Grant of Immunity (4 page)

During their sidebar conference, the clerk had put the written plea and waiver of rights form on the bench. Hart looked at it. Yes, it was an open plea, all right. The defendant had initialed each constitutional right waiver and had signed the bottom. Jordan had signed a statement that she had advised her client about the possible defenses to the case, the maximum sentence, and other consequences, and that she concurred in the plea.

Hart spoke at last. “The waiver forms appear appropriate. Ms. Reynolds, do you want to ask any questions of the defendant before her plea is entered?”

“No, Judge. But the People oppose the plea and ask that the court reject it. This case must go to trial.”

Generally, and especially with a crowded courtroom, there’s a low buzz of spectator conversation. With Reynolds’s statement, the courtroom went absolutely quiet.

That comment was extraordinary. Reynolds knew that if a defendant wanted to plead guilty to all charges, there was nothing the People could do to prevent it. She had to be saying this for cops and the television cameras, which were suddenly trained on Hart.”Ms. Reynolds, as you know, the defendant has the absolute right to plead guilty if she wishes. Do you have any legal basis for asking the court to reject the plea?”

“Yes, Judge. The People want a continuance. We’d like to decide if more charges are appropriate in this case. We demand that the court give us a two-week continuance and not accept the plea today.”

Jordan stood. “Your Honor, there are no other possible charges in this case. My client opposes any continuances and requests that her plea be entered and that she be sentenced today.”

Hart pondered for a moment, then said, “Ms. Reynolds, your motion to continue is denied. Doctor Black will be allowed to enter her plea of guilty today. The sentencing hearing will be in sixty days. However, the members of the victim’s family do have a right to be present at the sentencing hearing. Please notify them.”

“Your Honor,” Jordan said, “may I ask that the sentencing be in ninety days? I’m going to be in a federal trial in Washington, D.C., and will need extra time to prepare and bring together the people who want to speak on Doctor Black’s behalf.”

“All right,” Hart said. “Sentencing will be set for September eight in this division.”
And I’ll need the extra time to decide what the sentence should be
, Hart thought.
There go my hopes of remaining invisible before the election. One side or the other is going to be outraged, no matter what I do. I can’t give the defendant a light sentence just because she’s a physician. There’s a dead child and a dead pregnant mother. But this woman certainly isn’t a criminal and didn’t intend to hurt anyone. The public expects judges to make the right choice. But what if making that choice costs me my job?

L
APD Sergeant Jake Babbage
—once, a long time ago, known as Snake—had been surveilling Erin Collins for eleven months, although she had no inkling of it. For years he’d been trying to duplicate the intense thrill he’d experienced that night when he’d drained the life from Sarah Collins. He’d almost succeeded during his tour of duty as a U.S. Marine—he’d enlisted right after his night with Sarah. There, he had volunteered for a covert assignment to Operation Condor in Chile: Working with DINA (the Chilean secret police), he’d interrogated female subversives and communists.

From military police to civilian police was a natural progression for Babbage, one where he could apply what he’d learned in the Corps.

He called them projects—finding, stalking, molesting, and ultimately snuffing his prey. Just like in the military, he was doing a service—eliminating a pestilence: in this case, women who sold their bodies—while at the same time satisfying his own sexual hunger.

Babbage uncovered Erin while foraging for new projects. He routinely monitored local prostitution arrests. When he saw her name, age, and booking photo, he knew immediately that she was Sarah’s daughter, but ruled her out as a project. It was too risky—he was a professional, after all. But his mind kept returning to her image and her uncanny resemblance to her mother. So much so that he couldn’t get her out of his mind.

Finally he gave in.

Had to.

For weeks now he had studied everything he could find about her. Projects always took time, but not the enormous commitment of this one. He was stepping into dangerous territory where any mistake could cost him everything.

Erin Collins was worth it.

She was a bartender at the Traffic Stop, on First and Los Angeles Street, a place where many off-duty cops went to have a drink and grab a meal. Although he normally avoided the place, Babbage made it a point to stop in at random times, while off duty.

Like her mother, she had red hair, blue eyes, and beautiful tits. Thin, but not too thin. She worked late afternoons until closing at 2 a.m., when she usually let one of the guys walk her to her car before driving home.

Now, sitting at the Traffic Stop’s bar, Babbage noticed she was sipping from a glass she kept under the counter. Sipped a drink between the jokes, the laughing, the flirting, the puffs on her cigarette. The top two buttons of her blouse were undone, and he saw that both her neck and the swell of her tits had an alcohol flush. He was convinced that by 2:30 a.m., when she got behind the wheel of her car to make her way home, she’d be well over a .20 blood alcohol level.

