False Accusations by Jacobson, Alan (great novels of all time .txt) 📕

and had them assume similar positions to what you did with Harding, and he snapped a few pictures with a telephoto lens using the same camera angle. He then popped them into his laptop and showed ’em to the jury. They bore a striking resemblance to the picture of you and Harding.”

“Imagine that.”

“Exactly the point: the jury didn’t have to—they saw it with their own eyes. Warwick was objecting all over the place, renewing the arguments he’d made during his pretrial motion. But the judge allowed it and Denton thinks it only reinforced for the jury what type of person Harding is.”

“If she wasn’t going to use it against me, why’d she have the picture taken in the first place?”

Hellman nodded. “Denton finished up with a psychiatrist—a Dr. Hall from the Bay Area—who testified as to an individual’s state of mind when driven to prepare a plot seeking revenge. From what I saw, he did a damn good job. Talked about obsessive behavior and how Harding’s personality was a good fit. Said something to the effect of her ‘having been driven to revenge by the persistence of an irresistible thought or feeling that was associated with anxiety.’ Of course, Warwick tried to impeach him by getting Hall to admit that he’d never actually examined Harding—the usual tactic. But I think he left his mark with the jury.”

“I’ve never heard of this guy. Hall, you said?”

“Yeah, from Marin. Came highly recommended. Denton brought him in from the Bay Area to eliminate any accusations that he knew you professionally or personally. He didn’t want to give Warwick any ammunition for impeachment due to bias.”

“My turn Friday?”

Hellman nodded. “Just tell what happened, and no matter what, don’t let Warwick rattle you.”

“I’m used to hostile attorneys, remember? I’ve been through all this before.”

“This is different. You’re used to testifying about medical issues. This is your personal life, regarding something that can easily be turned into an attack on you as an individual. He’s going to try and bring out all sorts of irrelevant stuff, some of which will be lies and distortions of the truth. My best advice is to remain levelheaded and treat the jury as if they’re patients and give them a dose of your sweet bedside manner,” Hellman said, speaking more as Madison’s attorney than his friend. “But whatever Warwick says to you or about you, just roll with the punches. Don’t let him bait you and get you all riled up.”

“You know it takes a lot to do that, Jeffrey.”

Hellman smiled. He knew, but he no doubt felt better saying it nonetheless.

CHAPTER 67

THE EVENING TEMPERATURE had been a bone-chilling 26 degrees. While it was not nearly as cold as most winter nights in the East, many people native to the Sacramento area considered the 20s unusually frigid, and fireplaces were burning into the early morning, casting a fog-like pall over the moonlit gray sky. The air smelled of smoke, and flakes of ashes lazily rode the gentle breeze through the teeth-chattering night air.

Madison arrived at the Superior Court building at 8:25 Friday morning. Although the police had long ago released his car to him, having examined, videotaped, and photographed it from every conceivable angle, he chose to drive Leeza’s minivan. The thought of arriving at the courthouse in the very car that had been the subject of intense scrutiny during the past few months seemed in bad taste, and only invited more debate and comment—even though the damage to the front end had been repaired.

He was wearing a navy blue suit with a stark white shirt and a silk tie that was emblazoned with a brilliant red paisley pattern. His hair was immaculately styled and his face was dean shaven, lightly bronzed, and taut. It was Leeza’s suggestion that he spend yesterday afternoon at a salon getting a tan, followed by a massage, facial, and haircut. It allowed him to collect his thoughts, spruce up for the coming event, and relax.

As he entered the courtroom, the olive-uniformed bailiff led him to the witness chair. He glanced toward the jury. They appeared focused, students with pens and pads poised, as if he were the guest lecturer about to provide answers that were needed for their final exam.

This was the climax of the prosecution’s case, the make-or-break point. It was the jury’s opportunity to meet the man who was such an integral focus of this case. This was their chance to scrutinize him, to decide whether he was credible, worthy of their vote of confidence against Harding.

Both Denton and Hellman had decided that if the jurors believed Madison—particularly if they took a liking to him—they would feel the opposite toward Harding. The verdict would already be decided by the time they sat down to begin their deliberations.

“Dr. Madison,” Denton said at 9:15, “a few moments ago you outlined your medical credentials, appointments, and accomplishments. A rather long list. I bet you’re proud of them.”

“I am. I’ve worked hard for each one of them.”

“How about your activities outside of medicine?”

“I have a wife and two young children.”

“Doesn’t leave much time for anything else, does it?” Denton asked.

“No, it doesn’t,” Madison said with a chuckle.

“But you have been involved in other things, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell us about those activities?”

“I served as president of the American Heart Association for two years, I was a board member for the American Cancer Society and the Sacramento Symphony, and until recently, I served on the River City Theater Company’s board of directors. I’ve been a board member and vice president of the Consortium for Citizens with Mental Retardation. I’m currently president of the Consortium.”

“Do you get any compensation for any of this?”

“Are you asking me if I get paid?”

“Yes. Money or other benefits of any sort.”

“No. It’s volunteer work. I don’t receive anything. Other than the satisfaction of doing something to help others.”

“Dr. Madison, do you give money to charitable interests?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Approximately, how much did you give to nonprofit causes last year?”

“A little over