The 37th Amendment: A Novel

by Shelley, Susan

  “It was as if there were no state or local governments at all,” Tiffany said. “It was as if we had a national criminal code created entirely by federal judges. That’s where your due process clause takes you. The end of government by the people.” Tiffany stood up and went to the refrigerator for a bottle of water. “How about some lunch?” she asked. “There’s some cold chicken in here, or we could order in.”

  “Either one’s fine with me,” Ted said.

  “Me, too,” Tiffany shrugged. “Why don’t you go ask Jordan if she has a preference.”

  Ted stood up. “Okay,” he said. He headed for the stairs. A moment later he was back.

  “She’s not up there,” he said anxiously.

  “Well, where could she have gone?” Tiffany asked.

  “I don’t know,” Ted said. “Jordan! Where are you? Jordan?”

  “Maybe she’s outside,” Tiffany said. “I’ll look. Or maybe she’s in the garage.”

  Ted sprinted toward the connecting door, opened it and stopped. The Corvette was in the garage, but Tiffany’s Honda was gone. Ted closed the door quietly and walked back through the kitchen. He caught up with Tiffany in the living room. “She’s not in the garage and neither is your car,” he said.

  “I parked the car on the street,” Tiffany said. “I didn’t want to risk bumping grocery bags into your car.”

  “Thanks,” Ted said with genuine warmth. Tiffany was all right. “So you have your keys?”

  “Yes, certainly,” Tiffany said. “They’re on the table next to the sofa where I always put them.” She stopped. The keys were gone. “Oh, my,” she said.

  “Where could she have gone?” Ted asked. “She knows what will happen if somebody recognizes her. We were just talking about it.”

  “Maybe she went stir-crazy,” Tiffany said. “I think being cooped up in the house can make a person do irrational things.”

  For some reason, Ted felt insulted. “She’s used to being around a lot of people all the time,” he said.

  Tiffany nodded. “High-maintenance, that one,” she said.

  Ted walked to the window and stood still in front of it.

  “Please don’t stand at the window, Ted,” Tiffany pleaded. “Someone might see you.”

  “It’s not going to matter much longer,” Ted shrugged.

  Ted was holding a pencil over a crossword puzzle. The pencil hadn’t moved for at least five minutes. Tiffany came into the living room and forced a pleasant smile.

  “How about something to eat?” she asked.

  Ted shook his head. “It’s been two hours,” he said.

  Tiffany sat down in an armchair and fidgeted. “I would call someone,” she said, “But I don’t know who to call.”

  “Where could she have gone?” Ted asked.

  Then they heard the bang of the garage door opening. Tiffany and Ted jumped out of their seats and ran to the window, catching only a glimpse of the Honda as it pulled into the garage. Ted raced out of the living room and through the kitchen. He flung open the connecting door to the garage. “Oh, my God!” he whispered.

  Jordan was closing the door of the Honda behind her. “Hello!” she said brightly. “What do you think? My own mother wouldn’t recognize me!”

  Ted felt his jaw drop. Jordan’s gleaming long dark hair was now very short and very blonde.

  Jordan gave a flirtatious sideways glance to the blackjack dealer. “Hit me,” she smiled. The nine of clubs hit the table with a snap. “Damn!” Jordan said, picking up her wine glass, “That’s it for me.” She pushed a chip across the table to the dealer. “Thank you, ma’am,” the dealer said politely. Jordan nodded. “Ma’am,” she muttered as she walked away, “You’re welcome, son.”

  Jordan was in the main casino of the majestically overblown new Williamsburg hotel, a gargantuan property fronted by a replica of the stately Governor’s Palace, adding an awkward note of Colonial dignity to the Las Vegas Strip. Inside, the casino walls were fully paneled in deep-toned genuine wood, with moldings that formed a symmetrical pattern of rectangles above and below the chair rails. Fake hearths framed by white marble mantles were set into the walls. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, lit with artificial candles in etched hurricane glasses. Racks of fake rifles were attached to both sides of the main casino cage. At least, they looked fake.

  A large revolving sculpture of George Washington standing under a waterfall of green foil dollar bills had been removed from the center of the casino after the Mount Vernon Ladies’ Association said they were not comfortable with it.

