Grant of Immunity (30 page)

B
abbage
, standing to the side of the vertical blinds, looked out the window and adjusted the slats so that anyone outside could see in without spotting Babbage.

“He’s out there,” Babbage said. “Pick up the knife.”

Hart didn’t move.

“I said, ‘Pick … . up … the … knife.’”

Hart walked over to the dresser, picked up the knife, and looked at Babbage.

“You son of a bitch,” Hart spat. “You’re not doing this to me twice.”

He lunged at Babbage.

Babbage fired one shot. Hart felt a blow to his chest and fell back, unable to breathe. Before he lost consciousness, he looked down. The front of his shirt was soaked with blood.

F
itz heard the shot
. Jesus, he thought. He had to act quickly, whether or not the backup arrived. The Beretta’s handle was slippery in his damp palm. He switched hands and wiped his palm on his pants. Shit.

He took a deep breath, focused his thoughts, and exhaled. Then he moved.

Fitz edged toward the front of the house. Reaching the corner, he turned toward the front door. With all his might, he kicked at the deadbolt. The door jamb splintered, and the door flew open.

Fitz burst into the house, gun in both hands, finger on the trigger. Instantly he saw Babbage, whose semiautomatic was pointed right at him. “Drop it,” Fitz commanded.

“Not on your life,” Babbage said. “The minute I put down this weapon, you’ll shoot.”

Fitz kept his Beretta on Babbage. “What was that shot I heard?”

“Hart was about to stab Doris,” Babbage said. “I had to shoot him to save her life. If you go into the room”— he motioned toward the bedroom—“you’ll see him with the knife still in his hands. Go in and see for yourself.”

“I’m not moving until you put down your weapon,” Fitz said. “If everything you say is true, you have nothing to worry about.”

A muffled groan came from the other room. “What’s that?” Fitz asked.

“Doris,” Babbage said. “Hart tied her up on the bed.”

“When did you get here?”

Babbage cleared his throat. “A few minutes ago.”

Fitz asked, “Didn’t you bring Doris out from Sybil Brand?”

Babbage nodded. “Yeah, but I left. I was halfway home when I realized I forgot my sunglasses, so I came back. Doris let me in. Hart must have been behind the door, because as soon as I came inside, he knocked me out. When I awoke, I was tied up and Hart was out here with Doris, talking to you.”

“If you were tied up, how were you able to shoot Hart?”

“I managed to get loose while Doris was talking to you. When Hart came back with Doris, I pretended to still be tied up.”

“How convenient,” Fitz said. “You’ve got this all figured out, don’t you? Only I don’t believe your bullshit story, and no one else will either. Especially when you refused to disarm. And as a suspended cop, you have no right to possess a firearm, let alone point it at another cop who’s only doing his job.”

“All right,” Babbage said. “I’ll do what you say.”

Babbage began to lower his gun, then raised it again quickly. He fired three times.

By reflex, Fitz fired back.

E
rin heard the shots
.
Oh no. Please, God, no.

She pushed open the car door, not knowing exactly what she was going to do. She ran toward the house. She knew she shouldn’t go inside, knew that she was risking her life. But she had to find out if Fitz was okay.

The door was wide open, but she couldn’t see the entire room—her view was blocked by Fitz, who was slumped against the side of the doorway, not moving. She ran to him, saw his face with his staring, unfocused eyes, and feared the worst. Thank God, he was still breathing, but how badly was he injured? His gun was on the floor, a few inches from his hand. She reached for it.

“Freeze!”

Erin looked up. She saw Babbage standing in the doorway of what looked to be a bedroom directly in front of her. Both arms extended, holding a gun pointed directly at her.

She closed her eyes, waiting for the shot.

Only there was none. Erin opened her eyes just as someone jumped Babbage from behind.

It was Hart. His shirt was soaked with blood. He had a knife in his hand.

As Babbage and Hart struggled with each other on the floor, Erin glanced at Fitz. He was clearly in bad shape. The side of his shirt was soaked in blood, and his arm hung unnaturally. But he was still breathing.

Meanwhile, Babbage had turned around, blocked Hart’s arm, and tripped Hart, who fell to the floor. Babbage was on him, grabbing and twisting Hart’s wrist, forcing him to drop the knife. Seizing it, Babbage stabbed the blade toward Hart, who managed to block the move with his other arm.

