“When I got my medical license, eighteen years ago.” Noting the officer’s inquiring look, Madison said, “Orthopedic surgeon.”
“Oh, yeah? Then let me be the first to officially welcome you to hell, doctor.”
THE LAST TIME PHILLIP Madison had his picture taken it was for the California Medical Society’s Surgeon of the Year Award eight months ago. Standing in the cold room against a wall that was incrementally marked with vertical numbers denoting feet and inches, he realized that posing for mug shots was a far cry from the glamour of Dean Porter Studios.
The placard hung from his neck, his name and number lettered in white against a black background. The camera clicked, he turned, it clicked again, and then again. Pictures that would never find their way into the family album. Photos and memories he would keep from Elliott and Jonah, his young children.
The holding cell was encased with steel bars; blotches of black dirt were permanently ground into the gray cement floor, on which thousands of accused offenders had stood and paced, urinated and spat while awaiting their release or transfer to a shared six-by-ten living space.
Several prisoners sat along metal benches that lined the walls. Some of them smelled of alcohol, a couple of urine. One man had an overgrown beard and an anger in his eyes Madison could tell was deep-seated and dangerous. He’d stay as far away from that one as possible.
The other men no doubt sensed that Madison was not one of them...a criminal of a different sort. Of course, the clear nail polish and well-manicured, callus-free hands were definite indications, but it was more than that. The way he carried himself and held his head distinguished him from the others.
Madison counted sixteen prisoners in the cell, all staring at him, all resenting him because they probably could tell that he possessed the very things that had eluded each and every one of them: money and success.
He wondered if they could sense the fear seeping from his pores.
Half an hour later he was removed from the cell and led down the hallway to a pay phone on the wall. Still in a daze, Madison had difficulty recalling the phone number of his attorney and longtime personal friend, Jeffrey Hellman; he called information after having been assured it would not count as his one call, but the number was unlisted. He paced the floor, trying to clear his mind, trying to focus. A moment later, he flashed on the number and made the call.
The phone rang four times and an answering machine clicked on. “You’ve reached the residence of a famous attorney. If this is business related, call me at the office. If you’re calling for one of the family, leave a message and we’ll call you back if it’s constitutionally required.”
Madison cursed under his breath, then left a message.
“Jeffrey, it’s Phil. I’m in trouble. A lot of trouble. It’s about six in the morning, and I’m at the county jail. No, I’m not making a house call. Please get your butt over here as soon as possible and get me the hell out of this godforsaken place.”
Madison was returned to the cell, where he sat down on the hard metal bench. After an hour of desperately replaying the events of the past three months in his head, he finally succumbed to fatigue and closed his eyes.
“ — a visitor. Madison, you hear me?”
Madison sat up abruptly. His eyes found a sheriff’s deputy looking at him through the bars. “You talking to me?”
“Get up. Your attorney’s here.”
DOUGLAS JEFFREY HELLMAN WAS pacing the floor, running his short, stubby fingers across his full head of dark brown hair. He stopped and glanced around at the small visitation area. He’d been here many times before, consulting with countless clients over the years...some guilty as hell, others — a substantial minority — falsely accused. But for some reason, this morning the room stirred the buried feelings of solitude and depression he’d experienced three years ago when his wife passed away. After her death, he had spent a little time with the bottle, a few weeks in psychotherapy, six months swallowing Prozac, and then some more time recovering from all the medication he’d consumed.
Hellman’s lingering thoughts were disturbed by the sudden metallic click of a steel door opening.
Hellman sat down in his chair and lifted the phone. On the other side of the glass was his friend — and now, apparently, his client — Phillip Madison. “Phil. What the hell happened?”
Madison pressed the phone closer to his ear. “What’s there to tell?”
Hellman examined his friend’s face: it was drawn, his eyes were puffy and red, and his hair was disheveled. He had never seen him like this. “Tell me everything.”
“There’s not much to it. I was fast asleep when all of a sudden these cops were at my door asking me where I was tonight. I mean last night.”
“And...”
“And what?”
‘“What did you tell them?”
“I told them that I was at home watching television.”
Hellman pulled out a small pad and started to make a note. “Were you?”
“Jeffrey — ”
He looked up. “Sorry, Phil. I’ve gotta ask these questions. Just answer them and don’t take any of them personally.”
“Fine. Whatever. Yes. I told them the truth.”
“Did they ask you that before they read you your rights?”
Madison hesitated. “Yeah.”
“Okay, back to last night. Did you go out at all?”
“No, I got home around nine, ate dinner, and took a shower. I got into bed, started to watch the news, and fell asleep.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“Did you hear anyone out in the garage? Strange noises around the house? Anything?”
“No. And Scalpel didn’t hear anything either. At least, he didn’t bark or get all worked up.”
“What about while you were in the shower?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Phil, I need to know. Think. Did he bark while you were in the shower?”
“No. I don’t think so. I don’t remember, Jeffrey.”
Hellman sighed.
“Look, even if he was barking, if he was downstairs, I might not have heard him. You know
