Grant of Immunity, page 17
Her thoughts were interrupted by the receptionist on the intercom line. “Amanda, Judge Hart is here to see you. Shall I bring him in?”
“No, I’ll come get him.”
Jordan walked to the reception area. Hart was seated in one of the straight-back chairs next to a corner end table. Poor guy, she thought, and her heart went out to him. She had never seen him like this before. He looked like he hadn’t slept. He was wearing blue wool slacks with a beige camel hair sport coat. His tie was loose and his shirt wrinkled, but his blue eyes were alert—and sad.
She hugged him. He felt stiff and unresponsive. “Daniel, good to see you,” she said.
The two walked down the hall into Jordan’s corner office. Once seated at her desk, Jordan asked, “You have a new assignment?”
Hart sighed. “I got reassigned after my arrest, handling traffic infraction matters out of the downtown traffic court on Hill Street.”
“I’m glad you weren’t suspended,” Jordan said.
“They can’t. As an elected and sitting judge, I can’t be immediately suspended or removed from the bench, even though I’m accused of murder. To remove me requires action by the California Commission on Judicial Performance, and it can’t do so without a lengthy investigation and hearing. It’s easier for the superior court to put me in a traffic assignment until the trial concludes. If I’m convicted, removal is automatic. If I’m acquitted, the Commission can independently decide if there was misconduct and whether further action is necessary.”
Jordan shook her head sympathetically. She walked around her desk, sat in a chair next to Hart, and took both of his hands in hers. Daniel’s hands were cold and damp. “I know this is a difficult time for you. But you mustn’t be discouraged.”
Hart shrugged. “I’m not sure anything really matters. There are times when I’ve considered pleading guilty. All that stops me is the fact that I can’t bear to see that bastard Babbage getting away with it.”
“You can be certain he will get away with it if you plead guilty,” Jordan said. “But we need to take things one step at a time. If we can prove he’s a liar, he’ll lose his immunity and be prosecuted as the real murderer. It’s going to be all over for him.”
Hart nodded, but it was clear he was not convinced. She took a deep breath. “I asked you to come in so we could take a bit more time to discuss strategy before tomorrow’s arraignment in Van Nuys. The grand jury has delivered its indictment. You and I agreed you wouldn’t waive your right to a speedy trial, because the case against you is weak, and we don’t want to give the prosecution time to strengthen it. We’ve also found out the name of the Orange County judge who’s hearing the case. Jack Fields.”
Because Hart was a superior court judge in Los Angeles County, Jordan knew that all judges within the county were automatically disqualified from hearing his case, according to Judicial Council rules. Hence, Orange County and Judge Jack Fields.
“I know who Fields is, but I haven’t actually met him,” Hart said. “His reputation’s pretty good. He’s been teaching felony sentencing to new judges at the Judicial College at Berkeley for years.”
Jordan knew about the Judicial College, and the fact that Judge Fields taught there indicated that he must be competent. But it said nothing about Fields’s judicial temperament, or whether he would have the guts to dismiss this case if that was warranted.
“The prosecution still has no corroboration of Babbage’s testimony,” Jordan said.
“I’m not surprised. Babbage is a liar.”
She nodded and looked directly into Hart’s eyes. “There are two items that worry me. The semen and the knife. So far, no knife has been found, and I believe it’s unlikely it will show up—but we need to be prepared for any surprises in that area. With respect to the semen, Babbage said he got a blowjob from the victim before he was knocked out. He claims he doesn’t remember whether or not he ejaculated. If he did, the semen found in the victim’s mouth should match his DNA. If it does, it does corroborate his story.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Hart replied. “It just means he ejaculated in Sarah Collins’s mouth, and that he was with Sarah that night—all consistent with his being the murderer.”
She considered. “According to Babbage’s statement, you forced Sarah Collins to have oral sex with you, too.”
Hart took a breath. “I want you to arrange a comparison of my DNA to the sample from Sarah Collins’s mouth. You’ll find—”
Jordan held up her hand. “I’ll get your side later. Let me continue.”
Hart scowled. “You don’t seem to understand. I am responsible for the death of Sarah Collins. If it weren’t for me, she’d still be alive. I’ll never be able to live that down.”
Jordan raised an eyebrow, although she was too professional to show any other reaction. Her job was to provide the best defense for her client. She’d learned long ago not to be too curious or surprised at anything a client mentioned or didn’t mention.
But she still wondered why the prosecution hadn’t asked for a blood sample or DNA swab from Hart to compare. Perhaps the physical evidence from the murder scene hadn’t been properly preserved and no DNA profile could be obtained from the semen sample. Such facts would be useful to know, but Jordan could not ask without tipping her hand. Besides, she feared if there was a DNA profile, the sample would compare positive for Hart and provide the corroboration the prosecution so far had lacked. She put her hands on his and looked directly into his eyes. “I think it’s best for us not to make the comparison. The risk is too great.”
“You still don’t understand,” Hart said, removing his hands from hers, staring back. “I’m not asking your advice on this issue. I’m directing you, as my lawyer, to arrange for the comparison. Period.”
