Grant of Immunity Read Online Free Page A

look like high school kids , he thought. How incredibly sad.
    At thirty-five, Hart was one of the youngest judges on the superior court bench. An ex-trial lawyer and ex-prosecutor, he’d been lucky. On the exterior, he was impressive. Thick brown hair, a symmetrical face with a strong jaw, and a kind demeanor. His intelligence was clear to anyone who appeared before him. But despite this outside appearance, he was filled with personal doubts. The most difficult part of being a judge was overcoming his own self-contempt.
    That was why he worked hard and drove himself even harder, hoping that he could prove to himself that he was worthy, in spite of it all.
    The governor had appointed him judge two years ago, but to this day, he was still handling high-volume arraignments, pleas, and case assignments in Division 103 of the Van Nuys Unified Superior Court. This included virtually every case that arose in the San Fernando Valley. Other judges in his position—especially those like him, up for reelection next year—would have stayed away from courts like this and looked toward high-status, high-penalty felony trials: murders, robberies, rapes.
    But Hart felt he wasn’t ready for felony trials. Perhaps he never would be. He first wanted to prove to himself that he could handle high-volume pressure, show to himself that no matter what, he could give each person individual attention. But it took a heavy toll. By the end of each day, he was exhausted as a result of the deep concentration and reflection required. He knew it must never show, but decision-making was difficult. Especially with these young women he saw every afternoon.
    The defendants were lined up in the same order as the files stacked on Hart’s bench. From his point of view, the bench was nothing more than a big desk, but since it was elevated and had a wooden front, it had an impressive appearance to the public. Hart picked up the first file and called the case of the first defendant.
    She was about five-foot-three, with dark hair and clear, smooth skin. How out of place she looks—she should be at home, watching television or doing homework while her mom cooks dinner.
    “My client would like an indicated sentence,” the public defender said.
    This was the accepted way of asking what the sentence would be if his client were to plead guilty. Hart looked toward the prosecutor, Doris Reynolds, who was sitting at the counsel table in front of him. Reynolds was forty with brown eyes and shoulder-length, carefully brushed blonde hair. She made sure that everyone knew she was the representative of the State, and that she had a key role in the system. Hart remembered her from the days when he was a DA. She had a thing for cops—had been married several times, always to a police officer, usually to someone who’d been a star witness in one of her cases. Today, as usual, she wore heavy makeup and clothing that emphasized her legs and her figure.
    “Ms. Reynolds,” Hart said, “what’s the People’s position on this case?”
    “It’s a standard second offense, Judge.” Doris had the defendant’s rap sheet. “I notice a petty theft, and an eleven-five-fifty. She’s just another hype. She needs to be locked up.”
    Like all judges and lawyers in the criminal system, Hart used the criminal code sections as shorthand to describe the crime with which individual defendants were charged. The eleven-five-fifty was a Health and Safety Code Section conviction for being under the influence of heroin. Hart knew that this, too, was typical of many streetwalkers.
    “Then if she pleads guilty, her sentence will be forty-five days plus an AIDS test,” Hart said. “She’ll take it,” the public defender said.
    The defense attorney came forward and handed the clerk a written and signed waiver of constitutional rights form. His client had already signed the form; he’d obviously told her in advance what the sentence would probably be.
    After taking her guilty plea, Hart