Chapter Eleven

The Corvette roared east on Franklin Avenue and onto the southbound Hollywood Freeway, where the evening traffic rush was just starting to break up. The downtown skyline ahead of them looked to be stuck in a bowl of thick haze. Ted maneuvered easily around slow-moving trucks and gutless passenger cars into the left lane and onto the eastbound 10.

"Please don't drive so fast," Jordan begged.

"No silver Honda is going to follow you in this car," Ted said.

"What if you get pulled over for speeding?" Jordan said. "Maybe there's a warrant out for me."

"Don't be paranoid." Ted's voice was soothing. "The police wouldn't come for you in a silver Honda."

Jordan was silent for miles.

"All right," Ted growled finally. He slowed down a bit as the Corvette crossed under a maze of concrete overpasses. "I still think we ought to get there as fast as we can get there."

"Where are we going?" Jordan asked.

"The other side of the Nevada border," Ted said. "Unless you can think of a safer place to wait this out."

Jordan pursed her lips in thought. "Nevada's good," she said. "They're very uncooperative with California."

"That would probably be helpful," Ted nodded.

The July evening wasn't cool but Jordan shivered in her lightweight suit. Ted struggled out of his leather jacket and gave it to her. Jordan draped the stiff jacket over her like a blanket, pulling it up to her chin. "Thanks," she said. Ted nodded and groped at the dashboard to turn on the heater.

It was nearly dark when they reached the 15 freeway and began the long drive over the mountains. The Corvette swept effortlessly around the curves of the highway and through the Cajon Pass, slowing only to evade gasping vehicles ahead of them.

"I'm starving," Jordan said as they approached Barstow. "Think it would be safe to stop at a mini mart for some food?"

Ted shrugged. "I haven't seen anybody following us," he said. "I guess we could stop for a minute." He pulled off the freeway at the Lenwood Road exit and followed the long ramp to a gas station. Two empty police cars were parked in front of the adjacent mini mart.

"Oops," Ted said. He circled around and got back on the freeway. "Let's stop in Baker."

Jordan groaned a hungry sound.

"There, there," Ted said. "It's not that far."

"How far is 'not that far?'"

"Sixty-five, seventy miles."

Jordan groaned.

The mini mart in Baker was deserted except for a motor home fueling up at the pumps. Ted left Jordan in the car and went inside, returning five minutes later with a large brown paper bag. He dropped it gently into Jordan's lap from the passenger side of the convertible before coming around to the driver's door. "I'd better fill up," he said, "Let me see what they have here."

Jordan dug into the brown paper bag and found a half-dozen candy bars, a bag of chips, a six-pack of diet cola and, to her delight, two turkey sandwiches on French rolls. "These don't look that bad," she said, unwrapping one.

Ted was studying the fuel pumps. "They don't have what I usually get," he said, "But this won't hurt anything." He drove up to a pump painted blue with a red stripe. "You can't buy this octane level in the city," he observed.

"Sandwich is good," Jordan said through the French roll.

Ted took a credit card out of his wallet, then thought better of it, slid a bill into the currency reader and filled the tank. "All right," he said, looking around. "Let's get back on the road."

They were twenty miles past Baker when Ted saw a California Highway Patrol car lurking near Halloran Summit Road. He slowed down sharply and maintained a perfect law-abiding speed for the next mile. Nonetheless, when he glanced at his rear view mirror, the murky highway lighting clearly showed the black-and-white following him at a distance of about sixty feet.

"Okay," Ted said calmly. "Now we make a decision."

Jordan looked up from her candy bar. "What?" she asked.

"Is that Highway Patrol officer following us," Ted began, "to see if he can write me for speeding? Is he simply admiring this fine, classic vehicle? Or did he just enter the license plates into his computer to see if any information comes back to him?"

Jordan snapped her head around and looked at the car, still following quietly at a distance of sixty feet.

"We'd better go," she said.

Ted floored it.

