The 37th Amendment: A Novel

by Shelley, Susan

  “Stay there,” Ted said. Nadia, Pearl and Flynn were so excited over their first trip to Las Vegas they had barely needed the plane.

  They made their way to the baggage claim area and the girls watched old videos of hotels imploding while Ted waited for the bags. Flynn pulled Ted over to see the old Excalibur blow up. Memphis, the hotel where they were staying, was built on that site.

  Thankfully, Memphis was a short cab ride from the airport, and they were at the hotel before the cab driver could finish telling Flynn and her friends a story about Elvis in Las Vegas which was more than 12-year-olds really needed to know.

  The cab pulled into a long curving driveway lined with sycamores that must have been seventy feet tall, interspersed with weeping willow trees that were only slightly smaller. They were as lush and green as if the desert climate had issued an exemption for seedlings from the home of Elvis Presley.

  The exterior of the hotel was an oversized replica of Graceland, a massive Southern mansion distinguished by four enormous white columns in front. Dark green-painted shutters framed four tall windows on the first floor and smaller windows above, all warmly lit from the inside to make the faux house appear occupied. Behind the white columns was a huge wooden door, easily thirty feet high, surrounded by white-painted trim and stained glass panels. The bottom third of the door was the real entrance, sliding open on invisible tracks to allow guests easy access to the casino and closing seamlessly behind them again.

  Ted and the girls walked into the hotel, a bizarre enterprise that was part plantation mansion, part riverboat, and part Ed Sullivan show. Immediately a bellman dressed in a 1950s-era plaid jacket rushed up to Ted. “Would you like me to hold your bags for you while you check in, sir?” he asked with a beaming smile. Ted traded some cash for a luggage check, remembering to grab his briefcase before the cart rolled away. The girls were already on the move.

  “Hold it,” Ted yelled to them. He managed to keep them close until he had checked in and given each of them a room key, strict instructions to stay out of the casinos, and an 11:00 p.m. curfew. When he turned them loose they raced away from the check-in desk, running down the carpeted walkway toward a 20-foot likeness of Elvis Presley dressed in black leather.

  “It’s the ‘68 comeback outfit,” said the clerk behind the desk. “Girls can’t resist it.”

  “They’re too young for Las Vegas,” Ted said.

  “Jailbait Rock,” said the clerk with a big grin.

  Ted glared at him.

  “We have security guards and cameras everywhere,” the clerk said reassuringly.

  Ted picked up his briefcase and started for the elevators.

  “Oh, Mr. Braden,” the clerk called after him, “I nearly forgot, we have a phone message for you.” He waved a slip of pink paper.

  “Thanks,” Ted said. He looked at the message. It read, “Call Jordan Rainsborough.” “Urgent” was circled twice.

  Ted walked immediately to a pay phone, swiped a credit card through it and keyed the number that was written on the message.

  “Jordan Rainsborough.” Her voice was faint against the ringing din of the casino.

  “Jordan, it’s Ted. How’d you know I was here?”

  “Oh, I have ways of finding things out,” Jordan said. “It’s a perk of the job.”

  Ted found that unsettling. “Okay,” he said. “What’s so urgent?”

  “You didn’t check your messages?”

  “No,” Ted said, “I just checked into the hotel. Haven’t even been up to the room yet. What’s going on?”

  “There’s been another murder,” Jordan said.

  Ted pressed the phone tighter against his ear and held his hand over the other ear. “What did you say?” he asked.

  “There was another murder,” Jordan repeated, “Very similar to the Sanders murder. The police arrested a suspect and he just confessed to both of them.”

  CHAPTER 8

  The hotel room was ordinary and small, furnished efficiently with a king-size bed, two nightstands, a dresser that doubled as a TV stand and a small round table with two slightly stained chairs. Ted sat on the edge of the bed, picked up the phone, slid a card through and dialed his message system.

  “Hello,” it answered, “You have thirty-one messages.”

  Ted groaned. He pressed a button on the phone and picked up a pen from the nightstand.

