The 37th Amendment - A Novel by Susan Shelley

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.

Chapter Twelve

Monday, July 17, 2056

Jordan walked into the living room and plunked down onto the couch next to Ted. "I can't stand it anymore," she whispered through a clenched smile. "If I hear one more word about due process I'm jumping out that window."

Ted didn't look up from the sports pages. "We're on the first floor," he said.

"Really?" Jordan snapped. "What's your point?"

"Don't get mad at me," Ted responded defensively.

"Why not?" Jordan demanded.

Ted put the newspaper aside and looked at her. Jordan's blue eyes were fiery and her skin was flushed with pink. "Why don't you try reading something?" he suggested.

"Reading something?" Jordan's words shot out like bullets through a silencer. "Just this morning I had to read Justice Black's dissent in Adamson v. California and Charles Fairman's Stanford Law Review article refuting Justice Black's dissent in Adamson. That's enough for one day, don't you think?"

"I guess," Ted said. He was watching her gleaming dark hair bounce around the low neckline of the sleeveless black tank top Tiffany had picked up for her.

"Can't we go somewhere else?" Jordan pleaded. "Can't we go to a hotel?"

"Of course we can," Ted said, returning to his newspaper.

"Really?" Jordan squeaked.

"Sure," Ted said. "We can go to a hotel and be recognized, and then TV news crews will follow us around, and then the governor will be forced to extradite us, and we'll be back in L.A. before you can say 'What a moron I was.'"

Jordan stood up and stormed over to the window, arms folded in front of her as she stared icily at a shrub.

Ted sighed. "I'm sorry," he said. He stood up and walked over to the window. "I didn't mean that."

Jordan turned sharply to face him. "I can't stand it anymore," she said. "I have to get out of this house. At least for a while. I'm going insane."

"Jordan, it's only been three days."

"That's easy for you to say," she seethed. "You didn't have to read Duncan v. Louisiana. How come she never makes you read any of this stuff?"

"Maybe I should be insulted," Ted smiled. "Just try to be patient."

"For how long?" Jordan stormed over to the couch and sat down. The black running shorts she was wearing rode up slightly on her legs.

"Until Dobson tells us it's safe to come back." Ted walked back to the couch and sat next to Jordan. He patted her bare thigh soothingly. "I'm sure it won't be too much longer," he promised.

"Ted? Jordan? Where are you?" It was Tiffany, upstairs.

"We're in the living room," Ted called out. He heard the jingle of keys. Tiffany breezed into the room, carrying a small notebook and a large handbag.

"I'm off to do a little shopping," she said. "I'll pick up some shirts for you, Ted, you must be awfully tired of wearing that one. Then I'm going to the grocery store. Any requests for dinner?"

"Yes," Ted said, standing up and taking out his wallet. "I request that you let me pay for all of this."

"Absolutely not," Tiffany said. "First, it's my pleasure. Second, Jimmy said he's paying for everything. Third, Dobson Howe offered to make it up to me and that's an offer I intend to accept. See you in an hour or two."

She breezed out again. Ted heard the door to the garage slam behind her.

"Ahhhh," Jordan said. "Peace is at hand."

"Say that again," Ted said.

"Peace is at hand."

"No. 'Ahhhh.'"

Jordan leaned back on the sofa. "Ahhhh," she said softly.

Ted turned to his left to face her more directly and placed his right hand on the inside of her knee. He moved his hand lightly up her leg. "Say it again," he ordered.

"Ahhhh," Jordan said. It sounded to Ted as if she meant it. Just to be sure, he moved his hand down, and then up again.

"Ahhhhh," Jordan said, throatier this time. Ted moved closer and kissed Jordan's neck. Her hair felt soft against the side of his face. Her skin smelled of the same faintly floral fragrance that clung to Tiffany, but the effect was quite different. Tiffany's fragrance was powdery, but Jordan smelled like a rose.

He felt her right hand moving slowly against his leg.

Ted kissed Jordan's cheek, then slipped both his hands up into her mane of dark hair and pressed his lips against hers. Jordan opened her mouth and caressed his tongue. She felt slippery and suede-like at the same time.

"Let's go upstairs," Ted murmured finally.

"No," Jordan said.

Ted pulled back. "No?" he repeated.

Jordan lifted her tank top over her head and tossed it aside. "What's wrong with right here?" she asked. She was already out of the shorts and standing before him in a low-cut ivory satin bra and matching thong. Ted was dumbstruck. He'd always believed no woman could really look like that without airbrushing.

"What's wrong?" Jordan asked teasingly. She sat on his lap and began to unbutton his shirt. Ted ran one hand lightly over her breasts and with the other searched for the hooks at the back of the bra. "It's in the front," Jordan said. She reached down and released a hidden clasp, sending the sides of the bra springing off to the left and right and freeing her breasts. He ran his hands gently over them, feeling the nipples harden against his palms. Then he moved his hands around to her back and pulled her toward him, letting her breasts press against his face. His mouth found its way around one of her nipples.

After a moment, Jordan pushed him gently back against the sofa and stood up.

"Why are you still dressed?" she asked. "We may only have an hour." She turned and walked away from him, toward the center of the room. Ted remembered the first time he had seen her from that angle, on the eighth floor of the Criminal Courts building. She was even more beautiful than he had imagined. In an instant his clothes were on the floor in a heap and he was standing behind Jordan in the middle of the room, his arms around her, caressing her breasts with both hands.

Suddenly Jordan dropped to her knees and then down onto her hands. She arched her back and leaned forward like a cat. Ted followed her down to the carpet and tugged the ivory satin thong down to her knees and then off. It felt wet in his hand. Then her soft skin was against his abdomen and the palms of his hands were gripping her hip bones, pulling her body toward him in powerful stroking motions. Jordan made a sound that was half-moan, half-cry. Ted released her. Jordan turned her head and looked at him, her face shining with perspiration.

"Why did you stop?" she breathed.

Ted did not stop again. He pounded relentlessly against her, pausing only once to turn her over to face him. Her breasts were suffused with pink, the nipples dark and hard. He let his weight pin her helplessly to the carpet. Jordan's eyes were closed, her brows knit together. A deep blush swept over her cheeks. A moaning sound escaped her. He felt her hips move sharply, repeatedly, under him.

Ted pulled out suddenly and shot over Jordan's smooth stomach, watching her chest heave with her breathing. He dropped down onto his side next to her, breathing hard and drenched with sweat.