Erin scooped up Fitz’s gun.

She had never shot anyone before, and she wasn’t sure she could. But she stepped closer to where Babbage and Hart were grappling, trying to aim the gun at Babbage.

The knife skittered away from them and stopped at Erin’s feet. Babbage dove for it.

Erin kicked the knife to the side, but lost her balance and fell on her back, though managing to hold on to the gun.

Babbage lunged, but before he could get to her, she raised the gun in both hands and pointed it directly at his chest.

Babbage froze. As the two of them stood up, Babbage’s eyes locked on the gun barrel. Erin wanted to pull the trigger, but couldn’t.

Babbage smiled.

At once an image of another time flashed in her head—a time when she saw that same smile on Babbage’s face. At two-thirty in the morning with the sounds of freeway traffic overhead. Amid the decay of Mission Street and the smell of garbage. Going to her knees, forced to use her mouth, enduring Babbage’s pungent stench. She was overcome with rage. Burning, consuming rage. She pointed the gun downward, at Babbage’s groin. And fired. And fired again. The sound was ear-shattering, and each time the weapon violently recoiled.

For an instant, Erin thought she missed. But she hadn’t.

Babbage lay on the floor, on his back, writhing. “You fucking bitch!” he screamed, his bloody hands between his legs. “You fucking—” She shot again.

Suddenly the room was quiet.

Erin dropped the gun.

She looked at Fitz. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no sound emerged. Frantically, Erin searched for a phone. She found one on a small table in the adjacent hallway, but before she could dial 9-1-1, four uniformed police officers stormed through the door. One pointed a gun directly at her and shouted, “Freeze. Get down on your knees with your hands over your head.”

Erin complied. Her hands were cuffed behind her and she was made to lay face-down on the floor.

One cop, a female, called for paramedics, while another bent over Fitzgerald. “This one’s still alive,” the cop said. “What’s up with the other two?”

A third officer went over and looked at Babbage. “This one’s dead—or close to it.” He went over to Hart and knelt. “But this one’s still breathing.”

S
ean was frantic
. This had been one of the worst days of his life. He had been at home, intending to go out to dinner with Erin to celebrate the end of Daniel Hart’s trial, and the end of all the years of not knowing who killed their mother or how she wound up dead at the reservoir. Sean had turned on the TV to watch the six o’clock news, and had seen the story of the shoot-out involving two police officers, a judge, and a kidnapped DA. He’d dialed Erin’s cell, but gotten no answer. He had tried Amanda’s cell, but only gotten her voice mail, and had left an urgent message to call him back.

Finally, Jordan’s secretary returned the call, telling him that Hart and Fitzgerald were at the Tarzana Hospital trauma center, and that Amanda and Erin were on their way there and would meet Sean in the critical care waiting room. Sean raced to the hospital, rushed to the waiting room, and, thank God, found Erin. She was alone, and immediately hugged him.

“It was awful,” she said. “There was blood everywhere, and I thought Fitz must be dead or dying. At first, the cops thought I’d shot Fitz, but Fitz revived when they were cuffing me. He was obviously in shock, but told them I’d saved his life, then passed out. The paramedics said they thought he’d be okay, but he’s still in surgery.”

“Are you okay?” Sean asked. Erin looked terrible, with dried blood all over her clothing, her hair a mess.

“Yeah,” she said. “I know I look awful, but I can’t leave until I know Fitz is okay.” She paused, then whispered, “Babbage is dead. I shot him. I’ve never hurt anyone in my life—I always thought of myself as nonviolent. But so help me God, I’m glad I killed him.”

“The bastard deserved it,” Sean said. “What about Judge Hart?”

“He saved my life,” Erin said. “He attacked when Babbage was about to shoot me. He’s alive, but barely. Amanda went to talk to the doctors and to check on him. Apparently Hart was insisting on seeing her.”

Just then, Amanda walked in. Her face had almost no color, and she appeared very distraught. “Daniel’s in critical condition. He was shot in the chest. Babbage’s bullet pierced one lung, causing it to collapse, and damaged the other.” She looked at Erin. “It’s a miracle he was able to save you. The doctor couldn’t believe anyone with a collapsed lung could even move on their own, let alone stand and fight. He’s an unbelievable hero, and I don’t know what I’ll do if he dies.”

