Grant of Immunity (12 page)

B
abbage sat
outside Lieutenant Hardy’s office, waiting impatiently. Hardy had ordered Babbage to be present at a 7:45 a.m. meeting to go over the evidence and testimony needed for Fitzgerald’s upcoming Board of Rights hearing. Fucking Hardy was like all the asshole lieutenants in the department, Babbage thought. He’d gotten his job using politics rather than ability. But Babbage needed Hardy, so he put up with his jerk-off crap.

Hardy motioned him to come into the office. Babbage sat down in a chair in front of Hardy’s desk. The desk was piled high with papers and manila file folders.

“I’ve been here since six a.m.,” Hardy said. “Too much paperwork to clear up, especially with Fitzgerald suspended. That fucker created so much work for me all last year, and since his suspension, the shit has gotten much worse.” Hardy shook his head. “It pisses me off that until now, nobody had taken my complaints about Fitzgerald seriously.”

“Fitzgerald had everyone convinced his shit didn’t stink,” Babbage said.

“Now that everyone knows Fitzgerald is a fuck-up, I’ve got to scrutinize everything he’s done. That means looking at all his cases—I know I’ll find more crap and more evidence for the Board.”

Babbage didn’t like the idea of anyone going through Fitzgerald’s files, but he kept his mouth shut.

Hardy pointed to a stack of six banker’s boxes containing Fitzgerald’s case notes. “The fucker ordered lab reports on cases that weren’t even his, if you can believe that. Look at this one.”

He handed Babbage an analyze-evidence request for a Lancaster Sheriff’s case. Babbage was suddenly on high alert. He studied the request, careful to keep his expression blank.

“Look at that,” Hardy said. “Goddammit. It was dated and signed two months ago,
after
I and the captain specifically ordered Fitzgerald to cancel all requests.”

Hardy picked up the phone and punched in a number. “I’m calling Grabowski, the head of the crime lab. I’ll put this on speakerphone—I want you to witness what he says. Everyone around here tries to protect Fitzgerald, so I need you to back me up in case someone tries to piss backwards on me.”

“Grabowski?” he barked into the phone. “This is Lieutenant Hardy of Robbery-Homicide.”

“Yeah, Hardy. What do you want?” Grabowski said.

“I’m following up on an analyze-evidence request submitted to you two months ago by Detective Fitzgerald.”

“Hold on, I’ll get the file.”

Babbage could hear the sound of paper shuffling.

“I’ve got it.” Then Grabowski added, “Oh, yeah, I recall. Fitz had his ass in a ringer over how long it was taking to get DNA profiles. Weird. The guy bugged me every day for weeks asking when the results would be in, and then when they finally came in, I never heard from him.”

“He’s been suspended for misconduct—he’ll probably be fired,” Hardy said.

“No shit,” Grabowski replied. “It must be a mistake. What’s he supposed to have done?”

“You know better than to ask,” Hardy said. “It’s an official investigation.”

“You always have to have a rod up your ass, Hardy? Chill out.”

The lieutenant ignored the comment. “Didn’t Fitzgerald tell you I’d ordered him to cancel the request?”

“Cancel? Not that I know of. Whether or not he did, the profiles are here. What should I do with ’em?”

Hardy considered. “Keep them. As well as any other DNA profile comparisons Fitzgerald submitted. I’ll get back to you when his files are reassigned.”

U
pon entering chambers
, Hart saw his clerk, Louise Moreno, sitting in one of the chairs in front of his desk.

Hart sat down at his desk. “What’s up, Louise?”

“I just found out something,” Louise said softly. She was always careful with confidential information. Hart generally left his chambers door open, and someone could walk in or be outside in the hallway. “Doris Reynolds is planning to run against you in next year’s election.”

Hart thought about that for a moment before responding. He would likely need to hire a consultant, line up a committee, and try to raise money. It went on and on.
That also explains why Ms. Reynolds has been so aggressive in court
, he thought.
She’s trying to appear like an ideal, get-tough prosecutor in front of the “soft on crime” judge.

After Louise left, Hart remained seated at his desk and looked around chambers. Law books on floor-to-ceiling white-oak shelves to his left. On his right wall were framed line drawings of courtroom scenes by Terrance Flanigan, an artist he admired. This was where many judges displayed their certificates, diplomas, and various commendations, but Hart saw no purpose in doing so. Behind him was a huge window facing north that made it unnecessary to turn on the interior fluorescents except on the cloudiest of days. He stared at the wall calendar hanging on the back of his closed door. The primary election was next June, a little over eight months away, and each day until then was going to be hell. And now there would be the pressure of having his opponent, Doris Reynolds, appear day after day in his courtroom. There was a knock on the door.