They were motionless for several minutes. Then Ted stood up, got a box of tissues from the bathroom, and gently cleaned up Jordan's glistening body.

"Got anything for rug burns?" she asked.

"Turn over and let's see," he said.

Jordan stretched her arms over her head and rolled over onto her stomach. Sure enough, there were red marks across her upper back and on her bottom. Ted gave her a playful slap. "How's that?" he asked.

"Ow," she wailed. Jordan rolled over again. She watched him for a moment, thoughtfully, as if trying to fit a piece into a jigsaw puzzle. "Tell me about your girlfriend from RCN Data Systems," she said.

"Ex-girlfriend," Ted answered.

"Really?"

"Really."

Jordan looked up at him, her blue eyes twinkling. "Good," she said.

Gregory Ulrich pushed the room service tray to the far side of the table and put on his reading glasses. In front of him was a stack of file folders, each labeled with Ted Braden's name and a number. There were six of them. Ulrich sighed and stared out the window.

The Wellington St. Clair on MacArthur Park offered a spectacular view of the city. From the 25th floor of the hotel he should have been able to see all the way to the ocean. Unfortunately, it was a hot July day and all he could see was smoggy haze. Still, the suite was expansive, the liquor was comped and the bathrobe was softer than a baby lamb. He'd worked in worse places.

Ulrich sat down on a blue brocade loveseat and put his bare feet up on the polished walnut coffee table. He opened the first folder and looked at the top page. It was a transcript of Ted Braden's meeting with Carl Gonzales and Jordan Rainsborough ahead of the Robert Rand trial. He uncapped a highlighter pen and started to read, flipping quickly through the pages.

On page one hundred and seventeen, he noticed something.

RAINSBOROUGH: Have you ever had any conversations about Robert Rand with anyone?

BRADEN: Just with my girlfriend. Last night I took her to the game and, like I said, I noticed that Rob wasn't there. So, you know, we talked about it.

RAINSBOROUGH: And what's her name?

BRADEN: You're not going to send the deputies for her, are you?

GONZALES: Mr. Braden, this is a serious matter. We have charged Robert Rand with the murders of Maria Sanders and LAPD officer William Szafara. However, we have both an obligation and a responsibility to seek and consider all evidence that might tend to exonerate him. You may not be aware that we have the power to compel the testimony of witnesses, even to the point of locking them up in county jail if they don't cooperate.

RAINSBOROUGH: It's because of the Public Safety Act. Violent crimes in California are tried under what are called 'expedited procedures.' That means we have to move things along.

BRADEN: If you have to talk to her, I'll bring her in.

RAINSBOROUGH: Well, for now, all I need is her name and a few facts.

BRADEN: Julia Thomsen.

RAINSBOROUGH: And where does she work?

BRADEN: Can I just give you her home address?

RAINSBOROUGH: All right.

BRADEN: 422 Hobart Place.

GONZALES: Where does she work?

RAINSBOROUGH: We can easily find out. We found you.

BRADEN: RCN Data Systems.

Ulrich stood up and walked over to the desk where his computer was plugged in.

Jordan came out of the bathroom wearing a towel, her dark hair hanging straight and dripping. "Ted?" she whispered. "Is she back yet?"

There was no answer. Jordan padded down the hall in her bare feet to the top of the stairs and peered down into the living room. She saw Tiffany's keys on the table next to the sofa.

In the kitchen, Ted and Tiffany were watching Dobson Howe give an interview on a news network.

"We may never know if he was the killer," Howe was saying. "The confession that was beaten out of him surely doesn't prove anything."

A blond man seated in front of a bookcase jumped in. "That's pure speculation," he shouted. "The police department is still investigating how Michael Dency was hurt."

"We can imagine what their report will say," Howe thundered, "now that he's died of his injuries and can't contradict the police account."

Howe and the blond man continued to argue. Tiffany reached for the remote control and turned the volume down slightly. "Heard enough?" she asked.

Ted nodded.

"He certainly spends a lot of time on television," Tiffany said. "I must have seen him on ten shows in the last three days. When does he find time to work on your case?"

"I'm sure he's working on it," Ted said uncertainly. "I know he must have some kind of a plan in mind."

"It looks like he's planning to run for something," Tiffany observed.

Ted glanced at the television. A youthful host was soliciting Howe's comments on the latest revelations of wrongful convictions in Los Angeles County. "Legal misconduct does nothing to make our cities safer," Howe said. "If anything, you have more to fear when your government is out of control."

"That's it," Tiffany said irritably. She pointed the remote control at the television like a handgun and fired it. The TV went black. "I'm not listening to another word. The man is trying to destroy the country."

Ted was startled. "I think he's just trying to build public support to repeal the 37th Amendment and bring back due process," he said.

"You are too young to know what a terrible idea that is," Tiffany said. "Due process may sound very nice and reasonable. But one day the U.S. Supreme Court will revive the incorporation doctrine and it will be the end of law enforcement."

Ted looked at her, confused. She didn't seem senile but she was making no sense. "I'm afraid I don't understand," he said. "What does this have to do with corporations?"

"It has nothing to do with corporations," Tiffany said. "The incorporation doctrine is something the Supreme Court dreamed up during the 20th century. The justices gradually incorporated the Bill of Rights into the due process clause of the Fourteenth Amendment. They decided that the first eight amendments to the U.S. Constitution applied to the states as well as the federal government."

"But I thought they didn't," Ted said, even more confused.

"They don't," Tiffany said in frustration. "The state governments are restricted by their own state constitutions. That's the way it was when the country was founded, and that's the way it stayed for over one hundred years."

"And that's the way it is now, right?" Ted said. "The Bill of Rights protects you from the federal government's actions only."

"That's right," Tiffany said. "But there was a lapse in the middle. And it's all because of Dobson Howe's precious due process clause."

Ted looked at the slightly-built woman across the table from him. Her eyes were flashing with an anger that struck Ted as a little over-the-top.

"You can't even imagine what it was like," Tiffany said. "Every state law, every local ordinance in the country had to meet with the Supreme Court's approval. Want a law against panhandling in front of ATM machines? Sorry, that violates the First Amendment. Want to search gang members for weapons? Sorry, that violates the Fourth Amendment. Want to arrest someone for a crime you just saw them commit? You'd better do everything just the way the Supreme Court tells you to or you're the one who's going to need a lawyer."

