False Accusations (14 page)

“What about it?” Madison asked.

“Where were you?”

“I don’t recall specifically.”

“Do you keep a calendar?”

He reached into his inside suit coat pocket, pulled out his DayTracker, and opened it up. Hellman took it from him and began to thumb through it, reading the pertinent entries surrounding the date in question. Satisfied, he flipped back to September eleventh and returned it to Madison. “Okay.”

“I had a surgery at nine A.M., did rounds at one, went to lunch, and met with the chief radiologist, Bill Slavens, to consult with him on a few MRIs. Then I went home and ate dinner.”

“Did you see Brittany Harding that night?”

He looked again at his DayTracker. “I don’t have anything written in my calendar...” He flipped through a couple of pages and his index finger found an entry. “We did have a meeting a few days later.”

“What’s the nature of your relationship with Miss Harding?”

“She was filling in for the administrative officer of the Consortium for Citizens with Mental Retardation. I’m the president of the board of directors. We had periodic meetings and phone conversations with each other.”

“Is the presidency a paid position?”

“Strictly volunteer. I do it because I care about the organization and the people and families who need our help.”

“Have you ever had any other kind of relationship with Miss Harding besides the one you just described?” Valentine was sitting off to the side, remaining quiet, no doubt observing Madison and his responses.

“Like what?” Madison asked.

“Romantic.”

Madison locked on her eyes. “No.”

“No dates, dinners, movies, rendezvous in hotels—”

“My client said he had no other types of relationships.”

“Does that mean no to all of the above?” Coleman asked.

Madison shifted his attention to Coleman. “Correct. No with a capital N. But I have had dinner with her.”

Coleman leaned forward. “Oh?”

“We met to discuss Consortium business. I think we talked about an upcoming seminar.”

“When was that dinner?”

Madison looked at his calendar and thumbed a few pages. “October first. Fifth Street Café.”

Hellman flinched slightly, and Madison realized his attorney had made it clear not to volunteer any information unless asked.

“Fifth Street Café.” Valentine’s voice seemed to come out of nowhere. “That’s a pretty hip establishment for just a business meeting.” She tilted her head, clearly questioning Madison’s characterization of the dinner.

“They’ve got good food,” Madison said with a shrug. “Nice atmosphere. It’s one of my favorite places to eat downtown.”

Valentine held his gaze, but did not ask a follow up question.

Coleman directed the focus back to him. “Were you, as president of the Consortium, in the position to dictate who was hired and who was fired?”

“I had input, but Michael Murphy, the regional executive officer, does the hiring and firing.”

“Let’s get back to the night of September eleventh. After you got home and ate dinner, what did you do?”

“I don’t remember. Probably read a journal article or watched television.”

“You’re married, aren’t you, doctor?”

Hellman pulled his client close and whispered into his ear.

Madison did not react, but then faced Valentine. “Yes.”

“Was your wife at home on the night of September eleventh?”

He again consulted his calendar. “No. She and my children were visiting a relative out of town.”

“Hmm,” remarked Coleman. “Did anyone—”

“Look, detectives,” Hellman said, “with all due respect, I think we’re done here. We’ve cooperated and it’s getting late; it’s enough for one night, and Dr. Madison has surgery scheduled for early tomorrow morning.”

“Can I see your calendar, doctor?”

Madison glanced at Hellman, who took the DayTracker and looked at it again. Flipped a couple of pages, read the entries. “You can look at September eleventh and October first,” he said, handing Coleman the wallet opened to the correct location.

The detective scanned the pages. “Okay,” he said, closing the wallet and returning it to Madison. He looked over at Valentine, who gave him a nod. “Thanks for your time.”

BRITTANY HARDING was pacing back and forth in front of her coffee table, smoking a Marlboro. “What do you mean you don’t have enough evidence?”

Detective Coleman stepped to his right in an attempt to avoid the lingering cloud of smoke. “I mean we don’t have enough to charge the man with anything. We talked with him and he seemed pretty credible. It didn’t look like he had anything to hide. I even saw his calendar. There was nothing in there mentioning you on September eleventh.”

