Grant of Immunity (18 page)

I
t was
dark in his living room, but Daniel Hart was not aware of the darkness. He’d been sitting in his leather reading chair for two hours, brooding about his life and listening to the sounds of traffic outside his window. When he first sat down, it was still light outside. His right hand was resting in his lap, holding a Smith and Wesson chrome, five-shot, .38 caliber snub-nosed revolver.

He’d bought the gun six months ago. Because of his job, he felt he needed to have some means of defending himself if someone he’d sentenced ever confronted him on the street. He went to a firing range and learned how to load and aim the weapon, how to squeeze the trigger slowly and smoothly until it fired. He practiced twice a week for a month. He became familiar with the feel of the gun, taking it apart and cleaning it after each practice. He applied for, and received, a permit to carry a concealed weapon.

At first he felt secure driving home every day. But eventually, he started to worry about what he would do if an incident actually did occur. Could he actually shoot someone? And what would he do if he only imagined a danger and actually hurt another human being?

He began to realize how truly deadly a gun could be.

Just looking at it tonight reminded him that death was so close, so easy. What would it be like to hold the gun up to his head and pull the trigger? There was comfort in that thought. It would be a way for him to atone for what he’d done. All the pain, all the guilt, all the worry about the future could be over in an instant.

He picked up the gun and put it against his temple.

At that moment, the doorbell rang.

Hart froze. He could feel the circle of cold steel pressed against his temple. For an instant he thought that this had to be the police again, and he couldn’t bear the thought of another confrontation. Maybe he should just squeeze the trigger—end it all and be found immediately.

The doorbell rang again.

No. It was a coward’s way out. He must face this, no matter what the consequences.

He put the gun in the drawer of the end table next to his chair. He got up, turned on the lamp beside his chair, walked to the front door, and opened it.

Sean Collins was at the door. “Can I come in?”

Perhaps Doris Reynolds was behind this. If so, Sean might be wearing a wire. But looking at Sean standing there, Hart flashed back to the five-year-old boy he had babysat nineteen years ago.
It’s the same kid
, he thought.
Good-looking. Bright eyes. Why hadn’t I noticed the resemblance before?

“Yes, of course,” Hart said.

S
ean was surprised
to see that the interior of Hart’s house was dim, lit only by a single lamp in the living room. The whole place had a gloom about it. Faded floral throw rug over hardwood floor, mahogany coffee and end tables, dark-green ceramic lamps on the end tables. Brown—almost black—leather couch and easy chair. An antique wooden floor lamp with a green shade by the chair. There were no knickknacks, no objects d’art to give the room character. Only the plants—lush and green—softened the otherwise sterile room. Ferns on the end tables and coffee table, a ficus tree in one corner of the room.

Daniel Hart motioned toward the couch. “Please sit down,” he said. “Would you like something to drink?”

“No thanks.” Sean sat stiffly on the couch, posture erect. He wanted to demonstrate that he was all business.

Hart went to the leather chair.

The light from the lamp next to Hart’s chair cast shadows on the walls. A small clock on the coffee table in front of the couch ticked softly

Sean could hear the refrigerator compressor in the kitchen. A car passed outside.
Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea
, he thought. He felt more nervous than he thought he would, although it surprised him that he was not afraid. If Hart really was the person who’d stabbed his mother to death, then he was a dangerous psychopath, capable of anything. But looking at this sad, quiet man, Sean couldn’t imagine that there was any harm in him.

“You know why I’m here,” Sean said at last.

Hart nodded.

The two men continued to sit in silence, until Sean spoke again. “I know I shouldn’t be asking you any questions, and frankly, I’m surprised that you’re talking to me.”

Hart looked down, but did not reply.

“I don’t know how to say this,” Sean began.

“No,” Hart said, “I didn’t kill your mother.”

Sean exhaled. “But Fitz … Detective Fitzgerald … said that based upon what he knows, there’s every reason to believe you were involved.”

Hart wore a pained expression. “Yes. I was involved.”

Sean seemed to sit up even straighter.

“I babysat you and your sister.”

Sean leaned forward, looking directly at Hart, trying to recall if this was the face of the babysitter he remembered. He couldn’t be sure. This Hart looked tired, old. And sad. Utterly sad.

“She was very beautiful,” Hart said, absently. “I’m sorry, Sean. So goddamned sorry.”

Hart had tears in his eyes. The tears enraged Sean.
Stop playing games,
he wanted to shout. Instead, he kept his tone even and swallowed his anger. “Were you there? Tell me.”