Ted watched Tiffany's face turn redder. The flaming color of her hair seemed to be leaking into her cheeks.

"It was as if there were no state or local governments at all," Tiffany said. "It was as if we had a national criminal code created entirely by federal judges. That's where your due process clause takes you. The end of government by the people." Tiffany stood up and went to the refrigerator for a bottle of water. "How about some lunch?" she asked. "There's some cold chicken in here, or we could order in."

"Either one's fine with me," Ted said.

"Me, too," Tiffany shrugged. "Why don't you go ask Jordan if she has a preference."

Ted stood up. "Okay," he said. He headed for the stairs. A moment later he was back.

"She's not up there," he said anxiously.

"Well, where could she have gone?" Tiffany asked.

"I don't know," Ted said. "Jordan! Where are you? Jordan?"

"Maybe she's outside," Tiffany said. "I'll look. Or maybe she's in the garage."

Ted sprinted toward the connecting door, opened it and stopped. The Corvette was in the garage, but Tiffany's Honda was gone. Ted closed the door quietly and walked back through the kitchen. He caught up with Tiffany in the living room. "She's not in the garage and neither is your car," he said.

"I parked the car on the street," Tiffany said. "I didn't want to risk bumping grocery bags into your car."

"Thanks," Ted said with genuine warmth. Tiffany was all right. "So you have your keys?"

"Yes, certainly," Tiffany said. "They're on the table next to the sofa where I always put them." She stopped. The keys were gone. "Oh, my," she said.

"Where could she have gone?" Ted asked. "She knows what will happen if somebody recognizes her. We were just talking about it."

"Maybe she went stir-crazy," Tiffany said. "I think being cooped up in the house can make a person do irrational things."

For some reason, Ted felt insulted. "She's used to being around a lot of people all the time," he said.

Tiffany nodded. "High-maintenance, that one," she said.

Ted walked to the window and stood still in front of it.

"Please don't stand at the window, Ted," Tiffany pleaded. "Someone might see you."

"It's not going to matter much longer," Ted shrugged.

Ted was holding a pencil over a crossword puzzle. The pencil hadn't moved for at least five minutes. Tiffany came into the living room and forced a pleasant smile.

"How about something to eat?" she asked.

Ted shook his head. "It's been two hours," he said.

Tiffany sat down in an armchair and fidgeted. "I would call someone," she said, "But I don't know who to call."

"Where could she have gone?" Ted asked.

Then they heard the bang of the garage door opening. Tiffany and Ted jumped out of their seats and ran to the window, catching only a glimpse of the Honda as it pulled into the garage. Ted raced out of the living room and through the kitchen. He flung open the connecting door to the garage. "Oh, my God!" he whispered.

Jordan was closing the door of the Honda behind her. "Hello!" she said brightly. "What do you think? My own mother wouldn't recognize me!"

Ted felt his jaw drop. Jordan's gleaming long dark hair was now very short and very blonde.

Jordan gave a flirtatious sideways glance to the blackjack dealer. "Hit me," she smiled. The nine of clubs hit the table with a snap. "Damn!" Jordan said, picking up her wine glass, "That's it for me." She pushed a chip across the table to the dealer. "Thank you, ma'am," the dealer said politely. Jordan nodded. "Ma'am," she muttered as she walked away, "You're welcome, son."

Jordan was in the main casino of the majestically overblown new Williamsburg hotel, a gargantuan property fronted by a replica of the stately Governor's Palace, adding an awkward note of Colonial dignity to the Las Vegas Strip. Inside, the casino walls were fully paneled in deep-toned genuine wood, with moldings that formed a symmetrical pattern of rectangles above and below the chair rails. Fake hearths framed by white marble mantles were set into the walls. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, lit with artificial candles in etched hurricane glasses. Racks of fake rifles were attached to both sides of the main casino cage. At least, they looked fake.

A large revolving sculpture of George Washington standing under a waterfall of green foil dollar bills had been removed from the center of the casino after the Mount Vernon Ladies' Association said they were not comfortable with it.

Also uncomfortable were the cocktail servers, attractive women laced into push-up corsets and flounce-trimmed bodices. Jutting out from their hips were D-shaped hoops covered by two-thirds of a skirt. One of these assemblies knocked into Jordan as she tried to get past a row of crap tables to the main aisle.

"Oh, I'm sorry," the server said, looking Jordan straight in the eye. "Excuse me."

"That's okay," Jordan mumbled. She turned away quickly and headed down the carpeted aisle and out of the casino. Even though she could barely recognize herself in a mirror, she felt it was only prudent to make sure no one got too good a look at her.

A huge crowd seemed to be migrating toward a corridor on the far side of the lobby. Jordan passed a sign reading, "Walkway to Salem" with an arrow pointing in that direction. The hotel burned a witch every hour on the hour. Jordan decided to follow the arrow to the gardens instead.

Williamsburg's gardens were far less popular than its witch trials, so Jordan sauntered through the topiary and tulips mostly unobserved. At the far end of the gardens she found an entrance to the shopping street. The automatic doors blew open as she approached.

It was autumn on Duke of Gloucester Street. The fake maple trees were bursting out in orange and yellow leaves, their top branches nearly brushing the sky-painted ceiling. Below, a wide gray walkway was lined on both sides by facades of boxy brick buildings and white-frame storefronts. Two mannequins dressed as Revolutionary War soldiers marched motionless in front of a cigar shop, vigilantly protecting the liberty of a double row of slot machines that extended all the way down the center of the street and through the thick crowd of unsightly tourists.

Jordan spotted an elevator camouflaged behind a picket fence and a flowering tree. She pushed the button, stepped inside and rode to the upper floor. When the doors opened, she found herself at the entrance to Raleigh Tavern. Destiny, she thought.

Jordan spent an hour sipping a rum drink from an enormous pewter tankard and looking out the window at the gardens below. From this vantage point she could see the symmetrical design of the diamond-shaped hedges and pathways. It was almost hypnotically peaceful, or maybe it was the rum.

"Would you like to charge this to your room?" It was the waiter, working up her check on a handheld device.

"No, I'm not staying here," Jordan said.

"No problem," the waiter said. "Is this going to be cash or charge today?"

"Charge," Jordan said. She handed the waiter a credit card.

