False Accusations (9 page)

Her tone upon answering the phone smacked of anger.

“Sorry to bother you,” Madison said.

“I’ve had a rough day.”

Madison placed both elbows on his desk. “How so?”

“I just got off the phone with a member who was downright rude. All I did was mix up an appointment, and he went off on me about how incompetent women are, how his donation pays my salary, and if he has any say over things, there won’t be many women employed by the Consortium in the near future.”

“Who was this?” Madison asked. He pulled a legal pad from his drawer to document the time and content of their conversation.

“Ed Dolius.”

“Ed Dolius said that?”

“After a minute of listening to him slam women, I just hung up on him. I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit back and take—”

“Are you sure you’re talking about Ed Dolius? I’ve never known him to say anything derogatory about anyone,” he said, writing as quickly as he could. “And I just spoke with Randy Yates. He doesn’t remember being abusive toward you at all. Are you sure you didn’t misinterpret the situation?”

“I’m sure. I guess he’s got memory problems as well as a disgusting personality.”

Madison put his pen down. “Brittany, I’ve been friends with Eddie Dolius for nearly ten years, and I’ve always found him to be a good man. He’s also had some pretty serious financial difficulties, and he hasn’t been able to make a donation to the Consortium for the past couple of years.”

“So what are you saying?”

“Just that I don’t know why he’d bring up his donation when he hasn’t made one. He’s pretty embarrassed by the fact that he hasn’t been able to afford it, and he sure as hell doesn’t like to talk about it.”

Harding was silent.

“It also doesn’t make sense that he’d say anything negative about women. For one thing, he was an outspoken supporter of ERA back in the seventies. And for another, I happen to know that he’s been a huge Barbara Boxer supporter. Years ago, he even worked on her campaign.”

“What do you want me to say? That was then, this is now.” She paused for a moment. “Do you not want me to tell you when things like this happen?”

“I want to know everything,” he said. “I need to know everything.”
Including what the hell is going on with you.

“Then don’t complain when I tell you things you don’t want to hear. Or believe.”

Madison shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He decided to take a different approach. “Brittany, do you think that maybe there’s a possibility that you’re... misinterpreting what these people are saying?”

“None whatsoever.”

“I’m just asking if there’s a possibility.”

“You’re not hearing me. I said no. I’m not stupid, Phil—or are you saying that because I’m female I’ve got a problem with communication?”

Madison sat back in his chair. “I’m not saying anything like that.”

“Do you have any more antagonizing questions to ask me?”

“I’m not trying to antagonize you. I just want to figure out what’s going on.”

“I told you what’s going on.”

Madison sighed, rubbed at the wrinkles in his forehead. “Brittany, I think you should keep in mind that if Donna’s going to be out much longer, we’re going to have to assemble a search committee. I’ll need to know if you’re going to be applying for the position.”

“I didn’t realize that you were going to open the job up to outside applicants.”

If I wasn’t before, I am now.
“You should assume it will be.”

“Are you trying to tell me something?”

Madison sighed. “Look, I don’t want to argue with you. Let’s both make an effort to be less on edge with the people we deal with—including each other.” If they needed to work together, even if only for a short time until the situation with Donna could be stabilized, he wanted to make sure they ended their conversation on a positive note.

“Fine,” she said.

He confirmed their meeting at Fifth Street Café for Wednesday night and hung up. She could use a couple of days to cool off. He took one look at the files on his desk, removed his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. Deciding it could all wait until tomorrow, he called Leeza to let her know he was leaving the office and would be home in fifteen minutes.

THE FIFTH STREET CAFÉ was a small yet atmospheric storefront restaurant located in the heart of downtown. Small tables were crammed in against one another—“a cozy setting” was the way one
Sacramento Bee
food critic described the venue. The menu was displayed in green fluorescent writing on a lighted board above the bar. For those customers who had forgotten their reading glasses, a one-sheet typewritten menu was supplied.