  Also uncomfortable were the cocktail servers, attractive women laced into push-up corsets and flounce-trimmed bodices. Jutting out from their hips were D-shaped hoops covered by two-thirds of a skirt. One of these assemblies knocked into Jordan as she tried to get past a row of crap tables to the main aisle.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” the server said, looking Jordan straight in the eye. “Excuse me.”

  “That’s okay,” Jordan mumbled. She turned away quickly and headed down the carpeted aisle and out of the casino. Even though she could barely recognize herself in a mirror, she felt it was only prudent to make sure no one got too good a look at her.

  A huge crowd seemed to be migrating toward a corridor on the far side of the lobby. Jordan passed a sign reading, “Walkway to Salem” with an arrow pointing in that direction. The hotel burned a witch every hour on the hour. Jordan decided to follow the arrow to the gardens instead.

  Williamsburg’s gardens were far less popular than its witch trials, so Jordan sauntered through the topiary and tulips mostly unobserved. At the far end of the gardens she found an entrance to the shopping street. The automatic doors blew open as she approached.

  It was autumn on Duke of Gloucester Street. The fake maple trees were bursting out in orange and yellow leaves, their top branches nearly brushing the sky-painted ceiling. Below, a wide gray walkway was lined on both sides by facades of boxy brick buildings and white-frame storefronts. Two mannequins dressed as Revolutionary War soldiers marched motionless in front of a cigar shop, vigilantly protecting the liberty of a double row of slot machines that extended all the way down the center of the street and through the thick crowd of unsightly tourists.

  Jordan spotted an elevator camouflaged behind a picket fence and a flowering tree. She pushed the button, stepped inside and rode to the upper floor. When the doors opened, she found herself at the entrance to Raleigh Tavern. Destiny, she thought.

  Jordan spent an hour sipping a rum drink from an enormous pewter tankard and looking out the window at the gardens below. From this vantage point she could see the symmetrical design of the diamond-shaped hedges and pathways. It was almost hypnotically peaceful, or maybe it was the rum.

  “Would you like to charge this to your room?” It was the waiter, working up her check on a handheld device.

  “No, I’m not staying here,” Jordan said.

  “No problem,” the waiter said. “Is this going to be cash or charge today?”

  “Charge,” Jordan said. She handed the waiter a credit card.

  Mayor Martinez was alone in her office when the private line rang at 7:30 p.m. She picked up the phone immediately. “Yes?” she answered.

  “Hello, Mayor Martinez,” Ulrich said. The silk was back in his voice. “How are you today?”

  “Gregory!” the mayor said. “What have you got?”

  “Well, Mayor, if it wouldn’t be inconvenient, I’d like to search a property belonging to a Julia Thomsen. Of course, I can do it quietly, but there might be some value in making a public show of it. I was thinking that the police department ought to receive an anonymous tip that will allow them to get a search warrant. But of course, it’s your call.”

  “And who is this person?” the mayor asked.

  “Julia Thomsen,” Ulrich said, “is, or maybe was, Ted Braden’s girlfriend. She works at a place called RCN Data Systems. If Ted Braden helped Jordan Rainsborough steal documents from the computer n
etwork, she’s probably the one who told him how to do it.”

  “I’ll see that the police get your anonymous tip, “ the mayor said. “Anything else?”

  “Yes,” Ulrich purred. “I found Jordan Rainsborough.”

  “Hello?” Jordan called as she opened the door into the kitchen. “Anybody home? Tiffany? Ted?”

  Tiffany appeared in the doorway to the living room. “Is everything okay?” she asked.

  “Wonderful,” Jordan said blissfully. “I was out. There were restaurants. There were shops. I lost four hundred dollars playing blackjack. It was wonderful.”

  “Good,” Tiffany said. “I hope nobody recognized you.”

  “No one paid any attention to me,” Jordan said. “A blackjack dealer called me ‘ma’am.’ I think blonde hair must make me look older.”

  “You look beautiful,” Tiffany said. “He was just being polite.”

