False Accusations (28 page)

Moreno shoved a few dollars into his palm. “Use that money for dinner.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, throwing his right hand up to the bill of his new hat.

She smiled. “C’mon, we’ll drive you back to the neighborhood.”

Denton, at the courthouse on an unrelated case, ran into Hellman in the hallway. They made small talk before Hellman informed him of the new information pertaining to the Cubs logo.

“Brittany Harding is from Chicago,” Hellman said.

Denton waved a hand in the air as if he were trying to make Hellman’s words disappear. “We have our man,” he said. “And unfortunately for you, he’s your client. Cubs fan or not.”

When Chandler arrived home, he found a message from Denise scrawled out on a piece of paper that was left on his desk by Leeza. She wrote under it, “Remember—validate her feelings.”

The message indicated that Denise’s doctor’s appointment was three days away. Before calling her, Chandler phoned American Airlines and booked a flight, a red-eye leaving in twenty-four hours, arriving in New York the morning of her appointment.

He dialed Denise, who answered with a monotone, “Hello, Ryan. You didn’t need to call me, I left a message.”

“I did need to call. To say I’m sorry.” He paused, but she didn’t respond. “I wasn’t thinking clearly. You must be scared, with your family history and all. I booked a flight that leaves tomorrow night.”

“I am frightened, Ryan. Of what it could mean. And what if I’m pregnant...” Her voice trailed off.

He could tell she was on the verge of tears, and probably had been since he had last spoken to her a few hours ago. He rubbed his temples, took a deep breath.

“Then we’ll face it together,” he said. He felt terrible; he had never seen her like this. In all the years he had known her, she had never appeared so vulnerable. Perhaps it was because she was married now, with a young child...the mothering instinct overpowering everything else of significance.

“I love you, Denise. Whatever comes our way, we’ll deal with it together. As for this lump, I understand it’s a terrible thing to have to deal with, no matter what it turns out to be. But I’m telling you everything’s going to turn out okay, I just know it.” He was not sure what gave him the authority to make that assertion, and he knew it might not be what she wanted to hear. But right now, it was all he could do to hold things together—if not for her, then for himself.

RITTANY HARDING was more attractive than Chandler had envisioned. She was taller than he had thought—about five foot eleven, he figured. The blackmail picture he had seen of her had not done her justice.

Her perfume was light but distinct, her makeup minimal and strategically applied to emphasize her striking features—lip gloss and some rouge to showcase her prominent cheekbones.

She had suggested Frank Fat’s, an upscale Pan-Asian restaurant located downtown. Since Chandler was paying, he reasoned that she chose a place that she would not normally go to on her own when she was picking up the tab.

The interior was richly decorated, with golds, blacks and blood reds the dominant color theme. The hostess showed him to the table where his guest was already sitting and waiting.

“Miss Harding,” Chandler said, extending his hand as he sat down.

“Please, call me Brittany,” she said with a big toothy smile, extending a limp hand in response.

“Brittany.” Chandler smiled back, his eyes inadvertently locking on the sheer, form-fitting outfit she was wearing.

The waitress came over and handed them two menus, quickly reciting the specials they were showcasing for today. Most of the patrons were business executives having “Capitol Power lunches” while negotiating deals, networking, finalizing contracts, or drumming up new business.

“You aren’t a Sacramento native, I take it,” Chandler said, trying to start their relationship off on a light note.

“My mother’s Japanese, my father’s American. I grew up in Chicago, can’t you tell?”

Chandler flashed a coy smile. “Well, I did detect a little Midwestern dialect. What brought you out here?”

“Long story. Let’s just say I’d moved in with this guy when I was twenty, around the time when my father’s job transferred him to Sacramento. My parents and little sister moved and I stayed behind. My situation went from bad to worse, and I followed them out here. That was about four years ago.”

They chatted for another minute, then picked a couple of dishes off the menu and placed their order with the waitress.

“So you said on the phone that you wanted to talk to me about Phillip Madison.”

Chandler let his face turn serious. “My dad once taught me there are two sides to every story. Between the rape and the murder, I’m trying to unravel exactly what happened.”

