Grant of Immunity (16 page)

P
rosecutor Doris Reynolds
told Captain Becker to have Fitzgerald in her office at 7:30 a.m. sharp, so that she could “brief” him. Fitz was not looking forward to the meeting, but he decided to do everything he could to avoid pissing her off. Even before he met her at Erin’s probation hearing, word was that she was rude, petty, and abrasive—especially if you were on the opposite side. On the other hand, she’d once been nice to Erin when they met in the restroom after that first probation hearing, so she couldn’t be all bad.

Fitz arrived at the courthouse at 7:15, took the elevator to the second floor, and entered the double doors bearing the words “District Attorney’s Office” in silver block letters. The waiting area was dark, and there was no one behind the receptionist’s counter. People probably come in at 8 a.m., Fitz realized. He didn’t know where Reynolds’s office was and was worried he might have gotten the time wrong. He sat down to wait in the darkened room, hoping she’d come to get him.

At 7:45, Fitz decided that Reynolds might be expecting him to find her. There were two other doors leading out of the reception area. Fitz walked through the nearest and found himself in a large open area containing a series of desks, file cabinets, and photocopy machines. He found a long hallway with offices on either side, and began exploring the maze of offices and hallways.

He heard a female voice, followed the sound, and found Reynolds sitting and talking on the phone. She was in a small, windowless office. He knocked on her open door. She motioned him to wait outside, and that he should close her office door.

He complied and stood in the hallway, waiting. He could hear her talking through the door but couldn’t make out what she was saying. After a while, more lights came on and other deputy DAs arrived and went into their offices. They appeared not to notice him. Eventually, Reynolds stopped talking, opened the door, and beckoned him in. He looked at his watch. It was 8 a.m.

Fitz sat down on a small, hard-back steel chair beside Reynolds’s desk. “Where the fuck were you at seven-thirty?” she demanded.

Fitz managed to suppress a flash of rage. “I was in the reception area. I thought you wanted to meet me there at seven-thirty.”

Reynolds glared. “If I wanted to meet you in the visitor area, I’d have told you.”

She took a case file folder from one of the drawers in her desk. She opened it and read silently. While Fitz waited, he looked around the room. Not only was she rude, she was also a slob. She must share the office with someone, since there was another desk on the other side of the room. Reynolds’s desk was littered with case file folders, papers, memos, and handwritten notes. In the two-level in-out basket at the left corner of the desk, the top level was marked “in” and was piled with legal newspapers that had routing slips attached. There was nothing in the “out” portion. On the wall behind her desk was a cork bulletin board covered with tacked-up items: four or five snapshots of different cats, including a shot of Reynolds holding a Siamese up to her face. There was also a cartoon showing a judge pounding a gavel while looking at a defendant and saying, “Probably guilty.”

Fitz noticed an announcement of an upcoming retirement dinner for some DA; a series of newspaper clippings, describing cases Reynolds had something to do with; and letters of commendation from the LAPD and the sheriff’s department. She finally looked up from the file. She wore no lipstick and her hair was slightly disheveled.

“I want to make one thing clear, Fitzgerald,” she said. “I’m in charge of this case. I went along with the decision that your suspension be temporarily lifted so you can assist me. If you’re not cooperative, or if you otherwise interfere with the investigation or trial, then you’ll go back on suspension until your Board of Rights hearing is concluded. Clear?”

“Yes.”

Reynolds continued. “Tell me about the arrest and search.”

“Not much to tell,” Fitz said. “Hart was arrested and refused to waive his rights. We searched his house, his car, and his office and came up with nothing. I didn’t really expect to find the knife, or for that matter anything else that would be useful. After all, it’s been nineteen years. Besides, Hart, being a judge, is probably too smart to have incriminating evidence lying around.”

“Don’t overestimate his intelligence,” she said. “I’ve never observed him to be particularly bright in court.”

“My main concern,” Fitz said, “is that we’re moving too fast.”

