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 Thirteen

Monday, August 7, 2056

The helicopter had barely touched down on the roof of Chick Hearn Arena when the door on the right side flung open and a dark-haired man stepped out, angry and showing it.

A younger man in his early twenties, well-dressed and wearing a headset telephone, rushed up to meet him. "I'm so sorry, Mr. McCarthy," the young man said. "The overcrowding at LAX is so terrible, we tried everything but they wouldn't give us permission for your jet to land there. I hope the chopper flight from Oxnard was comfortable."

"Why didn't you tell them who it was for?"

"Uh..." The young man hesitated, as if considering which potential answer was least likely to end his career.

Clark McCarthy glared at him. "Where's the car?" he snapped.

"This way, sir." The young man led the way to an elevator and punched the button several times. "Everything's all set up and waiting for you, sir," he jabbered.

McCarthy ignored him.

Clark McCarthy hated to travel. It was why he had jumped at the chance fifteen years ago to give up reporting and host a live interview show in New York. Sure, it was fluffy and lightweight, but if he was going to have to spend half his life on a plane and the other half waist-deep in foul-smelling carnage to win a Pulitzer, well, the Emmy Awards had prettier girls anyway.

So Clark McCarthy was more than annoyed when the chairman called him personally to break the news that every live show on the network would be relocating to Los Angeles to cover the trial of Ted Braden and Jordan Rainsborough.

"I'm already sick of them," McCarthy told the chairman. "Ted and Jordan. Jordan and Ted. Their giant of a lawyer. The unfairness of it all. The injustice of the 37th Amendment. They're overexposed and the trial hasn't even begun."

The chairman sighed. "I know, Clark, I know," he said soothingly. "But if we're not there, the air is going to be filled with the sound of zap-zap-zap as people change channels to a network that's covering it. It's like a fire. It's not any different than a hundred fires they've seen before, but they want to see it anyway."

"I don't think you have to worry about my ratings," McCarthy said.

"No, no, no," the chairman said quickly. "You're the apex, Clark, there's nobody who can touch you. That's why we want you to be there, in the lead. You're our signature. Your presence tells viewers they're watching something important."

"Hmph," McCarthy grunted.

"Do it for me, Clark," the chairman said. "I know you hate remotes. I know it's a damned nuisance. But we'll back you up a hundred percent, whatever you need, you'll have it."

And the next thing he knew, Clark McCarthy was on the chairman's private jet to Los Angeles, except that chronic overcrowding in the skies over Los Angeles had caused the jet to be diverted to the Oxnard Airport, eighty miles from the South-Central L.A. location where he was supposed to be interviewing Mayor Taylor Martinez about Ted and Jordan, Jordan and Ted, he was so sick of them both.

The young production assistant in the headset opened the door of the silver limousine that was waiting in the drop-off zone in front of the arena. McCarthy climbed inside and settled comfortably into the black leather seat, frowning when he saw the melon and prosciutto platter and the chilled bottle of Italian white wine that were set into a fold-down tray, along with two packages of white Oreo cookies and six bottles of diet creme soda. "So this is my dressing room," he grumbled.

The production assistant came around the passenger side of the car and slid into the front seat next to the driver. "Florence and Normandie," he said.

The heat from three portable 1K lights on stands had raised the temperature in Dobson Howe's living room to a toasty eighty-five degrees. Howe sat in the middle of the room on one of his uncomfortable, low-backed kitchen chairs, because TV directors liked an attractive background and his wing chair would have blocked the view of the living room behind him. A thin white cable ran from the small camera on the tripod in front of Howe to the notebook computer set up on a rolling cart nearby. A cable from the computer was plugged into the wall jack. Dobson Howe was in his third hour of live interviews with local newscasts across the country.

In the kitchen, Ted, Tiffany and Jordan watched Mrs. Chang use a steak knife to slice through the tape on a carton that had just been delivered. "Your photos," she announced. "Mr. Howe has been waiting for these."

"Photos?" Ted asked.