“Of course, whatever you want,” Jordan said, without missing a beat, as if it was the most logical thing in the world for Hart to want. “But you must realize that a positive DNA result would destroy you in court? As of now, they have no way other than Babbage’s word to prove that you were even at the crime scene.”
“I was there. I remember every detail as if it happened yesterday. The semen in her mouth was not mine.”
“But why not wait for the prosecution to move first? And why should we take such an all-or-nothing risk?”
Hart’s eyes softened and became sad, enormously sad. “For the truth,” Judge Daniel Hart said. “For Sarah Collins. For Sean and Erin Collins. For my conscience.”
“Of course,” she said, and thought to herself, my God, of all the people I’ve ever defended, this man is extraordinary. Then to Hart: “So be it, then. Tomorrow at the arraignment, I’ll make the request.”
They walked back to the reception area without talking.
“Good-bye, Daniel. Be strong,” she said.
“Thank you,” Hart said.
Jordan watched him leave. Was it her imagination, or did he look more determined—more in charge of himself?
39
Jordan
Wednesday, November 15, 1:30 p.m.
The next day Jordan met Hart in the hallway in front of Department R in Van Nuys. The courtroom was still locked, so they sat quietly on a bench outside. She said nothing, but thought it must be humiliating for Hart, a judge, to wait in the public hallway in a courthouse where only a short time ago he presided.
Jordan heard footsteps and turned. It was Doris Reynolds. She had a scowl on her face, and did not meet Jordan’s eyes as she walked casually up to the entrance, found it was locked, and then stood waiting. She looked at Hart and shook her head.
She wears too much makeup, Jordan thought.
Presently, the bailiff opened the courtroom door. They went inside and sat in the spectator section, and waited.
The bailiff announced Judge Fields, who entered from a door marked “private” behind the bench. Fields sat at the bench. He looked fit, fiftyish, with thick, graying brown hair. He wore narrow reading glasses, which he used to look down at an open file on his bench. He called the case.
Jordan whispered into Hart’s ear, “Let’s go.” She and Hart walked up to the counsel table. To the judge, she said, “Amanda Jordan, for my client, Daniel Hart, who is present, Your Honor.”
Reynolds stood. “Doris Reynolds for the People, Judge. May I take the plea?” Reynolds spoke in a haughty tone that always irritated Jordan when she opposed her.
“You may,” the judge said.
“Daniel Hart, you are charged in count one of the indictment with murder in violation of Penal Code Section one-eighty-seven. It is further alleged that said murder was committed in the commission of forcible oral copulation, in violation of Penal Code Section two-eighty-eight-a, subsection c, a special circumstance, making you eligible for a sentence of life without the possibility of parole. It is further alleged that said murder was intentional and involved the infliction of torture, in violation of Penal Code Section one-ninety-point-two-a, subsection nineteen, also making you eligible for a sentence of life without the possibility of parole. Does Counsel waive further reading of the indictment and statement of rights?”
“So waived,” Jordan said.
Reynolds smiled. “How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?”
Hart flushed. “Not guilty.”
“Do you admit or deny the special circumstance?”
“Deny,” Hart said.
“Mr. Hart,” Judge Fields said, “your not guilty plea is entered as is your denial of the special circumstance.” He looked at Jordan. “When can your client be ready for trial?”
“Your Honor,” Jordan responded, “my client does not wish to waive his speedy trial rights and asks to have a trial date set as soon as possible.”
Reynolds raised her eyebrows, and then shook her head. “The People need more time, Judge. I realize we cannot force the defense to waive time, but Ms. Jordan should know that if she forces us to an early trial, the People will oppose any continuance in the future.”
“This will be fine with us,” Jordan replied.
Judge Fields glanced at a wall calendar. “Trial will be December thirteen of this year. Anything further?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Jordan took a breath, steeled herself for Reynolds expected response and continued. “I ask that the prosecution be ordered to split the semen sample in their possession, so my client can have it analyzed and compared to himself and to an existing DNA profile of the People’s primary witness, Mr. Jake Babbage.”
Fields looked to Reynolds and asked, “The People’s position on this?”
“There’s not enough left for a split, but the People do have a sperm fraction that could be compared to that of a suspect. If the defendant voluntarily submits a blood sample, we would arrange to have it typed and compared, but we don’t know if the comparison can be made by trial.” Reynolds looked at Jordan, a self-satisfied smile on her face. “Perhaps the defendant wants to waive his speedy trial rights and wait for the comparison.”
Jordan shook her head and frowned. “We will not waive time, Your Honor, but we will submit a blood sample for my client. May we have an order for a rush comparison? And what about Witness Babbage—can we get his DNA profile for comparison also?”
“I will ask him if he will submit,” Reynolds said.
“All right,” Fields said. “An expedited comparison is ordered. If Witness Babbage provides a sample, that will be included. If not, the defense will have to make a motion. Court’s in recess.”
40
Hart
Thursday evening, November 16
It 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.
41
Sean
Sean 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.”
