The 37th Amendment: A Novel (10 page)

“They want a female announcer.” Kayla Neuman-Green sounded irritated.

“Fine. Set up an audition for later today.”

“Already did,” Kayla said.

“Okay,” Ted said. “Nothing we can’t handle so far. What else?”

Three people spoke at once and the phone rang. Ted held up one hand to silence the group and picked up the telephone handset with the other. “Ted Braden,” he answered.

“Mr. Braden,” the voice could be heard across the desk. “Dobson Howe. How are you today, sir?”

“Fine, just fine, thanks. A little backed up here, is the only thing.”

“I won’t keep you,” Howe said. “However, I have the list of Robert Rand’s television program appearances that we spoke about. I’d like to send it to you.”

“Sure,” Ted said. “Absolutely. Fly it right over.”

“May I e-mail it to you?” Howe asked, “I’m afraid I’m not up on the new technology.”

“That’s fine,” Ted said. He gave Howe the e-mail address. “I’ll get to it just as quickly as I can,” he said, “But today’s Friday and I’ll be working all night and all day tomorrow on these Sony Motors spots.”

“I understand,” Howe said. “Thank you very, very much.”

“No problem,” Ted said. “I’ll send you whatever I can find.”

“Very good,” Howe said. “Thanks.” He hung up.

Ted looked at the group around his desk. “Where’s Brianna?” he asked.

Brianna Schafer Ramos looked over her shoulder at Ted, the creases in her neck squeezing together like the folds of an open drapery. “No,” she said.

“Please, Brianna,” Ted pleaded, dropping down on one knee, “Please.”

“No.” Brianna shook her head. “I’m up to my ears with Farm Kitchens homestyle sausage links. I don’t have time to do anybody’s unofficial project, not even yours, I’m sorry to say.”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

Brianna swiveled her chair around and looked Ted over. “I wish you meant that, Theodore,” she winked. “You’d make an old woman very happy.”

Ted took her hand and kissed it. “Please, Brianna. It’s important.”

 Brianna sighed. “All right,” she said.

“Great.” Ted was on his feet and digging in his jacket pocket for Dobson Howe’s e-mail. He pulled out five printed pages, slightly crumpled, and put them on the desk. “This is a list of television shows,” he said. “Can you find out if any of them aired between February 21st and May 11th of this year?”

“You mean anywhere? Broadcast, cable, wireless, demand, anywhere?”

Ted frowned. “I didn’t think about demand,” he said. “Is there a public record of how many people ordered an on-demand viewing of a show?”

“Of course not,” Brianna said. “You want to know nationwide or just locally?”

Ted smiled. “Locally,” he said.

“I can probably get that for you.”

Ted kissed her hand. Brianna Schafer Ramos was the best media specialist he had ever worked with, and he’d been at four agencies just in the last six years. “Thank you,” he said.

Brianna was staring at Dobson Howe’s name on the page in front of her. “Does this have something to do with that trial?” she asked.

Ted glanced around to make sure no one was listening. He nodded.

“Really? Well, why didn’t you say so right away? What are we looking for?”

Ted held a finger to his lips and spoke in a low voice. “We’re looking for evidence that one of the witnesses might have identified Robert Rand because they recognized him from TV. These are all the shows he did. I’m trying to find out if any of them could have been seen between February 21st and May 11th.”

“I’ll have it for you in an hour,” Brianna said. “This is so exciting.”

Ted had three people around his desk exactly one hour later when Brianna called. “Good news and bad news,” she said.

Ted held the telephone handset tight against his ear in an effort to keep her voice from escaping. “Okay,” he said.

“The bad news is none of the shows played anywhere between February 21st and May 11th. The good news is that one of the shows, a TV movie actually, ran on May 13th.”

“That’s good news?” Ted asked.

“Well, yes it is,” Brianna said, “Because it ran on the LTN channel as part of ‘Take No Prisoners’ Week. They promote those things to death.”

“Promos,” Ted murmured in wonder. “I didn’t even think about promos.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Brianna said. “Commercials for these movies run all day long for a week in advance. And on a lot of channels, not just LTN. Plus they promote direct-to-consumer, in print, everywhere. Billboards, even. So if your guy was in the ads for this movie, he could have been seen any time between May 7th and May 13th. In other words, five days up to and including May 11th.”

“Brianna,” Ted said, “Do you think you could....”

“Absolutely,” she said. “But not until Monday afternoon at the earliest.”

Bright white sunlight was streaming through the windows of Dobson Howe’s office when he arrived Monday morning. It was five minutes to eight, half an hour before either the coffee service or his assistant would get there. He set his briefcase on the desk and turned on the television.

“Will the governor be making a statement today? Has the governor read the Court’s opinion yet?” Reporters were grilling a frazzled-looking press aide at a lectern embossed with the seal of the Governor of the State of California.

“The governor will be reviewing the Court’s opinion sometime today as will the California Attorney General,” the aide said.

Reporters persisted. “Does this mean executions will resume in California?”

“Oh, my God,” Dobson Howe whispered. He lunged for the computer to the right of his desk, banging two fingers on the keyboard in a rapid chatter.