“What do you base that on?” Reynolds snapped.

“I don’t think we have enough corroboration of Babbage’s statement.”

“Fitzgerald,” Reynolds said, “listen to me—”

Fitz interrupted. “What bothers me is that we really don’t know if we can believe Babbage. We have nothing to connect Hart to the killing other than Babbage’s say-so.”

Reynolds didn’t respond, just looked at him with a strange half-smile on her face. He spoke quickly, afraid she might interrupt before he could explain fully, hopeful that he was getting through.

“The semen sample from the victim’s mouth was badly deteriorated,” Fitz continued, “but last year I found a private lab, Biotech Markers, who told me they could analyze the sample and likely obtain a DNA profile.”

Fitz was relieved that Reynolds let him speak. Maybe things would be all right, after all. “Here’s my suggestion,” he said. “Let’s compare Babbage’s DNA to the crime scene evidence—find out if it corroborates what he says. Then get Hart’s profile and compare that. That’ll clinch it one way or the other, and we can go from there.”

“Meaning what?” Reynolds asked.

“Babbage said he saw the victim spit after she orally copulated Hart. That means there should be a match with Hart, and if so, we have our corroboration.”

Reynolds half-smile faded. “Is that it?” she asked.

Fitz nodded. “Right.” He felt a heavy silence as Reynolds appeared to consider. Outside of the office he could hear the muffled sounds of more DAs coming into work.

Reynolds slammed her hand on her desk. “Damn it, Fitzgerald! You’re not thinking clearly,” she snapped. “I’ve studied Babbage’s statement carefully, reviewed
all
the evidence. Corroboration is overwhelming. Babbage knows things that no one would know who wasn’t there that night.”

“The murderer would know it.”

Reynolds eyes were on fire. “Haven’t you heard anything I’ve said?”

“I’ve lived with this case for nineteen years. Isn’t a little more time to clinch it worth it?”

“While you were pondering the case with your thumb up your ass, I’ve tried one hundred fifty jury trials over that same period of time.” She continued to glare at Fitz. “I know a liar when I see one, and Hart is a two-faced liar. I used to wonder why he was consistently soft on defendants—now we have the answer.”

“But if he’s guilty,” Fitz said, “won’t the DNA comparison confirm it?”

“Either way, it proves nothing. Worse, it contradicts our chief witness, and we all look like fools. Let Hart’s lawyer get it, if she thinks there’s any value to it.”

She stood, walked over to her filing cabinet, and began rummaging through her files. She pulled one out, removed a glossy eight-by-ten picture, and threw on the desk in front of Fitz. It was particularly graphic and gruesome, and one he’d looked at many times over the years. “Look at what Hart did to Sarah Collins. Keep that image in your mind. And keep your mouth shut and do what I say so that we convict this murderer.”

Reynolds sat down behind her desk again, arms folded in front of her. “Hart’s lawyer, Jordan, will not want to have her client’s DNA compared. She’d be a fool to do it. If the comparison is positive for Hart, Jordan would be convicting her own client, since we’d subpoena the results. I don’t think any defense attorney would take that chance.”

“I’m still worried about Babbage,” Fitz said. “I’ve had experience with him, and I don’t trust a damn thing he says. Even if we don’t send in Hart’s DNA for comparison, we should have Babbage compared.”

Reynolds shook her head. “What are you talking about? You’re not suggesting we should ask our own witness for a blood sample?”

“We don’t need to. We have an exemplar from the Erin Collins case.”

Reynolds exploded. “That case … that case has
nothing
to do with this prosecution.” She was shouting and Fitz felt his face redden. “I’ve been told about your bias against Sergeant Babbage, and also about your unprofessional relationship with that Erin Collins woman. How you attempted to cover up for her. Smarten up, Fitzgerald. If I were you, I’d stay away from her. As it is, she very nearly cost you your job.