The Corvette rocketed up the steep grade with a roar that almost drowned out the first scream of the siren behind them. Cars ahead scrambled into the right lane, giving Ted an uninterrupted speedway over Halloran Summit. By the time they had traveled the short distance to Cima Road, six more police vehicles were waiting at the on-ramp to join the pursuit. Ted heard the beating rotors of a helicopter overhead, and suddenly the Corvette was blasted with a wide white spotlight as bright as the sun. Jordan slumped low in her seat and pulled Ted's jacket up to her forehead.

Ted easily outdistanced the vehicles chasing him as they tore through the desert and began the steep climb over the last ridge of mountains before the Nevada border. He felt relatively secure. California's Safe Highways policy prohibited law enforcement officers from endangering the traveling public during a pursuit, so there would be no gunfire, no bumping, no abrupt roadblocks. The state that would put a man to death on the say-so of a heroin dealer had no stomach for car wrecks.

The Corvette flew past Nipton Road. "Look," Ted shouted to Jordan. She sat up a little and peeked out over the collar of his jacket. Straight ahead, floating in the darkness, was a horizontal stripe of bright colored lights. "The Nevada border," he said. "Those lights are the casinos on the other side of the state line."

Jordan turned and looked over her shoulder at the red and blue lights chasing them. "Will we make it?" she shouted.

"I don't see why not," Ted shouted back.

It was a faster drive down the grade. With traffic pressed into the right lane by the sound of approaching sirens, Ted was two miles from the border in less than five minutes. Suddenly the sun-like spotlight above them went dark.

"Uh-oh," Ted said.

"What did you say?" Jordan yelled.

"Nothing," Ted shouted back. He studied the road ahead. The right lane was a solid line of red tail lights, the left lane ahead of him a solid block of black. He thought he saw something glint, then it was black again.

"I don't like this," he said. He extended his right arm like a railroad crossing gate in front of Jordan's chest. "Hang on," he shouted.

The Corvette veered sharply left and a horrible scraping sound cut through the noise around them. Ted grabbed the wheel with both hands and grimaced as he guided the car down the shallow embankment and onto the sandy, gravel-covered median. He maneuvered uselessly to avoid the scrubby desert plants that studded the ground. Jordan gripped the inside of the car door. Ted winced at the crunching, snapping, battering sounds under the Corvette. Then, to the right, he saw it: a ten-foot-wide spike strip in the left lane, waiting for him like an open grave. "Hah!" he shouted. He drove another half-mile or so on the median, then slowed slightly to drive up the embankment and back onto the highway. There were no warning lights visible on his dashboard, and the Corvette sounded all right, except for the rattling of some pebbles kicked up by the tires. Ted pushed it to the maximum. Only the helicopter saw them drive over the Nevada border.

"We made it!" Jordan shouted, pumping a fist triumphantly in the air. "We're in Nevada! They can't touch us in Nevada!"

Ted eased up on the accelerator. Something under the car had started to make an odd noise. "Would you look in the inside pocket of that jacket," he asked, "and grab my wireless? I want to look up a number."

"Not while you're driving," Jordan said firmly. "Do you want me to look it up for you?"

"No, now that I think of it," Ted muttered. "I can't call him from my wireless. Someone could get the records." He turned his right turn signal on and carefully, legally, changed lanes. When he reached the town of Jean, he exited the Interstate. They drove under a garish monorail track and into the parking lot of a cartoonish Old West hotel. Ted parked as far away as he could, centering the Corvette neatly over the painted line dividing two spaces. "C'mon," he said, "Let's find a phone."

Jordan slipped her feet reluctantly into her high-heeled pumps and climbed out of the convertible. "Wait," she said, "I see a parking spot across the freeway that's a little further away."

"Funny," Ted said. He took his leather jacket from her and grabbed his wireless from the inside pocket. Then he draped the jacket over Jordan's shoulders.

"Thanks," she said. They trudged across the parking lot toward the double-door entrance to the hotel.

