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 Nine

Los Angeles, California. Monday, June 12, 2056

Mayor Taylor Martinez took off her linen jacket and threw it down on the tapestry armchair next to her desk. "Goddammit," she screamed. "Why now?"

Ronni Richards, the mayor's chief of staff, nodded sympathetically. Her volatile employer's incipient campaign for governor would have enough trouble meeting its fund-raising goals. A police scandal certainly was not going to improve the situation.

"Who gave her that report?" the mayor raged. "I want to know who leaked that report! That's a confidential document! Nobody has the right to see medical records!"

Chief of Police Wilson Price, cowering on the sofa, nodded. "Yes, ma'am, it's a felony to disclose a confidential medical record. Punishable by fifteen years in state prison."

"Goddammit!" the mayor repeated.

Chief Price shifted his bulky frame nervously. "We have taken steps," he said.

"I should hope to goddamn hell you've taken steps," the mayor shouted. "Who leaked that report?"

"Yes, ma'am, we've started confidential interviews at the, uh, at the hospital to see who had access to the information. We already talked to the doctor who wrote the report. We work with him all the time, there's never been a problem."

"And what about your department?" the mayor snarled. "Giving it a good once-over, are you?"

"Yes, ma'am, we're going to start an internal affairs investigation. But I don't think anyone in my department would..."

"You don't think?" the mayor screamed. "Think about this. Think about certain police department documents ending up in the hands of the Los Angeles Times. Think about certain cases going under the microscope. Think about how throwing your ass to the wolves may not save mine but you can damn well be sure it's the first thing I'm going to try!" Mayor Martinez sat down at her desk, still glaring at the police chief. "You had better make sure the employees of this city know the penalty for leaking confidential material," she seethed. "I want whoever did this. I want him in prison. I want to slam the door personally." She slammed her slender hand on the decorative blotter. "Goddammit!" she said again.

The room was quiet for a moment. Ronni Richards leaned forward. "Mayor, may I make a suggestion?" she asked.

"By all means," the mayor muttered.

"I know of a man who might be able to assist Chief Price in his investigation. He's done this kind of thing before for people in Washington."

Mayor Martinez looked interested.

Ronni continued. "He's very discreet. And he's able to investigate without the..." She searched for the right word. "Without the restrictions we have."

"Call him," said the mayor. "Get him on the phone right now."

Ronni nodded. She took a wireless out of her jacket pocket and looked up the number.

Gregory Ulrich was a balding, paunchy man of fifty-seven, about five-foot-ten, not someone who would attract much attention in swim trunks except that he was sunbathing on the gleaming wooden deck of his 120-foot yacht, cruising lazily off the Cayman Islands, with only a wireless phone and a numbered bank account connecting him to the world.

The phone rang.

Without opening his eyes, Ulrich felt around for the wireless and answered it.

"Gregory Ulrich," he growled.

"Mr. Ulrich," said a woman's voice, "this is Taylor Martinez in Los Angeles."

Ulrich propped himself up on one elbow. "Why, Mayor Martinez, how nice to hear from you," he said in a silky voice. "Or should I say Governor Martinez. I hear you've got a lock on the job."

"Well, I wouldn't say that," the mayor purred. "Locks can be picked, you know."

"Yes, I know," Ulrich answered.

"This is really just a social call, Mr. Ulrich," the mayor began, "Just to say hello. I have regards for you from a mutual friend. Nothing official at all."

"Please," said Ulrich, "Call me Gregory." He was picturing Taylor Martinez, a beautiful woman of about fifty-eight who had been a nationally-known cosmetics model until she married into a political family thirty years ago. The clueless Tom Martinez had been certain his stunning wife would be an asset to his political career. Now he was a former congressman and she was a future governor.

"Gregory," Taylor Martinez said smoothly. "I just wish I had someone of your talent here in Los Angeles. There's so much to do."

"Well, Mayor Martinez, that's really an amazing coincidence. As it happens, I may be in Los Angeles later this week."

"No. That is a coincidence."

"It certainly is."

