False accusations

CHAPTER 70

It took Madison ten minutes to drive from Sacramento General to the courthouse, nearly running three red lights along the way. He left his car in the lot and sprinted across the street. As he neared the doors, he felt himself become suddenly short of breath again. He stopped, put his hands on his knees, and panted like a dog, gulping mouthfuls of air. He stood there, hunched over, as several attorneys in dark suits pushed past him.

A moment later, he stood up and wiped the perspiration from his forehead, passed through the metal detectors, and headed for the elevator. He burst through the doors of the courtroom just as the judge looked over toward the foreman of the jury. A few heads turned to the back of the room, where Madison stood looking for a seat. He found one in the last row and quietly slipped into the chair.

“Mr. Foreman, have you reached a verdict?”

“We have, Your Honor.” The short, rotund man in his fifties handed a piece of paper to the bailiff, who brought it to the judge.

Madison, still weak from the surgery and his panic attack, felt his heart begin to race. There was a hollow sensation in his stomach that he attributed to nerves, however, rather than hunger. He glanced at the members of the jury, trying to read their expressions. Most were staring blankly at the judge, purposely avoiding the gaze of those in the packed gallery. Calvino opened the folded paper and glanced at it.

Madison took a deep, uneven breath, and closed his eyes.

“On count one of the charges, murder in the first degree, how do you find?”

The foreman’s attention was cemented on the judge.

“We find the defendant guilty.”

A roar erupted from the crowd in the packed courtroom; Calvino banged his gavel and shouted for order. Madison’s heart stopped momentarily as dizziness and elation descended upon him simultaneously.

“On count two, murder in the first degree, how do you find?”

“Guilty.”

Another rumble, more gavel banging, hand shaking, and backslapping at the prosecution table. Tears flowed freely from Madison’s eyes as he buried his head in his hands and wept.

“Nooo! I’m innocent!” Harding was on her feet, writhing and flailing as one guard restrained her while another slapped handcuffs on her wrists. “Idiots!” she shouted at the jury, craning her neck to face them. “Go to hell, all of you…” she continued to scream as they dragged her away.

Madison felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned, saw Hellman, and buried his face in his friend’s chest. And wept uncontrollably.

After taking a few minutes to compose himself, Madison left the courtroom through a back entrance to avoid the press and to find Leeza so he could share the good news with her.

Denton saw the reporters gathered at the exit. Plastering a broad smile on his face, he made his way toward the throng of camera crews and reporters. Instantly, microphones descended upon him, the news people shoving the handheld devices in front of his face to capture his comments. As he began to answer questions, he spotted Maurice Mather off in the distance, who had just completed a brief interview of Jeffrey Hellman.

“I want to thank all the members of the media for their support and understanding throughout this long ordeal,” Denton said. “I’d also like to thank the jury for their fine work under difficult conditions. And of course, I’m indebted to the district attorney, who again supplied me with the staff and unending support I needed to obtain this victory for the people of the State of California…”