"Separate rooms, right?" Jordan asked.

"We're not staying here," Ted said.

"It does look horrible," Jordan agreed.

"It's not that." Ted held the door for her. "Too many security cameras. We've got to stay out of sight. At least until we know what's going on."

"You think there might be federal charges against me?" Jordan asked nervously.

"Hell, I don't know," Ted said. "You're the expert. I just think we should stay out of sight." They found a public phone bolted to a grimy floral-papered wall near the restrooms. Ted consulted the screen of his wireless, fed a bill into the phone's currency reader and keyed in a number. He heard a metallic ringing sound on the line.

"James Dixon."

"James, how ya doing, buddy? This is Ted Braden. Hope I'm not calling too late."

"Ted, hey, great." James was shouting over the sound of traffic. "No, it's not too late. I'm just leaving the new Williamsburg and heading to the office to write the story. The official opening was tonight."

"Yeah? How was it?"

"Oh, you know, they're all the same. This one has robot cockfights. Are you in town?"

"I'm on my way. A friend and I decided at the last minute to drive up."

"Great. Where ya staying?"

"Well, to be truthful, I don't know yet."

"Oh, man," James said. "You picked a bad night to come up without a reservation. The town's jammed. Why don't you meet me at my office and I'll see if I can get you in someplace."

"I don't want to put you to any trouble."

"Hey, I owe you a favor. Got a pen? Let me give you directions to the paper."

Ted jotted the directions on the back of a service station receipt. "Thanks, James," he said, "I'll see you in about thirty minutes." He hung up the phone and turned around.

Jordan was gone.

"Jordan!" he yelled. He eyed the door of the ladies' room hesitantly. No one seemed to be in the area. He pushed the door open an inch or two. "Jordan?" he called.

There was no answer.

Well, this is great, Ted thought. He saw a sign with a large white arrow under the word CASINO. Sighing irritably, he followed the arrow down the carpeted corridor to a pair of glass doors. Through them he saw Jordan, elegantly out-of-place in her icy blue silk suit and matching pumps, feeding ten-dollar bills into a slot machine. He pushed the door open.

"Cash out," he said. "We've gotta go."

"One more," she said, tapping a button. Suddenly a wild ringing sound blasted from the machine in front of her. Jordan let out a yelp. "I won!" she screamed. She was jumping up and down on the gaudy flat carpet. "I won!" she screamed again. "Look, look, look!"

Ted saw a half dozen gold nuggets and three animated miners on mules pulsing on the screen. The machine was flashing like a lightning storm, but no coins were dropping.

"How much did I win? How much did I win?" Jordan shrieked.

"Apparently too much for the machine to pay out," Ted said. He saw an elderly woman pushing a metal cart toward them. "We've got to go," he said.

"Not until I get my money," Jordan said with a big smile.

"Now," Ted insisted. "You're in hiding, remember? California authorities may know I'm in Nevada because they watched my car drive over the border. But they don't have any evidence that you're here. Maybe Nevada won't tell them. But if you fill out federal tax forms, Washington will tell them."

"I'm pretty sure they won't," Jordan said.

"How sure is pretty sure?"

Jordan's face was the picture of anguish. "Oh," she wailed. "Let's go."

You are reading "The 37th Amendment," a novel by Susan Shelley. Copyright 2002. All rights reserved. This material may not be republished, retransmitted, printed, copied or distributed in any manner, in whole or in part, without the written consent of the author. Permission is granted for publication of short excerpts in the context of a review or commentary, provided the material is appropriately credited.

James Dixon's office was a blue-walled cubicle deep inside a two-story concrete building near downtown Las Vegas. James offered Jordan the chair opposite his desk and grabbed a chair from an adjacent cubicle for Ted.