"I wonder, Gregory, may I put my chief of staff on the phone? Perhaps you could arrange to, um...."

"Certainly, Mayor Martinez, I'd be delighted."

"Well, then, just a moment. So nice to talk with you, Gregory." The line clicked. A moment later another woman's voice was on the phone. "Mr. Ulrich, this is Ronni Richards, the mayor's chief of staff."

"Ms. Richards, the price is $3 million."

"Uh, but..."

"I think it's best if we don't discuss anything else on the phone. You wire me $3 million and I'll be there the next day."

"You want the whole thing in front?"

"Yes," Ulrich said flatly. "You won't believe this, but a lot of people who hire me eventually deny knowing me."

The Adams Club was still crowded when Dobson Howe arrived for lunch at 2:30. The maitre d' greeted him warmly. "Has Senator Quinn arrived yet?" Howe asked.

"Not yet, sir," the man responded, escorting Howe to his regular table. "I'll show him to your table as soon as he arrives." The maitre d' accepted a folded bill with a courteous nod.

Dobson Howe drummed his index finger against his water glass, the only visible sign of the nervous energy that was buzzing through him. Earlier in the day he had filled thirty pages of a legal pad with notes of people to call, appointments to make, and work to do. But it would all have to wait until he had informed Senator Quinn personally of his decision. The man deserved no less than that.

Senator Quinn arrived on crutches. "Dobson, how are you," he said in his ageless voice. Howe rose to assist him. "Not another skiing accident, I hope," Howe said. The former senator, eighty-five years old, had become something of a thrill-seeker in his later years.

"No, no," the senator growled. "Gave up skiing years ago. Knee replacements. The doctor says I'll be off these crutches in a month and back on the tennis courts."

Howe smiled.

"Good to see you, Dobson," the senator said. He settled comfortably into a chair.

"Good to see you, too," Howe answered. "It's been much too long."

The senator smiled. He was a charming Irish politician who had improbably been elected to five terms as California's U.S. senator on the votes of Hispanic Catholic women.

A waiter came by with menus. "Would you like something to drink, sir?" he asked the senator. "Bring me an iced mocha latte," Quinn said, "Low fat."

"Make that two," Howe said. The waiter nodded and disappeared.

"What a couple of dinosaurs we are, huh?" the senator said. "Well, I don't care. A couple of shots of espresso a day is probably what's kept me alive this long. No reason to change now."

"Well, Mr. Chairman," Howe said, paying tribute to the senator's many years as chairman of the Judiciary Committee, "Sometimes there is a reason to change."

"Oh?" the senator said. "You not feeling well?"

"No, no, I'm fine," Howe said. "I'm speaking more generally. For example, sometimes you see something that causes you to question changes that have been made. Something that makes you think it may be time for a change once again."

"My God," the senator said. "You're running for governor."

"No, no, no," Howe said firmly.

"Well, what then? It's a bit late to get into the presidential race."

"I'm going to attempt something much more difficult than that," Howe said.

The senator laughed.

Howe leaned forward in his chair and spoke in an intense, low voice. "I am going to lead a campaign to repeal the 37th Amendment," he said.

The senator's stammering response was interrupted by the waiter arriving with their drinks. "May I tell you about our specials today?" the waiter chirped politely.

"No," barked the senator.

"Yes, sir," the waiter said. He hurried away.

"Dobson, have you lost your mind?" Senator Quinn's gray-green eyes were blazing. "Do you remember what this country was like forty years ago? Gates on the streets? Iron bars on the windows? People buying handguns? You want to go back to that?"

"Did you follow the Maria Sanders murder case?" Howe asked. "Did you watch any of that trial?"

"Terrible thing," the senator said. "Terrible error. The family should receive a substantial settlement. But it doesn't justify the repeal of the 37th Amendment. You put the due process clauses back in the Constitution and it's a short walk back to federal control over every local policing decision in the country."

The waiter stood a slight distance from the table and bent forward at the waist. "Excuse me, gentlemen," he apologized, "Would you like to order lunch?"

