Abuse of Power

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  “Do whatever you have to do,” she said, resigned. “You know where to find me.” She started to hang up, but Atwater began speaking again.

  “We decided to arraign Cummings on the attempted rape tomorrow morning. I had a marshal serve him about two hours ago at the hospital. The judge has agreed to conduct the arraignment in his hospital room.”

  “Do I have to be there?” Rachel had no desire to confront Grant. Even in his injured condition, he could be dangerous.

  “No,” he said.

  “Fine,” she said, slamming the phone down.

  Later that afternoon, Rachel called her sister in San Francisco, telling her what had occurred in long, rambling sentences. “I’ll jump on the next plane,” Carrie said without hesitation. “Don’t bother picking me up. I’ll take a cab to your house.”

  “You don’t have to come right away,” Rachel said. “Even if they arrest me tonight, my neighbor can help me out. I’m more concerned with the future, Carrie. If I have to go to prison, I’ll have to make some kind of arrangements for the children.”

  “I’ll take them,” she said. “Put that out of your mind. Besides, we’re not going to let that happen. Have you hired an attorney yet?”

  “No,” Rachel said. “Why can’t you represent me? You’re a lawyer.”

  “I want you to have a first-rate defense,” Carrie said. “I don’t practice criminal law, Rachel. I have some money saved, plus I have a line of credit established with the bank. If I need to, I can get a loan. We’ll hire the best lawyer we can get.”

  “I can’t take your savings,” Rachel told her. “For all I know, you’ll be throwing your money away. Grant has positively identified me, along with another eyewitness. What if I’m convicted? You’ll need that money to take care of the kids while I’m in prison.”

  “Let me go,” Carrie said. “I’m getting on the next plane. Don’t do anything until I get there.”

  After Mike Atwater concluded his phone call to Rachel, he rushed down the hall to Bill Ringwald’s office. “I don’t want her arrested,” he said from the doorway. “This woman has been through hell, Bill. Can’t we stall the PD until we get to the bottom of this mess?”

  Ringwald looked up in surprise. He had never encountered a situation like this before, where two individuals were both defendants and victims simultaneously in the same judicial district. He had to manage the situation with a clear head, maintain order, assign the appropriate prosecutors. If not, the Attorney General’s office would step in and seize control, and he’d end up a hapless bystander in his own agency. He took in Atwater’s unusual state of agitation. “Are you involved with this woman, Mike?”

  Atwater removed an invisible speck from his sleeve. “Involved?” he repeated. “I-I mean, there are different levels of involvement. I’m not engaged to her. There’s no long-term relationship.”

  Ringwald sensed the evasion. “Greg Bates informed me you sent Rachel Simmons flowers a few weeks ago.” He stopped and rubbed his eyes. “An officer named Jimmy Townsend told him, one of the men Rachel indicated was involved in the fiasco at the beach. What was that all about?”

  “It was nothing,” Atwater hedged, avoiding Ringwald’s gaze. “I felt sorry for her, that’s all. She’s a widow, struggling to support two kids on a police officer’s salary. After I dragged up her past in the Brentwood matter, I felt I owed her something.”

  Ringwald was growing increasingly impatient. “What past?” he demanded.

  Atwater took a seat and told his boss about Rachel’s childhood kidnapping and Nathan Richardson’s death at the hands of the police sharpshooter. “Dennis Colter went to high school with her,” he said. “He says the kids treated her like she was some kind of freak. Not many ten-year-olds end up with a guy’s brains splattered all over them, so I guess Rachel might have come across as a little strange back then. There were some rumors floating around about her mother as well.”

  “What kind of rumors?”

  “That her mother was a prostitute passing herself off as a piano teacher.”

  “Good Lord,” Ringwald said. “You know this could hurt her case, don’t you?”

  “Which one?”

  “The attempted rape against Cummings,” he said. “The defense will try to paint her as some kind of party girl, claim she willfully submitted to Cummings’s advances, then decided to cry rape.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Bill,” Atwater said. “Promiscuity isn’t a genetically inherited trait.”

