False Accusations (37 page)

Harding stood there, stunned, and for perhaps the first time in her adult life, speechless.

“Please open your mouth,” Moreno said, holding out the elongated cotton swab. “May I?” she asked softly, with reassurance in her voice. Harding turned and gave Jennings a dirty look, then swung her face back to Moreno.

The detective rubbed the soft tip against the inside of Harding’s cheek, then placed the sample in its protective case.

Jennings motioned to the police phlebotomist who was waiting outside with the blood draw paraphernalia. The latex-gloved woman entered and took the syringe and vial out of a small pouch and placed it on the kitchen counter.

Harding looked down at the needle as the phlebotomist placed the rubber strip around her arm and tied a quick knot.

A tear dropped from her cheek as the woman stabbed her vein with the needle. “That goddamned son of a bitch. I’ll get him for this.”

HELLMAN RAISED A GLASS OF champagne over dinner. He had invited them over after learning, earlier in the day, that Denton was going to drop the charges against Madison and arrest and charge Brittany Harding with the murders.

“Congratulations,” Hellman said. “To smooth sailing from this point forward.”

Madison clinked his glass against Hellman’s. “Thanks for giving me my life back. I guess time will tell what kind of effect this whole episode has had on my career.”

“If Harding’s trial goes well, and she’s brought down in convincing fashion, with some luck you may be able to resume some sort of normal practice.”

“How do you convict someone unconvincingly?”

Hellman chuckled. “Believe me, there are ways—the judge loses control of the courtroom, there are surprise juror issues like misconduct or conflicts of interest, the police or crime lab are put on trial for procedural blunders or conspiracies, things of that sort.”

“You know,” Leeza said, “it’s sad, really, when you think that all the people who doubted you before now feel the need to call and tell you they knew you were innocent all along.”

“We’ve gotten about twenty calls so far,” Madison said.

“Seems like people prefer going with the flow. It’s rare people buck the tide, stand up for someone he or she believes in,” Leeza said, looking at Hellman. “Thanks.”

“Practice was getting boring. I needed something to spice it up. Maybe I should be thanking you.”

“So what happens now, to Harding?”

“Now that the DNA’s been a confirmed match, they’re running it through a different method just to make sure. Denton looked bad once: he doesn’t intend to look bad twice. He said he wants to go into this trial with as much foolproof ammunition as possible.”

“You think the jury will convict her?”

“With everything we’ve given him, Denton’s got enough to make a compelling case of it. I think there’s a good chance she’ll go down.” He looked at Madison, afraid to broach the subject, but realizing he had to, sooner or later. “How would you feel about testifying at her trial?” He couched it as a casual question, as if Madison really had a choice.

“Do you think that’s really going to be necessary?”

“Denton thinks so. He asked me to mention it to you.”

“Why should I? Because he’s been such a nice guy to me?”

“He was just doing his job, Phil. Besides, he needs your testimony to establish motive. If he can show that she had a reason to kill, and a reason to frame you with the crime, he’s got a case. But without an eyewitness and no established motive, his case is weak to the point of almost being fruitless.”

“I thought you just got through saying that the case was compelling,” Leeza said.

“With Phil’s testimony it is. Without it...” He shrugged and tilted his head, as if to say,
Who knows
?

“He’s got the DNA in the car,” Madison said.

“You don’t really want to base the entire case on that. Who’s to say that the cans weren’t planted there? It’s not likely, but that could be what the defense will argue.”

“Personally, I’d rather you didn’t testify, Phil,” Leeza said. “Enough is enough. A minute ago we were talking about putting this episode behind us and moving on, and now you’re asking Phil to testify,” she said, throwing her napkin onto the table.

“What I’m hearing is that I really don’t have much of a choice.” He looked at Hellman.

“If you won’t agree to testify, Denton will subpoena you.”

“This is ridiculous,” Leeza said. “Haven’t they caused enough—”

“What’s your recommendation?” Madison asked Hellman.

“Agree to testify voluntarily. Let’s help them make the case and get this whole thing behind us. Permanently,” he said, looking over at Leeza, who was staring at him through narrowed eyes.