“Try to be objective for a moment,” she continued. “Look at the facts. Babbage is a highly respected police sergeant who has no motive to lie about Hart. Forget the DNA comparison—we already know that if it’s identified, it probably will be positive for Babbage, so it’s not going to prove a thing. The jury won’t like the fact that his semen was found in the victim’s mouth. It makes him look bad, and we need our chief witness to look as good as possible.”

Fitz was trying to remain polite, but he didn’t know how much more of this he could take. “There’s nothing in Babbage’s statement that has been or can be verified. It’s just his word against Hart’s. Babbage claims to have been knocked unconscious, but that can’t be verified after all these years. We have no fingerprints, no clothing of the decedent, no murder weapon. No history of criminal behavior by Hart, but a lot of compromising things about his accuser. Please let me get both men compared and see what comes up.”

“Fitzgerald,” Reynolds said deliberately, her voice thick with rage, “I’m only going to say this once, so listen carefully. If we’re going to be on the same team, you’ve got to get it. There’s plenty of corroboration. Hart murdered Sarah Collins, and it’s your job to help me prove it. Don’t complain to me about what
you
need to be convinced about. Just do your job and find what I tell you we need to win. Let me worry about corroboration. Under no circumstances are you to get DNA compared. Am I getting through to you?” She glared at him.

Fitz stared back at her, thinking that he was crazy for not telling her to get someone else. Every instinct told him this was a mistake and that her path was going to lead to disaster. He realized he could expect nothing from this woman. He’d have to do it alone. One way or the other, he’d have to find out the truth. If she were right, he’d help her. But if she were wrong, it was up to him to stop her, and damn it, he would.

If she didn’t stop him first.

Finally, he broke the stare and looked down. Now was not the time to confront this woman. “Yes, ma’am, I understand,” he said. “Tell me what you need.”

F
itz
, Sean, and Erin were at the Wharf, sitting at a dockside table overlooking the water. It was a beautiful, unseasonably warm evening for November. The lights from the restaurant reflected on the water and highlighted the moored sailboats and yachts. The three of them were here for dinner. Erin had worked all day and ended her shift in time to eat.

For the past week, newspaper and television coverage had been occupied almost exclusively with the story about the judge accused of murder and his police officer accomplice. Fitz had struggled over whether or not to have this meeting with Sean and Erin. Since his conversation with Doris Reynolds, he’d been in a quandary. He was convinced that it was premature to move ahead with the case and that Reynolds was making a major mistake by not getting Hart’s and Babbage’s DNA compared to the semen. Fitz had serious doubts that Hart was a killer, but Reynolds had no interest in hearing Fitz’s concerns.

He had nowhere to go to talk about his concerns.

Captain Becker supported him, but kept him at a distance since the day Fitz was suspended. Most of the homicide detectives whom Fitz knew were cool toward him since Babbage’s prosecution for what he’d done to Erin.

So Fitz decided to talk to Sean, partly because Sean himself was a lawyer and would understand. Sean might also be able to provide some details that had never been mentioned during their years-ago interview at MacLaren Hall.

Erin had been two years old at the time of the murder, so she would know little or nothing about Hart, but Fitz felt she had a right to be part of any conversation about her mother’s murder.

Fitz told them about Babbage’s statement and that, without consulting Fitz and before he could object, Babbage had been granted immunity. Fitz told them about the arrest of Hart. As Fitz spoke, Sean’s face reddened.

“No matter what Babbage said, here’s the reality of the situation,” Fitz said. “First, he already has immunity. That means he goes free, even if he’s the real killer. Second, his story doesn’t contradict what I know about the case, so I’m pretty sure he actually was there that night—”

Erin went white. “Wait,” she interrupted. “You’re telling us that Babbage
was there
when Mom was killed?”

“Yes,” Fitz said, quietly.

She shivered. “That bastard who sexually assaulted me, stalked me, and who’s still after me?”