  “Sent today at 5:30 p.m.,” the computer voice announced. A woman’s voice followed. “Hey, Ted, how’re you doing?” the voice said. “This is Constance Hirsch from ABC. Listen, we’d like to do that piece about Robert Rand that we talked about. Give me a call. You have my home number, right? Let me give it to you again.”

  Ted wrote the number on the Memphis notepad next to the phone. By the time he had listened to all the messages, the top of the nightstand and a third of the bedspread were covered with scribble-filled notepapers, each with a tiny outline of Graceland along the bottom.

  The Times had called, and the Post, and the Chronicle. All the networks and all the wire services had left messages. There were eleven messages from Internet news sites, one from Jordan, four from local TV stations in L.A., and two from Christina Ferragamo.

  Ted leaned back against the headboard, which made an odd cracking sound. He sat up quickly and a plastic photo frame on the dresser caught his eye. It was a picture of a sizzling platter of steak and lobster under a red banner emblazoned, “$49.95!” Ted peered at the names written on the notepapers in front of him. He swept the messages into a stack. If they waited this long, he thought, they can wait another hour. He opened his briefcase, took out his wireless, slipped it and the messages into his jacket pocket, and headed downstairs.

  The elevator let Ted out on the main floor, three carpeted steps above the riverboat-themed lobby casino. A right turn brought him face-to-knee with a 20-foot-tall statue of Elvis, overwhelming in a white jumpsuit studded with rhinestones and tiny mirrors and open nearly to his plastic navel. A plaque at his feet reported that the look was Honolulu, circa 1972.

  Aloha Elvis was part of a huge circular exhibit that also featured the black leather-clad ‘68 Comeback Elvis as well as ‘56 Dancing Elvis. Dancing Elvis was an especially good likeness, locked in a gravity-defying position up on the toes of his white slip-ons, his hand wrapped sensuously around a classic Shure microphone. Between the statues were panels of photographs and old typewritten documents, flat screens showing continuous videos and glass display cases full of Elvis artifacts. Right in the center of everything was a small stage where a life-size hologram of Elvis himself performed hourly. Several dozen people had already staked out positions for the next show.

  Ted found a path out of the exhibit and followed an arrow that promised to lead him to the coffee shop, but he changed his mind when he arrived at the entrance and realized that all the people he had been passing for thirty yards were ahead of him in line for the steak and lobster special. He continued on and saw another line of older, heavier people. The buffet. He kept walking.

  Eventually Ted found himself back at the Elvis exhibit, this time on the opposite side. He made a right turn at Comeback Elvis and walked through a wide entranceway framed with red velvet drapes. To his left was an enormous casino crowded with gamblers. To his right was a replica of New York City’s Paramount Theatre. A giant cardboard cutout of a smiling Elvis playing the guitar stood atop an old-style marquee advertising the November 15th opening of Love Me Tender. Ted walked up to the box office.

  “Hello,” he said, “Can you tell me where the restaurants are?”

  The girl inside stared at him, glassy-eyed. She was a mannequin.

  “Don’t worry, you’re not the first to do that,” a woman’s voice said. Ted turned around. A cocktail waitress dressed like an escapee from a Civil War bordello was grinning at him. “What are you looking for, honey?”

  Ted could feel his face turning red. “Uh, restaurants,” he said.

  “They’re all on Beale Street,” the waitres
s said. She pointed through the red velvet drapes. Go through the Elvis exhibit, make a right turn at the elevators, then make a left turn and you’ll see it.”

  Ted thanked her, tipped her, and headed off in the direction she pointed. The crowd at the Elvis exhibit had thickened considerably, and Ted got stuck in a jam between two women with baby strollers and a glass display case full of four-inch-wide jeweled belts. Just as he turned to retrace his steps, the lights went down and music he recognized from an old science fiction movie boomed from 360 degrees of speakers. Spotlights chased wildly over the crowd.

  Then, virtually live on the small round stage, Elvis Presley materialized, a six-foot-tall three-dimensional projection in a frightening bell-bottom jumpsuit and matching cape. A recorded crowd applauded and screamed. The Las Vegas crowd watched quietly. Elvis performed That’s All Right and Proud Mary, said “Thangyouverymuch” and disappeared. The recorded crowd shrieked and stomped and applauded until an announcer’s voice said firmly, “Ladies and gentlemen, Elvis has left the building.” The lights came up. There was a smattering of applause.

