This all struck Ted as very odd. However, a drink sounded like an awfully good idea. “Yes, thanks,” he said.
“Ice? Soda?”
“Just ice, thanks.”
Ted heard the clink of ice cubes hitting crystal. He sank into a leather sofa that faced a postcard view of Los Angeles at sunset.
The walls of Dobson Howe’s office were covered with photographs attesting to a long and distinguished career. There was Howe at age twenty addressing a meeting of black conservative students at Dartmouth; Howe as a middle-aged professor at Stanford; Howe shaking hands with President Rogan in the Oval Office; Howe accepting an award for his biography of James Madison. Above the desk, two wide gold frames were set apart from the other pictures. On the left was a photo of Dobson Howe, then twenty-nine years old, receiving a certificate from the leaders of Congress on the steps of the Capitol. On the right was the certificate, containing the text of what became part of the United States Constitution on the day it was ratified by the state of New York, December 1, 2008: “Equality of rights under the law shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any State on account of race, color or gender.”
Ted stood up and walked behind the desk for a closer look. The Constitution had been amended many times but he’d never before met anyone who’d actually had a hand in it. Vaguely he remembered from school that the Equality Amendment was considered unnecessary and mean-spirited, although looking at the wording of it now he couldn’t recall why it had caused such a ferocious fight.
Howe was beside him, handing him a glass. He smiled when he saw Ted reading the Amendment. “That was before you were born, I suspect,” he said.
“Not quite,” Ted said. “But I was just trying to remember what it was about this amendment that had everyone so worked up.”
“It ended affirmative action,” Howe said.
Ted squinted.
“Racial preferences in hiring and admissions. Minority set-asides in government contracts. You’re too young to remember.”
Ted smiled. It was the youngest he’d felt in a while. “You’re right,” he said, “I don’t remember.”
“Of course, that was only a side effect,” Howe said. “Ending affirmative action was not a primary goal of the campaign for the Equality Amendment. The primary goal was to complete the unfinished work of the Fourteenth Amendment.”
Ted sank back into the leather sofa and took a sip of Scotch. “I’m certainly too young to remember that,” he said.
Howe smiled. “I don’t want to bore you with history,” he said.
“No, no,” Ted said. “I’m interested. What was the Fourteenth Amendment?”
“It was passed after the Civil War in part to establish that black people who were born or naturalized in the U.S. were citizens, that they were entitled to all the privileges and immunities of citizens of the United States. It forced the states to give everyone, former slaves included, a guarantee of due process of law and the equal protection of the laws,” Howe said.
Ted nodded. “What wasn’t complete about it?” he asked.
“It didn’t guarantee equality of civil rights,” Howe said. “It didn’t ban racial discrimination. It didn’t strike down segregation.”
Ted heard Jackson behind him at the bar, ice cubes hitting crystal. “Dobson, you ready for another one?” he asked.
“Not yet, thanks,” Howe answered.
“But there was no segregation in 2008,” Ted said.
“No,” Howe agreed. “Segregation had been made unconstitutional by a series of Supreme Court decisions, starting in 1954 with Brown v. Board of Education. However, it had not been made unconstitutional by a constitutional amendment.”
Ted was confused. “What’s the difference?” he asked.
“The difference,” Howe said, “is that a decision of the Supreme Court can be overturned by the decision of a future Supreme Court. And that makes every vacancy on the Court a crisis for those who live by the grace of the last ruling. A constitutional amendment, on the other hand, cannot be reversed simply because five of the nine justices think the time has arrived to reverse it.”
John Morley Jackson sat down on a leather chair next to the sofa. “Well,” he said, “Shall we get down to business?”
“By all means,” Howe said.
“Okay,” Jackson said to Ted, “This won’t take very long.”
Ted sipped his Scotch. It was excellent. “No rush,” he said.