"So," James said with a warm smile. His L-shaped desk was crowded with a large computer display, a wide keyboard and many stacks of papers and disks. James switched on a lamp and swiveled his chair to face the two of them. "Welcome to fabulous Las Vegas," he said cheerfully. "I made a couple of calls already. My guy at the Galaxy said he thinks he can get you in there. He said he'll call me right back."

"Uh," Ted said.

"No good? I thought you'd like the Galaxy. Great location."

Before Ted could answer, the computer beeped and a red box came up on the lower left side of the screen. "Just ignore that," James said, shooting it a fast glance. "It's only a police bulletin."

"Really?" Ted said offhandedly. "Local, or state, or what?"

"We get just about everything," James said. He looked over at Ted with a trace of curiosity. "Something you'd like me to check for you?"

Ted hesitated. He looked at Jordan. She was silent.

James swiveled his chair to face them again and leaned back. He waited.

Ted drummed his fingers on the metal armrest of his chair. "We may be in a little bit of a situation," he said. "It's possible that some people in L.A. are looking for us."

"People?" James asked, "Or police?"

Ted didn't answer. "Police," Jordan said.

James looked sympathetic. "Want me to check?" he asked.

Ted leaned forward. "Off the record, okay?"

"Off the record," James agreed. He tapped the keys of his keyboard. The computer beeped and a screen of text appeared. James scrolled through it rapidly. Then he stopped. "You drive a Mako Shark Corvette?" he asked in an awed voice.

Ted nodded.

"Really? You drive it on the streets? You just drive it around?"

Ted nodded. "I show it sometimes on the weekends," he said.

"That is so toxic," James said. "Is it here? In the parking lot?"

Ted nodded.

"Well, we'd better find you someplace to keep it. You don't want to drive that Corvette back into California. The CHP has an all-points bulletin out on it."

You are reading "The 37th Amendment," a novel by Susan Shelley. Copyright 2002. All rights reserved. This material may not be republished, retransmitted, printed, copied or distributed in any manner, in whole or in part, without the written consent of the author. Permission is granted for publication of short excerpts in the context of a review or commentary, provided the material is appropriately credited.

The woman who answered the door looked to be in her early seventies, so she was probably eighty. Her hair was red, cut in an old-fashioned spiky style and gelled shiny. She wore a heather gray Los Angeles Dodgers sweatshirt and baggy black jeans and carried an armload of what looked like twelve-inch-square printed cardboard folders.

"Hi, Jimmy!" she said brightly. "I was just making a little more room in the garage."

"Hi, Grandma," James said, "Here, let me carry those for you." He took the stack of folders from her. "What are these?"

"My Aunt Cheryl's old record collection. I keep saying I'm going to throw this stuff out one day, but I never do it." The woman looked up at Ted and Jordan, standing behind James on the driveway. "Hello!" she called.

"Grandma, I'd like you to meet Jordan Rainsborough and Ted Braden," James said, waving them forward. "Ted, Jordan, this is my grandmother, Tiffany Dixon."

"Nice to meet you," Tiffany said, shaking their hands. "Come in. No, wait, you'd better put the car into the garage first. Jimmy, why don't you put those albums on the washing machine and open the garage door."

"Thanks, Grandma," James said, stepping past her into the house. Tiffany took Jordan by the elbow and led her inside, leaving Ted alone with his car keys. He heard the garage door open with a bang. James walked out onto the driveway again.

"Okay," James said. "Let's get your car in the garage before somebody sees it."

You are reading "The 37th Amendment," a novel by Susan Shelley. Copyright 2002. All rights reserved. This material may not be republished, retransmitted, printed, copied or distributed in any manner, in whole or in part, without the written consent of the author. Permission is granted for publication of short excerpts in the context of a review or commentary, provided the material is appropriately credited.

Tiffany's living room was cluttered with knickknacks and family photographs. Jordan, looking uncomfortable, was seated on an ivory leather sofa that must have been very expensive when it was new. Tiffany was pouring a greenish herbal tea into glass mugs when Ted and James walked in from the garage.