  “That’s not the one I wanted to see,” a stout woman next to Ted complained. “I wanted to see Can’t Help Falling in Love.”

  Her companion studied a brochure. “We missed Can’t Help Falling in Love,” she said. “Two o’clock and ten o’clock. Do you want to come back?”

  Ted escaped and headed toward the elevators.

  Beale Street was an indoor mall of shops and restaurants dressed to look like an outdoor street of blues clubs. The first place Ted saw was Mama Nell’s House of Chicken and Biscuits. The wait was forty-five minutes. He kept walking.

  The wait was no shorter at the Waffle Iron, at Joe’s Barbecue Joint or at Lucille’s, where nothing he had packed would have met the dress code anyway. He stopped to check out a 1955 Cadillac limousine parked in front of a place called 1034 Audubon, which turned out to be a piano bar. Verging on the seriously grouchy, Ted continued walking until he ran out of road. Beale Street ended in a food court.

  Five minutes later, Ted was wolfing down two hot dogs and a large order of fries. He had placed his wireless and the stack of messages on the table and was just about to start in on the calls when he noticed a slender young man of about twenty-five staring at him from a nearby table. The young man stood up when Ted saw him and walked over.

  “You’re Ted Braden, aren’t you?” the man said.

  Ted was surprised. “Do I know you?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” the young man answered, “But I sure know you. I saw every minute of Robert Rand’s trial on TV. What a story. I knew he was innocent, right from the start.”

  Ted put down his hot dog. “How did you know that?” he asked.

  “Instinct, I guess. It just seemed like the case against him was weak. I mean, a drug dealer with a motive to lie and an idiot woman who says she never watches television.” The young man shook his head.

  “So, you’re kind of a trial junkie, huh?”

  “No,” said the man. “I’m a reporter.” He took a business card out of his wallet and handed it to Ted. “My name’s James Dixon,” he said. I’m with the Las Vegas News-Inquirer.”

  Ted couldn’t conceal his surprise. “You’re kidding,” he said.

  James Dixon smiled awkwardly. “I look a little younger than I am,” he said.

  “No, it’s not that,” Ted said. “It’s just that if you’re a reporter, you’re the first one I’ve met with any curiosity. Would you like to sit down?”

  “Thanks.” James pulled out a chair and sat, his long legs sprawling like a pony’s.

  Ted took a swig of diet root beer from a blue-striped paper cup. “So, are you covering this story?” he asked.

  A sheepish look crossed briefly over James’ face. “Actually,” he said, “I’m an entertainment reporter.”

  “Oh,” Ted nodded. “So you’re here for the Elvis Centennial.”

  “Uh, no. The buffet.”

  “Excuse me?”

  James cleared his throat and spoke in a low voice. “The hotel opened a new buffet this week. They’re spending a lot of money on advertising, so, you know, we’re giving it some coverage.”

  Ted smiled. “I’ve got no problem with that,” he said. “I’m in advertising. I think every news organization should support its advertisers.”

  James cleared his throat again. “That’s the way we see it,” he nodded.

  “So how was it?”

  “How was what?”

  “The buffet.”

  “I’m not eating that stuff,” James said with a shudder. “Did you see those people in line?” He held his hands wide apart. “Butts this big. Standing in line for all-you-can-eat fried shrimp and prime rib. Coincidence?”

  Ted laughed. “Are you going to write that?” he asked.

  “Sure,” James said, “And next I’m going to do a five-part investigative report on unemployment. I actually wrote the review last night. I just stopped by to take a look and make sure I didn’t rave about the Thai barbecued chicken if they were dishing up curried pot roast. Credibility, you know. Very important.”

  “Right,” Ted smiled.

  James leaned forward and the expression on his face turned more serious. “So you heard, right? That the police got the right guy today?”

  “I heard he confessed,” Ted said.

