“I want my life back!” he yelled into the dead air. But John Stevens’s voice was echoing in his head. “It’s not over…it’ll never be over.”
He grabbed his hair and pulled, hoping the pain would overshadow the heightening nausea. Suddenly, a spasm from deep in his neck clamped down on his throat, an uncontrollable urge rising up from his stomach. He whirled off the toilet and, crouching in front of it, heaved, then heaved again, until he filled the bowl with vomit and bile…the rough grains of granola scraping the lining of his esophagus as they surged upward through his throat.
He knelt over the toilet, the narrow stall a prison, the confining walls moving in on him. He clamped his eyes shut, brushed the hair back off his face, and tried to breathe deeply. But the pressure on his chest was too great. He stood up, grabbed the door to steady himself, and slipped, falling back onto the toilet.
He tried to take another breath. Tore at his scrubs and ripped open the neck, tearing-clawing-at the material, trying to give himself room to breathe. Reached out, pressed his hands against the walls, the vertigo increasing. Taking rapid gasps of putrid air. Hyperventilating.
He cupped his hands over his mouth and took several deep breaths, each lungful of carbon dioxide slowing his heart rate, decreasing his dizziness, calming his stomach. He slowly stood, opened the stall door, and walked over to the sink. He splashed his face with water, rinsed his mouth out, and leaned on the countertop, staring at his pale reflection in the mirror. You can do this.
Feeling stronger, he stood up and squared his shoulders.
He strode back into the locker room to change and saw the crumpled message lying on the floor. He pulled the tom shirt over his head, dressed, and walked out the door.
CHAPTER 70
It took Madison ten minutes to drive from Sacramento General to the courthouse, nearly running three red lights along the way. He left his car in the lot and sprinted across the street. As he neared the doors, he felt himself become suddenly short of breath again. He stopped, put his hands on his knees, and panted like a dog, gulping mouthfuls of air. He stood there, hunched over, as several attorneys in dark suits pushed past him.
A moment later, he stood up and wiped the perspiration from his forehead, passed through the metal detectors, and headed for the elevator. He burst through the doors of the courtroom just as the judge looked over toward the foreman of the jury. A few heads turned to the back of the room, where Madison stood looking for a seat. He found one in the last row and quietly slipped into the chair.
“Mr. Foreman, have you reached a verdict?”
“We have, Your Honor.” The short, rotund man in his fifties handed a piece of paper to the bailiff, who brought it to the judge.
Madison, still weak from the surgery and his panic attack, felt his heart begin to race. There was a hollow sensation in his stomach that he attributed to nerves, however, rather than hunger. He glanced at the members of the jury, trying to read their expressions. Most were staring blankly at the judge, purposely avoiding the gaze of those in the packed gallery. Calvino opened the folded paper and glanced at it.
Madison took a deep, uneven breath, and closed his eyes.
“On count one of the charges, murder in the first degree, how do you find?”
The foreman’s attention was cemented on the judge.
“We find the defendant guilty.”
A roar erupted from the crowd in the packed courtroom; Calvino banged his gavel and shouted for order. Madison’s heart stopped momentarily as dizziness and elation descended upon him simultaneously.
“On count two, murder in the first degree, how do you find?”
“Guilty.”
Another rumble, more gavel banging, hand shaking, and backslapping at the prosecution table. Tears flowed freely from Madison’s eyes as he buried his head in his hands and wept.
“Nooo! I’m innocent!” Harding was on her feet, writhing and flailing as one guard restrained her while another slapped handcuffs on her wrists. “Idiots!” she shouted at the jury, craning her neck to face them. “Go to hell, all of you…” she continued to scream as they dragged her away.
Madison felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned, saw Hellman, and buried his face in his friend’s chest. And wept uncontrollably.
After taking a few minutes to compose himself, Madison left the courtroom through a back entrance to avoid the press and to find Leeza so he could share the good news with her.
Denton saw the reporters gathered at the exit. Plastering a broad smile on his face, he made his way toward the throng of camera crews and reporters. Instantly, microphones descended upon him, the news people shoving the handheld devices in front of his face to capture his comments. As he began to answer questions, he spotted Maurice Mather off in the distance, who had just completed a brief interview of Jeffrey Hellman.
“I want to thank all the members of the media for their support and understanding throughout this long ordeal,” Denton said. “I’d also like to thank the jury for their fine work under difficult conditions. And of course, I’m indebted to the district attorney, who again supplied me with the staff and unending support I needed to obtain this victory for the people of the State of California…”
CHAPTER 71
The party that followed on Friday night was held in the Madisons’ home. The children were allowed to sleep in their parents’ bedroom, on the third floor, so as to have as quiet an environment as possible. A baby-sitter was hired to care for them for the evening.
Everyone in the medical community who had worked with Madison at one time or another had been invited. A couple of hospital administrators showed up, including John Stevens, as well as friends, neighbors, his parents-and of course Ricky. Music played and liquor flowed freely, as did people’s emotions. Drinks were being raised in toast every five minutes, preceded by the clanging of spoon against glass. Following each speech, everyone would drain their beverages and resume their conversations until the next tribute interrupted the chatter.
Streamers were shot off, and even a few fireworks were launched into the cold night air. Choruses of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” erupted at various times during the night. As the evening progressed, Madison felt the weight of his troubles drifting away on an ocean of Scotch.
At two in the morning, people began filtering by to offer congratulations on their way out.
Madison raised his glass and banged it hard with a spoon. He swayed a bit to the side, steadied himself on the wall to his right, and looked out amongst his guests. He focused his thoughts and attempted to speak clearly. “I would be remiss if I didn’t thank two people who stood beside me and kept me sane during the most difficult and trying time of my life. My wife, Leeza, and my longtime friend, Jeffrey Hellman.” A roar went up from the remaining fifty or so guests, some of whom were so blitzed that they would have cheered a toast to the local cow for providing milk.
When the last guest had departed, Madison looked at the clock in his study: it was a few minutes past three in the morning. The place was a mess, with half-empty glasses littering tables, cabinets, bookshelves…just about every horizontal surface was occupied.
He took a deep breath, gazed into his own glass, and, in a stupor, reflected on the recent turbulence of his life…and considered what lay ahead for him in the coming months.
Hellman poked his head in the door and cleared his throat.
“Hey. I thought you left.”
“I was getting into my car, but I had to make sure you were okay.”
“Come, sit.” Madison slumped into his soft leather seat and motioned Hellman to the antique chair in front of his desk. “I’m surprised Chandler didn’t make the party. You did call him, didn’t you?”
Hellman nodded. “He said he had other plans.”