Mrs. Chang took a handful of fine-point black markers from a pen holder on the countertop. Then she opened both doors of the oversized double oven. Jammed inside were eight cardboard boxes overflowing with mail. "Autograph," she said.

The mayor's campaign team had advanced the event with their usual finesse. They had invented an excuse for a street fair, closing the busy intersection of Florence and Normandie to traffic and creating a one-day pedestrian mall. Small children holding balloons clung to their parents' hands, filling the streets with the perfect background for the small stage where Mayor Taylor Martinez was announcing her new Raise the Roof education initiative.

"Minimum standards are not enough for California's children," the mayor shouted. "We should be setting maximum goals, rewarding high achievement, challenging our kids to reach up, to go far, to exceed their dreams. Let's raise the roof!" The crowd applauded. "Our schools can be turned around," the mayor continued. "Today we stand on a site that was once the hopeless capital of rage and despair in Los Angeles. Well, look around you. Families, businesses, jobs. It just takes leadership." The crowd cheered generously.

Half a block away, Clark McCarthy was interviewing an elderly man in a Lakers jacket. "So tell me," McCarthy said with apparent warmth and sincerity, "What's your reaction to the unfair prosecutions and wrongful convictions that have been coming to light in this city?"

The elderly man leaned toward the microphone. "Well," he began, "I'm eighty-seven years old. I'm old enough to remember what it used to be like in this neighborhood. You couldn't even walk around here. All along the street, places were boarded up. People forget how South-Central used to be."

"But what about the wrongful convictions?"

"Gunfire all the time," the man continued. "Couldn't even walk around here."

"Thank you very much for speaking with us today," McCarthy said with well-hidden impatience. He shook the man's hand warmly, patted him on the shoulder and turned to the producer who was standing next to the camera. "That's enough of that," he said in a low voice. "Aren't there any younger, more attractive people we can talk to?"

Mrs. Chang put a cup of tea in front of Dobson Howe.

"Thank you very much," Howe said. Five hours of interviews had slightly lessened the boom of his voice.

"It's after six," Tiffany said. "Anyone for pizza?"

"That's a great idea," Jordan said. "Let's have it delivered."

"No, no," Howe intoned. "You and Ted go and pick it up. Give the photographers outside another shot."

Mayor Taylor Martinez smiled radiantly when she saw Clark McCarthy. "Clark!" she said, "So good to see you again!"

"Mayor Martinez," McCarthy said graciously, his eyes twinkling. He was a strikingly handsome man when he turned on the charm.

"I'll be ready in just a moment, I just want to go into the trailer and fix my make-up before we start. Is that all right?" She smiled disarmingly.

"Of course," McCarthy said. "We're not on the air for forty-five minutes."

"That's perfect," the mayor cooed. "Why don't you come with me and we'll chat."

McCarthy took her arm and escorted her down the steps of the small stage and over to the luxury RV that the mayor's staff had rented for the day. It was comfortably outfitted with sofas, tables and a fully-stocked refrigerator. Four staffers inside excused themselves and headed to a coffee bar across the street when McCarthy and the mayor arrived.

"So," McCarthy said when he and the mayor were settled in with cold drinks, "Things have been a little rough for you lately."

"Not at all," the mayor said. "We stay very positive, very focused on our issues, and we don't get distracted or sidetracked."

McCarthy nodded sympathetically. "Still," he said, "You have your hands full with those media hounds. I'm in this business a long time, I've never seen anybody orchestrate a campaign of self-aggrandizement as well as Dobson Howe has done it. You would think he was running for something."

The mayor shook her head. "I don't think that's it," she said. "I did at first. But there's no indication he's running for anything, or even thinking of running."

"No?" McCarthy said. "What do you think he's up to?"

"Off the record?" the mayor asked.

"Certainly."

"I think it's ego," the mayor said. "There's no limit to what that man will do to get on television."

"Much as I hate to break this up," Dobson Howe said to the group seated around his kitchen table, "Opening arguments start tomorrow and two of you still have to drive home."

Tiffany, looking pale and tired, pushed her chair back. "And it's a long walk to the guest room," she said. "Good night, everybody."

