Hellman cleared his throat. “Your Honor, defense waives formal reading.”
Tyson nodded, removed his glasses, and set the paper aside. He looked down at Madison. “Dr. Madison, do you understand the charges against you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you understand that if convicted you could be sentenced to fifteen years to life in prison?”
He stared Tyson right in the eyes and cleared his throat, prepared to speak with authority in his voice. There was none. A weak “Yes, Your Honor” escaped.
“Then how do you plead, sir?”
He cleared his throat again. Forcing air straight up from his lungs to the back of his throat, he squared his shoulders and said, “Not guilty.”
The judge’s slight frown clearly indicated that he was unimpressed: undoubtedly, Madison’s response was expected and routine. Hellman placed a hand on Madison’s shoulder and gave it a slight squeeze. The reporters in the first couple of rows scribbled furiously on their notepads.
“Very well,” Tyson said as he replaced his reading glasses. “Dr. Madison, your trial is set for Monday, February fifteenth. All pretrial motions and matters should be filed by…January twenty-first, and disposed of by February first.” He looked down at the two attorneys. “Is there anything unusual that I should suspect or prepare for?”
Denton stood. “Your Honor, the People request that the trial date be calendared for no earlier than March fifth. We need adequate time to prepare all the evidence, complete our tests, and appropriately conclude our investigation.”
“Your Honor,” Hellman said, trying to muster all the sugar he could in his voice, “my client has a right to a speedy trial. His practice is a shambles while he stands accused of a very heinous crime. He is innocent, and delaying the declaration of his innocence is damaging to his reputation.”
‘The judge raised his eyebrows. “Mr. Denton.”
“Your Honor, the criminalist assigned to this case who collected the physical evidence is out ill with ulcerative colitis. Someone else has been assigned to the case and is completing the workup, but it’s possible that not all the tests were run that will be needed to complete our case for the People.”
“This is all very interesting, Mr. Denton.” Tyson leaned forward in his seat. “But in my opinion, you have adequate time to make your case against Dr. Madison. I don’t feel that it’s necessary to detain the doctor any longer than necessary. Since he’s innocent until proven guilty, I will give him the benefit of the doubt on this one. The trial will begin February fifteenth. Have your house in order by that time.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Tyson looked over at his clerk and nodded. She opened the large book and thumbed through it. “Judge Calvino is available.”
“Very well. Judge Calvino will preside.” He rapped his gavel, and the people at the tables in front of him dispersed. Denton tossed Hellman a dirty look, as if he had just banished him to overtime hell for at least the next four weeks. He was now going to have to put his nose to the grindstone in order to be properly prepared.
Hellman, on the other hand, was stunned, still standing and facing Tyson, who was busy shuffling paperwork. Drawing Judge Calvino was a blow to Madison. Although he had known it was a possibility, the chances of drawing Calvino were slim.
Calvino had taken the bench in 1974, and had himself gone through a personal tragedy several years ago when his wife Vivian was struck by a drunk driver while crossing a street at dusk. The defense had argued that with the sun preparing to set, even a completely sober driver could not have seen or avoided his wife. The jury took two days to decide in favor of the defendant.
Calvino was furious, failing to comprehend how they could overlook the fact that the driver had three glasses of beer half an hour before he began his joyride. He was not the same judge afterward, three times being reprimanded for giving inappropriate instructions to the jury on murder trials. Following his wife’s death, he seemed to wage a personal vendetta against all defendants in his courtroom; they were guilty unless proven innocent-and there was no place for reasonable doubt. He admitted as much during a rare argument Hellman had with him in his chambers after his remarks to the jury resulted in a quick conviction-one that Hellman appealed and later won.
Calvino’s most recent time on the bench had been less turbulent. Circulating rumors had him undergoing counseling, which helped him deal with his wife’s death-something he had never accepted nor come to grips with. During the past several months, in demeanor he was more like the judge he had been before the incident: temperamental, sometimes even petulant-yet overall, relatively evenhanded.
But the past bothered Hellman, as he was keenly aware of the fact that Madison’s case contained similarities to the one involving Vivian Calvino’s death. He could not help but feel that this was a bad omen, but one which he was not going to share with Madison. Madison’s contempt for the judicial system was a topic they had debated for years, and this certainly would not help matters. In fact, Calvino’s case had been debated by them once at a barbecue, when Madison vehemently argued that the judge should have been relieved of his duties since he was no longer an impartial purveyor of justice…a view shared by many more qualified experts at the time.
Fortunately, Hellman never told his friend the judge’s name-he would not take it well if he learned that this was the same man who was going to be presiding over his case.
Hellman shook his head as he gathered his papers together. Bad omen? Curse would be more accurate.
CHAPTER 40
When Madison arrived at his office, there was a crowd gathered in front of the main entrance. Since it was raining and he did not want to roll down his window, it was difficult for him to see what was going on.
He parked, grabbed his umbrella, and walked over toward the entrance to the one-story building. As he approached, someone shouted “There he is!”-and twenty or thirty heads turned in his direction. He was quickly surrounded by the mass of people as he attempted to make his way through to the front of the building.
“Murderer,” a man yelled near his ear. “You don’t deserve to live!”
They tossed him about as he struggled to reach the entrance.
“Let me through,” Madison said. He took another step and tripped, falling against the glass of the front entrance.
He stood up, sliding his shoulder along the wet door, trying to muster enough traction with his feet to push against it and escape the mob. As it swung open, he literally fell inside-his umbrella lost somewhere in the crowd, and his hair soaked by the rain.
Bonnie, his receptionist, came running over to him, “Are you okay?”
“Kind of a rude greeting, don’t you think?” he said, trying to make light of it. He straightened his tie and ran his fingers through his hair in an attempt to make it presentable. He turned and looked outside at the horde of protesters, who were now chanting derogatory phrases in unison.
In the back of the crowd, Madison thought he saw Brittany Harding. He looked again, but with the dozens of people milling about, he lost sight of her.
“…I tried reaching you on your cell,” Bonnie said, “but I couldn’t get through. A couple of your morning patients turned around and left. They wouldn’t let them in.”
“Who are those people?” he asked as he walked into his office and hung up his raincoat.
“There are a couple of NAACP signs out there. But from what I could see, most of them are with the Homeless Advocate Society.”
Madison walked behind the large, granite reception desk. “The people I’m accused of killing worked for that organization.”
He sat down in his office. Files were piled higher than his line of sight. He pushed them aside against a stack of partially read journals, and picked up the phone to call Hellman. He got through immediately.
He answered in a flurry, speaking quickly. “I’m about to go into a deposition, so we’ve gotta make it fast.”
Madison related what was going on outside his office.
“Yeah, and why do I want to know this?” Hellman asked.