Mayor Martinez was alone in her office when the private line rang at 7:30 p.m. She picked up the phone immediately. "Yes?" she answered.

"Hello, Mayor Martinez," Ulrich said. The silk was back in his voice. "How are you today?"

"Gregory!" the mayor said. "What have you got?"

"Well, Mayor, if it wouldn't be inconvenient, I'd like to search a property belonging to a Julia Thomsen. Of course, I can do it quietly, but there might be some value in making a public show of it. I was thinking that the police department ought to receive an anonymous tip that will allow them to get a search warrant. But of course, it's your call."

"And who is this person?" the mayor asked.

"Julia Thomsen," Ulrich said, "is, or maybe was, Ted Braden's girlfriend. She works at a place called RCN Data Systems. If Ted Braden helped Jordan Rainsborough steal documents from the computer network, she's probably the one who told him how to do it."

"I'll see that the police get your anonymous tip, " the mayor said. "Anything else?"

"Yes," Ulrich purred. "I found Jordan Rainsborough."

"Hello?" Jordan called as she opened the door into the kitchen. "Anybody home? Tiffany? Ted?"

Tiffany appeared in the doorway to the living room. "Is everything okay?" she asked.

"Wonderful," Jordan said blissfully. "I was out. There were restaurants. There were shops. I lost four hundred dollars playing blackjack. It was wonderful."

"Good," Tiffany said. "I hope nobody recognized you."

"No one paid any attention to me," Jordan said. "A blackjack dealer called me 'ma'am.' I think blonde hair must make me look older."

"You look beautiful," Tiffany said. "He was just being polite."

Ted came downstairs and looked over Tiffany's shoulder into the kitchen. "Jordan!" he said, "Thank God you're back. Any trouble?"

"No trouble at all," Jordan said. "I told you my own mother wouldn't know me. I feel so much better. I finally feel like I can relax."

Tuesday, July 18, 2056

It was seven o'clock in the morning when four police cars pulled up in front of 422 Hobart Place in Los Angeles. Two white television broadcast vans were already parked across the street. Sgt. Louise Mackey frowned. "How'd they find out about this?" she asked irritably, opening the car door. A cameraman swung around and pointed his lens in her direction. Sgt. Mackey slammed the door. When she turned around she was face-to-face with a perky TV reporter named Clarissa Rowland.

"Officer," chirped the reporter, "Can you tell us a little about what's happening here today?"

"It's sergeant," Mackey replied. "And no, I can't comment."

"We understand the woman in that house is connected to the scandal in the district attorney's office," the reporter continued obliviously, "Can you confirm that?"

"I can't comment," Mackey said. "Excuse me, please, you'll have to stay back."

A few of the officers had taken up positions along the perimeter of the property. The rest were waiting for Mackey near the front door. She joined them. "Did you check to see if there's a back door?" she asked. Officer Greene nodded. "Rodriguez and Coyle are on it," he confirmed. Mackey nodded. Catching a glimpse of the cameras positioned across the street, she stepped forward purposefully and knocked firmly on the door. There was no answer. She knocked again. Nothing. Mackey shifted her weight nervously.

"You want us to break it down?" Officer Greene asked.

"I could go through the window," said Officer Luntz.

Mackey tried the doorknob. It was unlocked.

"Nobody locks their doors around here," she said.

Julia let the hot water of the shower cover her shoulders and back and run down the sides of her arms. She closed her eyes and stood for a long moment without moving, drifting into a sleepy morning doze. Then she heard a thunk. Julia turned to see if a shampoo bottle had fallen. It hadn't.

Thunk. THUNK. Thunk. Now Julia was fully awake. She slid open the shower door and leaned out to listen. Then she turned the water off.

Thunk. THUNK. It sounded like drawers being opened and closed. Julia wrapped herself in a towel and opened the bathroom door.

There, in her bedroom, were three blue-uniformed police officers, tearing through her closet and dresser. Another was pulling the blankets off her bed.

"What are you doing?" she shrieked. "What's going on here?"

"We're executing a search warrant on this property," one of the officers said crisply, looking awkwardly away from her towel. "Sgt. Mackey is downstairs with all the paperwork if you have any questions."

Julia ran out of the bedroom and down the hall to her office. Two policemen were filling cardboard boxes with computer disks and cartridges.

"Hey!" Julia shouted. "That stuff is for work! You can't take it!"

"If you have any questions," said one of the officers calmly, "see Sgt. Mackey downstairs." He lifted the cover on a blue plastic storage box, revealing a stack of ten neatly-labeled disks. He grabbed all ten and jammed them into a cardboard box that was already filled.

Julia was pale. She ran from the room and raced down the stairs. "Which one of you is Sgt. Mackey?" she shouted to the crowd of blue uniforms in her living room. A woman stood up. "I'm Sgt. Mackey," she said, "Are you Julia Thomsen?"

"I sure as hell am," Julia said fiercely. "You want to tell me what's going on?"

Ted was underneath Tiffany's car in the garage when he heard the phone inside the house ring. A moment later he saw Tiffany's feet standing next to the car. "Dobson Howe's on the phone for you," she said, holding a wireless phone down near the front tire. Ted scooted out from under the car and held up oily hands. Tiffany held the phone against Ted's ear while he reached for a rag.

"Hello?" he said.

"Don't call her, don't try to make contact with her. Her phone is probably tapped. I'm on my way over there to pick her up right now."

"Who?" Ted asked, wiping his hands. "What are you talking about?"

"You haven't seen the news?"

"No," Ted said. "What happened?"

"Your friend Julia Thomsen got a visit from the police today," Howe said.

"What?" Ted took the phone from Tiffany.

"The police executed a search of her house this morning," Howe continued. "If you know what they were looking for, this would be a good time to tell me."

"She wasn't arrested, was she?" Ted asked.

Howe paused. "Not yet," he said.

Officer Francine Luntz lifted a cardboard box full of computer disks and let it drop with a thud onto her desk. She looked disapprovingly at the three boxes still remaining on the metal cart. She pressed a button on her phone.

"Desk," answered a voice on the speaker.

"This is Luntz," she said. "Can I get some help over here with this inventory? It's got to be done today and there's so much stuff, I'm not even halfway through it."

"I can send you a couple of volunteers," the voice said.

"That would be great," Luntz replied.

"You made a duplicate of the entire computer network?" Dobson Howe's voice sounded awed. "You can do that?"

