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

to use that analogy, then just remember this: he’s playing to win.”

The preliminary hearing was scheduled for five days following the arraignment. When the bailiff called Madison’s case, Judge Barter had been sitting behind his bench for three hours and was anxious to break for lunch. Hoping to dispose of the hearing with relative speed, he turned to Timothy Denton and nodded. “Mr. Prosecutor, I assume you have a few witnesses.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Denton said. “We call Detective William Jennings.”

The doors in back of the courtroom were opened and Jennings appeared. Dressed in his usual wrinkled off-the-rack gray sport coat, he ascended the two steps to the witness stand and took a seat. After being sworn in, he faced the prosecutor.

“Detective, were you the investigating officer in this case?”

He nodded. “Myself, and Detective Angela Moreno. I was primary.”

“When you arrived on San Domingo Street, what was your impression?”

“The crime scene had been secured by Officer Sanford and looked to be in excellent condition. There were two dead bodies, apparently the victims of a hit-and-run. After evaluation of the physical evidence by a criminalist, and after speaking with an eyewitness, it was my impression that a crime had been committed.”

“How many homicides have you investigated?”

“I’m a homicide detective,” he said. “Hundreds.”

“Do these include hit-and-runs?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” Denton said as he walked back to his table. “That’s all I have.”

Hellman arose. “Detective, did you personally examine the physical evidence yourself?”

“No, I did not.”

“Do you have any witnesses that positively identified Dr. Madison as the driver of the vehicle?”

“No, we do not.”

“Did you get a description of the driver of the vehicle from any witnesses?”

“Yes, we did.”

“And what was that description?”

“That of a clean-shaven white male who was wearing a baseball cap.”

“Were there any distinguishing marks on the driver’s face, according to your witness?”

“No.”

Hellman paused a moment, appearing pensive as took a few steps toward Jennings. “I’m curious. What color hair did the witness specify?”

“He didn’t specify a hair color.”

“Did you ask him what hair color the driver had?”

“Yes I did.”

“And what did the witness say?”

Jennings’s eyes narrowed slightly as if he didn’t like the question. Hellman now stood in front of the witness box, waiting for an answer.

“He didn’t know.”

“So the witness did not see the driver’s hair, then.”

“No.” Hint of frustration in his voice.

“Hmm.” Hellman turned and paced a few steps, then spun around to face Jennings, ten feet away. He placed a hand on his chin, as if he were genuinely trying to figure this out. Although there was no jury present, Hellman was always the showman; he could not help himself. “Were there any markings or facial features that led the witness to conclude that it was a male and not a female that was driving?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Did your witness estimate how tall the driver was, or how much he might have weighed?”

“No. He didn’t see him get out of the car.”

“Bight. Because if he had seen him get out of the car, he might’ve gotten an actual look at the driver.” Before Jennings could respond, Hellman asked, “What time of day did this incident occur?”

“Approximately eleven-thirty P.M.”

“And is there any special lighting other than nominal streetlights, detective?”

“No.”

Hellman nodded. “So aside from a clean-shaven white individual, your suspect could be male or female, with blond, brown, or gray hair. She could’ve been a five-foot-tall secretary or a six-foot-six football player. Is that right, detective?”

Jennings glared at Hellman.

“Detective, please answer my question.”

“Yes.”

“So, would it be fair to say that your witness really did not get a good look at the driver?”

Jennings was clenching his jaw. “Yeah, I guess that would be fair to say.”

“You guess,” Hellman pressed, “or it is fair to say?”

“It is.”

“Thank you, detective. Nothing further.”

“Redirect, Your Honor.” This from Denton, who was standing.

“Mr. Denton,” Barter said.

“Detective, what evidence do you have that led you to suspect and later arrest Phillip Madison?”

“We had two witnesses identify the vehicle as a Mercedes, and we got a partial plate that we ran through DMV and came up with Phillip Madison’s car. We obtained a search warrant and proceeded to his residence, where the car was parked in his garage. There was damage to the front end, clothing fibers on the grille and windshield wiper, and blood spatter on the underside of the fender area. Dr. Madison was the legally registered owner of the vehicle. There was no one else at home of driving age, he had not lent the car to anyone, and there was no report of the car having been stolen. And he had no alibi for the reported time of the murders.”

“Thank you, detective.” Denton turned on his heels and headed back to his seat, flashing a slight smirk at Hellman, who absorbed it like a gentleman.

“Your Honor,” Hellman said, “the defense moves for immediate dismissal of the charges due to insufficient evidence.”

Barter frowned. “Denied, counsel. The state has sustained their burden.”

Madison leaned toward Hellman’s ear. “If you ask me, I think all the burden’s on me.”

The thirty-minute preliminary hearing resulted in the filing of an Information, which meant that the judge felt there was probable cause to believe that the defendant had committed the crime.

“It’s nothing to be overly concerned about,” Hellman said. “All the prosecution needed to show was probable cause that a crime had been committed, and that most likely you’re the one who committed it. It was a slam dunk as far as Denton was concerned. This went exactly as I’d expected it would.”

Madison shrugged. “You’re the expert. Hell, given the evidence, I probably would’ve reached the same conclusion.”

Madison drove home and found a couple of messages on his machine. There was one from the gardener, informing Madison that he was overdue on last month’s bill. Another from a salesperson hawking vinyl siding. The last message was from Catherine Parker. She left only her name and number.

Madison sat down in his leather easy chair, took his phone in hand, and grinned. Catherine Parker. It had been years since he had