“Rape is a very serious charge, Miss Harding,” Valentine said. “We usually like to make it stick when we arrest someone. It’s painful enough for you to have to relive the experience, to go through it in public during the trial. We want to make sure we have enough to put the guy away. Right now, we don’t. It’s hard enough even when we have all the evidence we need.”

“Unless there’s some piece of evidence, someone who saw you there at his house that night,” Coleman said, “we don’t even have any proof that you were there, let alone raped. If you’d come in right after, we could’ve done a rape kit—”

“I told you, I was embarrassed. He’s a powerful, well-regarded man. I didn’t know what would happen if I went to the police.”

“How about the clothes you were wearing?” Valentine asked. “That’d be a start, if you haven’t washed them. They’d still have his semen on them.”

Harding took a puff on her cigarette. “I threw them out. They got torn when he ripped them off me. I could’ve had them repaired, but to be honest with you, just seeing them reminded me of what he did to me.” She took another drag. “But I’ve got the belt I was wearing that night. He touched it while unbuckling it. You can see if his fingerprints are on it.”

“You haven’t worn it since September eleventh?” Valentine asked.

Harding shook her head. “It only goes with two outfits—the one I threw out, and a pantsuit I haven’t worn since then.”

“We’ll take it,” Coleman said, “but we need something to prove that you were in his house that night. We might then be able to link the fingerprints on the belt, if there are any, to the fact that you were in his home.”

“It’s a reach,” Valentine said, “but you never know. It may give us enough to rattle him, at least get him to admit that the two of you were together that night and that something happened.”

Harding blew a puff of smoke toward the ceiling and watched it rise. “How about a couple of phone calls?”

“Phone calls?”

“Yeah. I made a couple of calls while I was there, before he attacked me. One was to my mother, and one to my sister. I’ll give you the numbers. Check his phone bill.”

“Now we’re cooking,” Valentine said. She pulled out her pad and made a note of the numbers. “We’ll be in touch in a few days.”

“Don’t forget the belt,” she said, the trail of smoke following her like a snake as she disappeared into her bedroom.

ELEVEN DAYS PASSED without event. Neither Madison nor Hellman had heard anything from the detectives, and Hellman assured him that no news was good news—if they had enough to charge him, they would have already done so. Still, Madison’s concentration was off; he had difficulty focusing on the patients while they were talking to him during their examinations. His mind kept coming back to the Harding matter, and what it could mean to him and his family should they arrest him and charge him with sexual misconduct.

He reasoned that about the only charge that could be more damaging to a physician would be rape. Being innocent had nothing to do with it: given the nature of the difficulties in obtaining definitive evidence in sexual misconduct cases—unless there were witnesses, generally it was one person’s word against another’s. The charge would stick and remain in the collective mind of the public for years to come.

If he was found not guilty, they would say it was because of a lack of evidence, her word against that of a prominent surgeon; if he was found guilty, not only would he be a victim of a sick mind, but it would no doubt destroy his family.

No matter how it turned out, it would haunt him for the rest of his medical career, hanging over his head like a lead umbrella.

The red light on his phone was flashing when he returned to his office. He had been seeing patients steadily and this was the first moment he’d had to himself. He hit a couple of buttons and listened to the message. It was Jeffrey, urging him to call as soon as possible.

The receptionist put him right through.

“I got a call from those detectives this morning.”

Madison’s heart skipped a beat. “I thought no news was good news.”

“They want to get together tonight. Something about new evidence.”

“New evidence?” he asked, suddenly aware of the moisture forming across his forehead. “What the hell kind of evidence could they have?”

“I was going to ask you,” Hellman said. “There has to be something about that evening.”

Madison said, “Maybe someone saw her or her car leaving.”

“There was a brief moment of silence. “Look,” Hellman said, “let’s assume they have something we didn’t think of. It can’t be too damning, because if it was ironclad, they would’ve just come over and arrested you.”

“That’s comforting.”

“We’ll go over later and play it by ear. If the situation seems right, go ahead and tell them that she was there and you examined her, but forgot about it, and you didn’t think it was on September eleventh, but it could’ve been. Just make it convincing.”