"I hope your neighbors don't mind all the noise at this hour," Ted said sheepishly. "That Corvette kind of makes its presence felt."

"Don't give it a thought," Tiffany said. "Nobody has their hearing aids in at this time of night."

Ted accepted a cup of tea and sat down on the sofa. "Ms. Dixon, I can't tell you how much we appreciate this."

"Call me Tiffany," she said. "It's no problem at all. If Jimmy says it's an emergency, it's an emergency. I don't need to know more than that."

"I'm sure we'll get this all straightened out in a couple of days," Jordan said unconvincingly.

"You're welcome to stay as long as you like," Tiffany said. She looked from Jordan to Ted and back again. "Are you together?" she asked, pointing two index fingers toward the top of the stairs, "Or separate?" She pointed one finger at the stairs and one at the sofa.

"Separate," Ted said, clearing his throat.

"That sofa is a sleeper," Tiffany said, "And Jordan can have the guest room upstairs."

James came up behind Tiffany and kissed his grandmother on the cheek. "Thanks for everything, Grandma," he said. "I'll talk to you in the morning." He took his car keys from his pocket and headed for the front door. "Bye, you guys," he said. "Get some rest."

"James," Ted said, "Thank you."

"First rule of journalism," James smiled, "Protect your sources."

You are reading "The 37th Amendment," a novel by Susan Shelley. Copyright 2002. All rights reserved. This material may not be republished, retransmitted, printed, copied or distributed in any manner, in whole or in part, without the written consent of the author. Permission is granted for publication of short excerpts in the context of a review or commentary, provided the material is appropriately credited.

Bright sunlight beating on the east-facing living room windows awakened Ted. He blinked a few times, bringing the unfamiliar room into groggy focus. He rolled over onto his side and reached for his wristwatch on the coffee table. It was 6:45.

Except for his pounding headache, the house seemed quiet. He swung his legs off the side of the folding bed and sat up. There was a small, sharp pain in his neck that hadn't been there the night before. Ted stood up and went in search of two aspirin.

He found them in the medicine cabinet of the downstairs bathroom, but no water glass, so he headed back toward the kitchen. There he found a package of chocolate chip cookies, a half-gallon of calcium-enriched orange juice and a television. He pulled a chair out from under the kitchen table and made himself comfortable.

The TV had the old kind of remote control so Ted had to surf through the channels until he found the news. He looked at the clock. Five minutes until the top stories. Munching on a cookie, he watched a feature story on the new Graham Bayley movie. Hilarious, they said. Stupid, he thought. Ted sat through a commercial for the new Williamsburg hotel and casino. Colonial maids in low-cut bodices sashayed through topiary gardens. Robot roosters battled in a pit. Gamblers threw dice. Some poor unfortunate witch went up in flames. Typical Vegas, Ted thought. The witch trials were in Salem, not Williamsburg.

Eventually a fanfare of cheerful music signaled that the news was back on. "Hello, I'm Bren Rogers," the anchor said with a pert smile, "and here are the top stories this hour. Authorities in Los Angeles say a woman connected to the scandal in the district attorney's office is a fugitive from justice today. Assistant District Attorney Jordan Rainsborough disappeared from her Los Angeles apartment last night shortly before police arrived with a search warrant."

Ted froze, his elbow on the table, a chocolate chip cookie halfway into his mouth. Jordan's picture was framed above the news anchor's shoulder.

"Police say Ms. Rainsborough may be traveling with defendants' rights activist Ted Braden."

Ted dropped the cookie and looked around for a phone. He keyed in Julia's number.

A wide-awake voice answered. "Hello?" Julia said.

"Julia, it's Ted."

"Ted! Are you okay? Where are you?"

"I can't tell you where I am, but I'm fine. Listen carefully. I need you to get into my house and get rid of the computer stuff downstairs."

"Your mock D.A.'s office?"

"Exactly. Do it now before the police have time to get a search warrant."

"Okay," Julia said. "Where's the key?"