  Ted came downstairs and looked over Tiffany’s shoulder into the kitchen. “Jordan!” he said, “Thank God you’re back. Any trouble?”

  “No trouble at all,” Jordan said. “I told you my own mother wouldn’t know me. I feel so much better. I finally feel like I can relax.”

  Tuesday, July 18, 2056

  It was seven o’clock in the morning when four police cars pulled up in front of 422 Hobart Place in Los Angeles. Two white television broadcast vans were already parked across the street. Sgt. Louise Mackey frowned. “How’d they find out about this?” she asked irritably, opening the car door. A cameraman swung around and pointed his lens in her direction. Sgt. Mackey slammed the door. When she turned around she was face-to-face with a perky TV reporter named Clarissa Rowland.

  “Officer,” chirped the reporter, “Can you tell us a little about what’s happening here today?”

  “It’s sergeant,” Mackey replied. “And no, I can’t comment.”

  “We understand the woman in that house is connected to the scandal in the district attorney’s office,” the reporter continued obliviously, “Can you confirm that?”

  “I can’t comment,” Mackey said. “Excuse me, please, you’ll have to stay back.”

  A few of the officers had taken up positions along the perimeter of the property. The rest were waiting for Mackey near the front door. She joined them. “Did you check to see if there’s a back door?” she asked. Officer Greene nodded. “Rodriguez and Coyle are on it,” he confirmed. Mackey nodded. Catching a glimpse of the cameras positioned across the street, she stepped forward purposefully and knocked firmly on the door. There was no answer. She knocked again. Nothing. Mackey shifted her weight nervously.

  “You want us to break it down?” Officer Greene asked.

  “I could go through the window,” said Officer Luntz.

  Mackey tried the doorknob. It was unlocked.

  “Nobody locks their doors around here,” she said.

  Julia let the hot water of the shower cover her shoulders and back and run down the sides of her arms. She closed her eyes and stood for a long moment without moving, drifting into a sleepy morning doze. Then she heard a thunk. Julia turned to see if a shampoo bottle had fallen. It hadn’t.

  Thunk. THUNK. Thunk. Now Julia was fully awake. She slid open the shower door and leaned out to listen. Then she turned the water off.

  Thunk. THUNK. It sounded like drawers being opened and closed. Julia wrapped herself in a towel and opened the bathroom door.

  There, in her bedroom, were three blue-uniformed police officers, tearing through her closet and dresser. Another was pulling the blankets off her bed.

  “What are you doing?” she shrieked. “What’s going on here?”

  “We’re executing a search warrant on this property,” one of the officers said crisply, looking awkwardly away from her towel. “Sgt. Mackey is downstairs with all the paperwork if you have any questions.”

  Julia ran out of the bedroom and down the hall to her office. Two policemen were filling cardboard boxes with computer disks and cartridges.

  “Hey!” Julia shouted. “That stuff is for work! You can’t take it!”

  “If you have any questions,” said one of the officers calmly, “see Sgt. Mackey downstairs.” He lifted the cover on a blue plastic storage box, revealing a stack of ten neatly-labeled disks. He grabbed all ten and jammed them into a cardboard box that was already filled.

  Julia was pale. She ran from the room and raced down the stairs. “Which one of you is Sgt. Mackey?” she shouted to the crowd of blue uniforms in her living room. A woman stood up. “I’m Sgt. Mackey,” she said, “Are you Julia Thomsen?”

  “I sure as hell am,” Julia said fiercely. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  Ted was underneath Tiffany’s car in the garage when he heard the phone inside the house ring. A moment later he saw Tiffany’s feet standing next to the car. “Dobson Howe’s on the phone for you,” she said, holding a wireless phone down near the front tire. Ted scooted out from under the car and held up oily hands. Tiffany held the phone against Ted’s ear while he reached for a rag.

  “Hello?” he said.

  “Don’t call her, don’t try to make contact with her. Her phone is probably tapped. I’m on my way over there to pick her up right now.”

  “Who?” Ted asked, wiping his hands. “What are you talking about?”

  “You haven’t seen the news?”

  “No,” Ted said. “What happened?”

  “Your friend Julia Thomsen got a visit from the police today,” Howe said.