Madison arrived ten minutes late, having been detained by a patient with a frozen shoulder. The hostess pointed him in the direction of Harding, who was sitting at a table near the window. She was wearing a tight burgundy knit shirt that conformed to her body. Her hair was brushed back and fell gently across her shoulders.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said.

She motioned for him to sit down in the chair to her right. “I got here late, too. I’ve got this pain in my right ear, like something’s stuck in it.” She grimaced and plucked at it with her fingers. “It really hurts.”

“Here, let me take a look,” he said, leaning over toward her.

“Got stuck on the phone with this retarded kid’s parent and he talked my ear off,” she was saying as he examined it.

“It’s
a child with mental retardation
,” he said, “not ‘retarded kid.’ And I don’t see anything in your ear.”

“There’s got to be something there,” she said. “Take another look.” She moved closer; he inched forward toward her ear. She tilted her head back and giggled.

“That tickles,” she said.

“Still don’t see anything.”

“Hopefully it’ll just go away. It’s probably from spending too much time on the phone.”

“So what did that parent want?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle. But some people have all the nerve.”

Madison sensed more problems and although he was afraid to hear what had happened, he knew he had to ask.

“How so?”

The waiter came by and greeted them, then recited the daily specials. “Do you need a few more moments?”

Madison glanced at Harding, who shook her head.

“No, we’re ready,” he said. He gave the waiter their order, then unfolded the napkin and placed it on his lap. “So what kind of nerve?”

“Very demanding. Wanted this and that for his daughter, I told him we couldn’t help him, that we had a limited budget and the money only went so far.”

Madison was hesitant to pry further. “How did he take it?”

“Not very well. He was persistent, so I finally had to tell him that if he didn’t like what we had to offer, he could go somewhere else.”

“You didn’t really say that, did you?” he asked, instantly regretting his confrontational tone. “Why didn’t you just say that you’d do what you could to help him, and if we couldn’t get him everything he needed, you’d find out what other agencies he could contact?”

“I just didn’t want to take his garbage anymore.”

“Brittany, we talked about this Monday night—”

“Phil, I’m sorry, but you don’t know what it’s like dealing with these people.”

“I deal with the public every day. People in pain, people who’ve had all sorts of terrible injuries. They’re not always the most outwardly pleasant individuals to talk with at first. But you warm them up, pull them out of their doldrums.”

“If I got paid as much as you do, I’d be more patient too.” She stared at him smugly, apparently feeling that she had both justified her position and put him in his place.

Madison clenched his jaw, fighting back an angry response: it would only create a scene. He instead fell silent, hoping to communicate his disapproval in a more indirect manner.

Harding pulled out a compact mirror and checked her makeup. It appeared to Madison to be an attempt to ignore him, a power play, to show him that he had not rattled her. She pursed her lips, snapped the mirror closed, and faced him. “I really
have
made an attempt to be more pleasant with these people, you know.”

He sat there looking at her, a bit perturbed. Was this her attempt at being civil, at making up? “Good. It’s important to remember that we’re servants of our membership.”

“I understand.”

“That question I asked you the other day about whether or not you were going to submit an application for your position… Do you know what you’re going to do?” He sat back and waited for her reaction.

“I’m going to apply,” Harding said. “Unless you think it would be fruitless.”

He gave an ambiguous shrug of his shoulders. He didn’t want to lie to her. “Why don’t we cover our planned agenda.”

As he began to list the issues they would need to cover, Harding picked up a piece of bread and tore it into pieces.

Several days later, Madison saw John Stevens, Sacramento General Hospital’s chief of staff, exiting the elevator.

“John!” Madison said, heading over toward Stevens. “How goes administration?”

“Usual bullshit. Wish I was back in private practice, tell you the truth.”

“C’mon, it’s me, John. Be honest. You thrive on the power.”

They both laughed. Madison knew that John Stevens hated people who possessed power and despised those who held it over others. But unforeseen medical problems—a tremor that made it impossible for him to continue performing surgery—left him with few options. Since he was well liked and a hell of a good physician, the hospital offered him an executive position at Madison’s urging. He took it, and despite the fact that he hated paperwork and politics, he had actually thrived in his new career.

