Grant of Immunity (15 page)

“Are you certain?” Becker asked.

“I can see most of the evening in my mind as if it happened yesterday. But I just don’t recall.”

“More questions? Anyone?” Allen said. He looked around the room. There was no response. “Very well. This interview is concluded.”

Giovanni spoke. “Sergeant Babbage will make himself available for further questioning anytime, Mr. Allen. When will the final decision be made concerning my client’s immunity?”

“I’ll try to get back to you by tomorrow, Mr. Giovanni. Please bear in mind that the decision will have to be made at the highest levels in the District Attorney’s Office.” Allen looked at the court reporter. “It is now three-thirty p.m. The court reporter is to transcribe this interview, and I will get an order from the grand jury judge sealing this transcript until a final decision on immunity is made.”

B
ecker
, Allen, and Reynolds stayed in the library after Babbage, his lawyer, and the court reporter left. Becker wasn’t sure what to think. “I’ll need to study Babbage’s statement carefully and compare it to the murder book,” Becker said. “But I don’t trust the man. Good cops don’t get into the kind of trouble Babbage continually finds himself in.”

“The same could be said of Fitzgerald before his suspension,” Reynolds quipped. “Babbage had a spotless record before Fitzgerald started messing with him. Number one in his class at the academy, a no-nonsense sergeant beloved by his men—a cop’s cop.”

“Fitzgerald is not part of this discussion,” Becker said. “We need to question Hart and find out why he remanded Babbage.”

“We can’t question him,” Allen said. “If he’s involved, he’s not going to waive his rights.”

“Not necessarily,” Becker said. “I say, let’s interview him.”

“I don’t agree,” Reynolds said. “Questioning him would just tip him off, and if he does have the murder weapon or other incriminating evidence, he’ll get rid of it. Before our meeting, I did a complete analysis of the police reports, analyzed evidence, and photographs. Everything Sergeant Babbage says is confirmed by the physical evidence. The man is obviously telling the truth.”

“I’m not so sure,” Becker said.
Truth be told
, he thought,
I’d stake my life on Fitzgerald’s integrity. And if Fitz says the man’s a crooked cop, I want no part of him. On the other hand, this is a nineteen-year-old cold-case murder, and something was going on between Hart and Babbage. Plus, it’s not my call—it’s up to the prosecutor. Allen seems a reasonable sort. Going ahead would let a jury decide these issues.

“This whole thing doesn’t make sense,” Allen said. “Assuming Hart is the killer, remanding Babbage is the last thing he would do—it draws too much attention to himself.”

Reynolds spoke up. “I can think of no reason he’d remand Babbage other than what the sergeant told us. I’ve always wondered about Hart.”

“Meaning?” Becker asked.

“The fact that he gives way too much to defendants. And that he’s anti-cop. Do you remember the case against that woman physician? The woman killed the pregnant wife of an LAPD defendant and Hart gave her probation—ridiculous. That’s why I’m running against him.”

“You’re running against Judge Hart?” Becker asked. “Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

“It’s not a conflict to prosecute a murderer, Captain,” Reynolds replied. “The fact that he’s a judge I’m trying to unseat is irrelevant. Besides, it’s the grand jury’s decision whether or not to indict, and if indicted, it’s the jury’s call to convict. My job is to present the facts to them and let them decide.”

F
itz sat
in a chair outside the closed door of Captain Becker’s office. Under normal circumstances, he felt at home in Parker Center, felt the familiarity that twenty-plus years in the same work location brings. But not today. Today he felt out-of-place and conspicuous. He was conscious that every cop who walked by Becker’s office could see him in the waiting area and would notice that he was wearing a visitor’s badge.

Captain Becker had called Fitz at home and told him to report immediately. There was an impersonal, urgent tone to his boss’s voice that deeply concerned Fitz. He worried that he’d done something seriously wrong by going to Erin’s probation violation hearing, that he’d somehow further damaged his position. Wasn’t it bad enough that he had tried to prevent Babbage from arresting Erin in the first place? Perhaps Becker was going to tell Fitz that he was fired, and he’d have to look to the union to find a way to challenge it.

“You can go in, Fitz,” said Sally, Becker’s middle-aged secretary. Her desk was directly in front of Becker’s office. She’d been glancing at Fitz throughout the time he was waiting in the hallway.
She knows,
he thought.

“Thanks, Sally,” he said, and knocked on the door.