  “What?” Ted took the phone from Tiffany.

  “The police executed a search of her house this morning,” Howe continued. “If you know what they were looking for, this would be a good time to tell me.”

  “She wasn’t arrested, was she?” Ted asked.

  Howe paused. “Not yet,” he said.

  Officer Francine Luntz lifted a cardboard box full of computer disks and let it drop with a thud onto her desk. She looked disapprovingly at the three boxes still remaining on the metal cart. She pressed a button on her phone.

  “Desk,” answered a voice on the speaker.

  “This is Luntz,” she said. “Can I get some help over here with this inventory? It’s got to be done today and there’s so much stuff, I’m not even halfway through it.”

  “I can send you a couple of volunteers,” the voice said.

  “That would be great,” Luntz replied.

  “You made a duplicate of the entire computer network?” Dobson Howe’s voice sounded awed. “You can do that?”

  Julia leaned back against the leather passenger seat of Howe’s Bentley. She nodded. “Government offices all have really old hardware,” she said. “Their equipment fills a huge room but all the data will fit on a handful of today’s servers.”

  “Incredible,” Howe said. “And you and Ted set this up in his house.”

  Julia nodded. “And I took it all apart again when Ted left town.”

  “And what did you do with all the components?”

  “I reformatted all the hard drives,” Julia said, “so no one could ever recover any data from them. Then I shipped everything up to my sister in Sacramento. My three-year-old nephew now has a computer that could run a small stock exchange.”

  “You used a freight service?”

  “No, no,” Julia said. “U.S. mail. Cash. No records.”

  Howe smiled. “So there’s no problem,” he said. “There was no trace of any of this for the police to find in your house this morning.”

  Julia was silent.

  “Right?” Howe asked.

  Julia was silent.

  Howe pulled the car over to the curb and threw it into park. He fixed a penetrating gaze on Julia. “Right?” he asked again.

  “Well, there was one thing,” Julia said in a voice barely audible over the soft idle of the Bentley. “I kept the original back-up disks.”

  Thursday, July 20, 2056

  District Attorney Thomas J. Huron arrived at the mayor’s office exactly on
time at 4:00 p.m. sharp. “Hello, Rosa,” he said pleasantly. The secretary smiled disinterestedly. “Go right in, sir,” she said. “They’re all waiting for you.”

  Huron grasped the brass door handle, took a deep breath and opened the door. “Hello,” he said.

  Much to Huron’s surprise, no one glared at him. The mayor was in her chair, pre-occupied with a document on the desk in front of her. Police Chief Wilson Price was seated on the couch next to a balding man in his fifties whom Huron assumed was Gregory Ulrich. The mayor’s chief of staff, Ronni Richards, sat in a leather chair across the room. They all murmured greetings.

  The mayor gestured to a leather chair next to Ronni. Huron sat down. “We think they’re in Nevada,” the mayor said.

  “Mmmm,” said Huron. “Can’t touch them in Nevada.”

  “It’s been two days since we searched the home of Braden’s friend,” the mayor continued. “But it doesn’t seem to have been enough to scare them out of hiding.”

  “Mmmm,” said Huron.

  “So what I need you to do,” the mayor went on, “is look at this list of things that were seized during the search, and see if you can arrest this Julia Thomsen for something.” She extended a stack of stapled pages across her desk to him.

  Huron frowned. The list was at least ten pages long, mostly single-spaced, and he had forgotten his glasses. He held the pages at arm’s length. “Any drugs?” he asked.

  Gregory Ulrich took his glasses out of his jacket pocket and handed them to Huron. “Just some marijuana. But if that was a crime you’d have half the country in jail.”

  Huron put the glasses on and perused the top page. “What is this stuff?” he asked. “Computer games?”

  “Who knows?” said the mayor. “It looks like she labeled all her disks with abbreviations and numbers. It doesn’t mean anything to me.”

  Huron turned a page, then another one. “I wish the police didn’t do everything on paper,” he said. “If this list was on a disk we could search for keywords and maybe find something.”

  Ronni sat up. “Well, let’s scan it,” she said. “Does anyone here know how to use the new scanner?”