Senator Quinn glared at Howe and handed the waiter his unopened menu. "Bring me the Szechuan Ahi," he said. "Rare. And the cucumber soup."

"Thank you, sir," the waiter said. Timidly he looked over at Dobson Howe. "Sir?" he asked.

"I'd like the New York steak, medium-rare," Howe said with a smile. "And a Caesar salad with extra cheese. A man should have a decent last meal before he's executed."

"Sir?" the waiter asked.

"Nothing," Howe said.

"Thank you, sir." The waiter took the leather-covered menu from Howe's outstretched hand and fled.

Howe looked at the senator and smiled pleasantly. "Then I take it you don't care for the idea?"

Senator Quinn scowled. "Why are you doing this, Dobson? You're just going to stir everybody up and cause a lot of grief for police departments across the country."

"Why do you say that?" Howe asked.

"Simple logic," the senator said. His voice was calm. "The only way to get a constitutional amendment passed is to rile up the public. Let's face it, you need two-thirds of the House and two-thirds of the Senate. It's easy enough to block it right there. And then you need three-quarters of the state legislatures to ratify it. There's only one way to do it. You proved that with the Equality Amendment. Grass-roots politics isn't enough. You have to set a prairie fire."

Howe was silent. It was a prairie fire, skillfully managed by Senator Quinn, that had gotten the 37th Amendment passed in the first place.

"So you have only one option. In order to generate public outrage, you'll have to dig for stories of wrongful convictions. You'll have to overlook all the dangerous criminals and predatory sleazebags who've rightfully been taken off the streets and hunt for those few cases across the country where something went wrong. And then you'll fan the flames until every American is terrified that he personally could find himself arrested, tried and executed for a crime he didn't commit."

"Every American should be terrified," Howe said quietly. "That's precisely what happened to Robert Rand."

"I have a lot of respect for you, Dobson," the senator said. "And I thank you for giving me this opportunity to talk you out of this."

The waiter arrived with their first courses, gingerly placed them on the table, and quickly departed.

"I felt you were owed the courtesy, Senator," Howe said, picking up his salad fork. "I didn't expect your support."

"You just remember Blackstone's fundamental rights," the senator continued. "Governments are established to protect life, liberty and property. You have a fundamental right to personal security. You have a fundamental right to move around freely from place to place. You have a fundamental right to own and enjoy your property. What good is it to protect those rights from the King of England if you give them up to the Crips of South-Central?"

Howe frowned. "Whatever happened to the idea that it was better for ten guilty men to go free than one innocent man to suffer?" he asked.

"Everything looks different," the senator answered, "when the ten guilty men live on your block."

Thursday, June 15, 2056

Ted was studying the latest copy revision from the Sony legal department when the phone on his desk rang.

"Ted Braden," he answered.

"Ted, Forrest Aldridge."

"Forrest," Ted said in his best charm-the-client tone. "Great to hear from you. How 'bout those Lakers, huh?"

Five minutes of chit-chat brought Aldridge to the point. He was unhappy with his current agency and quietly looking around to move his account. Ted pounced.

"I'd like to get right on this for you," Ted said. "How about if we discuss it over dinner tonight?"

Aldridge agreed instantly and Ted arranged to meet him at seven o'clock at Dresden in Beverly Hills. He was hanging up the phone when Rocki appeared at his desk, carrying a manila envelope.

"This is the research you wanted for O'Brien's soup," she said.

"Guess who that was," Ted grinned.

"Who?"

"Forrest Aldridge."

"Forrest Aldridge! The Steeldrift account?"

"Worldwide."

"Oh, my God!" Rocki said. "Is he putting it up for bids?"

"Maybe not, if I can sell him tonight."

"Oh, my God!" Rocki said again. "When are you going to meet with him?"

Ted looked at his watch. "In one hour," he said. His wireless rang. "Ted Braden," he answered brightly.

"Hi, Ted, it's Jordan Rainsborough. Did I catch you at a good time?"

Ted felt a surge at the sound of her voice. "Jordan!" he said. "It's a perfect time. How are you?"