Jackson shook his head. “Not this meeting,” he said. “This trial. It won’t take long. Jury selection is Tuesday. They’ll probably have a conviction by Thursday. He’d be dead on a gurney by Friday noon except that Congress stepped in and halted all California executions.”
“For the moment,” Howe said.
“For the moment,” Jackson nodded.
Ted looked from Howe to Jackson and back to Howe again. He was glad they were not his lawyers.
Jackson leaned back in a casual manner but his eyes studied Ted’s face. “Do you know Rob very well?” he asked.
“I don’t know him at all,” Ted said. “I sit behind him at the Laker games. He gave me his card once and I just happened to call last night because....” He stopped. It seemed like bad taste to mention the gambling debt of a guy on his way to the death chamber.
“Because you noticed he wasn’t there?” the lawyer asked.
“Yes.”
“That’s what Emily said.” Jackson made a note. “Ms. Rand was very grateful that you called. She didn’t know where to begin finding people who might have seen Rob at that game, time being so short and all.”
“Can’t you ask the court for more time?”
“Oh, sure, you can ask,” Jackson said with a humorless chuckle. “Now, Mr. Braden, Maria Sanders was murdered at 7:15 p.m. on February 21st. The Lakers-Matterhorns game began that night at 7:30 p.m. At that hour, in the traffic, it would take at least twenty-five minutes to drive from the scene of the murder to the Chick Hearn Arena, and that’s without stopping to change clothes or anything else. If Robert Rand was in his seat at the tip-off there is no possibility he could be guilty of the crime with which he is charged. Do you remember specifically whether you were there at the start of the game?”
“Yes, I was,” Ted said confidently. Carl Gonzales had arranged for a wireless connection to his calendar at the office. He had spent hours after the pizza boxes were cleared away reconstructing his movements on February 21st. His sister had been visiting from San Francisco and he had taken his ten-year-old nephew Henry to the game. He remembered that there had been plenty of empty spaces in his favorite parking lot because they had gotten there early.
“Do you remember specifically,” the lawyer continued, “whether Mr. Rand was in his seat when you arrived?”
“He was not,” Ted said. “We were there early and my nephew Henry commented that he hoped nobody tall sat in front of him. A little while later, Rob came and sat down in front of Henry. Nobody was sitting in front of me, so Henry and I switched seats so he could see better.”
“Did anyone come later and sit in that empty seat?” Jackson asked.
“No, I don’t think so,” Ted said. “I remember that Henry really enjoyed watching the game. I don’t think anybody sat in front of him the whole night.”
Jackson nodded. “Rob went to the game alone that night. Unfortunately, the friend who was to join him canceled at the last moment. Very unfortunately, as it turns out.”
Ted heard the skritch of the fountain pen on the legal pad. “So you and Henry switched seats when Rob arrived. Was this before the game started?” Jackson asked.
“Yes,” Ted said firmly. “Because as we stood up to switch seats, all the lights went off for the player introductions and it was almost totally dark. You know, they use all these lighting effects to bring out the home team.”
“Yes,” Jackson said. “Thank you, Mr. Braden. You’ve been very helpful. We’ll need you to be available at the courthouse on Wednesday and Th
ursday to testify. Bring something to read because we may not get to you until Thursday afternoon.”
“So they’ve arrested the wrong guy?” Ted said, rising from the couch.
“It would appear so,” Jackson answered.
“And you’re going to get him off?”
“That remains to be seen.” Jackson stood up. “The D.A.’s office has a fairly strong case. There’s an eyewitness to the crime. She’s identified Mr. Rand as the killer.”
CHAPTER 4
Wednesday, May 17, 2056
Emily Rand sat motionless as she listened to the witness describe the murder scene.
“And there were these steel pipes on the ground,” the woman was saying, “About three feet long, maybe two inches in diameter. They looked like they were for some sort of railing. Right in the corner of the parking lot.”
Merritt Logan turned a page in his notebook and rested his hand on the podium. “What were you doing at the time, Ms. Clybourne?”