"Flynn has it," Ted said. "She's at her mom's. 1720 N. Gramercy Place, Apartment 512. It's north of Hollywood Boulevard between Bronson and Western."

"Got it."

"Go right now."

"I'm on the way," Julia said.

"Tell Flynn I'll be back as soon as I can," Ted continued. "Tell her to stay at her mom's."

"Okay," Julia said. "Can I call you on your wireless?"

"Better not," Ted said.

"Okay," Julia said, "I'm gone." She clicked off.

Ted stared at the phone in his hand, nervously drumming his fingers against it.

"Who was that?" Jordan came into the kitchen wearing a flouncy pastel bathrobe. "I borrowed it from Tiffany," she said, misinterpreting his grim expression.

"That was Julia," Ted said. "Jordan, this is worse than we thought."

You are reading "The 37th Amendment," a novel by Susan Shelley. Copyright 2002. All rights reserved. This material may not be republished, retransmitted, printed, copied or distributed in any manner, in whole or in part, without the written consent of the author. Permission is granted for publication of short excerpts in the context of a review or commentary, provided the material is appropriately credited.

"You'll be perfectly safe here," Tiffany said. The coffee pot made gurgling sounds behind her as she placed three ceramic mugs on the table. "Everybody knows the state of Nevada doesn't cooperate with California. Of course, Nevada is obligated to extradite anyone charged with a felony in another state. But that's only if you're caught. Nevada will do nothing to catch you, or to help California catch you."

"God bless the New Federalism," Jordan declared weakly.

"We don't know that we're going to be charged with a felony," Ted said.

"Really," Tiffany said dryly. "Are you on the news because your puppy fell into a well?"

"Point taken," Ted grumbled.

"I can't understand it," Jordan said. "They're making me sound like an escaped murderer. All I did was copy a few documents."

"We have to call Dobson Howe," Ted said.

Tiffany's eyes widened. "Dobson Howe?" she asked.

Ted caught the tone. "We're not dangerous criminals, I swear," Ted said. "This is probably just a big misunderstanding."

"It's all just political," Jordan said. "The mayor's upset about leaks and they're looking for someone to blame."

Tiffany nodded. "I'm just going to call Jimmy," she said. "Maybe he'll pick up some doughnuts and come over and join us."

Ted jumped up from the kitchen table and grabbed Tiffany's hands before she could get to the phone. "Please don't turn us in," he pleaded.

"I'm not turning anybody in," Tiffany said calmly. "You're my first fugitives. I don't want to get a reputation in the community as a rat."

Ted kissed her hand.

The phone rang.

"That will be Jimmy," Tiffany said. "Sometimes I think he can read my mind." She pulled her hands away from Ted and answered the phone. "Hello? Yes, we saw it. No, no, it's all right. Certainly. Pick up a dozen doughnuts on the way, would you? You did? You read my mind. Okay, bye-bye." She hung up the phone. "He's on his way," she said. "Let's have some coffee."

"May I use your phone?" Ted asked. "I think it's not a good idea for me to use my wireless."

"Certainly," Tiffany answered. She handed it to him. Ted keyed in Dobson Howe's number. Howe answered on the second ring.

"Dobson? Ted Braden."

"Ted, where are you? Where's Jordan?"

"She's here with me. We're in Nevada."

"That's the best news I've heard this morning. Whatever you do, don't cross the border into California. And keep your car out of sight. The last thing we need is some idiot turning you in for the reward."

"There's a reward?"

"Not yet, but I wouldn't be surprised. Find a garage or a storage lock-up someplace."

"Already have."

"Good, good." Howe sounded impressed. "How many people know where you are?"

"Just a local newspaper reporter and his grandmother. She has graciously agreed to let us stay in her home until this blows over. Which brings me to the reason I'm calling."

