“It was obviously stolen,” Madison said. “Did they find it?”
“Yeah. In your garage.”
“Oh, come on. That’s ridiculous.”
“Why?”
“Somebody stole my car, killed two people, and returned the car to my garage? That’s insane.”
“Don’t knock it-that’s our story,” Hellman said.
“Our story?”
“The cops have a different version, and believe me, you’ll like ours a whole lot better.”
“They think I did it?”
“There was an anonymous caller. She said she saw someone in a car of your make and model swerving across the road about a block from the accident scene. She said the driver was wearing a baseball cap.”
“Anonymous tip?”
“Yes.”
“Female?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus, Jeffrey. We both know who that was.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t help us right now.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I don’t like the case they have against you.”
Madison slammed a hand on the table. “But I’m innocent, Jeffrey!”
“I know…but it’s up to us to prove it.”
Madison grasped the handset tighter. “I thought I was innocent until proven guilty.”
“Technically, that’s correct. The burden of proof is on the prosecution.”
“Yeah, so?”
“The evidence is damning. I’d say they could very possibly make a case of it.”
“What evidence?” Madison asked, leaning forward and cocking his head.
“Your car. I don’t have anything official yet, but I hear that the left headlight is broken, there are bloodstains on the front end, the grille is dented, and there are clothing fibers on it. The lab’s running tests on it as we speak, but it doesn’t look good.” He studied Madison’s blank face for a moment. “Can you explain the damage to the front end of your car?”
“No. It wasn’t there when I got home. At least, I don’t think it was.”
“Are you sure?”
“I don’t know, Jeffrey.” He shook his head and leaned back in the hard plastic chair. “I don’t inspect the exterior of my car every time I get in or out of it.”
Hellman sighed. “We need a plan. First of all, I’m going to get you out of here. Second, we need help. I’m going to get a private investigator on this and see what he can dig up.” He flipped his notepad closed.
“Great. Let’s get this thing out of the way. I’ve got enough problems without a hit-and-run hanging over my head.”
“Right now, Phil, this hit-and-run is your problem. All the other things are secondary. This is not a joke, and it’s not to be taken lightly. You’re the prime suspect in a double murder case. We’re talking serious jail time here. And at least for now, the evidence points undeniably to you. You’re in deep shit.”
Madison closed his eyes. His deep sigh was audible through the handset.
“But I haven’t gone to work yet. And you’ve got one of the most important things going for you: you’re innocent. We’ll just have to prove it, that’s all.”
Madison was looking down at the table and did not appear to be listening.
“Phil. Phil, listen to me.”
Madison rolled his eyes upward, toward Hellman. “I’m listening.”
“We’re going to get you cleared, okay?”
“Call Ryan Chandler,” Madison said.
“Who?”
“Ryan Chandler. A former patient of mine. He used to be a cop with the Sacramento Police Department. You won’t find anyone better.”
“Phil, no offense, but this is my area of expertise. Let me handle who we choose as the PI. We need someone good, someone I know I can trust.”
Madison locked eyes with his friend. “Jeffrey, just call him.”
Hellman sighed and opened up his notepad again. “Fine.”
“He’s in New York, you’ll have to get his number.”
Hellman stopped writing and looked up. “New York? You’re kidding, right?”
“No, I’m serious. Trust me. Get him on the case.”
“But Phil-”
“Call him. Do it for me.”
Hellman pondered it a long moment, then said, “I’ll call him. But if he doesn’t measure up, he’s outta here.”
CHAPTER 4
The municipal courthouse was housed in a modern complex of attached buildings on H Street in downtown Sacramento. Arranged around an adjacent three-level parking structure, it occupied an entire city block. People scurried in and passed through the metal detector, where two guards stood properly accoutered with sidearms, primed to act in the event of a crisis.
Hellman took the elevator up to the third floor, where he met Madison in a private cubicle near the courtroom.
“All we’re here for is the arraignment. He’ll read the charges against you, and we’ll discuss bail. Then we get a date for the preliminary hearing.”
“Sounds like a party,” Madison said wryly.
“Phil, no matter what you’re feeling, you have to remain calm and look confident.”
“Easy for you to say. You didn’t just spend a day in the county jail.”
“When you’re in that courtroom,” Hellman continued, ignoring Madison’s comment, “don’t look down at the table and don’t act depressed. Keep your head up, seem interested in what’s going on, and look the judge in the eyes when he addresses you. Got it?”
“Got it.”
They walked into the courtroom, which was well lit, with several rows of movie theater-style spectator seats crammed close together.
The Honorable Leonard Barter strode into the courtroom from a door off to the side of the bailiff’s desk. “All rise,” the bailiff said. “Court is now in session.”
The judge took his seat, pushed aside a few files, and gave the bailiff a short, almost imperceptible nod.
The man began reading the first case from the docket. Hellman’s mind snapped out of his preparatory stupor once he heard Madison’s name. Standing across the aisle was Timothy Denton, the seasoned prosecutor who had made a name for himself over the years with the best conviction record in the DA’s office. Never one to turn down a challenge, he seemed to thrive on high-profile cases.
Barter glanced over at a document, then looked at the defendant. “Mr. Phillip Madison-”
“ Doctor, Your Honor,” Hellman said.
Barter removed his glasses and glared down at Hellman. “ Doctor Phillip Madison. Detectives Jennings and Moreno have supplied me with the charges against you. Have you reviewed them with your attorney?”
“Yes.”
“You’re charged with two counts of vehicular manslaughter, which resulted in the death of Imogene Pringle and Otis Silvers. If convicted, the sentence would be a two- to six-year term for each victim. You’re also charged