“Come in, and sit down, Fitz.” The captain was behind his desk and remained seated as Fitz entered. Sitting in front of Becker’s desk was LAPD Commander Harold Karp, the high-ranking officer who was to be in charge of Fitzgerald’s Board of Rights hearing.

Fitz sat in the chair next to Karp. “I’m not going to delay this any longer,” Becker said. He was not smiling, and neither was Karp.

“Captain,” Fitz said. “Let me explain …”

Karp interrupted. “Detective Fitzgerald, wait for Captain Becker to finish. It’s important for you to hear what he has to say.”

Fitz nodded. He was perspiring. The air of the office seemed hot and stale.

Becker continued. “Yesterday I attended a meeting in the District Attorney’s Office. Head Deputy DA Chuck Allen, Deputy DA Doris Reynolds, and Jake Babbage were all there. Babbage gave a statement to the DA that will be of great interest to you. I need you to listen to the voice recording, and then discuss it with us. Commander Karp and I have talked about your upcoming Board of Rights hearing, and we’ve decided to take some preliminary action in light of this recent development.”

Here it comes
, Fitz thought.

“Commander Karp,” Becker continued, “has agreed to exercise his power as hearing officer to order that you be provisionally reinstated.”

Fitz was stunned. He decided he must have misheard. “Come again?” he said.

“That’s right,” Karp said. “However, you will still have the Board of Rights hearing, and you still face disciplinary action, up to and including termination. For this reason, Detective Fitzgerald, during this provisional period, you must not say or do anything that will jeopardize your provisional status.”

“In other words, Fitz,” Becker added, “don’t fuck up.”

“Captain, I’m grateful for the reinstatement, and I promise I won’t let you down,” Fitz said. “But what the hell happened?”

“I think your question will be answered when you hear the voice recording,” Becker said.

He pushed the play button, and they listened. Fitz heard a brief introduction discussing Babbage’s immunity statement. He was puzzled, thinking this had something to do with Erin. Then he heard:

Fitz was astounded, but he said nothing as he listened with increasing amazement.

Hart the murderer? Babbage the innocent victim?

As the interview played out, he knew he’d have to listen again. And again. To analyze and study Babbage’s words carefully. Because, Jesus Christ, it just didn’t add up.

The recording ended, and they all sat in silence.

Then: “Fitz,” Becker said, “the decision was made last night to grant Babbage formal immunity—so long as what he says is the truth, he will never be prosecuted for his part in the murder. Frankly, I don’t know if that was the right decision or not, and I said so. But I was overruled.”

“I agree with you, Captain,” Fitz said. “Immunity for Babbage is a colossal mistake.”

“It’s too late to worry about that,” Becker said. “Look, Fitz. Sarah Collins’s murder is your case. You know more about it than anyone else in the world. That’s the reason for the reinstatement. Here’s your badge and ID. Now let’s get down to business and decide what to do next.”

D
aniel Hart was
in his study, sitting at his mahogany desk, an open book in front of him. He tried to read but couldn’t concentrate. Instead, he looked out the window at the trees in his front yard. The air was still. Not a leaf moved.

For the past two days, he’d called in sick. It gave him more time to consider his situation. It also gave him a reason to avoid meeting with the LAPD’s liaison officer to discuss Babbage’s contempt case. Each night, Hart would sleep, wake, worry, and then remain awake for most of the night. Each day, he planned to go to work, but when his alarm went off, he was unable to get up. Instead, he would sleep until ten o’clock or eleven, finally getting himself into the shower.

Amanda Jordan hadn’t called him yet, and Hart had decided that he would call her at the end of today to set up a meeting to discuss his situation again. Hart didn’t see a way out. But now that he’d taken the time to think about his plight more fully, he was no longer in a state of panic. Louise had told him that Judge Finch was going to handle the Erin Collins probation violation hearing. Finch hadn’t understood that Hart had sentenced Babbage to five days in jail for contempt. By releasing Babbage OR, Finch was, in effect, illegally canceling Babbage’s jail sentence. Rupert Finch could always be counted on to do something stupid, but in this case, his incompetence took the pressure off Hart.

Now that Babbage was out of jail, he’d be a fool to implicate himself in a nineteen-year-old murder. Babbage’s threats were ridiculous. No way would Babbage open up this case and make himself liable after all these years. Maybe Hart should follow Jordan’s advice and say nothing. Because if he told all, the possibilities of what would happen to him were terrifying and unthinkable.