"No, you stay right there," Howe said gently. "You and I have some unfinished business." Startled, Tiffany sat down again. Howe turned his gaze on Jordan. "Now, young lady," he said, "You are not to sneak out of the side door of your building tomorrow morning."

Jordan looked like she'd been caught shoplifting.

"I want you to go right out the front doors where the cameras are. It's important," Howe said.

"But why?" Jordan protested.

"Because the clip of you leaving your apartment in the morning leads the news every night."

"They can use a shot of me from their file."

"Not good enough," Howe boomed across the table. "They're going to need new footage every day. The better the pictures, the more airtime they'll give the story. Didn't you study communications in school?"

"Yes," Jordan said with the slightest trace of a whine. She glared at Ted.

"It's not my fault," Ted said defensively. He looked over at Howe. "I can't help it if her walk makes the ratings go up."

The mayor had just finished reapplying a bronze-red lip color when there was a knock on the door of the trailer. Clark McCarthy stood up and tucked his shirt into his pants.

"Mr. McCarthy, we're ready for you on the set, sir," said a voice on the other side of the door.

"We're coming right now," McCarthy called out.

Mayor Martinez giggled.

Jordan and Ted left, leaving Tiffany alone at the kitchen table with Dobson Howe. Howe leaned back in his chair. "All right," he said. "Let's have it."

"Hmm?" Tiffany asked. "Let's have what?"

"I assume you want to tell me that I'm wrong to want to repeal the 37th Amendment," Howe said.

"Mm-hmm." Tiffany's voice held no enthusiasm.

Howe frowned. "Have I said anything to offend you?" he asked. "It seems that since you set foot in this house you've been upset about something."

Tiffany looked up and met Howe's gaze. The intensity of it surprised her. Unconsciously she straightened her hair with her fingers. "I'm sorry," she said. "It's nothing you've said, you've been wonderful. It was so gracious of you to invite me to stay here through the trial. It's just..." She hesitated. "It's difficult for me to be here again, in this neighborhood. Even though you can't recognize the place. It's been forty-five, no, fifty years." She shook her head. "Hard to believe when you look around here that you're just ten minutes away from downtown. These beautiful homes, and all the trees. How long have you lived here?"

"Twenty years."

"And I'll bet you're the original owner of this house," Tiffany said.

"Yes, I am," Howe said. "Do you have friends who live around here?"

"No," Tiffany said. "My husband used to work in this area."

"Is that right?" Howe said politely. "What kind of work did he do?"

"He was a cop," Tiffany said. "He was shot to death not three blocks from here."

Tuesday, August 8, 2056

Carl Gonzales stepped to the lectern. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said to the jury, "This is a very simple case." The jurors watched him attentively. "It may appear," he continued, "that something enormously involved has happened here. But that's just not true. This is a simple case of a law being broken. That's all."

Gonzales picked up a remote control device and pressed two buttons. A graphic appeared on wide-screen monitors in the courtroom. It read, "The Confidentiality of Records Act of 2012."

"This law," Gonzales continued, "was enacted to protect your privacy. In the era when records were kept on physical pieces of paper, this law wasn't necessary. In order to get your private records, a person had to get inside a locked file room, something that was very difficult to do and very easy to discover. But today, your records are kept electronically. And we all know how fast and easy it is to copy an electronic file and send it halfway around the world and back. What protection do you have? You have the integrity of the people who handle this sensitive information. And you have something else."

He clicked the remote control. The new graphic read, "It shall be unlawful to disclose, copy or distribute confidential records except as specifically allowed or required by law. The penalty for such disclosure, copying or distribution shall be not less than fifteen and not more than twenty-five years in prison and a fine not to exceed $500,000."

"You have the law," Gonzales said.

The jury looked solemnly at the monitors.

"You have the assurance," Gonzales continued, "that when someone in a position of trust violates your privacy, that person will pay a high price. A price high enough to discourage, to strongly discourage, any intrusion into your confidential records."

Dobson Howe made a note.