Madison looked at Leeza. “I don’t have a choice, honey. Better to do it voluntarily than to be antagonistic. You never know when you need them on your side. And maybe it’ll do me some good to tell my story.”

She folded her arms across her chest and shook her head. “You’re nicer than I would be. A week ago, they were preparing to hang you in the town square.” She looked hard at Hellman. “I’d tell them to go to hell.”

HIS TIE WAS loosened at the neckline, his thinning hair was windblown and uncombed, and he had a five o’clock shadow. Denton looked at Jeffrey Hellman sitting across the desk from him and raked a hand across the stubble on his chin. “No, I can’t do that.”

Hellman leaned forward in his chair. “Can’t or won’t?”

“Won’t. I won’t give Phillip Madison immunity if he testifies. It’s as simple as that.”

“You need Madison to make your case. He’s a key witness.”

“If he’s innocent, as you’ve claimed so fervently, why would he want immunity?”

“He isn’t asking for it, I am. He doesn’t know anything about this conversation. I consider it part of my responsibility to my client—I’d be remiss in my duties if I didn’t ask for it.”

Denton took a sip of coffee that had been sitting on his desk for several hours. He knew that all good defense attorneys asked for immunity in cases such as this. Depending on the prosecutor and the witness, it was sometimes granted.

“Tim, look at it from my perspective: you were days away from placing him on trial for a double murder he didn’t commit. So being truly innocent isn’t worth jack shit in my book. I don’t have to tell you this wasn’t the first time an innocent person was charged with a crime.” He paused to size up Denton, who was reclining in his chair, expressionless, listening to Hellman’s argument. “Not only that, but my client’s going to take the stand and testify against a person who’s tried very hard to destroy him by ruining his reputation. The defense attorney’s going to try and tee off on him. He’ll bring in anything he can possibly get his hands on—true or not—to discredit him. And I won’t be there to protect him.”

“You have my word that I’ll do everything in my power. I don’t want to see him get beaten up on the stand. Remember, he’s my witness too. He’s crucial to my case.”

“That’s exactly my point. He’s crucial to your case. His wife doesn’t want him to testify, and he’s not exactly keen on the idea either. He’s had enough. It’s been a very rough six months for them. And it’s questionable whether or not he’s ever going to be able to put his professional career back together. You don’t want your relationship with one of your key witnesses to be adversarial.”

“So what’s your point?” Denton said, making no attempt to mask his impatience with the conversation.

“Give him immunity and I’ll make sure that you have the most cooperative witness you could ask for.” Hellman waited for a response; there was none. “Look, you yourself felt that with the new DNA evidence there wasn’t enough of a case against Madison. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have dismissed the charges.”

“But who knows what the future holds? New evidence, a new witness for that matter, could come forward that implicates your client.”

“How often does that happen?”

“Not very often,” Denton conceded. “But it does happen.”

“Yeah, once in a million cases. The same could be said of huge asteroids striking the planet and wiping out all of humanity.”

Denton hesitated.

“Of all the cases you’ve handled, has it ever happened?”

“No,” he said, looking down at his desk.

Hellman leaned farther forward. “Phil Madison is bright and articulate and will make a good witness. He also understands when someone is working with him and when someone is out for his own interests.”

“Justice is my interest. That’s it.”

“And my interest is doing what’s best for, my client. Immunity.”

“I still don’t see why.”

“You know that I never have my clients testify. But now, he’s going to testify at Harding’s trial, and he could theoretically say things on the stand that you’ll then be privy to, on the record, that could be used against him later. And no, I have nothing specific in mind. I promise you that. But I don’t want to leave him naked up there when all he’s trying to do is help you out. What if you lose this trial against Harding and then turn around and recharge my client again to save face. It was only a week ago that you wanted his skin.” Hellman sat down, lowered his voice, softened his tone. “1 want immunity. Shit, he
deserves
immunity. He’s been through enough. Do, it for me, Tim. In all the years we’ve worked on opposite sides of the table, I’ve never deliberately done anything that’s harmed you. How many defense attorneys can you make that statement about?”

