Marked Man

Since the arrest, a DPD official accident report has cited the rookie officer's "unsafe" speed as a contributing factor to the accident. The report also faults Madison for his improper left turn and failure to yield. An internal investigation is still under way.

It didn't take long for some members of the public to get the impression that the DPD was piling on Herbert Lee Madison.

Publicity about the accident may have put pressure on state District Judge Lana McDaniel to reduce Madison's bail from an extremely high $500,000 to a still unusually high $75,000. News reports about the accident also weighed upon the consciences of two people who came forward, anonymously, and posted bail for Madison, a man they had never met. They originally thought they had to pay the entire $75,000 and were prepared to do so. (Ten percent is required for a bail bond.) Only Madison's attorney knows the identity of these people, and he won't say anything about them except that they're not overly wealthy, and they aren't related to Madison.

With all of the attempts to pin the blame solely on Madison, one would think his family would be up in arms and screaming into the wind for justice. But they're not. Madison's sister Rose, speaking on behalf of the family, says that their faith will see them through this difficult time--not lawyers and reporters. "His character remains the same, no matter what the police do," she says. "Fortunately, on our side, we do have a lot of people vouching for him. If it hadn't been for God on our side, Herbert wouldn't have been out [of jail] at this time. We trust God no matter what people think."

Madison says he prays for officer Baird's family. "I'm just so sorry that police officer got killed," he says. "Lord, am I ever sorry. But I didn't kill him."

Along Lamar Street, there are still reminders of what happened on August 19. Glass shards and metal scraps from the police car lay in the dead grass and in the cracks of the street. The curb still bears tire marks from the squad car, and someone has posted a plaque about 10 feet up the telephone pole that reads, "On August 19, 2000 at this location Dallas Police Officer Sr. Cpl. H.F. Baird #6004 died in the line of duty." There's also a homemade cross crafted from a Dallas police water-rationing poster. On the front, someone has written in blue marker, "Job Well Done."

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On the other side of the Trinity River, Herbert Lee Madison has come to Sunday worship at Tel Star Baptist Church in Oak Cliff. The church isn't much to look at from the outside, with chipping paint and weathered siding. The glass window in front forms a cross with mismatched orange panes, filmy and neglected. When the wooden doors open, a large woman greets churchgoers with open arms, blessing them as they enter. Inside, every pew is packed. Soft white lights hanging from the ceiling cast an even softer glow on dulling, off-white walls and faded red carpet. Everything about the church is worn and outdated, except for the speakers, which are new. A beat-up microphone, emitting feedback, resonates clearly from the amped-up speakers. Children sing with an organist and band playing in the background. The youth have powerful voices that ring out like beacons in the sanctuary.

It is a warm atmosphere, friendly and comforting. Herbert Lee Madison sits front and center, swaying to the music. He's dressed in his Sunday best and knows everyone around him. The only service he's missed in years was when he was in the county jail.

After the service, he chats with some people while keeping a close eye on his watch. This is his routine. Work, church, and sleep. That's it. He isn't upset that, as a condition of his house arrest, he has to be home by 7 o'clock every weeknight. He says he's usually home by 6 p.m. anyway.

When Tel Star's service is over, the people file out into the street in an ebullient spirit. Kids run around in their church clothes and play makeshift games. Madison can be found in the midst of them. If he had his choice, he says, he'd spend every waking minute in the church with the people he loves. But this day he is nervous. If he doesn't get home by 3 p.m., the dog collar on his left ankle will sound an alarm, landing him right back in the county jail.