Julia leaned back against the leather passenger seat of Howe's Bentley. She nodded. "Government offices all have really old hardware," she said. "Their equipment fills a huge room but all the data will fit on a handful of today's servers."

"Incredible," Howe said. "And you and Ted set this up in his house."

Julia nodded. "And I took it all apart again when Ted left town."

"And what did you do with all the components?"

"I reformatted all the hard drives," Julia said, "so no one could ever recover any data from them. Then I shipped everything up to my sister in Sacramento. My three-year-old nephew now has a computer that could run a small stock exchange."

"You used a freight service?"

"No, no," Julia said. "U.S. mail. Cash. No records."

Howe smiled. "So there's no problem," he said. "There was no trace of any of this for the police to find in your house this morning."

Julia was silent.

"Right?" Howe asked.

Julia was silent.

Howe pulled the car over to the curb and threw it into park. He fixed a penetrating gaze on Julia. "Right?" he asked again.

"Well, there was one thing," Julia said in a voice barely audible over the soft idle of the Bentley. "I kept the original back-up disks."

Thursday, July 20, 2056

District Attorney Thomas J. Huron arrived at the mayor's office exactly on time at 4:00 p.m. sharp. "Hello, Rosa," he said pleasantly. The secretary smiled disinterestedly. "Go right in, sir," she said. "They're all waiting for you."

Huron grasped the brass door handle, took a deep breath and opened the door. "Hello," he said.

Much to Huron's surprise, no one glared at him. The mayor was in her chair, pre-occupied with a document on the desk in front of her. Police Chief Wilson Price was seated on the couch next to a balding man in his fifties whom Huron assumed was Gregory Ulrich. The mayor's chief of staff, Ronni Richards, sat in leather chair across the room. They all murmured greetings.

The mayor gestured to a leather chair next to Ronni. Huron sat down. "We think they're in Nevada," the mayor said.

"Mmmm," said Huron. "Can't touch them in Nevada."

"It's been two days since we searched the home of Braden's friend," the mayor continued. "But it doesn't seem to have been enough to scare them out of hiding."

"Mmmm," said Huron.

"So what I need you to do," the mayor went on, "is look at this list of things that were seized during the search, and see if you can arrest this Julia Thomsen for something." She extended a stack of stapled pages across her desk to him.

Huron frowned. The list was at least ten pages long, mostly single-spaced, and he had forgotten his glasses. He held the pages at arm's length. "Any drugs?" he asked.

Gregory Ulrich took his glasses out of his jacket pocket and handed them to Huron. "Just some marijuana. But if that was a crime you'd have half the country in jail."

Huron put the glasses on and perused the top page. "What is this stuff?" he asked. "Computer games?"

"Who knows?" said the mayor. "It looks like she labeled all her disks with abbreviations and numbers. It doesn't mean anything to me."

Huron turned a page, then another one. "I wish the police didn't do everything on paper," he said. If this list was on a disk we could search for keywords and maybe find something."

Ronni sat up. "Well, let's scan it," she said. "Does anyone here know how to use the new scanner?"

Half an hour later the five of them were huddled around a computer monitor behind the mayor's desk. Gregory sat in the mayor's chair, his fingers clicking over a keyboard. "Search for 'taxes,'" said the mayor. Ulrich clicked the keys. "Not found," reported the screen. "Try 'D.A.'s office,'" Ronni suggested. Ulrich typed it in. "Not found," the screen replied.

"Let me try 'D.A.' by itself," Ulrich said. He clicked the keys. The computer beeped and a screen of text rolled up. The five of them crowded in to read it.

Here are the results of your search:

"DEUCE - D.A. BACK-UP - 6/20/56 - DISK 1 OF 10"

"DEUCE - D.A. BACK-UP - 6/20/56 - DISK 2 OF 10"

"DEUCE - D.A. BACK-UP - 6/20/56 - DISK 3 OF 10"

"DEUCE - D.A. BACK-UP - 6/20/56 - DISK 4 OF 10"

"DEUCE - D.A. BACK-UP - 6/20/56 - DISK 5 OF 10"

"DEUCE - D.A. BACK-UP - 6/20/56 - DISK 6 OF 10"

"DEUCE - D.A. BACK-UP - 6/20/56 - DISK 7 OF 10"

"DEUCE - D.A. BACK-UP - 6/20/56 - DISK 8 OF 10"

"DEUCE - D.A. BACK-UP - 6/20/56 - DISK 9 OF 10"

"DEUCE - D.A. BACK-UP - 6/20/56 - DISK 10 OF 10"

"What does that mean?" asked Huron. He got no answer. Ulrich took a wireless out of his pocket and speed-dialed a number.

"Let me talk to Omar," Ulrich said into the wireless after a moment. There was a pause. "Omar," he said, "It's me. Have you heard of something called 'Deuce'? Yeah. What is it? Uh-huh. How's it work?" Ulrich gestured for a pen and paper. Ronni handed him her yellow pad. "Uh-huh," Ulrich said, scratching out a few notes as he listened. "Okay, Omar, you've done it again. Thanks." He pressed a button on the wireless and slipped it back into his pocket.

The others waited for Ulrich to speak, but he only sat in the chair looking thoughtful. Finally the mayor jumped in. "Well?" she demanded. "What is it?"

Ulrich smiled. "Deuce," he began in his silky tone, "is a high-powered back-up utility for large computer networks. It's used to make a complete copy of everything on the system, so in the event of a crash, everything can be put back exactly as it was. It copies everything. It ignores passwords, access codes, lock-outs, restrictions of any kind."

There was a pause. "How does that help us?" asked the district attorney.

Ulrich pointed at the computer screen. "Look how Julia Thomsen labeled these ten disks," he said. "'Deuce - D.A. BACK-UP - 6/20/56.' Somehow she got ahold of a system-wide back-up from June 20th. She and Braden must have found a way to convert the back-up disks into a readable form. Then they had their very own copy of every file in your whole office network."

"Good enough for me," said the D.A. "Let's pick her up."

"There's nothing you can do," Jordan pleaded. "It can't possibly help Julia if you get arrested, too."

"I'll rent a car," Ted said. "The Highway Patrol is looking for the Corvette."

"You need a photo ID to rent a car," Jordan answered.

"Even in Nevada?"

"Even in Nevada."

