Christina leaned closer. “There were plenty of witnesses to the arrest,” she said. “And he was just fine when they took him in.”
“Ten seconds,” said the voice. Christina sat up straight and adjusted her blouse. “All ready?” she asked Ted. “Here we go.”
CHAPTER 9
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?”
&n
bsp; “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-tie
d, 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.
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