It was Louise again. She walked in, holding today’s calendar in her hand. “Another busy day, Your Honor.”

Louise always called him “Your Honor,” even though he had asked her time and time again to call him Daniel. But she’d been around too long, and her respect for the bench was a habit she couldn’t shake.

“We’re ready for you to take the bench,” Louise said. “But there’s an LAPD Sergeant Babbage who wants to see you first to get a search warrant signed.”

Hart had to prepare for his upcoming hearing. It was going to be a busy day. “Tell him to come back this afternoon.”

“He says it’s critical—urgent.” Louise said. “He has to get it signed now.”

“Okay. Send him in.”

Moments later, the door opened, and in walked the sergeant. There was something vaguely familiar about the man. Babbage wore a half-grin on his face, which smacked of insolence. He’d have to set the man straight as to the proper demeanor in a judge’s chambers.

“Sergeant, raise your right hand to be sworn for your search warrant affidavit.”

Babbage didn’t reply, just sat down in one of the desk chairs. His grin widened. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

Hart noticed that the officer didn’t end his statement with “Your Honor,” which he would normally expect from a police officer. “Should I?”

“Yeah,” the officer said. “But that’s understandable. The last time you saw me, I was a lot younger. In civilian clothes.”

Hart frowned. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t ever remember seeing you before.”

“Sure you do,” the officer said. “Think back about nineteen years. Incidentally,
Chief,
have you had your dick sucked lately?”

Hart stared at the man. It was him, all right.
Snake.

Instantly, Hart was transported back, to that night, to the murder of Sarah Collins. Once again he was fifteen. Powerless, humiliated, scared. Face burning, he wanted to run, to hide, to go anywhere. Away from Snake. Away from reality.

But he had to get hold of himself. To force himself to think rationally. To analyze the situation and determine what he should do.

He couldn’t believe that Snake was now a cop. Over the years he’d wondered, worried. He’d hoped that Snake had just disappeared, died even. But here he was, confronting Hart.

But
why
? Why would he show up now?

“I was told you wanted me to sign a search warrant,” Hart said slowly. “If that’s not the reason, exactly what is it you want?”

“Just to say hello,
Judge
.” He was still grinning.

“Well, you’ve said it. Now say good-bye.”

“Not so fast,” Snake said.

Hart studied the man and said nothing. That night nineteen years ago had changed Hart’s life. Snake had taken a fifteen-year-old boy and made him an accomplice to rape and murder. The boy had trusted Snake on the way up to the reservoir that night, and despite what then occurred at the car, the boy had stupidly believed that Snake wouldn’t actually kill Sarah—until Sarah Collins’s final moments. Hart had replayed the awful night again and again in his memory.

“This afternoon there will be a probation violation hearing in your court,” Snake said. “I’ll be testifying as the arresting police officer. The woman probationer, Erin Collins, will claim I set her up. She’ll talk about a time I stopped her for a DUI. There was DNA evidence as part of that stop. You will order that the DNA evidence and results be brought to court and admitted. Then you make certain that evidence is destroyed, or, if it’s easier, lost—”

Hart interrupted. “What the hell are you talking about?” Hart felt the blood rushing to his face. Pounding. Hot. His jaw twitched. “You miserable son of a bitch,” he said. “How
dare
you come in here and tell
me
how I should rule on a case?”

Snake smiled. “I still have the knife,” he said calmly, “with your fingerprints on it. The knife used to kill Sarah Collins.”

Hart froze.

“By the way, the woman probationer is Sarah Collins’s daughter.”

Something inside of Hart snapped.

He could not put up with this one instant longer. If it meant giving up his career, so be it. If it meant giving up his freedom, or even his life, so be it.

He looked directly at Snake. “You disgusting maggot,” he said. Then he reached for the button underneath his desk.

Within five seconds, two armed deputies were in Hart’s chambers; within ten, six more arrived.

“Arrest this man,” Hart ordered. “I find him in contempt and order him remanded to the custody of the sheriff immediately. He just attempted to extort the court.”

The deputies gaped, astonished that an in-uniform LAPD sergeant was ordered arrested. But they obeyed and quickly disarmed Babbage, handcuffed him, and led him out of chambers.

Babbage glared, but said nothing as he was escorted out.

Hart picked up the intercom line. “Louise, I’ve just found Officer Babbage in contempt and ordered him jailed. I’ll prepare a written order for the remand, finding him in contempt and sentencing him to five days in custody. Call the LAPD liaison and the head deputy DA, and ask them to come here tomorrow morning at eight a.m. I’m also disqualifying myself from the Erin Collins matter. Send it out to another judge and cancel my calendar for the rest of the day.”