“It’s Mrs. Clybourne,” the witness said icily.
“I’m sorry. Mrs. Clybourne.” Logan smiled apologetically.
“I’m proud to be married. I don’t agree with this idea today that no one gets married anymore.”
John Morley Jackson, seated at the defense table between Robert Rand and Dobson Howe, wrote something on his legal pad.
Logan tried again. “What were you doing in the parking lot, Mrs. Clybourne?”
Mrs. Clybourne leaned in to the microphone and spoke loudly, as if she were ordering lunch at a drive-through window. “I was backing out of a parking space,” she said.
“And what did you see?”
“I saw a man bending over the pile of pipes.”
“You saw this in your rear-view mirror?”
“Well,” Mrs. Clybourne adjusted her scarf. “At first I saw him through the side window in the back seat but then I pulled forward and headed away from him. That’s when I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw him stand up with one of these steel pipes in his hand.”
“And then what happened?”
“I had to drive around the parking lot and come back in order to go out of the driveway where the stoplight was. I had to make a left turn. And when I came around I heard a woman scream.”
Merritt Logan scribbled something in his notebook. “Mrs. Clybourne, how old are you, ma’am?”
“I’m sixty-seven.”
“Do you wear glasses?”
Mrs. Clybourne looked insulted. “Only for reading,” she said. “I can see distances fine.”
“Would you recognize the man you saw in that parking lot?”
“Yes, I certainly would.”
“Do you see him in this courtroom?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Can you point him out?”
Mrs. Clybourne pointed a pale blue acrylic fingernail directly at Robert Rand. “That’s him,” she said.
Logan closed his notebook. “For the record, the witness has identified the defendant, Robert Rand,” he said. “No more questions.”
Emily looked over at Rob, thin and drawn after a sleepless week in the county jail awaiting trial. There had been no bail, not for the man the mayor called a vicious predator, a savage barbarian and an irredeemable monster. He looked shrunken in his dark blue suit, his skin a colorless gray, his eyes rimmed with black circles.
John Morley Jackson picked up his notes and stepped to the lectern.
“How do you do, Mrs. Clybourne,” Jackson said warmly. “My name is John Morley Jackson and I represent Mr. Robert Rand.” He smiled. Mrs. Clybourne nodded stiffly.
“Let me ask you, Mrs. Clybourne,” Jackson began, “The man you saw was bending over a pile of steel pipes on the ground?”
“That’s right,” Mrs. Clybourne said into the microphone.
“So his head was down.” Jackson leaned forward to illustrate.
Mrs. Clybourne hesitated. “I could see him,” she said. She shifted slightly in her chair.
Jackson rubbed a finger thoughtfully against his chin. “What time of day was this, ma’am?” he asked.
“About seven o’clock.”
“Seven a.m. or seven p.m.?”
“Seven p.m.”
“And this was in February. It gets dark pretty early in February. Was it dark outside?”
“There are lights in the parking lot,” Mrs. Clybourne huffed.
“I see,” Jackson said agreeably. “So he was facing down, and you were backing your car out of a parking space. You saw him through the car’s back-seat side window.”
“Yes.”
“Are the windows of your car tinted, ma’am?”
Mrs. Clybourne looked at him quizzically. “They’re just regular,” she said.
“What year and make of car is it?”
“A 2052 BMW.”
“And it has the standard windows that came on the car?”
“Yes.”
“You know the government requires all automobile back-seat windows to have a UV-blocking tint to protect the passengers, especially children, from the sun, which can cause skin cancer.”
“Yes.”
“So your windows are tinted.”
“Yes, I guess they are.” Mrs. Clybourne was becoming impatient.
“So you saw a man with his head down, in the dark, through a tinted window, while you were backing your car out of a parking space. Were you moving fast?”
“No, I was very careful. It was a tight space.”
“Would you say you were concentrating on backing up?”
“Certainly,” Mrs. Clybourne said.