“Yes, I was there … but when things started happening … I didn’t think he’d really hurt her. I thought he might scare her, might threaten to kill her, but not … not actually rape or kill her. Please believe me. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”

Hart stared at the floor, took a deep breath, shook his head slowly, and then looked up at Sean. “This has tormented me all my life,” he said. “I’ve tried to make up for it, tried to show myself that I deserved to go on. I know that being sorry isn’t enough. I still dream about that night. Sometimes in my dreams I do the right thing, and Sarah doesn’t die. Then I wake up.” He paused. “Even at fifteen, a person makes choices, and they have to live with the consequences. You can’t undo something that you did, no matter how much you regret it.”

“You were fifteen?” Sean asked, his voice shaking.

Hart nodded. “Skinny, weak … almost no life experience. I had no friends. At the time I thought of him as an adult. He must have been nineteen or twenty. I never knew his real name—just ‘Snake.’ That’s what everyone called him at the pet shop.”

“Snake?”

“Yes,” Hart said. “Because he had these … pet snakes. Two giant, red-tailed boa constrictors. In the beginning, he hired me to help him—to come by his house every evening to clean up after them and to feed them. Of course, he never actually paid me. He kept them in a shed on this lot where he lived in a trailer. At first, I thought they were magnificent. Snake told me they weren’t dangerous unless they were hungry, and even then, they wouldn’t ever attack a man, unless he was bleeding. He said the boas could smell blood with their tongues. Boas don’t actively squeeze their prey to death, he told me. Rather, they wrap and constrict themselves around their victim as it exhales, making it impossible to inhale, and it ends up suffocating.

“Snake had a volatile temper. If he thought he was being disrespected, he’d flare out of control. One time, he told me that the snakes needed more substantial food than the mice we had at the pet shop, that he needed me to go find and trap a cat or small dog in my neighborhood. I refused, and he went into a blind rage. ‘Snakes have to eat, too,’ he yelled. He said if I didn’t respect that, then he’d feed me to his snakes. I tried to fight him off, but he was too strong—he had huge hands with a grip like a vise. He cut my arm and pushed me into the shed with the snakes. It was so dark. I was so scared … I tried to get out, but he’d locked the door shut. I thought I was going to die … He kept me in there for probably thirty minutes … It seemed like an eternity. Even though nothing happened, I’ve been terrified of snakes ever since.”

“Why the hell would you associate with Babbage after that?”

“I didn’t.” Hart said. “For a while at least. But then he called me, apologized. Said I didn’t need to help with the boas, that he had more work for me. Said he missed seeing me around. So that’s when I started babysitting you and your sister. Of course, he didn’t pay me for that, either.”

“So you just let yourself be used?” Sean asked.

“Looking back at it now, of course I should have realized that I was being manipulated. But at the time, I guess I just felt … I don’t know … noticed and needed. Snake treated me like I mattered. No one pushed him around, he told me. He took what he wanted, when he wanted it. He bought us beer and hung out with me—as long as I paid and did what I was told. I felt . . . accepted.

“He always had this enormous knife,” Hart continued. “He called it his
ka-bar
. You don’t want to know the details—”

“Yes, I do.”

Hart paused. “It must have been at least eight inches long. He kept it in a leather sheath on his belt. He used to take it out to clean and sharpen it almost every day. Said that just having it visible made people show him more respect.”

Hart recounted how Babbage had asked him to go to the reservoir to hang out with Sarah and him and to smoke pot. How they drove there, broke in, and sat on the roof of the roundhouse at the end of the pier.

“I don’t understand why you went with them in the first place,” Sean said. “You were a fifteen-year-old, and they were both adults. What could you possibly have in common with them?”

“Like I said, for me, going out with them that night for the first time, it seemed a reward for being, what I’d call now, Snake’s lackey. As for why Snake brought me along, well … he had me pay for the beer and pot. Maybe he thought he could show me how he did his stuff. I have no idea what was on his mind, but he must have had his reasons for wanting me to come with them. At first, sitting on the roof of the roundhouse, smoking pot, hanging out … it was okay. Until Snake and your mom started kissing. When Snake tried to go further, your mom said no. She wanted to leave. And that made him mad. As I said, he had a violent temper. I didn’t think he was a murderer, though.”

“What about his story that he and my mom went into a secluded area in the brush?” Sean asked. “And the blow to Babbage’s head. What about that?”

“It’s a complete fabrication. I never hit Snake with anything, although I wish to God I had. But I was just a skinny kid. He was a full-grown adult. A powerful man with a wrestler’s body. Plus he had a knife. And once everything started, I was petrified. I was afraid if I didn’t do what he said, he’d carve me up and feed me to those snakes of his.”