"It should be just a couple of days," Howe said. "It's my guess that this is a scare tactic. I think they're hoping to shake a confession out of Jordan. It's unlikely they have any real evidence against her. They wouldn't have anything on you, either, if you hadn't evaded the Highway Patrol on the way out of town. However, that is an easier matter to resolve. Give me a couple of days, and I think you'll be able to come back."

"Thanks, Dobson."

"What's the phone number where I can reach you? And by the way, don't use your wireless."

"Right. Tiffany?"

"Hm?"

"Okay if I give Dobson Howe your phone number?"

"Let me talk to him," Tiffany said. She took the phone from Ted. "Mr. Howe? This is Tiffany Dixon." She gave him the voice number and a second number for data transfers.

"Ms. Dixon, thank you so much for letting my clients stay in your home. I'll certainly see to it that you are compensated for your trouble."

"Oh, don't be silly. It's no trouble and I don't want any compensation. I just want to tell you one thing."

"Certainly, Ms. Dixon. What is it?"

"You're wrong about the 37th Amendment. And I wish you would reconsider."

There was a pause on the other end of the phone. "Thank you for your feedback," Howe said. "I hope someday I'll have the opportunity to discuss this with you in person. Perhaps I can change your mind."

"I hope I can change yours," Tiffany said. "Call anytime." She hung up. "That felt good," she said. "Much more satisfying than yelling at the TV set."

Ted was staring into space but Jordan's high-beams were fixed on Tiffany. The sound of the front door opening broke the silence.

"Good morning," James called from the living room. "Where is everybody?"

"In the kitchen, sweetheart," Tiffany called back.

James bounded in and dropped a box of fresh doughnuts on the kitchen table. Ted ate two of them by the time James poured a cup of coffee and sat down. "I didn't realize how hungry I was," Ted said, wiping a ring of chocolate from his mouth. "I think I haven't eaten since lunch yesterday."

"You must have an awful headache," Tiffany said.

Ted nodded and reached for a sugared twist.

"When this is all over," James said. "I'd like to write a series of articles about everything that went on. There might even be a book in it. Can I count on your cooperation?"

Ted nodded. James looked at Jordan. Jordan nodded.

"Great," James said. "Next item of business. You need a lawyer."

"We have a lawyer," Ted said. "Dobson Howe."

"Whoa," James said. "This is going to be great. So, what are you charged with?"

"Maybe nothing," Ted said. "Dobson thinks the mayor is just trying to scare Jordan into confessing."

James leaned forward slightly. "Confessing what?" he asked.

"That I leaked confidential records," Jordan answered. "But they can't possibly have any evidence of that." She looked searchingly at Ted. "You told me nothing was hooked up to the office network. So there can't be any record, right? Right?"

"Right," Ted nodded. "Unless it's the Dency medical report. That one you did on your own."

Jordan shook her head. "They can't possibly prove it was me," she said. "They might suspect it was me. But it could have been five other people. They can't possibly prove it."

"Okay, then," Ted said. "It's a bluff. Dobson said he'll have it cleared up in a couple of days. I'll plead to reckless driving and spend two hundred hours picking up trash along the freeway and it will be over."

James and Tiffany were wide-eyed, listening.

"That's right," Jordan said. Her voice was calm. "I'm not a fugitive at all. I simply left town for a couple of days on a pre-planned trip and never knew the police were looking for me. A simple misunderstanding."

"That's right," Ted agreed. "Except that Dobson said we should stay out of sight because there probably will be a reward for turning us in."

"He could be wrong," Tiffany said. "It wouldn't be the first time." She pushed the box of doughnuts in Jordan's direction. "Have a doughnut," she insisted. "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day."

Jordan extended a slightly shaky hand into the box and took a cake doughnut covered with chocolate icing and rainbow sprinkles. "Did I hear you say you think he's wrong to want to repeal the 37th Amendment?" she asked tentatively.

"I know he's wrong," Tiffany said. "I was there."

"Where?" Ted asked.

"In 2016, when that amendment was ratified," she answered. "I saw how things changed after that. He's insane, trying to send the legal system back to the way it used to be."

