False Accusations Jacobson, Alan (books successful people read .TXT) 📖

from another angle,” Chandler said. “Who else could’ve done this? I mean, it’s not like some punk ran down a couple of people and fled the scene. This person broke into your garage, stole your car, drove it into the worst neighborhood in town, and then returned the car to your garage. He left a six-pack of empty beer cans in the backseat, and wore gloves. This isn’t the work of a common criminal or car-theft punk. This was a calculated plot designed to frame you, Phil. We need to start approaching this from a different perspective. Agreed?”

Hellman nodded, eyebrows straining skyward, as if to say, I’ve got nothing better to offer.

“All right then. Was there anyone who hated you enough to construct an elaborate crime, kill two people, and then pin it on you?”

“Didn’t you tell him?” Hellman asked, looking at Madison.

“I hadn’t gotten to it yet. Your phone call interrupted us.”

Hellman shook his head. “I forgot that you take forever to tell a story.”

“I didn’t want to leave anything out. I thought Ryan should have all the details.”

“Fine,” he said, leaning back as the waiter served the salads. He poured a glass of Pinot Noir for Hellman, placed a Sprite in front of Chandler, and left.

“I take it that you mean Brittany Harding. The witch with a capital B,” Chandler said with a smile.

“The one and only.”

Chandler tilted his head and crinkled his brow. “I’m not convinced.”

“Maybe you should finish telling him the story, Phil,” Hellman said. “Then he’ll understand.”

Madison tossed his napkin on the table. “So much for fine dining.”

Madison picked up the story where he had left off: Harding had gone beyond reasonable and professional conduct in telling Chuck Nallin about the disagreement Madison had had with her at the Fifth Street Café. “It wasn’t as if it was an innocent conversation between friends,” Madison told Chandler. “She made a deliberate attempt to strike up a conversation with someone she barely knew, just to spread word of discord between us.”

A couple of weeks passed. After the incident at the gas station, Madison asked John Stevens to keep his ears open and to let him know if any other Harding rumors came his way. Stevens sympathized with Madison and graciously agreed to keep him informed.

Madison’s relationship with Harding was strained, at best. He attempted to minimize contact with her as much as possible, but it was time again to touch base regarding the up-and-coming board meeting. As he was about to call her late in the afternoon after a full day of patients, he retrieved a voicemail from Michael Murphy. The message lacked its usual verve. Although there were more pressing calls regarding patients and the total hip replacement scheduled for tomorrow, Madison phoned Murphy first.

Murphy began by relating a conversation he had had with a prospective client, a twenty-two-year-old mother of a four-year-old who had mental retardation. “She called to complain,” Murphy was saying, “because she was enraged by a comment Brittany had made during the intake interview.”

“What’d she say?”

“Brittany asked the mother what kind of drugs she’d taken during her pregnancy that caused her son to become mentally retarded.”

Madison leaned forward in his chair. “Tell me she didn’t really say that.”

“This poor mother was in tears, Phil. She’d been harboring enough guilt about having given birth to a child with Klinefelter’s...but to be subjected to such a question by the very organization that she came to for help...” His voice trailed off. Madison knew better than most that Klinefelter’s syndrome was a genetic disorder that had nothing to do with drug abuse during pregnancy.

“Brittany’s a time bomb waiting to explode, Murph.”

“I was beside myself, Phil. She represents the organization. The public doesn’t perceive her as just an employee. They look at her and see us.”

Madison rubbed his forehead. “How’d we get ourselves into this situation?” It was something he had asked himself a couple of weeks ago. “We should get together and discuss all this. I’m sorry I haven’t called you sooner, but I’ve been swamped. A few things have happened recently that you should know about.”

“Good idea, ‘cause I just got a call from Donna’s husband. She’s not gonna be returning. Inoperable brain tumor.”

“Oh, Jesus. Did he say what kind it was?”

“All I heard was ‘inoperable.’ I kind of spaced out the rest of what he was saying.”

“I guess it all fits, especially the abrupt change in personality and erratic behavior.” He shook his head. “She’s only forty-nine. Her husband must be devastated. I should give them a call, express my condolences—”

“Just let it go, Phil. He said she’s deteriorated pretty rapidly. I let him know how sorry we all are.” Murphy sighed. “We need to talk. When are you available?”

“When are you going to be in town?”

“When do you want me to be?”

“Tomorrow night, around seven. My office.”

“Phil, we were going to spend tomorrow night together,” Leeza said with the phone propped on her shoulder as she cleaned up the chopped onions. Her eyes were tearing and she was sniffling. “We haven’t had a night alone in three weeks.”

“Honey, I’m sorry. I know we had plans. I was looking forward to spending time together. But I don’t know what to do. Murph and I have to meet and figure it out. He’s just gonna have to fire her before we have a replacement. I promise, once we figure out a plan of action, we’ll be rid of her and her psychoses and then you and I can get back to normal.”

“I don’t want normal. Normal is I don’t see you. The kids don’t see you.”

“It was better, wasn’t it? After we talked and I rearranged my office schedule—”

“Yes,” she said between sniffles, wiping her eyes. The onion was on her fingertips and only caused her eyes to tear more. “It was better. Not great, but better.”

“I’ll make it up to you, I promise. It’s just been so damned stressful dealing with this nut. She’s got problems, Lee, and she needs help.”

“That’s