Hart then got an outside line. He dialed the number for attorney Amanda Jordan. A secretary answered. “This is Judge Daniel Hart. I need to speak to Ms. Jordan.”

“Ms. Jordan is out of the office, Judge,” the secretary responded, courteously. “She’s in a court hearing.”

“Do you expect her back soon?”

“She said she’d be back later this morning.”

“Fine,” Hart said. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

“But I just told you that Ms. Jordan isn’t here, Judge.”

“I know. This is urgent. I’ll wait until she gets back.”

Hart prepared his judgment and order of contempt, and took it to Louise. Then he put on his jacket and headed for Amanda Jordan’s law office.

O
n one side
wall of every courtroom in the Van Nuys courthouse is a heavy steel door, with a prominent, large, and unusual lock in place of a doorknob. The key for this lock is six inches long and too big to put in any person’s pocket. Behind the door was the lockup area—two to ten jail cells, depending upon whether or not the adjacent courtroom was a mass court. A mass court heard cases for hundreds of people but held no trials. It was primarily for arraignments, where cases were processed until they were ready for trial, and for probation and sentence hearings. Daniel Hart’s court, Division 103, was a mass court, so there were ten jail cells in lockup and a bailiff-jailer who was responsible for in-custody defendants and others who had been remanded by the court for any reason.

Babbage was in the latter group. He was so outraged he could barely function.

The bailiffs had disarmed him, handcuffed him, and were now escorting him through the door to the Division 103 lockup area. They couldn’t believe that Hart would remand an LAPD officer. “Jesus Christ, Babbage. What the fuck did you say to the judge to cause him to go berserk?” a bailiff with sergeant stripes asked. His name badge read Powell.

“Beats the shit out of me,” Babbage replied. “We were talking, and all of a sudden, he goes off the deep end. Look, Powell, would you do me a favor and get me to a phone? I’ve got to call my lieutenant. I’d also like to call the union lawyer. I want to get the fuck out of custody before you have to ship me to county jail.”

“No sweat. Make as many calls as you like. If I have to send you to county, I’ll be up to my ass in paperwork.”

The other deputies left and Babbage accompanied Powell to a small desk just outside the hallway leading to the lockup. Powell took off Babbage’s handcuffs, handed him the phone, and stood next to him. Babbage phoned Anthony Giovanni’s office.

Giovanni didn’t seem surprised that Judge Hart had just remanded him and that he was calling from lockup. “Spare me the details, Babbage,” the lawyer warned. “And keep your mouth shut if anyone asks.”

“I’m not a fool,” Babbage replied. “But I need you to get down here and get me out.”

“I’ll try to get there sometime before noon.”

“That’s two fucking hours from now. Get yourself down here before they ship me to county jail on the noon bus.”

“That’s the best I can do. See if you can convince the bailiff to wait until this evening to ship you to county. I’ve got another appearance this morning. When I come, I’ll bring a bondsman, in case I can’t get you an own-recognizance release. What amount did Hart set for bail?”

“He didn’t set an amount,” Babbage answered.

“Good. That was his mistake, and we’ll take advantage of it. Sit tight until I get there. And don’t call your lieutenant or anyone else. I’ll take care of notifying everyone if it becomes necessary.” Giovanni hung up.

Babbage looked at Powell. “My lawyer says he can’t be here until noon, but he says he’ll get me out when he arrives. Can you hold off shipping me out to county until the five o’clock bus?”

Powell hesitated, and then said, “I can do it. But your lawyer better get you the fuck out of here when he comes. I don’t want to stay late filling out paperwork just because I did you a favor.”

Powell took Babbage to a single cell at the end of the lockup. “This is the one we use for females,” Powell said. “We’ll put you in here, so you won’t get hassled by the other defendants.”

The women’s cells, smaller and fewer because fewer females committed crimes, were eight feet by ten feet, with bare, stainless-steel benches along the ten-foot walls. The eight-foot-wide sliding door was a row of jail bars. On the eight-foot back wall was a stainless-steel toilet with no seat. A nearby stainless-steel dispenser allowed one sheet of toilet paper at a time to be removed.

Babbage walked into the cell. Watched Powell lock him in and leave. The stench of urine was overpowering.

He sat on one of the steel benches and thought about his situation. Hart had surprised him, and Babbage was not easily surprised. His position might appear hopeless to most people. But not to him. He’d been in difficult positions before, but instead of worrying about what might have been, he looked at it as just another problem to be solved.

The problem was he had underestimated Hart. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

But Hart had underestimated him, and in Hart’s case, that wouldn’t mean a morning in the cooler. That mistake would cost. Big-time.