“What about Hart?” Sean asked. “Does Babbage’s accusation make any sense?”

“That’s what troubles me,” Fitz said. “Hart lived in the area and could have known your mother.” Fitz looked at Sean. “When you were five and I interviewed you at MacLaren Hall, you told me about someone who babysat you. Hart could be the person you were talking about. So things
could
have happened just the way Babbage described.”

“I still don’t believe it about Judge Hart,” Erin said, shaking her head. “Babbage is a cop—he could have looked up the police report and got all those details.”

“Not likely,” Fitz said. “It’s a nineteen-year-old case, and only I have the murder book.

“Murder book? What’s that?” said Erin.

“Every homicide detective keeps a murder book on each case,” Fitz said, “where all the investigative reports and photos are stored, as well as the full coroner’s report. Until a case is cleared, there’s only one copy of the murder book. A case is cleared only when the investigation is over and the case is presented to the DA and filed.”

“What happens to the murder book after filing?” Sean asked.

“Copies are made for the DA and defense attorneys. If more investigation occurs after filing, the murder book is always updated.

“Without the murder book, Babbage would have to go to archives to get the report, and he’d have to know the DR number or—”

“What’s a DR number?” Erin asked.

“All police case file numbers are preceded by the letters
DR
. It’s our shorthand for case file numbers,” Fitz said, and then continued. “So, he’d either know the DR number or do a computer search to cross-reference it. That would take time. It would also require him to state his name and reason for the request. This morning I checked. I found no record of any request for the case.”

Sean was looking out over the water. Finally, he turned back to Fitz. “Whoever participated in my mom’s murder should get the same treatment she did. And if Hart played a part, then the son of a bitch should get what’s coming to him. I’ll deal with Babbage later.”

Sean’s intensity alarmed Fitz. “Maybe we should call it a night, Sean,” he said. “We can discuss this later, after you’ve cooled down.”

“No, goddammit!” Sean said. “We’re going to discuss it now.” He glared at Fitz. “Look, you’ve been on this thing since the beginning. You know more about my mother’s murder than anyone. What’s your appraisal of the situation? Can they really convict Hart?”

Fitz thought a moment before speaking. “This whole thing has moved too fast. We’re being forced to go to trial before we have everything we need for a conviction. The plain fact is, after everything at trial is said and done, it’s still Babbage’s word against Hart’s. That’s just not enough.”

“Why?” Erin said. “You said yourself that Babbage’s story fits what you know about the case. Why not let a jury decide?”

“Because they might not get a chance,” Sean said.

“We need corroborating evidence in order to get this case to the jury,” Fitz said. “Without it, the judge will have to dismiss at the end of the prosecution’s case.”

“How can that be?” Erin said. “It’s up to the jury, isn’t it? To weigh the testimony and decide the facts?”

Sean shook his head. “Under the law, Babbage could be considered an accomplice. If the judge finds that to be the case, his testimony has to be corroborated or it can’t be considered by the jury.”

“But I thought Fitz said that Babbage’s testimony fits the facts,” Erin said. “Isn’t that corroboration?”

“I didn’t exactly say that,” Fitz said. “What Babbage knows could have been learned from newspaper stories—there was lots of press at the time. After all, he could have just heard about the murder at the time. Much of what he says can’t be verified one way or another. And remember, he was fighting a contempt hearing and had a motive to get Hart. It has to be something more. Like the murder weapon—the knife, for instance.”

“What about the knife?” Erin asked.

“Our original search turned up nothing,” Fitz said. “At this point, we don’t have a clue as to who has the murder weapon or even if it exists. Babbage insists that Hart has the knife somewhere, so I’ll keep looking for it. But I’m not going to limit my search to Hart. It’s also possible Babbage has the knife.”

“What else could corroborate Babbage?” Erin asked.

“Not a whole lot,” Fitz said. “We’re dealing with a nineteen-year-old murder, so what we might usually have is just not available. We really need some way to confirm Babbage’s story. He claims he was knocked out, but that can’t be proved one way or another.”