Ted slammed the pen he was holding down on the kitchen table, then quickly checked the table for damage. He pushed his chair back and turned away from Jordan. "I'm going," he said. "I got her into this and I can't just hide out while she goes to jail."

"She's got Dobson Howe, Ted."

"That didn't help Robert Rand."

Jordan was silent. When Ted turned back to look at her, he saw that her eyes were brimming with tears.

"I thought I meant something to you," she said quietly.

"You do!" Ted said emphatically. He reached for Jordan's hand and pulled her to her feet, wrapping his arms tightly around her body.

"Then don't go," Jordan whispered.

Tiffany walked into the living room to find Ted sitting on the sofa, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"I'm pond scum," he said.

Tiffany's eyebrows lifted slightly. She came straight over and sat down in a chair next to the sofa. Ted looked up. "Well," Tiffany said, "That's not something you hear every day. What happened?"

"A girl in L.A. got arrested," Ted said. "And it's my fault. I used her because I wanted to help Jordan. I asked her to do me a favor. And she did. And now she's been arrested for it."

"That must have been some favor," Tiffany said.

"I'm pond scum," Ted repeated. He plunged his head back down into his hands. "It's going to cost me my job if I go back," he said. "I told them the news reports were bogus and I was just called away on a family emergency. If I go back and turn myself in, they're not going to like it."

"Turn yourself in?" Tiffany said. "For what?"

"I don't know," Ted said. "But Julia wouldn't have been arrested unless somebody wanted to charge me with something. She only did what I asked her to do."

"Oh, my," Tiffany said. "What does Dobson Howe say about it?"

"He said he got her out on bail and I should stay in Nevada. But I can't just sit here and let her face charges. I can't do it."

"She's someone special to you, isn't she?"

"We've gone together for about five years," Ted said. "But it's not serious."

Just then, Jordan came flying down the stairs, stopped suddenly and turned a ferocious gaze on Ted. "Well?" she demanded.

Ted sat up and looked at her. "I have to go back," he said quietly. "I have to."

"I need some air," Jordan said. She stormed across the living room and out the front door.

Tiffany watched Jordan leave. Then she watched Ted plunge his head into his hands again. "Sounds serious," she said.

"I don't know if I'm doing the right thing," Ted said. "What if I go to L.A. and turn myself in and it doesn't even get Julia out of trouble? Maybe Jordan's right. Maybe I should stay here and wait to see what happens."

"You love her, don't you?"

"Who?"

"Jordan."

Ted looked up. Then he looked down again. "I'm crazy about her," he said.

"Do you love the other one?"

"We've been together so long," Ted said. "She loves me, she'd do anything for me. My daughter adores her. I don't know what to do."

Tiffany nodded. "You know, Ted," she began in a soft voice, "When I was younger I used to think, 'What if I had done this differently?' or 'What if I had done that differently?' I would agonize over every decision, so fearful that I'd make the wrong choice and regret it all the rest of my life." Ted sat up and looked at her. Tiffany smiled. "But, you know," she continued gently, "You get older, and you learn a lot. And eventually you realize that no matter what you decide, you're fucked."

Friday, July 21, 2056

The unmistakable thundering roar rattled the windows of the house. Ted dropped his newspaper and raced outside to the driveway. The rider killed the engine and stepped off the bike, removing his helmet. It was James Dixon.

"How's this?" James asked with a big smile.

"A new Harley!" Ted nearly shouted. Jordan walked up behind him. "What's that for?" she asked anxiously.

"It's for all those hours Ted sat in that office upstairs making recordings for me," James said. "When this is all over, I'm going to have a best-seller."

"That's not what I meant," Jordan said with forced pleasantness. "Why are you bringing Ted a motorcycle?"

"He said he needed to borrow a vehicle to get to L.A.," James answered cheerfully. "So I rented a Harley."

"A what?" All the noise had brought Tiffany out onto the driveway.

James pointed to the motorcycle. "A new Harley," he said. It was a fine-looking piece of machinery, finished in the new crystal chrome paint, glinting like a diamond ring off the finger of King Kong.

"It's beautiful," Tiffany said. "Jimmy, would you come inside and change a light bulb for me?"

"Sure, Grandma," he said. They walked inside together, leaving Jordan and Ted on the driveway. Jordan slipped an arm around Ted's waist. "Don't go," she said again.

Ted didn't answer.

Jordan ran her hand over the back half of the Harley's seat. "It'll take two," she said.

"No," Ted said firmly. "It's much too dangerous. You're the one they want."

"I don't care," Jordan said, tightening her grip around Ted's waist.

"I care," Ted said very quietly.

"What was that?" Jordan asked.

Ted looked at her. "I care," he repeated.

Jordan smiled radiantly and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him.

Ted had calculated that a 9:00 a.m. departure would miss most of the traffic at both ends of the trip. At 8:45, Jordan and Tiffany stood in the driveway, squinting slightly into the morning sun, watching Ted pack everything onto the bike.

"Please be careful," Jordan said. "Don't stop anywhere, just go straight to Dobson Howe's house. Everyone is legally obligated to turn you in except your lawyer."

Ted nodded. He walked up to Jordan and kissed her lightly on the mouth. "Don't worry," he growled. Then he kissed Tiffany on the hand and on the cheek. "You're an angel," he said. Tiffany smiled.

Ted got on the bike and fired up the engine. "Take care of her," he yelled to Tiffany.

"I will," she answered, putting an arm around Jordan's waist.

"I meant the Corvette," Ted said. Then he grinned and roared off.

The soft, burbling ring was the private line in Dobson Howe's office. Howe picked it up. "Yes?" he answered.

"Dobson," said the voice on the other end of the phone, "Carl Gonzales."

"Hello, Carl," Howe said warmly. "How are you?"

"Fine, just fine," Gonzales said. "Working a little too hard, not playing enough golf, but fine, just fine. How are you?"

"I'm well, thanks," Howe replied. "How are Katy and Maryna?"

"They're great, thanks for asking. Katy's in a school play tonight, I've got to try to get out of here early."

"Well, how can I help you today?"

"It's this Julia Thomsen case," said Gonzales. "You know we don't have to go to trial on this theft-of-information charge."

"I'm listening," Howe said.

"Plead to the misdemeanor, unauthorized access to confidential data, and we'll ask for a suspended sentence. No jail time, no fine."

"In exchange for?"

