An officer walked into the hallway and presented Jennings with an empty bottle of 1994 Opus One. “Found it on the table in the kitchen.” He was holding it with a handkerchief so as not to smudge the fingerprints.

“Mark it and get it to Saperstein for dusting.” Jennings turned to Seaver. “I want a PAS before you pull away,” he said, referring to the Preliminary Alcohol Screening test. “After this many hours, I’m sure everything’ll be out of his system. But do it anyway, just in case. And get me every pair of shoes the good doctor owns. Even though our witness didn’t see it, he might’ve gotten out of his car at the scene, or even a few blocks away. I want the soles analyzed. If there’s anything on his shoes that’s indigenous to that area, I want to know about it. And see if you can find that baseball hat.”

Madison watched from the car as a couple of officers walked into his house with boxes. He overheard “busted headlight,” and “blood.” He couldn’t hear anything else they were saying, but one thing was clear: he was in deep trouble.

CHAPTER 3

The Sacramento County jail, a curving, eight-story concrete monolith, was designed to make the experience of staying there less than desirable. With gray, echo-inducing walls and fifteen hundred inmates bulging from its claustrophobic six-by-ten cells, it was another California jail stocked beyond capacity.

Phillip Madison had never seen the inside of such a place. Like a scared animal, his eyes darted into every nook and corner of each corridor and room he passed through. The cold, tight handcuffs were squeezing his wrists so hard that his hands were going numb. As if that was not enough, both shoulders ached.

He was taken into the central processing and booking area, where a desk sergeant sat behind a large wire mesh cage. Rusted metal file drawers sat on the worn gray tile floor behind him.