"What happened here," Gonzales said, "is this: Ted Braden and Jordan Rainsborough conspired to copy all the confidential records in the district attorney's files. All of them. They got every document on every case, even the sealed files of juvenile defendants, even the home addresses of protected witnesses. They got everything. Then they looked for cases in which mistakes were made. Now the mistakes were very serious, there's no question about that. But ask yourself: do you want anyone, anyone, for any reason, to go searching through your confidential records? They're just asking you to trust them? No, that's not correct, is it? They're not asking at all."

Gonzales sat down.

Judge Martina Bernard wrote something down on a pad. "Mr. Howe?" she said.

Dobson Howe stood up slowly and walked with great deliberation to the lectern. He fixed a demanding stare on the jury. "I think you know," he said quietly in a voice like distant thunder, "that this has nothing to do with privacy. This case is about justice." He extended his arm and pointed to Ted and Jordan, seated together at the defense table. "Who are these people?" Howe continued. "They are not a pair of common snoops, looking for gossip to sell to the tabloids. Who is Ted Braden? He's a man who saw a terrible injustice and tried to stop it. He saw an innocent man convicted and executed for a murder he did not commit. He dedicated himself to clearing that man's name. That man was Robert Rand. Today, thanks largely to the personal efforts of Ted Braden, we all know that Robert Rand was an innocent man. And while that is not justice, it is truth."

Howe pointed to Jordan. "And who is Jordan Rainsborough? She's a woman who saw innocent people wrongly convicted and tried to do something about it. She's an assistant district attorney, bound by law to release any person who has been arrested without sufficient cause. She's the next-to-last line of defense protecting innocent people from wrongful imprisonment. But she is not the last line of defense. You are."

Dobson Howe rested one hand on the lectern and looked intensely at the jurors. "You will decide who is innocent and should go free," he said, "and who is guilty and should be punished."

Howe sat down.

The judge made a note. "Mr. Gonzales," she said, "Call your first witness."

"Thank you, your honor," Gonzales said. "The people call Christina Ferragamo."

Heads turned in the courtroom as the door opened and the celebrity reporter made her entrance. A cloud of expensive perfume trailed behind her. She took the witness stand and was sworn in.

"Please state your name for the record," Gonzales said.

"Christina Ferragamo," she answered. "Would you like me to spell it?"

"I'm sure that's not necessary," Gonzales said. "Ms. Ferragamo, do you recognize this document?" He handed three stapled pages to the bailiff, who walked the papers over to the witness stand. Christina flipped through them. "Yes," she said. "This is the report on the medical condition of Michael Dency after he was taken into custody and questioned by the police."

Gonzales nodded to the judge. "I believe the defense will stipulate," he said, "that this is in fact the medical report on Michael Dency, and that the document has been authenticated."

The judge made a note. "Mr. Howe?" she asked.

Howe stood up. "So stipulated, your honor," he said.

Judge Bernard turned to the jury. "Ladies and gentlemen," she began, "A stipulation is an agreement between the two sides about a fact in question. When you hear that the attorneys have stipulated to a fact, that means you are to accept it as true insofar as it pertains to this case. Mr. Gonzales?"

"Thank you, your honor," Gonzales resumed. "Ms. Ferragamo, when did you first see this document?"

Christina glanced at the pages in her hand. "When Jordan Rainsborough gave it to me in June," she said.

Gonzales made a note. "Your honor," he said, "I believe the defense will stipulate that Ms. Rainsborough did in fact give that document to Ms. Ferragamo on June 9, 2056."

"Mr. Howe?" the judge asked.

"So stipulated, your honor," Howe boomed.

Ted watched the judge make a note. He felt a flutter of sickness in the pit of his stomach. He looked over at Jordan. She was pale.

Reporters and cameras were waiting when Dobson Howe's driver pulled the car up in front of his office building. Howe, sitting in front, peered through the window at the crowd. "A very good turnout," he said. "But we won't take any questions right now. We have too much work to do upstairs. Everything must be handled with precision in court tomorrow or the consequences could be quite grave." He opened the door. A din of shouted questions flooded into the quiet interior of the Bentley. Howe got out of the car. "No questions at this time," he said, and closed the door, leaving Ted and Jordan in the quiet again.