  Ringwald gave him a harsh look. “You’re not sleeping with her, I hope. If you are, now’s the time to tell me.”

  The question had been posed in the present tense. After the way Rachel had reacted to his advances that morning, Atwater was certain their sexual relationship was over. “No,” he said, feeling he could make such a statement with honesty, “I’m not sleeping with her. I admit I intentionally struck up a friendship with her. Bill, but not for the obvious reasons.”

  “Go on,” Ringwald said, sitting at rapt attention.

  “During the Brentwood trial,” Atwater said, “Rachel hinted that the gun found in Brentwood’s pocket might have been planted by Townsend. I handled another case involving Jimmy Townsend last year that I thought was somewhat suspicious.”

  “Which case are you referring to?”

  “I don’t recall the defendant’s name,” he said. “It was a Hispanic man, though, and if I remember correctly, he worked as an orderly in a nursing home. Townsend shot him when he allegedly saw the guy reaching for a gun during a routine traffic stop. The defendant swore the gun was a plant.” He paused and frowned. “The man had a family, Bill, and his employers and co-workers spoke highly of him. Since he went to prison, I felt I had a responsibility to find out if the poor bastard was framed.”

  “Where does Officer Simmons come into the picture?”

  “I thought I might be able to use her as a mole to feed us information from inside the police department,” Atwater said haltingly. “I had no idea it would get this big.”

  “Is this why Simmons came forward?” Ringwald asked, narrowing his eyes. Before the attorney could answer, he added, “I wish you would have spoken to me before you decided to run a covert operation out of this agency.”

  “Look,” Atwater snapped, “I never told Rachel that I suspected there were problems inside the department. When she told me about the assault at the beach, I was shocked. You know I’m a competitive man, Bill. I’d give my right arm to try a case that could earn me the kind of notoriety some of the prosecutors in L.A. have right now. Hell, some of their people are celebrities. Their pictures are in all the magazines. They’ve signed publishing contracts.”

  “Fine,” Ringwald said, although he still harbored suspicions. Atwater was a cold bastard in many ways. He had never seen him this emotional. “With what’s happening at the PD,” he said, “I suggest we keep our own house as clean as possible. Have you researched the Hillmont case like I asked?”

  “Yes,” Atwater said, relieved to be off the subject of Rachel. “I’m not certain what we can charge Cummings with for using the kid as a human shield. Hillmont may have to sue him in civil court for wrongful death, maybe some type of dereliction of duty. I’ve never had a case quite like this before. I have no idea how we should proceed.”

  “What about involuntary manslaughter?” Ringwald suggested, having already given it considerable thought.

  “The absence of malice fits,” Atwater said, walking over to Ringwald’s bookcase and pulling out the current penal code. “Section 192 (b) seems to be the most appropriate. The language reads as follows: ‘In the commission of an unlawful act, not amounting to a felony; or in the commission of a lawful act which might produce death.’” He paused and looked up. “Cummings was trying to arrest Hillmont, so that could be construed as a lawful act which might produce death. I’m not sure a judge will buy it, however, as the majority of arrests do not produce death.”

  “Read the whole section,” Ringwald sai
d.

  Atwater continued, “‘In the commission of a lawful act which might produce death, or without due caution and circumspection.’ How do you interpret it, Bill?”

  “I think we can make it work,” he said. “I know Larry Hillmont well. The man buried his son Saturday. He will never be satisfied with a cash award, even if he enjoins the police department in a lawsuit and taps into their liability policy.”

  “The term of imprisonment on this is two, three, or four years,” Atwater told him, shutting the book and replacing it on the shelf. “Since your defendant is now paralyzed, you know his attorney will argue for the lowest possible term. If Cummings is sentenced to two years, he’ll be out in twelve months. My bet is he’ll never see the inside of a prison, at least not as a result of this crime. A man in a wheelchair can garner a great deal of sympathy.”