“I knew it, Jeffrey. It’s always best to tell the truth. Then you can’t get caught in lies. You don’t have to worry what you’ve told to whom.”

“I never said you shouldn’t tell them the truth. I just said you shouldn’t volunteer the information.”

“Whatever.”

“I’ll meet you in the lobby of the station at six-thirty. Can you make it?”

Madison looked down at his calendar and schedule for the day. “Yeah, I can cancel my fundraising committee meeting tonight.”

“Don’t worry, okay?”

“Worry? What have I got to be worried about?”

“Phil—”

“I’ll see you later, Jeffrey,” he said, hanging up without waiting for a response.

Hellman sat in the lobby, waiting for Madison to show. He looked around, his eyes taking in the decor and clamor of the police station. But his mind was miles away.

He was thinking about the times when he and Madison were young teenagers, playing one-on-one basketball at the high school playground. Madison’s height advantage was sometimes too difficult to overcome. But Hellman always proved a worthy opponent, practicing hard and focusing on playing intelligently so as to minimize his friend’s physical advantages. Their competitions were fierce, evidenced by the fact that nothing deterred them—not rain, cold, or darkness.

“...Jeffrey,” Madison was saying.

Hellman shook his head. “I was daydreaming. We were playing ball at McClatchy.”

“I was winning, right?” Madison said. “I always won.”

Hellman smiled as they walked down the hall to meet the detectives. “Same team now. Hell of a combination. Unbeatable.”

They ascended the stairs and were led to the same interview room, where they sat down opposite Coleman and Valentine.

“Let’s talk about that night again,” Coleman said. “September eleventh of this year. You remember our last conversation? You said that you had nothing in your calendar about meeting Brittany Harding that night.”

“You saw my calendar.”

“Yes we did.”

“Maybe, instead of interviewing me again, you should be speaking with some of the people who’ve witnessed this lady’s bizarre behavior. She’s a nut.”

“Is that your medical opinion of Miss Harding?”

“Detective, let’s not play cat and mouse,” Hellman said. “Can we just get down to the nuts and bolts? You said you had new evidence.”

“We do.”

Valentine pulled a couple of papers from the folder that was sitting on the metal table in front of her. She handed one of them to Madison, who tilted it so that Hellman could see.

“Is that a copy of your phone bill, doctor?” she asked.

“My wife pays the bills, I never see them.”

“Is that your telephone number at the top?”

“Yes.”

Valentine handed him another page. “Do you recognize the two phone numbers that are highlighted in yellow?”

Madison instantly remembered. Harding had made two calls from his house before she left that night. How convenient. No,
how clever.

Valentine leaned forward. “Doctor?”

“What?” Madison asked, not looking up. “No, I don’t recognize those numbers.”

Hellman was beginning to noticeably sweat.

“You’ll notice those calls were made on September eleventh, at ten-fifteen and ten-sixteen P.M.”

No response from Madison. He was still staring at the paper.

“Those numbers,” Valentine continued, “are local toll calls to the phone numbers of Sue Harding, Ms. Harding’s mother, and Nancy Bonham, her sister.”

“Hmm,” Madison mused, as if the news was intensely interesting.

“Detective,” Hellman said, “if I could have a moment with my client.”

“Wait a minute,” Madison said. “She made a couple of calls one night when she dropped by my house complaining of abdominal pain.”

“So she
was
at your home that night,” Valentine said.

“Well, if she made these calls on the eleventh I guess the night she came over was the eleventh. She wasn’t a patient. I didn’t keep treatment notes of her visit.”

“Apparently, it
was
September eleventh, Dr. Madison.” Valentine paused. “Wasn’t it?” she said, locking on his gaze.

“It would appear so.”

“So Harding’s story is taking on some truth,” she said to Coleman.

“What are you talking about?” Madison asked. “What possible reason would I have for making advances to Brittany Harding? I have a wife and two kids. I’m happily married.”

Coleman leaned forward toward Madison. “She’s a looker. Twenty-five, long legs, big tits. You had something she wanted...her job. And she had something you wanted. So you told her that if she wanted to keep her job, she’d have to grease your pole.”