"Ready?" Ted asked. Jordan leaned forward and looked past Ted to the crowd on the sidewalk. "I guess," she said. Ted opened the door and stepped out, turning to assist Jordan. Cameras flashed and voices in the crowd shouted indecipherable questions. "Step out of the way, Ted," Howe said, leaning close to Ted's ear. "Let them get their shot." Ted stepped to the side and cameras flashed again as Jordan's long legs emerged from the car. The night before, the short skirt of her business suit had led two national news shows.

"Jordan! Over here!" a photographer shouted.

"Mr. Howe, are your clients going to confess on the stand tomorrow?"

"Did you know Christina Ferragamo was going to testify?"

"Ladies and gentlemen, please," Howe said, holding up his hands. "I'll just make a brief statement because we have a lot of work to do to prepare for tomorrow's testimony. Today you saw the prosecution's case against my clients. We do not dispute their version of the facts. Tomorrow we will present our defense. We are confident that the jury will, in the end, make the right decision."

"Are you arguing for jury nullification?" a reporter shouted, "Are you saying the jury should acquit because the law is wrong?"

"As I said today in court," Howe answered, "This case is about justice." He swept his arm expansively behind Jordan and Ted and ushered them into the building.

Ted helped himself to Howe's Scotch. "I think it went well today," Howe said, settling into the leather chair behind his desk.

"Well, yes," Ted answered. "We stip-u-lated," he sounded out the word like a gradeschooler, "that all the charges are true."

"No point in dragging out the trial," Howe responded. "You want the networks to stay with the live coverage."

Jordan, standing at the window, turned around to look at Howe. "I hope you know what you're doing," she said in a voice that sounded both casual and vaguely threatening.

Howe caught the tone. "Do you think I don't?" he asked sharply.

Jordan turned away again. "I think every cause needs its martyrs," she said.

Ted said nothing.

Howe stood up. "Get out, both of you," he ordered.

Ted and Jordan looked at him. "But what about preparing the testimony?" Ted asked.

"Get out," Howe repeated. "I'll see you in court tomorrow."

It was nearly seven o'clock when the cab dropped them back at Ted's house. Royce's car was parked in the driveway. "Royce is here," Ted told Jordan. "I've been wanting you to meet Flynn's mom. You'll like her." He paid the driver and they walked into the house.

"Hello?" Ted called as they walked down the stairs to the living room. "Anybody home?"

"Daddy!" Flynn came running to greet him.

"Hi, Ted," Royce called.

"Hi, Ted." It was Julia, from the living room.

"Uh-oh," Ted murmured. Jordan, ahead of him on the stairs, turned and looked up at him quizzically.

"Hi, Jordan," Flynn said politely as she pushed past her to get to Ted. She threw her arms around her father's waist and buried her face in his chest. "Hi, Daddy," she said. Her voice sounded thick.

"Hi, baby," Ted said. He wrapped his arms around her reassuringly.

"Hey, Flynn, my turn," Julia said. She was standing at the bottom of the stairs, smiling up at him with tears in her eyes. Jordan smiled awkwardly and stopped on the staircase midway between Ted and Julia.

Julia, tired of waiting, skipped up the stairs past Jordan to wrap her arms around both Flynn and Ted. "I didn't see your car outside," Ted said.

"It's in the garage," Julia answered.

"Oh," Ted said. He found that very irritating.

"I'm so worried," Julia said. "It didn't seem to go very well today." Ted felt Flynn trembling.

"Everything will be fine," Ted insisted. He hugged Flynn tighter. "There's nothing to worry about."

"I love you so much," Julia said. "I couldn't stand it if anything happened to you." Ted closed his eyes. It helped a little, though he could still see the image of Jordan's stunned face through his closed eyelids. He heard her footsteps going down the stairs and opened his eyes again. "Jordan," he called. "Wait. Let me introduce you to everybody."

"That would be nice," Jordan said coolly.