Two weeks earlier, he had run her plate through the computer in his patrol car, even though he had to be careful using the fucking computer nowadays because the dickhead lieutenant kept track of everything. Just as he’d thought, she had a couple of outstanding traffic warrants out of Van Nuys, including an open one for a DUI last year. At Parker Center, Babbage pulled the police report for the last (and open) DUI case. He couldn’t justify running her rap sheet, but he could find out most of what he needed to know just by looking at the report. It showed she’d been stopped, and tested .26 blood alcohol level; .08 was enough to get a conviction. You had to be a heavy drinker to score a .26. Light drinkers, especially women, would usually pass out before swallowing enough booze to get that high.

Babbage then went to the traffic court on Hill Street and pulled the case file. As he knew it would be, her rap sheet was in the file. He found out that Erin would be in deep shit if she were arrested again. She had two prior DUI convictions. And the 647(b) arrest for prostitution (but no conviction) that had first brought her to his attention. She was a fucking whore, just like her mother. The present open case was for a third DUI, where she’d jumped bail and, as a result, had an active bench warrant for her arrest.

Now, sitting in the bar and watching, everything had fallen into place. She was facing a mandatory 120 days on her outstanding warrant. A fourth DUI would be charged as a felony and, with her record, would probably mean eighteen months in state prison. He looked at his watch, drained the bottle of Heineken he’d been nursing all evening, left the change in front of him for a tip, and exited. It was a clear summer night, the air outside hot and dry. Babbage took a deep breath to clear his lungs of the sweat, smoke, and sawdust.

Three hours later, at 2:30 a.m., Babbage was parked in his patrol vehicle on the street in front of Parker Center, just across from the Traffic Stop. His lights were out. Because so many other black-and-whites were parked on this street, he knew his wouldn’t be noticed.

Since Babbage was a sergeant, he had no partner. As he sat there, he monitored the video terminal in his patrol vehicle, reading the cop-to-cop communications for the people he supervised. His incompetent lieutenant gave him free rein. So as long as there were no fuck-ups, Babbage could do as he pleased while on duty. In the small of his back, in a leather sheath, was his Marine combat knife with a tempered steel blade, buffalo-horn handle, and solid brass fittings.

There she was.

Two obviously drunk assholes walked her out to her car, a white, 1990 Honda Accord. She stood there chatting with them for a while. Babbage grew impatient, but he controlled himself.
It’ll just make it better
, he thought.

Finally, she got into her car and drove away, heading north on Los Angeles Street toward the Hollywood Freeway on-ramp. The two assholes watched her disappear, and then got into their own cars and left. Babbage waited for a few moments so he wouldn’t attract attention, then made a U-turn and drove off after Erin.

When he was midway between First and Temple, he switched on his headlights and accelerated. He saw Erin’s Accord up ahead, moving slowly. She was driving straight as an arrow, giving no objective indication that she was DUI. Normally, before stopping any suspect, an officer would have to have some justification for the detention, and then, according to LAPD policy, would be required to immediately notify dispatch. But Babbage didn’t bother and neither did he give a shit whether or not he had probable cause to pull her over. He knew the bitch was drunk. That was good enough.

She turned right, just after Aliso Street, and entered the Santa Ana Freeway, going east. Babbage guessed that she intended to merge into the left lane, heading down the San Bernardino Freeway, toward her home in Monterey Park. He followed, knowing that she couldn’t tell by looking in her mirror that a patrol car was behind her. Besides, as drunk as she was, there was no way she would take her eyes off her straight-ahead path to look in the rearview mirror.

While they were still on the transition road to the San Bernardino Freeway, Babbage switched on his overheads. As he would have predicted, she did nothing. He gave her a three-second blast with his siren. That got her attention. He got on his vehicle public address system. “Pull off at the Mission Street off-ramp.” Mission Street was a perfect place for the stop. Almost no one got off the freeway at Mission at this time of the night.

She did as he commanded, moving slowly off the freeway, turning onto Mission Street. She proceeded about twenty-five yards further, and then stopped curbside. Babbage followed her, parking behind. He left his engine running, his overheads flashing, his headlights on bright, his spotlight shining directly through her back window, illuminating the inside of her car. Before opening his door, he removed his name badge.

Babbage exited his patrol vehicle and, using his service three-battery Maglite, scanned the surroundings. To his right, a vacant lot strewn with debris; across the street, a boarded-up gas station covered with graffiti and surrounded by cracked, stained concrete. There was a faint stench of garbage. As he walked toward the driver’s side, Erin rolled down her window. He shone his flashlight directly into her face.

She was shit-faced all right: stinking of gin, blue eyes glazed over, hair out of place.

“May I see your driver’s license, please?” Babbage said, his neutral tone giving no indication of his intense state of excitement.

“Was I doing anything wrong, Officer?” Her speech was a little slurred, but she had a smile on her face. “I’m Erin. Maybe you’ve seen me at the Traffic Stop? I work the bar.” She handed him her driver’s license.

She thinks she can flirt her way out of this
, Babbage thought.
Good.
Things were going exactly as he had hoped. “Would you step out of the car, ma’am.” It was not a question.

Hesitating briefly, Erin opened her door and got out, stumbling.
She’s at least point two-five
, Babbage thought.