Rocki was standing next to Ted's desk, carefully appearing not to listen.

"Fine," Jordan answered. Her voice sounded uncharacteristically tentative. "I was wondering, are you doing anything for dinner?"

"Tonight?" Ted asked.

"Would that be okay? I was hoping you could meet me at Ceretti's. I really need to talk to somebody."

"Um," Ted said. "Sure, absolutely. What time?"

"Six-thirty? Is that too early? I'm ready to leave the office now."

"Six-thirty it is," Ted said. "I'll meet you there." He hung up the phone. Rocki raised an eyebrow at him.

"I'll reschedule Aldridge for tomorrow," he said.

Jordan was seated at a table at the back of the restaurant when Ted arrived. She was wearing a linen suit in a delicate shade of cool green, so pale it was almost white, her long dark hair falling freely over her shoulders in shining waves. She was staring into the distance at nothing in particular, a glass of white wine sparkling in the candlelight in front of her and a mural of a street in Rome on the wall behind her. Ted stopped for a moment just to look. He thought a photograph of her sitting there could keep Italy's tourism business in the black for two generations.

Jordan looked up and saw him. "Hi," she said. "Thanks for meeting me."

"No problem," Ted said. He felt tongue-tied, like a teenager. He pulled out a chair and sat down.

"Would you care for anything to drink tonight, sir?" The waiter was poised next to the table. Ted told him to bring a bottle of whatever Jordan was drinking. The waiter disappeared again.

Jordan was fingering a fork, absently turning it over and over on the table.

"Is everything okay?" Ted asked.

Jordan nodded. "Fine," she said. "Well, actually..." The bus boy arrived with a basket of rolls and a crock of soft butter. Jordan fell silent.

Ted was starving but didn't want to seem insensitive. "What's wrong?" he asked.

Jordan stared into her wine glass. "Weird things have been happening at the office," she said. "I think somebody's been following me."

Ted remembered the first time he saw Jordan, and how he and the sheriff's deputies had watched her walk away from the elevator. It would be weird if somebody wasn't following her. "Really?" he asked.

Jordan nodded. "And people have been calling me at my desk and hanging up," she said. "As if someone wants to check to see if I'm there."

The waiter arrived and presented the wine with an irritating flourish. When he was gone, Jordan leaned forward. "And then something strange happened on my computer this afternoon," she said.

"I'm sure it's nothing," Ted said reassuringly. He wondered why he had said that. He had no idea if it was nothing. "What happened?" he asked.

"Well, I tried to open my private files, the ones that aren't on the main network, the ones that contain confidential material that's not available to anyone else on the system. And it wouldn't let me. It said 'Access Denied: File may be in use.' What does that mean?"

Ted frowned. "Did you try it again later?" he asked. He reached for a roll.

"Yes," Jordan said, "and it worked fine. Everything was normal."

"Was anything missing?"

"I don't think so. What does it mean?"

"Well, I'm no expert," Ted said, "But I think it means someone was reading your files."

Jordan knocked over her wine glass. She jumped up before the Viognier could reach the edge of the table and drip onto her lap. Two bus boys rushed over with towels. The waiter was right behind them.

"Oh, I am so sorry," Jordan said, dabbing at the table with her napkin. A moment later the flurry of activity had ceased and Jordan was again seated, a fresh glass of wine on the table in front of her. When she looked at Ted, he saw open fear in her eyes.

"What is it, Jordan?" he asked. "What's going on?"

Jordan pushed her glass to one side and leaned forward. "I could go to prison for fifteen years," she said.

Ted dropped his butter knife, sending it clattering against his bread plate and off the edge of the table.

The waiter looked over. Jordan smiled pleasantly at him and waved to indicate everything was fine.

Now Ted leaned forward. "What are you talking about?" he asked.

"I leaked Michael Dency's medical report to Christina Ferragamo," she whispered. "There's a whole task force sweeping the city to find out who did it. And somebody's been reading my files."

Ted stared at her in confusion. "What?" he asked finally.

