the second victim, the woman, died of internal hemorrhage. They’re claiming that had you stopped after hitting her, being a physician you could have provided emergency medical care that could have kept her alive—and at the very least, you could’ve called 9-
1-1 from your cell and had emergency care there within five minutes. There’s a good chance she would’ve lived.”

  “You’re talking like I did it.”

  “C’mon, Phil. I was speaking figuratively.”

  Madison sighed, ran his fingers through his hair. “So what does all this mean?”

  “It means that we go before the judge again and Denton gets to file the modified charges against you. It’s a new arraignment, same as the one before. We’ll be in and out in ten minutes.”

  “Another ten minutes of humiliation.”

  “It also means that we’re now fighting for more than preserving your reputation as a fine surgeon. We’re now fighting for your life.”

  The new arraignment was set for nine in the morning at the Municipal Court building, at the same department in which the original arraignment was held. Judge Barter drew the call again, and sat high on his bench, looking somewhat bored. Hellman disliked Barter, but made every attempt to mask his feelings. Hellman was known for his polite manners: no matter what a judge would say to him or his client, he was always respectful. Firm, but respectful. It was behavior of this sort that earned Hellman some brownie points when the score was close—and criticism from opposing counsel who knew exactly what Hellman was doing, but who were not nearly as adept at pulling it off. When Hellman did it, it sounded genuine; when others did it, it was transparent and contrived, and the judge usually admonished them for it in open court.

  “Your Honor,” Denton said, “as you know, we have refiled the complaint against the defendant.”

  “Proceed,” Barter said.

  Denton arose and tugged on the bottom of his suit coat. “We have determined that circumstances exist which constitute abandonment with a malignant heart, section 830.2 A and B of the Penal Code. There are also grounds for two counts of leaving the scene of an accident.”