"Why don't we all go into the living room," Ted suggested. He grasped Flynn's hand for protection. Julia reached for his other hand and held onto it with more force than necessary. They walked awkwardly down the narrow staircase.

Royce was sitting on the couch in the living room, wearing a sexy summer halter top and a floor-length skirt with a deep slit in front. She was leaning back, her legs crossed, and she appeared to be enjoying the unexpected show immensely.

"Jordan, this is Royce Eliot-Lee," Ted said.

"Nice to meet you," Royce said with a smile.

"Nice to meet you, too," Jordan smiled back.

Ted winced inwardly. "And this is Julia Thomsen," he said. "You've heard me talk about her."

"All the time," Jordan said sweetly.

"I'm so glad to hear that," Julia said, still grasping Ted's hand. "The way the papers are always talking about the two of you, even I started to wonder."

"Well, you have nothing to worry about," Jordan said. "Anyone could see that you two are in love."

Ted closed his eyes again. "Anyone want something to drink?" he asked.

"I was just going to make some iced tea when I heard you come in," Julia said. "I'll go and do it now." She headed up the stairs to the kitchen.

"So that's the ex-girlfriend," Jordan murmured. "When were you intending to tell her?"

"Look, it's Dobson Howe," Royce said, pointing at the TV.

Howe was on the news, talking about the need to repeal the 37th Amendment. Then the screen was filled with the latest poll numbers. For the first time, more than fifty percent of Americans nationwide were in favor of repeal.

"It's your legs," Ted told Jordan. "Nobody wants to see them locked up."

"Always happy to help out," Jordan said. Her voice was chilly.

Ted took Jordan's hand and led her to an extra-wide armchair where they could both sit down. "I was going to tell her after the trial," he said.

Royce cleared her throat. Julia was standing at the foot of the stairs, watching them.

"Tell me what?" Julia said.

Ted jumped to his feet.

Julia had tears in her eyes. "It's all true, isn't it?" she asked. "You two are secretly engaged."

"No!" Ted and Jordan said together. Ted looked over at Jordan, a little surprised by her vehemence.

Julia was holding a pitcher of iced tea. "Flynn?" she asked. "Would you take this please? I just remembered I have an appointment." Flynn got up from the floor in front of the TV and took the pitcher from her. "Thank you," Julia said, her voice barely a squeak. Then she turned and raced up the two flights of stairs to the front door. They all heard it slam.

Ted's glance went from the staircase to Jordan and back to the staircase again. "Julia, wait," he called, racing up the stairs after her. The door slammed again.

An awkward silence filled the living room.

"Well, I guess I'd better call a cab," Jordan said. "Early day tomorrow."

"You may call your first witness, Mr. Howe."

"Thank you, your honor. The defense calls Ms. Jordan Rainsborough."

Jordan stood up at the defense table. With a nervous look at Ted, who tried to smile encouragingly, she walked to the witness stand.

"Do you swear that the testimony you are about to give is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help you God?" asked the clerk.

"I do," Jordan said. Dobson Howe stepped to the lectern.

"Ms. Rainsborough," he said, "Why did you give a copy of Michael Dency's medical report to Christina Ferragamo?"

Jordan sat rigidly. "Because I believed the police had tortured Mr. Dency in order to obtain a confession from him," she answered.

"And did you distribute confidential documents on other cases?"

"Yes, I did."

"Why?"

Jordan looked at her lawyer. "Because you asked me to leak them to you," she said.

The judge dropped her pen.

"No further questions at this time," said Howe. "Reserve the right to recall this witness."

"I think we'll take a short recess," said the judge. "I'll see counsel in my chambers."

"I don't care who you are," Judge Bernard said in a steely voice, "You are not going to use my courtroom for media stunts to promote your own political agenda."

"Your honor, that is not the case. You have my word." Dobson Howe's deep voice could not conceal a note of alarm.

"Did I just hear your client say that you recruited her into a criminal conspiracy to distribute confidential records?" the judge demanded.

Howe didn't answer.

"Mr. Howe, have you concealed material facts from this court?"

Howe was silent.