Jordan put her head in her hands. "I leaked Michael Dency's medical report. The suspect who was arrested after the second murder." Jordan sat up again and took a deep breath. "Michael Dency had just confessed to that murder and the Maria Sanders murder," she said quietly. "One of the police officers involved in the arrest came to see me. He had a file of papers with him, the police still do everything on paper. I asked him about the confession and it seemed like his answers wereI don't know what it was, something just didn't seem quite right about it." Jordan's face was pale. "Well, at one point the officer left to go to the bathroom and I decided to look through that folder of papers. And that's when I saw the medical report. God, it was so clear. It was so clear what had happened. He confessed to two murders but not until the police had beaten him nearly to death. I was sick." She swallowed hard.

"All right, Jordan, calm down," Ted said. He reached both arms across the table and took her hands. They were warm. "How could anybody possibly trace that to you?" he asked. "Did you just make one copy of it for Christina Ferragamo?"

Jordan nodded. "I scanned it into my computer," she said. "I put it in my confidential files folder, where it wouldn't be accessible to the rest of the network. Then later I printed one copy for Christina, and then I deleted it from the computer."

Ted squeezed her hands. "Well, if you deleted it, it's not there for anyone to find on your computer, is it?"

"I don't think so," Jordan said. "Not unless they can read deleted files."

"Probably not," Ted said uncertainly. "When you sent the copy to Christina Ferragamo, did you create a cover letter?"

"I hand-wrote the cover letter," Jordan said.

"Then you have nothing to worry about," Ted said. There was that oddly reassuring tone again, as if she were locked in a tower and he had arrived to slay the dragon guarding it. "If there really is a task force sweeping the city to find out who leaked the medical report, they may have looked at everybody's computers. That doesn't mean they found anything."

Jordan's wireless rang. She jumped in her chair.

The wireless rang a second time, then a third. Jordan took it out of her pocket and looked at it warily.

"Go ahead, answer it," Ted said.

Jordan clicked the button. "Jordan Rainsborough," she said in her businesslike tone.

"Ms. Rainsborough, how are you this evening?" Ted could hear the unmistakable boom of Dobson Howe all the way across the table.

"Hello, Mr. Howe," she said, "I'm just fine, thanks. How are you?"

"Quite well, thank you. I wonder if I might impose on a moment of your time."

"Well, certainly, Mr. Howe," she said. "How can I be of assistance?"

Howe cleared his throat. "It's a somewhat delicate matter," he said, "Something I'd rather not discuss over the telephone. Perhaps we could meet tomorrow at my office."

"I'd rather not come to your office." Jordan's voice sounded nervous.

"I understand," Howe said. He suggested a Mexican restaurant about five miles from the courthouse complex. Jordan agreed, and they set the meeting for 6:00 p.m. She pressed a button on the wireless and slipped it back in her pocket.

"What was that about?" Ted asked.

"He wants to discuss a delicate matter with me."

"Oh," Ted said.

"I think I ought to stay on good terms with defense lawyers," Jordan said.

The bar at Ricardo's was crowded and noisy. A dozen television monitors were all tuned to a basketball game. Jordan glanced around the bar, did not see Howe, and walked over to a young man standing behind a brightly-painted podium.

"Excuse me," she said. The young man looked up at Jordan and his jaw dropped. Jordan smiled at him, her eyes twinkling. He looked barely twenty years old and he was staring at her as if she were standing naked in front of him.

"Sure," she said mischievously, "You think that, but you won't call."

The young man was speechless.

"I'm meeting someone here," Jordan said. "Have you seated a Mr. Howe?"

The young man struggled to take his eyes off Jordan and look at the reservation book open in front of him. "Yes," he said. "Right this way."

He led her through two rooms and into a third, where Dobson Howe was seated in a corner booth, studying a menu. Howe stood up when he saw her.

"Ms. Rainsborough, thank you for coming," he said quietly.

Jordan shook his hand. "Certainly," she said. She slid into the booth, which was too soft and too low. Seated there across from that imposing figure, she felt seven years old.