  Ringwald scowled but had to agree with Atwater’s assessment. “Your attempted rape is never going to fly,” he said, his eyes focused on a spot over Atwater’s head. “Your best bet is to offer him a guilty plea on sexual battery, with the promise of no jail time.” He waved a hand to cut off Atwater’s protest. “We’re wasting our time trying to prove attempted rape. As I understand it, all Cummings did was fondle the woman. Before his attorney gets through with Rachel Simmons, she’ll look like the town tramp. That party on the beach sounds like it was a drunken orgy. Factor in her past and this stuff you just told me about her mother, and you’ll be looking at an acquittal.”

  “I don’t want to accept a plea,” the attorney said adamantly. “I’ve already promised her we would take the case to trial. Sexual battery is only a misdemeanor. That would be a slap in the face to this woman.”

  Atwater was definitely too involved. “I’m assigning Blake Reynolds to handle the Cummings shooting,” he said, jotting down notes on a pad. “He’ll work up the pleading right away, then have one of our men go out and arrest Simmons at her home. You’ll handle the attempted rape case against Cummings, as well as the involuntary manslaughter of the Hillmont boy.” Ringwald sighed, feeling as if he were speaking out of both sides of his mouth. How could they fight for the rights of these individuals as victims, then turn around and prosecute them as defendants? It was a convoluted situation. Getting the paperwork rolling and assigning the proper prosecutors was a beginning, but things were going to get even more muddled along the way.

  “Why don’t we just cite Simmons to appear in court,” Atwater argued, pacing in front of Ringwald’s desk. “Don’t insist that they book her into the jail. She’s not going to flee. She doesn’t have adequate resources to go into hiding. Besides, she has two minor children. Women with small children never run to avoid prosecution.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Ringwald said. “She fled the scene of the crime. It takes a lot of nerve to shoot someone inside a police station. Don’t underestimate this woman, Mike.”

  Atwater was outraged. “How can you believe Rachel’s allegations against Cummings and the police department and still feel we should prosecute her for attempted murder? She didn’t shoot this man. Her daughter swears she was at home with her when the crime went down.”

  “I don’t have a choice,” Ringwald said, choosing to overlook Atwater’s outburst. “If I give Simmons preferential treatment, or even hint that we might offer her immunity, it’ll look like we’re buying her testimony in the Hillmont matter. We’ll end up impeaching our own witness. The AG strongly cautioned me against taking this line of action. They’ll be launching a major investigation into the corruption allegations at the police department. They may need to rely on this woman’s testimony as well.”

  They were hanging Rachel out to dry, Atwater thought, his stomach bubbling with acid. She had become a pawn in a high-stakes game of politics and governmental agencies. Careers would be made, while those less fortunate would stand in disgrace. Rachel’s future, her safety, along with the emotional needs of her children, would not be considered by those in power.

  He had thought that after so many years as a prosecutor, he was too jaded to get passionate about victims. But he was wrong. He believed in Rachel Simmons. She believed, simply and completely, in justice. And she was being punished for her integrity.

  Atwater spun around and stormed out of Ringwald’s office, mumbling profanities under his breath. Regardless of the outcome of the various cases, Rachel would be destroyed, consumed by the criminal justice system she had fought so valiantly to protect.

  c h a p t e r

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Carrie arrived at three o’clock Tuesday morning. The sisters chatted briefly; then Rachel put her to sleep in her bed, and took the living room sofa for herself. She awoke the next morning to the doorbell ringing. Looking through the drapes, she saw more reporters camped in her front yard. She had already given them her statement. She refused to speak to them again.

  “I won’t be home until late today,” Tracy said, stepping up beside her mother at the window. She was already dressed for school.

  “Why?” Rachel asked.

  “The cheerleader tryouts are this afternoon,” she said, staring out at the reporters. “Why won’t they leave us alone? How are you going to drive me to school?”

  Her mother pulled her into her arms. “I’m sorry things have been so tough, baby. With Carrie here, it should be better.”

