Grant of Immunity by Garret Holms

abused her, would go to prison where he belonged. Told her it was her duty to prevent another woman from being victimized. But inside, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she would regret reporting the incident.
    The last few days had gone smoothly, and Erin was beginning to think everything might be all right, after all. She had no idea how to find the man who had abused her, but she’d remembered his sergeant stripes. It turned out there weren’t that many patrol sergeants at Rampart Division, and she’d picked him out from a photo lineup.
    Now they wanted her to call Babbage while they recorded every word he said. Get a confession, and the man would have no choice but to plead guilty. It meant going to the Criminal Court’s Building in downtown L.A., to the seventeenth-floor District Attorney’s Office. No problem, Sean had said. He’d drive.
    And he had. But now, waiting for the elevator with Sean and Fitz in the crowded lobby, Erin felt panic rising inside her, paralyzing her. Despite Fitz and Sean’s assurances that she was a victim and that Eric Lundy, an experienced deputy district attorney, would treat her with courtesy and respect, Erin couldn’t make herself believe it.
    They squeezed into an elevator packed with shabby-looking people on their way to court. The first fifteen floors were courtrooms, and the elevator stopped at every floor.
    “This is a bad idea,” she whispered to Sean. “Let’s go home.”
    Sean squeezed her hand. “You can do it,” he replied.
    By the time they reached the seventeenth floor, they were alone in the elevator, but the sweet smell of cologne tinged with sweat remained. Erin’s throat tightened, and she thought she might vomit.
    Fitz showed his badge to the guard, and they were buzzed into what looked like a doctor’s waiting room.
    “This is where cops come to present police reports and file their cases,” Fitz said. They sat down. “Detectives wait here until they’re called into one of the filing prosecutor’s offices,” Fitz added. “Lundy is a prosecutor in the Special Investigation’s Division, SID—that’s the section that prosecutes cops.”
    After about ten minutes, Lundy appeared. He looked to be mid-forties. His round face was topped with thick brown hair. He had a high-blood-pressure flush, was close-shaven with no sideburns, and wore a short-sleeved, white shirt with a plaid bow tie. “Detective Fitzgerald, nice to see you again,” he said. Then to Erin: “Ms. Collins, I’ll be handling your case.” He looked at Sean. “I presume this is your brother, Mr. Collins?”
    She nodded.
    “We’ll talk more in my office,” Lundy said. He ushered them down a hallway to a medium-sized office with light-gray walls and dark-gray vinyl-tile floor. He motioned them to hardwood chairs and sat down behind his desk.
    Erin glanced at the rear wall, at the awards, plaques, and diplomas. On the credenza behind Lundy were framed photos—a young girl in a soccer uniform, the same girl older and at Disneyland, and as a young woman, smiling in cap and gown.
    Lundy explained that a DA investigator was going to place a recorded call to the suspect she’d identified, a police sergeant named Jake Babbage. He picked up his telephone, told the investigator to begin the call, and then handed Erin the telephone handset.
    Erin listened to the phone ring. “Babbage here,” the voice she’d recognize anywhere answered.
    “Officer Babbage?” Erin said. She tried to sound friendly, but her mouth was so dry she had to swallow before speaking.
    “Can I help you?”
    “It’s Erin.” She hoped her voice didn’t shake.
    “Who?”
    “From the Traffic Stop,” She said.
    At first Babbage did not reply and Erin feared he’d just hang up. But then he spoke. “What do you want?”
    Now was the critical part. The words she had carefully rehearsed with Sean and Fitz. “I need to see you,” she said. “Tonight. After work.”
    “You know I can’t take personal