  “Yes,” James nodded. “It took six hours of questioning, but he admitted everything.” He leaned back again and his face softened. “It won’t bring their father back, but those two little Rand kids should be able to sue the state of California for a minor fortune.”

  “I hope so,” Ted said. He looked down at the stack of messages in front of him, every one from established, respected journalists who weren’t the least bit interested in writing the story at a time when it required actual reporting. He looked at the young man across the table. “James,” Ted began, “You said it’s James, right?”

  “Right.”

  “How’d you like to get off the buffet beat?”

  The phone was ringing in Ted’s room when he opened the door. He picked it up.

  “Hullo?” he said.

  “Ted?” The voice was familiar. “It’s Christina Ferragamo.”

  “Christina!” Ted said with Hollywood warmth. “How did you know I was here?”

  “I’m a reporter,” she said. “Blue contact lenses take you only so far in this business. So how’s your trip going?”

  “Fine, fine,” Ted said.

  “I’ll bet. I’ll bet you’re enjoying all those fabulous restaurants.”

  “Yes, I sure am,” Ted said.

  “So, what have you been up to?”

  “Oh, you know. Vacationing. Taking it easy.”

  Christina sounded relieved. “That’s great,” she oozed. “Listen, I don’t know if you’ve seen the news today, but I think it may be time to move on the Robert Rand piece.”

  “Yeah,” Ted said enthusiastically, “I was just talking to somebody about that.”

  “Who?” Christina’s voice had a trace of alarm in it. “Who were you talking to?”

  “A newspaper guy here in Vegas.”

  “But you haven’t talked to any TV people, right?”

  “Nope. You’re the first.”

  “Good. Good. So you’ll give Disclosure an exclusive?”

  “Well, I....”

  She interrupted him. “We’ll send a plane for you right now. Or a car. Whatever you want. Do you want to shoot it in Vegas? I can be there with a crew in two hours.”

  Saturday, June 10, 2056

  “Look up.”

  Ted squinted slightly as he looked up into the TV studio lights. A petite blonde make-up artist quickly blended concealer under his eyes. She stepped away. “That’s better,” said a male voice over the P.A. “Thanks, Ona.”

  Christina Ferragamo swiveled her chair toward him and leaned in. “Well, this brings back memories,” she said. “I haven’t worked at a local TV station si
nce I did the weather in Boston.”

  They were in a tiny studio at the TV station that carried NBC’s programming in Las Vegas. The Disclosure crew had pushed the morning news set out of the way and placed two gray chairs in front of a blue backdrop, clearing up the mystery of why the producer had called Ted and asked him not to wear anything blue. The blue background would be replaced electronically with the usual Disclosure set, and a blue shirt might have turned into a high-rise building in the middle of Ted’s chest. He came to the studio in his black leather jacket, a white T-shirt and black jeans.

  “Stand-by,” said the voice.

  “This will be great,” Christina told Ted. “And I have some surprises for you that you’re not going to believe.”

  “In ten, nine, eight...” The voice stopped and the countdown was picked up on the hands of a man in a headset. He wagged a finger at Christina.

  “Tonight we have a Disclosure exclusive,” said Christina. “You all remember the trial in the Maria Sanders murder case last month. New evidence has just emerged that the wrong man was executed for that crime. How could it happen? And is it about to happen again? First, this background report from Meade Nevins.”

  “We’re clear,” said the voice. Christina leaned back in her chair.

  Ted looked at her quizzically. “What do you mean, happen again?” he asked.

  “I have obtained a report,” Christina said quietly, “on the medical condition of Michael Dency, the man who just confessed to the crime. I don’t think there’s any question about it.”

  “About what?”

  “About what went on during those six hours of police questioning yesterday morning.”

  “Thirty seconds,” said the voice.

  Ted frowned. “What went on?” he asked.

  “Dency has deep contusions on his lower back. He suffered kidney damage. He has two broken ribs and a bruised lung. He has a fractured skull, right here.” Christina pointed to the area above her left ear. “His left arm is broken.” She pointed to her forearm. “Both bones.”

  Ted frowned. “Maybe there was a struggle at the murder scene,” he suggested.