Howe filled time with polite small talk until they had ordered dinner. Then he got down to it.

"I have it on good authority," Howe said in a low voice, "that you are not as happy as you might be over at the D.A.'s office."

Jordan was startled. She placed her glass of iced lemon grass tea back on the table. "What?" she asked.

"Since the Robert Rand trial," Howe continued, "word has reached me that you have been upset, quite rightfully, with the outcomes of some of these cases."

Jordan studied Howe's face. Did he know about the Dency medical report? Was he blackmailing her? She considered asking him straight out who had been talking about her and thought better of it. Carefully, she picked up her glass and took a sip.

"Ms. Rainsborough," he said kindly, "I know the difficult situation in which you find yourself. You are not alone. I am going to lead an effort to return sanity to our legal system."

Jordan said nothing.

Howe continued. "It is my belief that a well-orchestrated campaign of public information will persuade the electorate that the 37th Amendment must be repealed. This is no longer a matter for law review articles and judicial conferences. It must reach the public. This will involve daily press briefings and an intensive schedule of media interviews."

Jordan looked at him in disbelief. "Mr. Howe, I can't give interviews about my employer."

"No, no, no," Howe said. "I will give the interviews."

Jordan leaned back and was silent.

"I assure you," Howe continued. "I am not asking for your public endorsement. I am not asking for your public participation in any way." He paused. She waited. He watched her face. "I am seeking information," he said finally.

"Information," she repeated. "What kind of information?"

Howe leaned forward and spoke in a very quiet voice. "The kind of information that moves public opinion," he said. "The names of people whom you know to have been wrongly convicted. People with family members who will go on television and draw instant public sympathy."

"Just names?" Jordan asked.

Howe smiled. "Well," he said, "Perhaps a bit more. There is a credibility issue to address. Family members would be expected to declare the innocence of their loved ones. They won't be persuasive unless they are supported by documentary evidence."

Jordan was silent.

"Ms. Rainsborough, the integrity of the criminal justice system is at stake here. We cannot continue to convict people of crimes they did not commit and tell ourselves it's the price of a civilized society."

Jordan sipped her tea. "What are you asking me to do, exactly?"

"I'm asking you to take a significant risk. I know that. I wouldn't ask this of you if I thought there was another way." He paused. "I need proof," he said. "I know there are people you believe to have been wrongly arrested, prosecuted and convicted. I believe you can acquire the documents that prove it. I need your help to get this information out to the public."

Jordan looked straight at Howe, her clear blue eyes unblinking. "That would be a felony, Mr. Howe," she said firmly. "I'm afraid I can't help you."

Ted was in line at the drive-through of his favorite burger place when his wireless rang. "Yeah?" he answered.

"I want to scramble this call, okay?" It was Jordan. Ted keyed a series of numbers into his wireless and after a moment it responded with a long beep. "Thanks," Jordan said. "You're not going to believe this. Dobson Howe wants me to pull documents out of the files and leak them to him."

A horn sounded behind Ted and he inched the car forward. "Do you think he's heard something?" he asked.

"I don't know," Jordan answered. "He didn't mention the Dency medical report. But he said he heard I wasn't happy with the way the D.A.'s office was handling some of these cases."

"Sounds like somebody knows something."

"Oh, Ted! What if they know it was me? I could go to prison for fifteen years!"

"They can't possibly know it was you," Ted said.

His tone seemed to calm Jordan. "You're right," she said. "I know you're right. That leak can't be traced to me. Even if they check my computer for records of all the documents I accessed, they won't find any trace of anything about that medical report."

Somewhere inside Ted's brain, a light went on.

"May I take your order?" A scratchy voice came spitting out of a red speaker on a post as Ted reached the drive-through's menu board. "Give me a number three and a chocolate shake," he said automatically.

"What?" Jordan asked.

"Nothing, I'm ordering dinner."

"What?" the scratchy voice asked.

"Nothing, that's it." Ted pulled forward. "Jordan, are you there?"

"Yes, I'm here.

"So he wanted you to leak documents to him?"