"Her cooperation."

"Meaning?"

"She gives us Ted Braden."

Dobson Howe picked up a pen and wrote a note on a leather-bound pad. "I'll certainly bring my client your offer, but I'll have to recommend strongly against it," he said.

"Aw, Dobson, help me out here," Gonzales said with exasperation. "She's a tool. You're not going to let her serve time for following orders, are you?"

"Carl, a guilty plea on unauthorized access to confidential data would end her career. Additionally, I have no knowledge that she was following anyone's orders, nor that she is in possession of any information that would incriminate Ted Braden."

"I'll take that chance," Gonzales said wryly. "If you don't want her to plead to unauthorized access, maybe there's something else. How do you feel about trespassing?"

"Same problem," Howe said.

"You're going to make me go to trial on this?"

"I'll bring her your offer."

Howe heard a sigh on the other end of the phone. "Okay, Dobson, let me know," Gonzales said. There was a click as he hung up.

Howe was still holding the handset when the intercom beeped. "Ted Braden on line two, Mr. Howe," said his assistant's voice.

"I'll take it," he said. He pressed the speakerphone button. "Hello, Ted," Howe boomed warmly, "How are things in Las Vegas?"

"I don't know," Ted answered. "I'm at your house."

"I hope you like Thai food," Howe said, placing a large brown paper bag on the kitchen table.

"I'm starving," Ted said. "Sounds great."

"You came straight here without stopping?"

"I stopped once for gas. But I kept my helmet on."

"And you paid cash?"

"Yes."

Howe sighed. "Helluva chance you took. Anyone who recognized you could have turned you in. There's a reward, you know."

"No!"

"Yes."

"It's not like I'm some dangerous criminal," Ted said, extending his arms in a gesture of bewilderment. "I mean, what did I do?"

"At the moment, my information leads me to believe they're leaning toward a charge of conspiracy to disrupt government operations."

"That sounds like terrorism."

"That's their view."

Ted was silent.

"Sit down," Howe said in a soft voice. He tore open the paper bag. "So," he said conversationally, "you met Mrs. Chang."

"Yes," Ted said. He smiled. "She let me in immediately. She said she recognized me from TV."

"Mrs. Chang's been with me for thirty years," Howe said. "She only works half-days now. It's lucky you got here before she left. You wouldn't have been able to get in."

Ted had seen that Howe's home was full of valuable possessions, but then, most older people locked their doors. "You have a housekeeper and you have to eat carry-out food?" he asked.

"Mrs. Chang hasn't cooked in years," Howe acknowledged. "It's better that way." He finished unpacking the cartons and containers. "Plates," he said. "Just a minute." He took two china plates from a cabinet and a handful of sterling flatware from a drawer and brought them to the table. Then he opened the refrigerator. "Let's see," he said in a low voice. "Iced coffee, water, orange juice, beer; if I remember correctly, you do drink, right?"

"Not as much as I should," Ted admitted.

Howe brought two imported beers to the table and set one down in front of Ted. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming back?" he asked.

"You'd have told me not to do it."

"Not necessarily."

"I couldn't let Julia twist in the.... What do you mean, not necessarily?"

"I had a conversation with the deputy D.A. today. They want to offer Julia a deal. She testifies against you and walks away. Or she faces trial on charges of theft of information and a possible thirty years in prison."

Ted grimaced. "Are those the only two choices?"

"Not necessarily." Howe served Ted some beef in oyster sauce. "Try this, it's outstanding," he said.

Ted pushed his fork listlessly in the direction of the food. "I can't let Julia go to prison for me," he said. "That's why I came back."

"Then you want her to take the deal?"

Ted looked up from his plate. He nodded.

Dobson Howe reached for the phone and handed it to Ted. "I've been telling her that all day and she won't listen to me," Howe said. "You try."

Ted dialed the number. "Julia!" he said, "It's me." Julia's tiny screams wafted over the table from the phone's small speaker. "I'm at Dobson Howe's house. We're just sitting here having some Chinese food..."

"Thai food," Howe interrupted.

"Thai food," Ted continued, "So why don't you come by and.... Yes....No....Yes....Uh, yes....Sure....Okay. Bye."

"What did she say?" Howe asked.

"She asked if I was really at your house, if I had lost my mind, if I was going to try to talk her into taking the plea bargain, if there was any Mee Krob left, and if we would save her some. She'll be right over."

Julia arrived at Dobson Howe's home in less than twenty minutes. "Oh, Ted," she said when he opened the front door. She threw her arms around his neck and squeezed against him. "I'm so happy you're back," she said. When she pulled away, he saw that her eyes were wet with tears. "Don't worry," he said soothingly, "Everything's gonna be fine."

"You must know something I don't know," Howe said dryly.

Monday, July 31, 2056

Julia's trial was another major media event, bigger than the Rand trial had been. A three-layer media encampment lined the street in front of the courthouse. At the back were two dozen satellite trucks parked bumper-to-bumper at the curb. A row of portable shade canopies was pressed up against the trucks, shielding news staffers and their computers from the July sun. In front was a near-endless line of knees and lenses, photographers and camera operators seated on risers, watching the courthouse doors for the daily arrivals and departures of the principal players. Jury selection commenced at 9:00 a.m.

In front of the NBC truck, Christina Ferragamo checked her blonde hair in a folding hand mirror and spritzed it thoroughly with hair spray. She tossed her head. Nothing moved. She put down the hair spray and adjusted a pale blue scarf around her neck, then turned and walked briskly to her set. Two chairs, six lights, some cable, two wireless microphones, three cameras, five security guards and two pay-offs had turned this section of the public sidewalk into Christina's exclusive studio. She had arranged a real ratings-grabber for the first day of the trial.

At twelve noon the court recessed for lunch. Christina was in position. A man wearing a headset threw her a cue.

"This is Christina Ferragamo reporting live from the Los Angeles County Courthouse," she began, "where the first trial resulting from the scandal in the Los Angeles District Attorney's office got underway today. We now know that some individuals working in the D.A.'s office fabricated and withheld evidence as needed to secure the convictions of fifteen innocent peopletwo of whom were executed for crimes they did not commit, executed just weeks or months before evidence came to light that would clear them.

"Interestingly," Christina continued, "the first person to go on trial in this scandal is not one of the wrongdoers, but one of the whistleblowers. Julia Thomsen is charged with theft of information for participating in a scheme to steal documents from the district attorney's office and leak them to the press.