A knock at his front door interrupted his thoughts.

As he walked to the door, he could see through a front window that two black-and-white police cars had pulled up in front of the house. They must be coming to talk to him about why Babbage had been remanded for contempt.

But there were more police than he would have expected. Two other patrol cars had parked down the street, almost out of his line of sight.

Something was wrong.

Hart opened his door. Two plainclothes detectives stood with several uniformed cops directly behind them.

“Judge Hart? I’m Detective Fitzgerald. May we come inside?”

“Yes, sure,” Hart replied.

Six more uniformed officers and two more dressed in plainclothes accompanied Fitzgerald into the house. Hart did not recognize any of the other officers. Soon, they were all standing in the middle of Hart’s living room.

“Judge Hart,” Fitzgerald said, removing documents from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, “I have a warrant to search your house, garage, and automobile.” Fitzgerald showed the paper to Hart. “I also have a warrant for your arrest.”

Hart was handcuffed and escorted outside to a police vehicle, and waited uncomfortably while officers went through his house and garage.

H
art called Jordan
, using an ancient pay phone in the Parker Center jail. He was in a large cell, capable of holding at least twenty inmates, but was, thank God, currently housing only him. His booking process had been utterly humiliating, complicated by the fact that the press had found out about his arrest. News people, including photographers and TV crews, were waiting at the jail entrance. They shouted questions at him and took pictures as he exited the unmarked police car and was led inside the jail by the detectives. His hands were cuffed behind him. His mind flashed back to the scenes he’d seen on television, when well-known people were being taken to jail. The perp walk, it was called. Mobsters, child molesters, and murderers—trying to hide their faces. Now he was one of them. His face burned with shame.

“Daniel,” Jordan’s voice said, “I was going to call you later today. I have some ideas to discuss with you.”

“It’s too late.”

“What do you mean? You haven’t said anything to anyone, have you?”

“I’ve been arrested. I’m calling you from the jail.”

Hart heard Jordan take a deep breath. “My God. When did that happen?”

“Around eleven. They had an arrest warrant and a search warrant. The press knew all about it. They were here when I arrived.”

“I hope you haven’t said anything to the detectives.”

“Not yet. I was fingerprinted, photographed, and booked. I expect the detectives will be coming soon to interview me.”

“For God’s sake, don’t say anything. We have to leave our options open. Promise me you will say nothing.”

Hart thought for a moment. “All right. I won’t say anything until you and I have a chance to speak. But I’ve got a more pressing worry right now. My bail has been set at two million dollars. There’s no way I can make that.”

“I’ll make a motion for OR or a reduction. It’s too late to get to court tonight, but I’ll get hold of the magistrate who’s on after-hours bail duty and see what I can do. You might have to spend a night or two in jail. I hope you’ll be okay.”

“There is no way in the world I’ll be okay.”

“Just sit tight. I’m going to do everything possible. Perhaps the detectives will consent to a lower bail. I’ll fill you in on what I’ve been able to accomplish when I see you later on.”

“When will that be?”

“One, possibly two hours.”

H
art sat
down on the steel bench against the concrete wall. The cell smelled of urine and feces. Benches lined three sides of the walls, with bars and a sliding jail door on the fourth side. A stainless-steel toilet without a seat was in one corner of the cell. The wall felt cold against his back. The paint was worn and smudged with grease spots where previous inmates had leaned their heads.

Hart recalled standing outside cells like this one so many times during his career as judge, coming into the courtroom lockup to advise defendants of their constitutional rights. They’d looked so pathetic to him, faceless in the dim light of their cells. How ironic that he would be on this side of the jail bars, faceless to those on the other side who were free to come and go as they pleased.

Fitzgerald and a uniformed captain appeared with the jailer, who handcuffed Hart and left. Fitzgerald and the captain then escorted Hart to a small, windowless interview room. There was a Formica-topped Steelcase table with three matching chairs. Fitzgerald took off Hart’s handcuffs.

“Judge Hart,” he said, “this is Captain Becker.”

The fact that a police captain was sitting in on the interview was not lost on Hart. In his entire career, he’d never seen it before—obviously, this was a case where the top brass wanted to make sure there were no screw-ups. Becker pulled out a chair and sat against the wall. Fitzgerald sat behind the table and motioned for Hart to sit on the other side.

