The party that followed on Friday night was held in the Madisons’ home. The children were allowed to sleep in their parents’ bedroom, on the third floor, so as to have as quiet an environment as possible. A baby-sitter was hired to care for them for the evening.
Everyone in the medical community who had worked with Madison at one time or another had been invited. A couple of hospital administrators showed up, including John Stevens, as well as friends, neighbors, his parents-and of course Ricky. Music played and liquor flowed freely, as did people’s emotions. Drinks were being raised in toast every five minutes, preceded by the clanging of spoon against glass. Following each speech, everyone would drain their beverages and resume their conversations until the next tribute interrupted the chatter.
Streamers were shot off, and even a few fireworks were launched into the cold night air. Choruses of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” erupted at various times during the night. As the evening progressed, Madison felt the weight of his troubles drifting away on an ocean of Scotch.
At two in the morning, people began filtering by to offer congratulations on their way out.
Madison raised his glass and banged it hard with a spoon. He swayed a bit to the side, steadied himself on the wall to his right, and looked out amongst his guests. He focused his thoughts and attempted to speak clearly. “I would be remiss if I didn’t thank two people who stood beside me and kept me sane during the most difficult and trying time of my life. My wife, Leeza, and my longtime friend, Jeffrey Hellman.” A roar went up from the remaining fifty or so guests, some of whom were so blitzed that they would have cheered a toast to the local cow for providing milk.
When the last guest had departed, Madison looked at the clock in his study: it was a few minutes past three in the morning. The place was a mess, with half-empty glasses littering tables, cabinets, bookshelves…just about every horizontal surface was occupied.
He took a deep breath, gazed into his own glass, and, in a stupor, reflected on the recent turbulence of his life…and considered what lay ahead for him in the coming months.
Hellman poked his head in the door and cleared his throat.
“Hey. I thought you left.”
“I was getting into my car, but I had to make sure you were okay.”
“Come, sit.” Madison slumped into his soft leather seat and motioned Hellman to the antique chair in front of his desk. “I’m surprised Chandler didn’t make the party. You did call him, didn’t you?”
Hellman nodded. “He said he had other plans.”
“Other plans? This a huge feather in his cap. You’d think this would be something he wouldn’t want to miss. He’d have been the center of attention.”
“I was about to go into a deposition and I didn’t really have time to talk. But look at it his way-at least he was here when it counted. I’m glad you made me call him. When you insisted I bring in a guy from New York, I thought you were out of your mind.”
“Hell of an investigator. We were lucky to have had him on our team.” Madison smiled, his face haggard, the strain of the past nine months etched into his skin like acid on a pane of glass. “And I’m equally fortunate to have you for a friend, Jeffrey. Thanks again. You came through when I needed it most.”
“While you’re so appreciative, I should hand you my bill.”
They both laughed.
Leeza’s call from upstairs urging him to come to bed interrupted them. He reached over to the intercom on the wall behind his desk and told her he would join her in a few moments.
“Well, I’d better be going,” Hellman said as he rose from the chair.
“You okay to drive? You can stay the night if you want.”
“Nah,” he said with the wave of a hand. “I’m fine. I’ll call you in a couple of days.”
Madison started to get up; Hellman motioned him down. “I’ll let myself out.”
Madison leaned back in the leather chair, resting his feet on the desk. He felt numb as he attempted to sort through his thoughts, his plans for the future. Although it was quiet now in the house, the echoes of the noise from the party still buzzed in his ears.
He lay silently, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest with each breath, the gleeful high of only an hour ago becoming a post-drunken depression. He thought of one of his favorite poems: “The Road Not Taken,” by Robert Frost. As he lay there, he pondered what his life would have been like had Brittany Harding not crossed his path, had she not accused him of rape, had she not tried to blackmail him, had she not attempted to destroy his marriage. Had she not made him kill those two innocent people.
He began to weep, appraising his hollow victory. Physically free, emotionally imprisoned for life. Held captive by his own horrible secret.