“So your attention wasn’t focused on the man you saw.”
Mrs. Clybourne’s eyes narrowed. “I know what I saw,” she said.
“And when you pulled forward and you saw the man in your rear-view mirror, you were further away from him than you had been before, is that right?”
“I was driving away from him, yes,” Mrs. Clybourne snapped.
“One more thing,” Jackson said, glancing down at his notes. “You mentioned that you don’t approve of couples who don’t get married. Are you aware that Rob and Emily Rand are not legally married?”
“Objection,” Merritt Logan fired out, “Relevance.”
“Your honor,” Jackson said innocently, “The right to impeach the credibility of a witness with evidence of prejudice is a foundation of the Anglo-American legal tradition.”
“Your honor, Mrs. Clybourne could not possibly have known Mr. Rand’s marital status at the time she identified him for police,” Logan countered.
The judge looked uncomfortable. “Objection sustained,” he said. “Let’s move on.”
“No more questions, your honor,” Jackson said. He returned to the defense table.
“Redirect?” the judge asked Logan.
Logan stepped to the podium without his notebook. “Mrs. Clybourne,” he said, “Would you say you got a good look at the man with the steel pipe in his hand?”
“Absolutely,” the witness said quickly. “I recognized him the moment I saw him in the line-up. I have no doubt at all.”
“Thank you,” Logan said, stepping back.
John Morley Jackson stood up at the defense table. “Mrs. Clybourne,” he said clearly, “Are you aware that my client is an actor?”
“I didn’t know it before this trial,” Mrs. Clybourne said.
“But you do know that Mr. Rand is an actor, and that he sometimes appears on television shows and in commercials.”
“Yes.”
“Is it possible that you recognized his face, not from the parking lot, but from seeing him on television?”
“Absolutely not,” Mrs. Clybourne said in a frosty tone. “I never watch television.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Clybourne.” Jackson sat down again.
The judge made a note. “The witness may step down,” he said.
Emily leaned back against the wooden bench and closed her eyes. For an instant, it was all gone, and she was back w
ith Rob and the kids at home, making chunky peanut butter sandwiches and negotiating over which movie to watch.
“Your honor,” the voice of Merritt Logan brought Emily back with a start, “The people call Bara Salvacion.”
Emily heard the clack-thap-clack-thap sound of high-heeled slides on the tile floor behind her. A young woman walked past her down the aisle and toward the witness stand. Emily had been right about the shoes. They were five-inch heels attached to a single band of black leather across the instep. Pencil-thin legs in nude stockings connected the shoes to a narrow body in a black elastic dress.
Bara Salvacion stepped up to the witness stand and turned around. The sight of her neckline drew an approving, if involuntary, sound from a male voice somewhere in the courtroom.
The witness was sworn in and immediately Merritt Logan was at the lectern, notebook open in front of him. “Would you state your name and spell it for the record, please?” he asked.
Bara Salvacion leaned forward toward the microphone and did so.
“Thank you,” Logan said. “Ms. Salvacion, are you acquainted with the defendant, Robert Rand?”
“Yes, I am.”
“And how do you know Mr. Rand?”
“He used to come over to my apartment two or three times a week.”
“What is the first date that he visited your apartment?”
“I don’t remember the exact date. It was in the fall. Last fall. September or October.”
“Do you remember the last date on which he visited your apartment?”
“Yes, I do. It was the day before he was arrested.”
“That was Wednesday, May 10th, of this year, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Why did Mr. Rand visit your apartment?”
“So we could.... We were having an affair.”
“An affair.” Merritt Logan paused and looked at the woman with a visible trace of skepticism. He liked to get all the bad news out early. “He would come over to your apartment and you would have sex, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Did Mr. Rand ever give you money?”
“Yes, but I am not a prostitute.”
“I see, so you would have sex, and sometimes he would give you money, but the money was not for the sex. Is that right?”
The 37th Amendment: A Novel Page 5