Denton sat up straight in his chair; he stared at Hellman for a moment, poker-faced.

“Okay,” Denton said, “I’ll do it. I hope to God the judge doesn’t press me too hard as to why. It’s probably got more to do with our relationship than with Phillip Madison.”

“Who’s the judge?”

Denton smiled. “Calvino.”

“You drew Calvino again?”

“Can you believe it? I take it as an omen.”

“Oh, it’s an omen all right. A bad omen when my client was the defendant.”

They laughed a bit, and talked about the order of immunity that Denton was going to draw up to bring before the judge. Hellman stood and extended his hand. “Thanks, Tim. I’ll do everything I can to help. If you need something, anything, let me know.”

FOLLOWING A WEEK of solid rainfall, many Sacramento area homes in lowlying areas sustained flood damage from overrun creeks and broken levees. The storms were hitting on a rotation basis: one came through and did its damage, while the next was approaching, much in the way an airplane departs the runway while several stacked planes behind it await their turn. With the sun fighting its way through the stratus clouds, the unexpected break in the weather gave homeowners and businesses time to clean up, sandbag, and prepare for the next deluge.

Bill Jennings chuckled as he and Angela Moreno drove toward Brittany Harding’s house, arrest warrant in hand. “This is truly the calm before the storm,” he quipped. “If this lady is as volatile as we’ve been hearing, she could bring the next storm on prematurely.”

“She seemed pretty meek when we were there for her DNA.”

“Shock of the situation. Plus, she wasn’t threatened with anything then, except the loss of a few skin cells and a vial of blood. Now we’re coming to take her to jail.”

They turned into her driveway and radioed their arrival to dispatch; behind them, a sheriff’s department cruiser pulled in front of the house and parked at the curb. They would transport Harding to the station with Moreno for booking while Jennings searched her home and confiscated evidence listed on the more expansive warrant than they’d served previously, to include all pairs of shoes and any materials, binders, or notes she kept during her employment at the Consortium.

The front door opened and revealed Harding, dressed in a smart, tightly tailored suit and ready to walk out the door. “What do you want now?” she asked, an air of defensiveness hardening her face. “I’m on my way to a job interview.”

“Miss Brittany Harding,” Jennings said, stepping through the open front door, “we have a warrant for your arrest in the murders of Otis Silvers and Imogene Pringle.”

“Like hell you do!” she shouted, backpedaling. Jennings reached for her wrist, but she yanked it back. “Get your goddamn hands off me. How dare you come in here and accuse me of murder?”

Moreno rested a hand on her baton.

“Miss Harding, I’m sure you don’t want to make this more difficult than it already is,” Jennings said as he advanced on her. “Come peacefully and it’ll be easier. For all of us.”

She backed against the entryway wall; as Jennings took another step toward her, she kicked him in the groin, doubling him over. Moreno leaped forward and pinned Harding back with the baton shoved beneath her chin. She then spun her around and took her suspect down, face first, onto the tile floor.

Jennings stood up slowly, his brow crumpled in pain. He pulled out his handcuffs and leaned over the suspect’s prone body, fastening the restraints to her forearms with a swift flick of his wrist. He made them exceptionally tight.

“I think,” he said through clenched teeth, “we’ll add resisting arrest to the charges against you.”

He proceeded to Mirandize her, and while still somewhat stooped over, led her outside where the uniformed deputy took her to the waiting patrol car.

Eight weeks later
April 20

Sacramento Superior Courthouse
720 9th Street

IN THE PRIVATE SECTOR, the different categories of attorneys are grouped by fields of practice: litigation, criminal defense, real estate, business, estate planning, and the like. In the public defender’s office, however, the attorneys are categorized somewhat differently: those whose goal is to gain valuable trial experience, at which time they will leave to join a local firm; those who are superb trial attorneys; those who are mediocre and thus could not land a private position that approached the salary and benefits of their civil service job; and those who are so incompetent that the important, challenging cases are shifted away from them—and replaced with mundane misdemeanors and conservatorships.