“Remember, when he asks you to enter your plea,” Hellman whispered into Madison’s ear, “look him in the eye and speak in a confident voice. Tell him the truth. Everything about your demeanor should say that you’re not guilty and that they have the wrong man.”
The Honorable Cecil Tyson ascended the steps to his bench and sat down. Tyson was a thin, frail man of seventy-three years, who looked ten years older. But the counsel who made the common error of thinking that old Judge Tyson was a pushover had something coming — and it was not pleasant. It was best to be congenial and respectful, perhaps more so than usual, due to his sensitivity over his age. Fresh, slick attorneys who did not yet know the court and its judges made the mistake of trying to be too aggressive, feeling they could push him a bit, put one over on him, or pursue a line of questioning that was already ruled inappropriate. Tyson was still sharp and cantankerous. He did not like to be taken advantage of.
His Honor opened up a file and pulled a document from it. He placed his reading glasses on the tip of his broad, pockmarked nose. “I have here Information number 12762, which resulted from the preliminary hearing,” he said, waving the document in the air.
The Information, the Superior Court’s version of the charging document that was presented during Madison’s arraignment in Municipal Court, was filed by the district attorney and outlined the charges against the defendant. In filing the Information, the Municipal Court judge had indicated that he had found that sufficient evidence existed to establish probable cause that the defendant had committed the crime.
“Dr. Madison,” Tyson said, “this document has been served to your attorney. Have you had a chance to review it?”
“Yes sir.”
“Very well. You’re charged with one count of vehicular manslaughter, resulting in the death of Otis Silvers; and one count of second-degree murder with an abandoned and malignant heart, resulting in the death of Imogene Pringle.”
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.
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