“Well, about the murder, I don’t know how I can help you. Not that I want to. I’d actually take great pleasure in seeing Phillip Madison behind bars.”

Chandler wished he had that comment on tape. “I figured we’d just chat a bit. Maybe you can be of help, maybe not. After all, you did work with him.”

“We didn’t exactly have a good relationship, you know. I’m sure he’s told you.”

“No, I got your name from someone else at the Consortium. Dr. Madison didn’t review the entire list of people I’m meeting with.” Actually, the truth.

“Well, I’m sure he could give you a mouthful.”

Chandler took a drink of his ice tea. “Why’s that?”

“He raped me and then denied it. I had evidence of it, too. He was so guilty that he had his attorney call my attorney and offer to pay me off. To keep quiet.”

“I didn’t know that,” Chandler said. He crinkled his eyes and forehead as if he were having second thoughts about his client. “Ten me what happened.”

“Oh, he’s got some fancy lawyer. Tried to make it tough on me. Said he’d bring out things in my past, make my life hell. He promised me that testifying in court would be an experience I’d regret the rest of my life. He’d make it feel as if I was on trial instead of his client.”

Chandler reasoned that it was probably Movis Ehrhardt, not Hellman, who had told her that that would be one possible approach of the defense...no doubt what Ehrhardt would do if he were in Hellman’s shoes. “So you decided on an out-of-court settlement,” Chandler said.

Harding nodded, a slight tear appearing in the corner of her eye. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“That’s exactly what I would’ve done if I were in your shoes.”

She looked up and met his eyes. “Really?”

“Of course.” He wanted to gain her confidence and then move on to more important and pertinent matters. “Tell me, did you ever know Phil Madison to drink?”

“He drank like a fish whenever we’d go out for dinner.”

“What would he drink?”

“Beer. Why’s that important?”

“It may not be. I’m just gathering information.” He knew that Madison did not drink beer—he was a wine person. For Chandler, it was yet another reason why planting the six-pack in the car meant that whoever had framed Madison didn’t know him very well. Although drinking preferences did not have significant evidentiary value in court, Chandler considered the information helpful.

“He ever drink and drive while you were with him?”

She pulled out a cigarette. “A few times.” Fumbled with it between her fingertips.

“Doesn’t California have a law about smoking in restaurants?”

“Holding it helps me relax,” she said as she placed the cigarette in her mouth.

Their soup came, followed by the main course; Chandler continued to pepper the meal with more questions about Madison.

“So how’d you hear about the hit-and-run?”

“It was all over the papers,” she said. “His arrest was like a dream come true. The bastard is finally getting what he deserved.”

“So you think he did it?”

She laughed as he poured her some tea. “Who doesn’t? I mean, his fingerprints were the only ones in the car, his empty beer cans were in the backseat, their blood was all over his car, and he didn’t have an alibi.”

“Just because someone doesn’t have an alibi doesn’t automatically make him guilty.”

She glanced around the table, then shook her head and pulled another cigarette from her purse. “No, but it leaves the door wide open.”

He was leading the conversation where he wanted it. “It was eleven-thirty. There aren’t many people who have alibis for that time of night. I bet you don’t have one for that night.”

“That’s true, I don’t. But that’s not the only evidence they have on him.” She looked down at the cigarette. “At least according to the papers.”

Chandler nodded. No alibi; just what he wanted to hear.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to step outside for a moment to take a few drags. I’ll just be a couple of minutes.”

“No problem.”
Take all the time you want.

As she arose from her seat, the busboy came over and began to clear the table. Chandler caught sight of the other cigarette, grabbed it by the end, and placed it in a plastic Ziploc bag he pulled from his jacket pocket.

While Chandler waited for Harding to return, he paid the bill and then stood up to stretch his back, which had begun to ache. Ten minutes after she had left for “a few drags,” he walked outside to see what was keeping her. He wanted to ask her a few more questions and then get her cigarette over to the lab for analysis. He waited outside the restaurant, tapping his foot as the seconds passed. Finally, realizing she was not going to return; finally, he left.