"Yes. He said he wants to lead a campaign to repeal the 37th Amendment and he needs documentary evidence of wrongful convictions."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him I couldn't do it and I got out of there as fast as I could. I just pray no one saw me with him."

Ted shoved some cash at the employee behind the drive-through window. "Why?" he asked.

"Because he's trying to bring back due process," Jordan said. "I wish I could help him but it would be career suicide for an assistant district attorney to be connected with that. Assuming I haven't already committed career suicide by going to prison."

"Jordan, you're not going to prison," Ted said. "Give me a day and I'll have the answer for you."

"The answer to what?" she asked.

"Give me a day," Ted repeated. He clicked the phone off and sped out of the drive-through, where a confused young woman was waving a paper bag out the window and yelling after him.

Thirty minutes later, dressed for an evening out and carrying two dozen red roses, Ted rang the doorbell at Julia's house.

He was on his knees when she opened the door. "I know you can never forgive me," he said. "Have dinner with me anyway."

Ted was smiling at Julia as the waiter brought two crab cake appetizers and gracefully set them down on the table. "Mmm, that looks wonderful," Julia said.

"No, you look wonderful," Ted answered.

Julia looked up in surprise. "Thank you," she said. Then she resumed her story about the malfunctioning cash register at the mall.

Ted smiled and nodded. At least the crab cakes were good, he thought, and why not, at a price that could have included one-way airfare from Maine.

They were halfway through their entrees when Julia's chatter subsided. "So," she asked, "How are things at work?"

"Oh, fine, fine," Ted said. "In fact, we were discussing something today that's right up your alley. We were trying to figure out if it's possible to copy documents from a secure network without leaving any kind of a record that you've done it."

"Oh, there's always a way," Julia said.

"Really?" Ted asked, "Even when there are a lot of different security measures and passwords and all that?"

Julia smiled. "Have you ever seen a magic act?" she asked. "Did you ever see a magician climb into a box, and then see the assistants close it, and wrap it in chains, and put big steel padlocks on it? How could anyone escape, right? I mean, you see the chains, and they're real, and you see the locks, and they're real. How can the magician possibly escape? Well, guess what? All the chains and locks in the world don't matter if the magician isn't in the box."

Ted was listening intently.

"Every organization has to be prepared in case of a catastrophic data loss," Julia explained. "All the data must be backed up every night. And of course, there should always be a second back-up that's stored off the premises in case of a fire or a natural disaster. Because if everything's in the same location, the same disaster that destroys your computer system would also destroy your back-up."

Ted's eyes were lit up.

"So if somebody wanted to steal documents from an organization, the easiest way is to steal them from the off-premises back-up. I mean, it's not easy, and it's totally illegal, but it can be done."

"But what about the passwords and the security features?" Ted asked.

"Back-up software copies everything," Julia said. "It ignores passwords and all the rest of it. The whole idea of a back-up is to restore absolutely everything that was on the system before the loss."

"That's amazing," Ted said. "Where do they do this kind of thing?"

"The back-ups?" Julia asked. "There's one place in Camarillo that's very big, and another one in Ojai. There are probably five companies that do this. We've used them all at one time or another."

"Okay," Ted said. "Enough about work. Flynn's at her mom's tonight. Let's go back to my place."

Julia beamed at him. "Okay," she said.

Julia's creamy skin was flushed with color as Ted idly ran his left hand over her breasts. She was stretched out on her back on the rug in front of the fireplace. Ted, lying on his right side, had the full length of his body pressed up against her. Their discarded clothes formed a trail that led from the living room all the way upstairs to the front door.

Ted moved his hand gently down over Julia's flat stomach, then down the inside of her thigh, then slowly up. Julia moaned as Ted rocked his hand slowly back and forth, slipping a finger gently upward. Through the windows, the lights of Hollywood sparkled like a spilled load of diamonds.

Ted thought about the back-up software. If the D.A.'s office had an off-premises back-up, Julia would be able to find out where it was. Then the question was, could it be copied without anyone knowing about it. It would be a risk.