For the next two hours, they waited, while browsing through last year’s magazines and ignoring whatever was playing on the wall-mounted television. A doctor appeared and motioned to Amanda, and conferred with her in hushed tones in the hall.

Amanda returned. “Daniel’s out of danger, for the time being. Tomorrow morning he’s going to be transferred to the Differential Observation Unit. For now, he’s sleeping and can’t communicate. So I might as well go home and get some sleep myself.”

Erin and Sean continued to wait after Amanda left. Erin paced, occasionally going to the nurse’s station to ask about Fitz’s progress, while Sean managed to doze off on the vinyl couch.

Finally, Fitz was out of surgery. At first they weren’t allowed to see him. A nurse explained that only family members were permitted. But one of Erin’s Alcoholics Anonymous buddies knew a hospital social worker, and Erin phoned her. Erin explained that Fitz had no next of kin, and that they were the only “family” he had. The social worker understood, and eventually they were permitted to be in the room with Fitz, sitting by the bed.

Erin and Sean were there when Fitz opened his eyes.

He smiled before he went back to sleep.

S
ean and Erin
were at the hospital every day visiting Fitz. Each time, he looked much better. The doctor told them that although Fitz had been hit in each shoulder and in his abdomen, miraculously there had been no vital organ damage, so there was no reason why Fitz shouldn’t make a full recovery. As the weekend progressed, Fitz improved. He spent two days in intensive care, then was stable enough to be transferred to the acute medical care unit, where he would stay until he recovered enough to go home.

When Erin and Sean came to visit after his transfer, Fitz was in good spirits, but became concerned when he saw them. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Sean, your face is pale and you look grim, and Erin doesn’t look much better.”

“I’m okay, but Judge Hart’s not doing too well. He lost a great deal of blood and he can’t talk,” Sean said. “His nurse gave me this envelope from him.”

“Can’t talk?” Fitz asked, taking the envelope.

“Yeah,” Sean said. “The nurse told me that the doctors inserted a chest tube into his pleural cavity. It keeps his lung inflated and drains any blood that accumulates. He’s connected to a ventilator via an endotracheal tube. The respirator forces air into his lungs. The problem is, the tube passes between his vocal cords. The nurse said he can hear everything, he’s alert, but in pain. He has a steno pad that he writes on.”

Sean handed the envelope to Fitz.

Fitz examined it. It was plain white, with the words “For Sean and Erin” scrawled on the front. He turned it over. It was sealed, with the words “Open in the event of my death” written over the flap.

“Let’s open it now.” He started to tear at it.

“Fitz,” Sean said sharply. “Don’t.”

“It must be a confession,” Fitz said. “That’s the only thing that makes sense.”

Erin scowled. “After all this, after the man saved your life, you still think he’s guilty?”

“I don’t see how it could be anything else,” Fitz replied. “Remember what the coroner said, what Jordan argued to the judge? The marks on your mom’s wrists indicated she had been held down. That means Hart must have helped Babbage.”

“Not so,” Sean said. “There’s a simple explanation you would have heard if Judge Hart had testified. He told me that night when I confronted him. He told me everything that happened, and in great detail. And it was way before we knew what the coroner’s testimony would be.”

“And that is?” Fitzgerald asked, skeptically.

“After Mom was sexually assaulted, Babbage tried to stab her. She and Babbage fought over the knife, and she succeeded in getting Babbage to drop it. Hart scooped up the knife and ran away. Then he made a colossally stupid move, and came back to check on Mom. He saw Babbage straddling Mom, holding her wrists back. She bucked and tried to free her wrists, but Babbage was too strong. That’s how she got the marks the coroner observed on her wrists.”

“Okay,” Fitzgerald said. “Now explain to me how Babbage got the knife?”

“He tricked Hart. Hart initially refused to give the knife back, even thought of throwing it away. Said he was worried that Babbage would hurt Mom. But Babbage said he would not hurt her, just needed the knife to control her. Hart believed him. Remember, Hart was just a fifteen-year-old kid.”

“Sean, Sean,” Fitzgerald said. “Always the believer.” Fitzgerald tore open the envelope, and read the document inside. “I’ll be damned,” he said.

“What is it?” Sean asked.

“It’s his will, leaving everything to you and Erin.”