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.
“Because they’re blocking my entrance and won’t allow my patients in to see me. And because they damn near assaulted me as I tried to get into the building. I think I even saw Harding in the crowd.”
“Have you called the police?”
“No, you’re my first call. I didn’t know what to do.”
“People have a right to protest, so you can’t move them based on the fact that they’re there. But they don’t have a right to use physical violence or force on anyone. I’ll make a call and get that taken care of.”
“What about Harding? What the hell was she doing there?”
“Strange as this may seem, she’s got a right to be there, too. Thicken your hide, don’t let all this extraneous bullshit get to you. In a few weeks, we’ll have you cleared and you can get on with your life.”
“And until then?”
“Stiff upper lip, my friend. Meantime, let me make that call and get those people dispersed.”
By the time Madison had returned a few calls, the police had arrived. After they spoke with the protestors, the shouting continued for another hour, but the pouring rain helped to discourage them from maintaining their onslaught.
A few of the morning’s patients were rescheduled for the afternoon; Madison’s referrals had dropped off dramatically since the murder charges were brought, so any additional loss of patients was eating away at an already crumbling dam. Problem was, each time he plugged a hole, another two seemed to pop open. Unfortunately, as he was soon to find out, there were more weak spots lurking beneath the surface.
And the dam was about to burst.
CHAPTER 41
UPON RETURNING FROM LUNCH, Madison noticed a message on his voicemail: it was John Stevens
