“You know,” Madison said after Chandler had hung up, “when I saw her in the market, she had a six-pack in her cart.”
“Why didn’t you mention that before?” Chandler asked. “That’s a very important detail to leave out.”
“I didn’t think of it ’til just now.”
“Do you remember the brand?”
“The cans were gold and black, with some white on them, I think,” he said, looking up at the ceiling as he tried to recall their appearance.
“Millstone Draft?”
Madison pointed at Chandler. “That’s it.”
“Why is that so important?” Leeza asked.
“If we can find someone else who saw that brand of beer in her cart, and at least one of the beer cans has her lip print on it as well as saliva that contains her DNA, then we’ve got a very strong case for them having accused the wrong person.”
Chandler gave Madison’s shoulder a squeeze. “The good guys are starting to make a comeback.”
CHANDLER MET WITH HELLMAN later in the afternoon and informed him of what he had set in motion. Hellman was as enthusiastic as Chandler. His mind was miles ahead on the legal details, mentally preparing the pre-trial motions as they spoke. Chandler also told him that Bill Jennings was on the case and that they’d had problems in the past.
Hellman looked up from his legal pad. “What kind of problems?”
Chandler recounted the history of the case in Sacramento and its effect on their relationship. “He took it very badly. He behaved like an asshole and then wasn’t enough of a man to admit it after the fact. We ran into each other one day when I was downtown, seeing Phil, actually, for an exam — and he said that he’d heard about what had happened to my back. Called me a cripple and said that I deserved it for making his life miserable.”
“You think he’s still got it out for you?”
“I haven’t seen or spoken to him in years. Unless he went through an epiphany, he’s not one to let go of something like that.”
Hellman sighed, arose, and stared out his office window. Off to his right were the buildings of Old Sacramento, erected when California was hosting the Gold Rush and forming the beginnings of organized state government. Although he was looking directly at the historical city, he was not seeing it. He was mulling over what Chandler had just told him.
Finally, Hellman turned around to face his investigator. “I don’t think it’ll have an impact on the case. He hasn’t done anything inappropriate, and if he has an ounce of common sense, he’d be reluctant to risk compounding his past blunders with a brand new screw-up in this case.”
Chandler nodded. “I’ll watch out for anything that doesn’t smell right. Last thing I want to do is make Phil’s situation worse because of my involvement. Just the opposite.”
“I’d tell you to get the hell out of town if I thought this posed a real threat.”
With that, they chose to focus on all the positives that had occurred during the day, and what lay ahead: the arraignment in Superior Court.
AT THE CRIME LAB, Madison was escorted to a tiny room where a technician swabbed his inner cheek with a long, wood-handled Q-tip. As she snapped the top closed over the sample, she explained that she had captured skin cells for purposes of performing a DNA analysis.
Madison knew full well why he was there. It wasn’t just that his DNA was going to be compared to the DNA in the saliva he hoped they would find on the beer cans…it was that his future and fate hung in the balance.
CHAPTER 39
THE SACRAMENTO SUPERIOR COURTHOUSE was a city block long and a city block wide. Its 1980s cement-textured facade stood out against the trees and cars that lined the streets. People flowed into and out of the building, well-dressed attorneys in dark suits, white shirts, and red ties toting their leather attaches while chatting animatedly about everything from plea bargains to Sunday’s football scores.
Judge Cecil Tyson was assigned to preside over the arraignment in Department 17, third floor. The hallways were wide and well lit, with flat, padded black benches opposite the entrance to each courtroom. Double wood doors with small blacked-out rectangular windows provided an effective barrier against those people who sat in the corridor and waited their turn in the witness chair. On the wall, next to each set of doors, was a corkboard with typed papers listing the schedule of cases for the day.
Inside, the courtroom was relatively large, the size of a small auditorium. Walnut-stained wood dominated the decor, lining the walls from floor to ceiling, and covering the desks, judges’ bench, and handrails in the imposing and impressively appointed room. Spotlights, recessed into the towering ceiling, flooded the room with slightly less than adequate light. There were no windows. The spectators were treated to padded movie theater-style seats, creating a deceivingly relaxed atmosphere.
Crowding the first two rows were representatives of the press, sketch pads and pencils at the ready, notepads and digital recorders on their laps. Off to the left and in the last two rows of the galley were representatives of Kindness for the Homeless, a nonprofit organization whose members had a reputation for making their opinions known in a loud and intimidating manner when anything political or controversial occurred involving their cause. The NAACP had sent a couple of representatives as well, to set the table for documenting yet another case of racially motivated violence against African-Americans.
Madison and Hellman sat at the defendant’s table, set off to the left of the room’s center. The judge’s bench, towering above everything else and positioned like a crown jewel set against the back wall,