“Before I forget,” Stevens said, “I’ve got a question. About the Consortium.”

Stevens had sat on the CCMR board last year as a favor to Madison, since Madison needed his friend’s sound organizational skills and planning abilities. He had served his year obligation, but declined another term due to other commitments and a position on another organization’s board with which he had worked for fifteen years.

“Sure,” Madison said. “Go ahead. What do you want to know?”

“I heard there’s a lot of stuff going on—some problems. Thought you should know about it.”

“Problems?”

“With that interim admin officer. What’s her name?”

“Brittany Harding.” Madison suddenly felt the rudiments of a headache forming. “What’ve you heard?”

“That you and Harding had words the other night.”

“Where the hell did you hear that?”

“I spoke with Kathryn Heath. She spoke with Chuck Nallin.”

“Chuck Nallin?”

“He supposedly ran into Harding at a gas station and she started talking his ear off.”

“I didn’t realize Chuck knew her that well.”

“That was the strange thing about it. He’d only spoken to her once before, a couple of weeks ago.”

Madison said nothing. He stood there, staring straight ahead down the hall, trying to reason it out. Nurses and orderlies passed by and occasionally weaved around them.
What the hell is Harding up to?

“What’s going on, Phil?” Stevens was saying.

“Huh?”

“What’s the deal?”

“I wish I knew, John. When I figure it out, I’ll let you know.”

“AND THAT,” MADISON SAID, staring out the window at the gray December afternoon, “was the beginning of my nightmare.”

Ryan Chandler pushed himself up from the sofa. “Oh, man. I can’t sit like that for such long periods,” he said as he crouched down to stretch his low back.

Madison nodded. “See where my head is? I should never have let you sit on the couch to begin with. They’re the worst things for bad backs—”

The electronic ring of the phone interrupted him. Madison crossed the room to answer it while Chandler checked his watch, which was still set for New York time. They had been talking for nearly two hours. He twisted his torso first to the left, then to the right. It was good that the phone rang. He needed the break to clear his head. Although he usually adjusted his watch to the proper time zone while on the plane, it never seemed to help: the time change was disorienting no matter what the display read.

Madison passed him the handset. “Jeffrey wants to talk to you.”

“Hey.” He listened a moment, then asked, “And what did they find?... Okay. I’d like to drop by and examine the evidence myself. And the bodies... I know, but it would still be wise for someone from our side to look it all over... Who’s in charge there now?” Chandler turned to Madison. “Jeffrey’s checking on a name for me.” He picked up his near empty can of Coke. “Man, it seems like Harding was really out there.”

Madison combed his hair back with his fingers. “You’ve got no idea. I haven’t even gotten to the good stuff yet. If you think she’s got problems based on what I’ve told you so far—”

Chandler held up a hand. “Yeah, Jeffrey, I’m here… Lou Palucci? That’s awesome. Lou and I go way back. Let me make a few calls and see what I can do...I’ll let you know.”

He hung up the phone, dialed information and asked for the number for the Division of Law Enforcement. He then called Lou Palucci, the director of the Bureau of Forensic Services.

Palucci explained that they would have to do a security background check on him, as the rules restricting access to the areas where evidence is stored and evaluated had become more stringent since Chandler left Sacramento. Chandler knew that he would pass it without difficulty, and told him he would meet him in half an hour.

“They have some results back on the car,” he told Madison. “I’m going to head over and see what they found.”

Madison called his office to inform his receptionist he would be in by noon. With his practice a ghost of what it once was, he could now afford such luxuries. The patients who did come in invariably asked him about his arrest. It made for a very uncomfortable doctor/patient relationship, but he always politely brushed the questions aside and tried to satisfy their curiosity with a direct denial of the charges and a promise to come through all of this unscathed.

He wished that Jeffrey Hellman could make him the same promise.