The judge glared at him. "You might want to think about getting a lawyer yourself," she said. "I expect that I will be referring this matter to the State Bar's Committee on Professional Responsibility." She spun on her heel and stormed over to her desk, her black robe flying behind her. "It would appear that an attempt has been made to commit a fraud on this court for the purpose of staging political theater," she said, her voice snapping with anger. "Does anyone here know of a reason that I shouldn't declare a mistrial in this case?" No one answered her. The judge picked up a pen. "Everybody out," she said.

Friday, August 11, 2056

Ronni Richards sat in a chair opposite the mayor's desk with a two-inch-thick file folder resting on her lap. "This is the summary," she said, handing the mayor a single sheet of paper.

Mayor Martinez placed the paper on the desk in front of her and stared down at it for a full minute. "What am I going to do?" she asked quietly.

Ronni Richards paused until she was sure the question was directed at her. When the mayor looked up, Ronni shrugged slightly. "You'll have to reverse your position," she said. "You'll have to come out against re-trying Ted Braden and Jordan Rainsborough."

"Law-and-Order Mayor Flip-Flops," the mayor said, moving her hand across the headline of an imaginary newspaper.

"Mayor Martinez Has A Heart," Ronni suggested.

"You'll have to do better than that," the mayor said glumly.

"Mayor Calls for JusticeVows to Clean House," Ronni tried.

"Better," said the mayor.

"There's really no choice here, Mayor." Ronni opened the file folder and leafed through the pages. "Sixty-eight percent of likely voters think Ted Braden and Jordan Rainsborough were right to expose wrongful convictions, even if it meant breaking the law. That's nationally. In California, it's seventy-one percent."

The mayor looked down at the sheet of paper in front of her. "Ted Braden's approval rating is seventy-eight percent," the mayor said. "Jordan Rainsborough's approval rating, eighty-three percent. Eighty-three percent! Maybe I should cut my hair."

"Only twelve percent of Californians think there should be a re-trial," Ronni noted. "You've simply got to get this behind you. You have to support dropping the charges."

The door of the office swung open and District Attorney Thomas J. Huron walked in. "There's no way I'm going to re-try Jordan Rainsborough and Ted Braden," he said firmly. "No way."

"So I see," the mayor answered.

"I know we have the evidence to put them away for life. But I'm not sacrificing my career to do it. No re-trial. No way."

"Sit down, Tom. No one wants a re-trial. Show him the poll numbers, Ronni."

Ronni Richards picked up the one-page summary from the mayor's desk and handed it to the D.A. The index finger of his right hand traced down the margin of the page as he read. "Fifty-seven percent of California voters favor repeal of the 37th Amendment," he said in wonder. "Where did that come from?"

"Is that registered voters?" the mayor asked, "Or likely voters?"

"Likely voters," Huron said.

"What do you think?" the mayor asked. "Maybe they're right. Maybe it's a good idea to repeal the 37th Amendment."

"No," Huron said. "The restrictions that would put on law enforcement, the way it would hamstring prosecutors, you'd probably never be able to convict anybody of anything ever again. It's insane to even think about bringing back due process."

"I'm going to support it," the mayor said.

"You're going to support repeal?" Huron said incredulously. "You're coming out for repeal?"

"Why not?" the mayor answered in a shrill voice. "Why do I have to be against something that fifty-seven percent of likely California voters are in favor of? What have I done to deserve that?"

"Taylor," Huron said calmly, "I owe you my political career. But if you come out for repealing the 37th Amendment, I can't support you."

"If you don't support me," the mayor said, "you may find that your fund-raising operation is forced to rely on bake sales."

Huron frowned. "Think it through, Taylor," he said. "If the crime rates go back to what they were, it's going to destroy the tax base of the city. Businesses are going to leave, property is going to fall in value. You won't have the money for transportation projects, for police, for anything."

"That's years away," the mayor said, waving her hand. "It will be somebody else's problem by then." She looked over at Ronni Richards, her eyes gleaming. "Call the Sunday talk shows," she instructed. "Tell them we're planning a major announcement and I'll be available for interviews."


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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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