Sean shook his head. He felt revulsion so strong that his throat constricted. “There was oral sex performed on both you and Babbage. If that’s so and if Fitz can manage to get a DNA marker, you’ll show up,” Sean said. “That’s the corroboration they need. You’ll be convicted for sure.”

“There won’t be any markers. Not from me.”

“Are you sure?”

“I remember every detail as if it happened an hour ago. No. I was too scared, too humiliated.”

Sean frowned. “But what about Babbage’s statement? That you hit her and made her do it to you?”

“It’s a goddamned lie! I never hit your mother. Snake did.”

Sean’s mind was reeling. “I still don’t understand. Why would that sick fuck care if you came or not? For that matter, I still don’t get why he took you to the reservoir that night. None of your story adds up.”

Hart considered. “I’ve wondered about those things too. Countless times. I’m not sure I know the answers, but … I don’t think he planned on killing her. My guess is he was showing off when he started kissing her. Demonstrating to me how much he was in control of his woman—what a big man he was. When she said no and walked away, he saw it as disrespect and went into a rage—like he did when I refused to help him feed his snakes—and then it all just escalated. Snake forced your mom to do what she did to me so he could involve me in his crime. That way I wouldn’t go to the police because I’d have to implicate myself.”

“As a public defender, I’ve seen that before. But those unfamiliar with the system think it makes no sense.”

“Look at me now. He’s free and I’m going on trial. His strategy worked.”

“In other words, you think he
planned
to blame it on you if he was caught?”

Hart shrugged. “It was his insurance.”

“You still haven’t explained how my mother was killed,” Sean said, “and what part you actually played.”

“You can’t really want to know the details of how she was killed. I sure as hell don’t want to think about it, and I was there.”

“Damn it, tell me.”

Hart sighed. “After your mother finished doing what she did to me, Snake came at her with that knife, the
ka-bar
. They struggled. Somehow, your mom managed to knock the knife from Snake’s hand and it fell on the ground. I scooped it up and ran away. I should have thrown it into the reservoir but I didn’t.” Hart paused.

“Go on,” said Sean tightly.

“When I came back to see if your mother was all right, I saw her on the ground, crying and struggling, but Snake was straddling her, holding her wrists above her head. When he saw me, he held her wrists with one hand and held out his other hand. He demanded the
ka-bar
. I said no. I told him I was afraid he was going to hurt her. He became infuriated. ‘Give me the fucking knife,’ he shouted. ‘If you don’t, I’m going to cut off your fucking balls and feed you to my snakes.’”

“Your mother begged me not to. Pleaded with me to help her …” Hart’s eyes again filled with tears.

“You cowardly son of a bitch,” Sean said. “You gave him that knife, didn’t you?”

“It all happened so fast,” he murmured, nodding. “I moved toward him with my arm out to hand it to him, then hesitated. But before I could change my mind, Snake snatched it. He jabbed her with the point and she screamed … I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, what was happening. More screams … I squeezed my eyes shut and covered my ears with my hands … I was backing away, when I tripped and fell and hit my head on something hard. I must have lost consciousness for an instant … and then I couldn’t breathe … I was choking on my own vomit. I managed to scramble to my feet and I ran … I ran as fast as my legs would carry me …

“I’m so sorry, Sean. I know I should have stabbed Snake with the knife instead of handing it back to him. Or I should have thrown the damn thing in the reservoir.” Hart paused. “God forgive me that I didn’t.”

Sean’s heart was pounding. “Did you help him with the cover-up?”

Hart shook his head. “Once, I almost went to the police. But at the last minute I backed out. Another regret.”

“One last question,” Sean said. “Why tell me now?”

“You asked me,” Hart said simply.

“Aren’t you afraid that I’ll tell the prosecutor?”

Hart looked at Sean, as if to say, do what you have to do.

“I’ve got to go,” Sean said.

He hurried out without looking back, got into his car, and floored the accelerator. The Celica hesitated, then lurched forward, heading for the freeway.
That fucking coward. A coward nineteen years ago and a coward now.

Hart would pay.

He would find Fitz tonight and tell him what Hart had said. Fitz would get it to the prosecution. Sean’s testimony would cinch the case against Hart.

Up ahead, Sean could see Ventura Boulevard and a red traffic light. He slowed, stopped, and waited for the light to change. Ten seconds passed, twenty seconds. Still the light was red.

Should Hart get the death penalty? When it came to the rest of the world, Sean had always been opposed to it. Since becoming a public defender, he’d dedicated himself to helping the accused. He wanted someday to defend a murder case.

But this was different.

The light turned green.