“Perhaps you know Steve Curtis?” she said, her voice a little more urgent. “I think he works patrol out of Rampart. Is that where you work?”

“Could you step over here, ma’am?” Babbage, all business, directed her to the curb. “I’m going to have you do a set of simple field sobriety tests, ma’am. For this first test, I’m going to ask you to stand straight, put your head back, and your arms out like this.” Babbage then demonstrated how she should put both her arms out, palms up. “I’d like you to close your eyes, keep your head back, and touch your nose like this.” Babbage touched the tip of his nose with his right index finger. “First use your right hand, then your left, each time touching your nose just as I have demonstrated.”

She leaned her head back and stretched out her arms. Before she could attempt to touch her nose, she lost her balance and stumbled. She recovered and tried again, but each time she leaned her head back, she became disorientated.

“I can’t do it,” she admitted finally.

Babbage just looked at her. “Okay, we’ll try this. I want you to imagine a straight line on the street in front of you. I want you to walk forward, putting one foot in front of the other as you walk, always keeping your feet on the straight line.” As before, Babbage demonstrated.

Erin again tried to do as she was shown, but each time was unable to put her foot in a straight line.

“All right,” Babbage said. “I’d like you to count backwards from one hundred by twos, like this: one hundred, ninety-eight, ninety-six,
etc.
Do you understand?”

“Yes.” She began. “One hundred. Ninety-eight. Ninety …”—she paused and thought—“Ninety-six. Ninety-five. No, I mean ninety-six. Wait. Did I say that before? Ninety-five. Ninety-three. No. Ninety-five. No. Can I start over again?” Her speech was thick and slurred.

“No, ma’am. That won’t be necessary.” She failed the tests so miserably he knew he had her. “I’m taking you to the station, ma’am. You have a choice of three alcohol tests: blood, breath, or urine.”

“Am I under arrest?” she asked. He could tell she was scared. “Because if you’d check around about me, you’ll see I’m practically one of the guys. You wouldn’t arrest another cop, would you?”

“We’ll take that up at the station, ma’am.”

“No! Wait!” Her voice had taken on a tone of deep urgency. “Please! This is my first DUI. Can’t you give me a break?”

“Sorry.”

“Look,” she continued, “if you can cut me some slack, I know you won’t be sorry.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Well,” she said. She paused, then: “I’d be glad to give you a drink on the house any time or even a free meal at the Traffic Stop.”

“Ma’am, I ran your driving record, and this is not your first offense. You have three prior DUIs. You’re not only a liar, but now you’re trying to bribe me.”

“A bribe?” she said. “Jesus Christ, I just offered you a drink. That’s not exactly a bribe.”

“Besides,” he said, “I’d be in deep trouble if I gave you a break. After all, with your record, this would be a felony arrest.”

“You wouldn’t be in trouble!” There was desperation in her voice now. “How would anyone know? I’d never tell! And I’d be so appreciative!”

Tears made mascara lines down her face. Babbage said nothing for nearly a full minute. Out of the corner of his eye, he became aware of a movement in the darkness of the vacant lot. But it was just a rat, scurrying out across the pavement and into a distant gutter. He looked back at Erin and said, “Just how appreciative would you be? You’re asking me to put my job on the line.”

“What do you want?” she said.

He pointed to his now obvious hard-on. “Take care of this for me. Now. Right here.”

She started to speak, then hesitated. “And … and if I refuse?”

“Then I take you down to the station, and all bets are off.”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “What do you think would happen to you if I told anyone that you asked me for a hand job?”

Babbage was stunned that this fucking bitch was actually threatening him. He took a deep breath. His voice was almost a whisper. “You’re on my turf now and don’t forget it. You just failed all the FSTs, your BA is probably three times the legal limit, and you tried to bribe me. Who the fuck do you think they’d believe? Some drunk? Or me, the arresting officer and a sergeant? When I’m through with you, you’ll be doing hard time at the joint, being eaten by bull dykes.”

He had an incredible urge to hit her. He imagined, could almost feel his fist making contact with her face. His hands twitched with impatience, but he controlled himself, anticipating the terror he’d see in her eyes. And the ultimate thrill—the moment those eyes went glassy, then blank.

So, he waited.

He saw a wet patch appear at her crotch, and smelled the stench of urine.

Finally: “Okay,” she said. She was crying. “I’ll … I’ll do it. I mean … I’ll give you a hand job … but … nothing more.”

“Oh no, Erin,” he said. “No hand job. You’re going to suck my dick. And you’re going to suck me until I come. Or else, no deal.”

At first she didn’t move. Tears streaming down her face, she couldn’t take a breath without sobbing. She was defeated, and he could see she knew it. “Okay,” she said.

He stood with his back to the Accord and unbuckled his pants. The bitch went to her knees and began. Babbage put his right hand behind her neck and reached back with his left hand for the handle of his knife. Soon. Her head moved back. Forth. Back. Soon … soon. His fingers curled around the knife.