"In a few moments, I'll be joined by defendants' rights activist Ted Braden. He'll share his thoughts on this trial and other matters of concern to all of us. We'll be right back, so stay where you are, you won't want to miss this."

"Clear," said the man in the headset.

Christina turned and looked over her right shoulder. She saw Ted standing against the truck. He was talking with Dobson Howe. "Ted," she called, motioning to him.

Ted walked over to her. "All ready?" he asked.

"I am," she answered. "Are you?"

"Yes," he said, seating himself in the chair across from her. It was uncomfortably upright to prevent slouching. The man in the headset clipped a microphone to Ted's jacket and stepped back again. "Thirty seconds," he said.

Christina adjusted her scarf. Then she leaned over and adjusted Ted's collar. "Thank you for doing this," she said. "I know you could have gone anywhere with this interview and I appreciate it that you called me. I hope I can return the favor someday."

"Maybe sooner than you think," Ted answered.

"Ten seconds," said the man in the headset. "Nine, eight, seven..."

Christina sat up straight and arranged her face in a serious, earnest, pleasant expression. The man in the headset cued her.

"I'm joined by defendants' rights activist Ted Braden." Christina gave him a shallow smile. "Thank you for being here today," she said. "What are your thoughts about this trial?"

"It's a sham," Ted said plainly.

"A sham?" asked Christina, with apparent surprise. "Why is that?"

"Because Julia Thomsen is covering for me," Ted said. "I'm the one who should be on trial. I copied the files. The only reason those disks were in Julia's house is because I asked her to get them out of my house. I thought my place might be searched. It never occurred to me that her place would be."

"Are you saying that the charges against Julia Thomsen should be dropped?"

"I'm saying exactly that. I plan to turn myself in immediately to face charges of theft of information from the district attorney's office. Julia Thomsen had nothing to do with it."

Christina's face oozed sympathy. "Why did you do it?" she asked.

"Because people need to know what their government is doing. They need to know when innocent people are framed and railroaded and wrongly convicted. That's why I leaked the information to the press."

"You leaked it to the press?"

"That's right. I copied the documents and then I leaked them to the media. And you can verify that personally."

Christina looked stricken.

"Those medical records that proved the LAPD had tortured Michael Dency, you got them from me, and you have my permission to say so on the air."

Christina hesitated. She stared at him, moving her glossed lips slightly but not quite able to form words. Then she nodded. "Yes," she lied, "You gave me that file."

"The hell he did."

Ted spun in his chair. The voice belonged to Jordan. She was standing next to a camera behind him. He saw Tiffany's car double-parked on the street, hazard lights flashing. Tiffany was standing in front of the passenger-side door, watching them.

Christina shrewdly guessed from Ted's reaction that the woman was no ordinary heckler. She waved off the security guard who was moving in Jordan's direction. "Get that woman a microphone," she said. Ted spun around in his chair again to face Christina. "She doesn't know what she's talking about," he said.

"What's your name?" Christina asked, when a sound engineer had reached the woman and clipped a microphone to her blouse. "I'm Jordan Rainsborough," she answered. Christina's contact lenses almost popped out of her eyes. "You're Jordan Rainsborough, the assistant district attorney?" she asked. "That's me," Jordan said. "I changed my hair."

Christina, poised and unflappable, called for another chair on the set. The director in the truck talked into her earpiece and told her to go to a commercial.

"We're going to stay right here," Christina told the live TV audience and the director simultaneously, "because I don't want you to have to wait even one minute to hear this. So bear with us, please, while we get another chair set up."

There was a fair amount of clunking around while chairs, lights and cameras were moved, but in less than twenty seconds Jordan was seated between Ted and Christina as if it had always been planned that way.

"So tell me, Ms. Rainsborough," Christina began, "Where have you been?"

"I've been in hiding," Jordan said. "I'd rather not say where."

"Of course," Christina oozed. "Why were you hiding?"

"I was hiding," Jordan said in a firm voice, "because I leaked documents to you and others in violation of the law. And I could face the rest of my life in prison for that."

"You leaked the documents?"

"Yes, I did. Mr. Braden had nothing to do with it."

"But he claims he leaked the documents."

"He's just trying to protect me," Jordan said. "You know as well as I do that I'm the one who gave you that medical report that proved Michael Dency was tortured by police."

Christina looked miserable. "I don't like to contradict my guests," she sighed.

Standing off to the side, Dobson Howe saw the flashing lights of the police car as it pulled up behind the NBC truck. He walked purposefully over to the driver's door and waited for the officer to open it.

"I'm Dobson Howe," he boomed. "I represent Ted Braden and Jordan Rainsborough. Are you here to take them into custody?"

"Yes, sir," the officer answered.

"I will surrender them tomorrow morning at 9:00 a.m.," Howe said. "Arrangements have already been made."

"All right, Mr. Howe," the officer said. "I'll just call it in and let them know I spoke to you."

"Thank you, officer." Howe turned and walked back toward the set. Christina was wrapping it up.

"And I think there's a warning in this for all of us," Christina said, "to guard our rights as if they might be taken away at any moment. Because under the law as it stands today, under the 37th Amendment, we could all be convicted of a crime we did not commit. It could happen to anybody. It makes you think, doesn't it? We're out of time, but I'd like to thank my special guest, Ted Braden, and my unexpected guest, Jordan Rainsborough, for being here today. We'll be back at 5:00 with more on this fast-developing case. Bye-bye."

"Clear," said the man in the headset.

"Jordan!" Christina said. "I didn't even recognize you."

"Everybody hates it," Jordan said, running her fingers through her near buzz-cut. "I'm going to let it grow again."

Dobson Howe walked up to them. "Things are proceeding exactly as planned," he said to Ted and Jordan. "The police were here. You're both under arrest. I told them I'd surrender you at 9:00 tomorrow morning. We'll get the charges dropped against Julia and then the two of you will go on trial starting sometime next week. I'm trying to get your friend Tiffany the reward money." He turned and waved to Tiffany, motioning her to come over.

"I couldn't believe it when you called me," Jordan told Howe. "At first I thought it was the craziest thing I'd ever heard."

Ted looked at her, then at Howe. "You called her?" he asked.

"Of course I called her," Howe said. "Did you think I was going to do this twice?"


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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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