After arriving at the lab fifteen minutes later, he was escorted to the tool impression lab, where Gray was focusing a microscope.

Holding up the Ziploc bag, Chandler said, “I need a favor.”

Gray stood there, looking poker-faced at Chandler, as if he were speaking a foreign language. In that instant, Chandler couldn’t decide if Gray’s expression was
Give me a break
, or
I don’t owe you any favors.
Maybe both.

“This cigarette has saliva on it,” Chandler said, forging ahead, “as well as a lip print. I need to know if it matches the DNA and the lip print on the cans of beer.”

Gray shook his head and made a face. Turned and walked away.

“Hey, this is important, I think I’ve got something here.”

Gray turned hard and faced Chandler, who was following close behind. “In case you don’t realize it, this is not your private lab. Maybe that’s the way you do things in New York. Pulling strings to get private evidence analyzed in a state lab. Won’t fly here. And if anyone found out,” he said with a shrug, “might cause problems for your client. Don’t you think?”

Chandler could feel his face turning red—no doubt a deep shade of crimson.

“And your pal Lou is on vacation for two weeks,” Gray continued. “Left yesterday evening. Some kind of fishing trip, I think. Good luck trying to locate him.” He let a thin smile spread his lips. “Oh, but the DA did give the okay to test the saliva on the cans for DNA.”

“That hasn’t been started yet?”

“I do what I’m told. Except when
you
tell me to do something.”

“Hang on a minute,” Chandler said, trying to contain his anger. “I’m here for only one reason: to get to the bottom of this crime. My client’s innocent. He didn’t kill those people. So in my short time here, I have to find out who did. Isn’t that what we’re all after? Finding the real guilty person and punishing him?”

Gray did not answer. Instead, he turned to walk away.

Chandler grabbed his arm and gently pulled him back.

“Let go of me,” Gray said calmly.

When Chandler released his grip, Gray brushed his hair back and returned to the stool in front of his microscope.

“How hard will it be to run the lip print for me?” Chandler asked, his tone softer. “Tell you what. If the lip print doesn’t produce a reasonable and probable match with the beer can, then I give up, okay? You won’t see me again.” He paused to let this sink in. “But if there is a reasonable match, you’ll run those DNA samples.” If he refused, Chandler could still take the cigarette back with him to New York and run the test himself—but it would add a few variables that he wished to avoid: a different lab, accusations of bias, chain of custody issues, and the danger of contaminating the sample during the trip.

And even then, once he had his DNA results, trying to get a copy of the beer can’s DNA pattern from Gray would be like asking your worst enemy for a loan. It just was not going to happen. He would have to have Hellman handle it through the court. Time consuming. Messy.

Gray stood there, appearing to chew on the offer for a moment. Chandler knew what he was thinking: it would rid him of Chandler’s presence—which was threatening to become as annoying as his dandruff itch. And he would not have to face Palucci’s wrath when he returned.

Gray took the plastic bag without saying so much as a word and headed out of the room.

“Do we have a deal?” Chandler yelled after him.

“Yeah,” Gray shouted back as he turned the comer and walked into the hallway.

THE SUN HAD SET half an hour ago and the wind had whipped up a bit, bringing a cool chill to the air. It was 45 and headed down to the low 30s.

When Chandler arrived at the Madison home, Hellman was getting out of his car with a small bouquet of flowers. They walked up the front steps together and chatted for a moment before Leeza answered the door.

“Jeffrey, these are beautiful,” she said, taking the flowers from him and bringing them up to her nose. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Hellman said.

“So what was the purpose of the motion you filed?” Chandler asked as he walked into the living room.

“The whole idea was to keep this thing from degenerating into a three-ring circus. I wanted the cameras out of the courtroom during the entire proceedings.”

“And?” Madison asked, entering the room. He leaned over and planted a kiss on the back of Leeza’s neck as she placed the cut flowers in a vase.

“And the judge agreed and granted the motion. You should’ve seen Denton’s face.”

“Must’ve been ten shades of red,” Chandler said, taking a seat at the kitchen table. “I’m sure he wasn’t happy about giving up the spotlight.”