“What other physical evidence do you have?” Sean asked.

“I don’t think it’s necessarily good for you to know these details,” Fitz said.

“Bullshit,” Sean said. “No one has more of a right to know what happened that night than I do.”

“Sean, you’re upset —”

“Hell, yes, I’m upset,” Sean interrupted. “And if you’re my friend, you’ll stop patronizing me and let me read the fucking murder book.” He paused. “How about it, Fitz? If I know everything, I really think I can help.”

Fitz looked at Erin. Her eyes met his. She nodded—“It’s got to be up to Sean. I don’t want to know any details, and I don’t even remember my mom. But I’m not Sean.”

“Okay,” Fitz said to Sean. “I’ll show you the murder book. But I’m not going to discuss any details with you until you’ve read the whole thing. Maybe you’ll change your mind once you begin looking at the photographs.”

“How long before the trial starts?” Erin asked.

“I don’t know,” Fitz said. “It’s hard to say. The case gets presented to the Grand Jury tomorrow. Once they return an indictment, Hart will need to be arraigned. Since he’s bailed out, he’s entitled to a trial within sixty days of his arraignment. Most defense attorneys waive the speedy trial rights of their out-of-custody clients, so that they can thoroughly investigate their case and prepare. I’ll need the extra time. We’ll still be looking for the knife—the more time we have to search for it, the better.”

“I’ve got some money saved, and I’m thinking of taking a leave of absence from the PD’s Office until this is over,” Sean said. He seemed to have relaxed a little. “That way, I can help on this case, Fitz. Two brilliant minds are better than one.”

S
ean drove
Erin home from the restaurant, and was glad he had a chance to speak to her alone. They’d been exposed to too much information tonight, and he needed to discuss it with her, to think things through a bit. Traffic was light and it took almost no time to get to the freeway.

“It just doesn’t make any sense,” Erin said. “I just can’t accept that Daniel Hart, the judge who’d shown me so much kindness, compassion, and understanding, could be the person who killed Mom.”

Sean put aside his anger to concede that he, too, was puzzled. “Everyone at the PD’s Office is astounded. Hart was one of the most popular judges in the courthouse. It makes sense that Babbage was involved—especially after what he did to you. It scares the hell out of me to think that someone like that could actually be a cop.” And to himself he thought,
I won’t tell Erin—I don’t want to alarm her—but it’s too much of a terrifying coincidence that Babbage targeted her in the first place.

Erin took a breath, started to say something, then stopped for a moment. Finally, she spoke. “Do you know how old Judge Hart is? He seems pretty young. Mom was killed almost twenty years ago.”

Sean pondered. “I hadn’t thought about it. He does seem young. But you have to be a lawyer at least ten years to be a superior court judge, so he can’t be that young. I’ll check his profile at the law library.”

“Sean,” Erin said, “I really think you should go see Judge Hart. Ask him how old he was at the time of the incident. Ask him point-blank if he did it. You might learn a lot just by his reaction.”

Sean shook his head. “There’s no way he’d talk to me. You’ve been through the system enough to know that.”

“I’m not so sure,” Erin said. “Don’t you think he owes it to us to tell us what he knows?”

“But he knows that anything he tells me, I’d have to testify to in court. No lawyer would allow him to speak to me.”

“It won’t hurt you to ask. All he can say is no.”

Sean frowned. “I’ll think about it. Tomorrow I’ll get copies of the police reports and a copy of Babbage’s statement. I’ve got to go over it, detail by detail. It’s also important to go to the scene where the crime occurred.”

“To the reservoir?” Erin said. “After all these years? What could you possibly learn by going there?”

“I don’t know,” Sean said. “But after I finish reading the reports, I’m going. I’ll think about trying to talk to Judge Hart. I’m sure he won’t see me. But you’re right, Erin. It can’t hurt to try.”