At 4:12 A.M. on the morning of December 2, all was quiet in the pristine pocket of rural Carmichael where long driveways wound their way up to five-thousand-square-foot mansions built out of brick, granite, and cedar. One of the older sections of Sacramento, the area had made a gradual transformation from small one-story ranch houses built on one-acre lots to an affluent person’s dream: rather than erecting a large home on a small plot of virgin dirt, it provided them the opportunity to raze an old structure and replace it with a luxury-filled two or three-story centerpiece on acreage studded with ancient, large-trunked, wide-canopied oaks.

Four speeding police cruisers suddenly appeared, screeching around the gentle curves of the narrow streets. The cruisers’ tires violently kicked up dirt and loose rocks, shattering the serenity of the lush green lawns and intricately shaped shrubbery. Their swirling red-and-white lights threw splashes of color onto the tall hedges and stone walls that lined both sides of the street.

As the cars converged on the home of Dr. Phillip Madison, the officers and deputies exited their vehicles, the chatter of the police radios creating a primitive form of multiple-speaker stereo surround-sound. A few barking dogs could be heard in the distance.

Bill Jennings climbed onto the hood of his Ford and looked over the hedges and beyond the stone wall. After a quick scan of the grounds, he jumped down off the car. “Seaver, take two men and search that semi-detached garage to the west of the house,” he said, pointing off to the left. “I’ll take the others and hit Madison with the warrant. Connor, grab a muzzle in case he’s got a dog.”