  “When did she get here?” Tracy asked. “When I went in your room this morning, I saw Carrie asleep in your bed. You didn’t even tell me she was coming.”

  “I called her the other day,” Rachel said. “She got in late. I wanted her to sleep in my bed so you and Joe wouldn’t disturb her this morning.”

  Tracy started to ask how long Carrie was going to stay. The house was too small for so many people, but she knew her mother needed all the support she could get. “I have to leave now,” she said. “Sheila and I want to practice our routine before first period. She’s bringing one of her outfits for me to wear.”

  Rachel felt a pang of regret. “Are the other mothers coming to the tryouts?”

  “I guess,” Tracy said, shrugging.

  “Do you want me to come?”

  Tracy shook her head. “I don’t think that would be a good idea, do you? All I need is to have those stupid reporters show up at my school during the tryouts.” Her tone became accusing. “The kids are already talking. Mom. They replayed your interview on the evening news last night.”

  “Okay, I’ll stay out of the way.” Rachel went to the kitchen to call Lucy and ask if she would mind driving Tracy to school. “Put everything out of your mind,” she told Tracy, replacing the phone in the cradle. “Just concentrate on the tryouts this afternoon. I’m sure you and Sheila will do great. I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.” She brushed the strands of hair off the girl’s forehead, then kissed her. “Will they announce the results today?”

  “No,” Tracy said. “Before they announce the winners, they have to check their grades and make certain they’re eligible. Can I spend the night with Sheila tonight?” she continued. “I know it’s a school night, but I can’t stand being in the house with those people outside. Last night when I was getting ready for bed, I saw this ugly reporter spying on me through the window.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Rachel asked. “I’ll report them for trespassing.”

  “Who will you report them to, Mom?” her daughter asked. “The police department? Do you really think those people are going to help us?”

  “No, you’re right,” Rachel said. “Stay at Sheila’s tonight. But be sure and call me later and tell me how the tryouts went.” She watched until the girl disappeared inside her neighbor’s house.

  At 5:15 Tuesday evening, Carrie and Rachel were peering into the freezer, trying to decide what they were going to prepare for dinner. “I haven’t been to the store in almost a week,” Rachel said, reaching for a frozen hen. “We could cook this, but we’ll have to thaw it first.”

  Carrie nudged her aside and removed a head of le
ttuce out of the vegetable bin. “Sounds good,” she said. “I’ll make us a salad as a snack, then we can eat the rest of our meal later.”

  Rachel placed the hen in the microwave, hitting the defrost button. The phone rang, and she walked over to answer it.

  “I can’t stop it,” Atwater said. “I want you to know that I’m breaking the law by telling you this, but Madison went over my head and got a bench warrant for your arrest. The best thing to do now is cooperate with them.”

  The news was not unexpected, but still Rachel felt its impact like a blow. “When will they come for me?” she asked.

  “It usually takes several hours to process the paperwork,” he said. “If the marshal comes for you tonight, you’ll have to spend at least one night in jail. They won’t set bail until the arraignment.”

  “What about Grant?” Rachel said, glancing over at her sister as she carried their salad plates to the kitchen table.

  “The preliminary hearing will be held in two weeks,” he told her. “The doctors say Cummings should be able to come to court by then, even though he’ll be confined to a wheelchair.”

  “There’s also the shooting at the Majestic Theater,” she said. “Will Grant face the music for using the Hillmont boy as a shield?”

  “We’re working on it,” Atwater said. “The boy’s father is on the City Council. When the family saw you on TV yesterday, they demanded we prosecute. We may get to the bottom of this, Rachel. Don’t lose hope. We’re going after Cummings on several different counts now. We’ll nail the bastard on one of them.”

  She could tell he was uncertain. She had no witnesses to back up the attempted rape charge, and there was conflicting testimony on what had happened at the Majestic Theater. Would Grant get off scot-free? “He attacked me,” she blurted out. “He jumped me in the orange grove after you left my house Wednesday night. He beat me and tried to force me to orally copulate him.”