Jordan tried not to say anything but couldn't stop herself. "Tiffany, I work in that legal system every day. It's a travesty. People are being convicted of crimes they didn't commit."

"That is a shame," Tiffany said. "But it's better to put a few of the wrong people in jail than to go back to having the whole country locked inside their homes."

Ted stared in astonishment at the redheaded grandmother sitting across the table from him. "Tiffany," he said, "Innocent people have been put to death."

Tiffany stared right back at him. "Innocent people used to die all the time," she said. "Shot. Stabbed. Hit by stray bullets. There were a thousand murders a year in Los Angeles."

The room fell silent.

"You kids think the legal system isn't perfect and you're going to fix it," Tiffany continued. "You think a terrible injustice has been done. Well, you're right. Maybe fifteen terrible injustices have been done. But twenty million people live in Los Angeles County and a lot of them don't even lock their doors at night. It wasn't always like that, you know."

James stood up and got the coffee pot. "Grandma used to live in L.A.," he said, pouring refills all around. "She's still angry about it."

Tiffany nodded. "That's true," she said. "It's so different now. It's safe everywhere. There are still poor neighborhoods, but no bad neighborhoods. You can walk around, you can take the kids to the park. The kids can go to the park without you. Not like when I lived there. You two probably can't even imagine it."

Memory lane, Ted thought. Walked twenty blocks in the snow to get to school every day. Barefoot.

"When my parents were kids, they'd get on their bicycles and say, 'Bye, Mom,' and not come back until it was dark. When I was growing up, my parents had to drive me everywhere. Everywhere. They didn't let me go anywhere alone. They were frightened to death. And we lived in a so-called good neighborhood. I don't know how my parents could stand that commute." Tiffany sipped her coffee. "In the city, the parks belonged to drug dealers and gang members. Whole neighborhoods belonged to drug dealers and gang members. Sometimes there would be a crackdown, usually after a riot, and the streets would be flooded with police and National Guard troops. And for about two weeks, you'd see people pushing their baby strollers down the sidewalks and kids playing in the front yards. And then the troops and the police would leave and it would go back to normal. Everybody locked inside except the criminals."

"Well, something should have been done," Ted said.

"Something was done," Tiffany said. "Many times. Injunctions against gang members, anti-loitering laws, police checkpoints. All thrown out by federal judges. All found to be a violation of due process. What did they care if people couldn't walk the streets in safety? There was always plenty of security at the federal courthouse."

Ted could see that Jordan was biting her tongue.

"But after the 37th Amendment," Tiffany continued, "There was no due process clause in the U.S. Constitution. The Supreme Court held that the federal government no longer had any authority over the administration of state criminal law. People didn't realize it, but that's actually the way it had always been, prior to the 20th century. Until the U.S. Supreme Court stretched the idea of due process beyond all recognition."

Jordan was shaking her head. "But Tiffany, not everyone who's accused of a crime is guilty. People who are not criminals need the protection of the courts."

"They have the protection of the state courts," Tiffany answered. "Why should nine justices in Washington substitute their judgment for the judgment of the states? Do they know better than the people who live there?"

"Let's not argue," James said.

"You're right," Tiffany nodded. "Ted and Jordan are my guests, and if they want to bring back the crime rates of fifty years ago, I won't say another word about it."

Jordan placed her coffee cup on the table. "Now, wait a minute," she said. "A lot more has changed in America over the last fifty years than just the 37th Amendment. People today are more educated and less prone to violence. It would never go back to the way it was."

Tiffany sipped her coffee. "Is that right?" she said.

You're reading The 37th Amendment, a novel by Susan Shelley. Copyright 2002. All rights reserved. This material may not be republished, retransmitted, printed, copied or distributed in any manner, in whole or in part, without the written consent of the author. Permission is granted for publication of short excerpts in the context of a review or commentary, provided the material is appropriately credited.

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