Julia extended her arms and grasped Ted around his ribcage. He felt himself pulled down on top of her. "Not yet," he said. He rose to his knees and straddled her legs. Then, leaning forward, he ran his hands over her breasts, down her sides, over her hips and down her thighs to her knees. Then he leaned forward and did it again. "Aaaah," Julia agonized. She tried to catch his hands and pull him down on top of her. Ted caught Julia's wrists instead and pinned them playfully to the floor above her shoulders. Then he leaned down and kissed her neck, biting gently until he heard her moan.

There must be a way, Ted thought, to get a copy of the back-up software and pull the critical documents out of it. Even if a password were required, Jordan had a password. She had all the same IDs that the software was programmed to recognize. Suppose the passwords were changed on the D.A.'s system. An old back-up would still recognize an old password. The question was, how complicated a job would it be to find documents on those back-up disks?

Julia had apparently freed one of her hands because he felt himself in her grasp. Her hand moved up and down, then tightened and gently pulled him toward her. He followed without resisting, pressing against her for a slow moment and then gliding inside. A tiny sigh escaped her. Then he was pounding against her and her whole body was rocking under the force.

Jordan would know where to look for the documents, he thought. She would be able to print them from the back-up disks and give them to Dobson Howe, and her computer at the office would show no trace of any of it. Any investigators watching her network traffic would have to conclude that Jordan was completely innocent.

Ted heard himself make a growling, gasping sound which was almost drowned out by Julia's near-scream. Then they both fell back, drained and glinting with sweat. Julia's breasts were rising and falling with her breathing. "I love you," she said. Ted covered her mouth with his and kissed her.

Tuesday, June 20, 2056

Ted was struggling to get to the office by 8:00 a.m. so he could have an hour to work before everyone else descended on him with their problems.

His doorbell rang.

"Coming!" He was buttoning his shirt as he raced up the stairs to open the door. Julia was standing there, looking amazingly bright-eyed for seven o'clock in the morning. She held up an aluminum briefcase. "Your order, sir," she said with a big smile.

"Really? You got it? Already?"

"It's all in here," Julia said. "This morning's 3:00 a.m. back-up. Easy, breezy."

"Come in, come in," Ted said. He took her by the hand and led her down the stairs to the dining room. "Lemme see," he said anxiously.

Julia clicked the latches on her briefcase and opened it. Ted saw two stacks of half-inch-thick disks, each labeled in Julia's precise, tiny handwriting. "That's amazing," Ted said. "Now I just put these in my computer and I can get anything I want from the D.A.'s files?"

"No," Julia said.

"No?" Ted repeated.

"No," Julia said again. "Got any coffee?"

Two cups of coffee made Ted more awake, but not more clear-headed. Julia began again.

"Ted. Try to focus. These disks are copies of a back-up. You know what a back-up is, right?"

Ted nodded. "It's what you have to have to recover from a crash."

"That's right," Julia said. "It's a snapshot of your data that you can use to restore your system if something happens to it. Fire. Theft. Software upgrade. Anything that would cause you to lose everything. A back-up will allow you put it all back exactly the way it was. Okay?"

Ted nodded.

"Okay. There are many different kinds of back-ups. The D.A.'s office uses a really old system. Government offices are always twenty years behind everybody else."

"They're thirty years ahead of me," Ted groused.

"Well, it's a good thing you have me," Julia said. She took the disks out of her briefcase and stacked them on the table.

"How does the entire thing fit on ten disks?" Ted asked.

"It's compressed data," Julia said. "It's totally worthless unless you uncompress it. And even then, you can't access it without all the necessary passwords and ID codes."

"Well, then, how do you read it?"

"You have to restore it to the computer."

"But what good is that?" Ted said miserably, "If we could use the D.A.'s computers we wouldn't have had to do this in the first place."

"Uh, uh, uh," Julia said with a teasing smile. "You don't necessarily have to restore it to the same computer from which you backed it up."

Ted nodded. "Huh?" he asked.

Julia smiled at him. "Tell me, Ted," she said coyly, "What's the limit on your credit cards?"


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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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