Fitzgerald said, “Judge Hart, although I’m sure you know your rights, it is my obligation at this time to advise you. You have the right to remain silent. If you choose to give up that right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You also have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you at no expense. Do you understand the rights that I have explained to you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you wish to give up those rights and speak to us to tell us your side of the story?”

“No, I do not.”

“Are you sure?” Fitzgerald had a surprised look on his face. “After all, this whole thing may just be a misunderstanding. We need to know your version of the facts in order to make an intelligent decision about what will happen next.”

How often as a DA, Hart thought to himself, had he heard these same words spoken by detectives when he was present at suspects’ interviews? “I’m sorry, Detective Fitzgerald. I’ve talked to my lawyer, and at this time, I’ve been advised not to waive my rights. Perhaps later.”

Fitzgerald took a business card from his wallet. “If you change your mind, here’s my card. Please feel free to call any time.”

Fitzgerald and Becker stood and so did Hart. Fitzgerald put back Hart’s handcuffs and the three of them walked down a hall to the jailer’s desk. “He’s all yours,” Fitzgerald said to the jailer, an Asian man with close-cropped hair.

Hart was taken to another, smaller cell. “This’ll be your home for the night,” the jailer said. “Tomorrow you’ll be arraigned and transferred to the county jail. But I guess you know the details.”

“I do,” Hart said. “I’m expecting to hear from my attorney tonight.”

The jailer nodded, but said nothing. He opened the cell door. Hart entered. The cuffs were removed. The jailer closed the cell door, locked it, and left.

This cell was a smaller version of one Hart had been in before, except for a bunk bed instead of a steel bench along one wall. Thankfully, there was no urine smell. He lay down and tried to sleep.

Hart is at a county bar cocktail reception. The room is crowded with people—standing, talking, and drinking. The dozens of conversations blend, making it almost impossible to communicate without shouting. He is trying to have a conversation with someone he barely knows, but it’s impossible because he can’t quite hear all the words. He nods and tries to comment, hoping it’s not obvious that he doesn’t fully know what’s being said.

He looks up and notices a woman across the room looking at him. No—not looking, but rather, staring. He doesn’t meet her eyes. Instead he looks down, uncomfortable. She’s not looking at him, he says to himself, she’s only looking in his direction.

He returns to his conversation, but discreetly glances to see if the woman is still looking toward him. She is. She must be someone he’s met before, but she is so striking that he can’t imagine not remembering. There is something strangely familiar. He sneaks another look. Her eyes meet his. She smiles. He excuses himself and walks over to where she’s standing.

“Do we know each other?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“What’s your name?”

“Sarah,” she says, “Sarah Collins.”

“My God!” he says. “You look exactly the same.” He sees that she’s dressed the same as she was that night—jeans and a loose-fitting pullover blouse. She’s barefoot, too, and, he notices, not wearing a bra.

This can’t be, he thinks. I saw Snake stab her to death. She must have survived, after all. Or maybe it didn’t happen. Maybe he just dreamed about Snake and that July 4 night. It’s all a mistake. She’s alive, really alive. He is jubilant.

But then Snake appears, wearing a police uniform. He has a knife. His hand is raised high in the air. He’s about to stab Sarah from behind.

“No, stop!” Hart shouts. He pulls Sarah away, tries to grab Snake’s arm. He fails. The point of the knife strikes his chest. He feels it enter. He can’t breathe …

“Hart. Hart, wake up,” the jailer said. “You’ve been bailed out.” He opened the cell.

Hart was groggy and disoriented, drenched in sweat. The nightmare was still vivid. He felt confused. For a moment he looked at the jailer, not comprehending. Then he became aware.

“Thank God,” he said to himself. Jordan must have finally got him an OR, or at least a greatly reduced bail. He followed the jailer to a small desk just outside the lockup. There he signed a release slip that had the bail amount and his court appearance date. The bail amount was still $2 million. How was that possible? Hart wondered.

The jailer then escorted him to the public reception area. Sitting in the reception area was Amanda Jordan and an attractive woman dressed in casual clothing.

Jordan said, “I wasn’t able to get you an OR or a reduced bail, Daniel. We did have another kind of luck. Do you remember Gina Black?”

“Of course,” Hart said.

“Gina saw you on the news and called me.”

Hart felt very uncomfortable. After all, the last time this woman saw him, he sat on the bench, wearing his robe. Jordan grinned. “I guess you’re still puzzled, Daniel. Gina put up the two million dollars to bail you out.”