A screen of news headlines came up. Blinking in red at the top of the screen were the words, SUPREME COURT OVERTURNS RAMIREZ ACT. Underneath, the subheadline read, “Justices Rule Congress Overstepped Its Authority in Halting California Executions.”

Howe grabbed for the phone, knocking it to the floor. The buzz of the dial tone came through the room’s speakers anyway. “John Butera,” he shouted. The voice recognition system sounded a series of tones as it connected to the telephone number. “Governor’s office,” a woman’s voice answered.

“This is Dobson Howe,” boomed the lawyer. “Calling for John Butera.”

“He’s not in yet, sir,” the woman answered.

“What about Mark Galindez?”

“He’s also not in yet, sir,”

“Is the governor available?”

“No, sir,” the woman said. “He’s expected at nine.”

“Please leave word for all three of them,” Howe nearly shouted.

“Yes, sir.” There was a click, and then silence.

Howe leaned down with difficulty and picked up the telephone, assaulting the buttons with his index finger on the way back up to his desk. Tones sounded through the speakers. “Justice Margulies’ office,” a man’s voice answered.

“Is he in yet? This is Dobson Howe.”

“No, sir. He’s expected very shortly.”

“Leave word, will you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Howe pressed a button to disconnect the call. His gaze was fixed on a square of sunlight spilling over the edge of his desk and onto the carpet. “Margulies, wireless,” he announced suddenly. Tones sounded through the office, then a ringing sound, then a click. “I’m unavailable,” said a recording. “You may leave a message or reach me at my office.” Howe jabbed the disconnect button. “Ted Braden at home,” he boomed. Tones, then ringing. A young girl’s voice answered. “Hello?” she said.

“May I speak to Ted Braden, please, this is Dobson Howe.”

“I think he’s in the shower,” the girl said.

“I’ll hold on.”

“You will? Okay.” A loud clunk came through the speakers, followed by background noise from a television. Howe heard the pert voice of a network morning show anchor. “Still to come, legendary designer Opal Snow will be here with an exclusive preview of her first-ever collection of swimsuits. You won’t want to miss this. But first, let’s go to Ivan Young in Washington for an update on a breaking story. Ivan?”

“Hello, Mia. The United States Supreme Court has handed down a major ruling this morning. By an 8-1 vote the justices have overturned the Ramirez Act. That’s the federal law passed by Congress last year which required a five-year waiting period before any state could carry out the execution of a person sentenced to death. The law was widely seen as being aimed directly at California, which had carried out many times more executions than other states, and much more quickly than other states.”

Howe grabbed the TV remote control from his desk and ran through the channels until he saw Ivan Young standing in front of the U.S. Supreme Court building, grasping a folded sheaf of papers held together with staples.

“The Court ruled today that because the United States Constitution created a national government of specific, limited powers, with all other powers reserved to the states, and because Congress was given no power over the states’ criminal justice systems, Congress exceeded its authority when it passed the Ramirez Act. As a result, the justices today, by an 8-1 vote, struck down that law as unconstitutional. What that means, Mia, is that if California chooses to execute murderers within days of their convictions, Congress has no power to stop it.”

“Let me ask you Ivan, does this mean that everyone on death row in California will be executed immediately?”

“It could very well mean that, Mia. That would be consistent with California law, and the Court has said that nothing more....”

“Hullo?” It was the voice of Ted Braden.

“Ted,” Howe called out the name to the speaker phone. “Dobson Howe.”

“Good morning, Mr. Howe.”

“Please call me Dobson. I urge everyone to call me Dobson when I’m about to impose an impossible request. That material we spoke about on Friday. I need it immediately.”

“But I don’t have it yet,” Ted said. “Sometime late today is when I expect to receive it. And that’s not definite. It could be tomorrow.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t be so discouraged,” Ted said, “It looks fairly promising.” He told Howe about the TV movie and the promotional ads for it. “Now I’m just waiting to find out if Rand was in any of the promos,” Ted explained. “Then it’s no trouble to find out when and where they aired.”

Another phone in Howe’s office rang. “Good, good,” Howe said hurriedly. “Call me the instant you know anything.” He gave Ted his private phone number. “That will reach me wherever I am,” Howe said, “And thank you.” He pressed a button on the phone. “Dobson Howe,” he said sharply.

“Dobson. John Morley Jackson.”

“I’ve already left word for the governor and two of his top aides,” Howe said. “Also Margulies.”

“What about going to a federal judge?”

Howe sighed.

“I know there’s no chance,” Jackson said. “But maybe a habeas petition will buy us a few days.”

“Yes,” Howe said. “Who knows, a few days may be enough.”

Governor Mike Hughes closed the door. “Well?” he asked.

A black-haired man in his late sixties studied a spreadsheet laid out on the coffee table. “It’s about what you’d expect,” he said. “Sixty-eight percent think the executions should be carried out immediately. Twenty-five percent favor commuting the sentences to life in prison.”

The governor stared at the pages, the ruddiness of his face intensifying to a fine tomato red. He lifted a metal paperweight from the spreadsheets and rolled it absently in his left hand. Then suddenly he threw it against the paneled wall, leaving a white dent in the fake wood. “What am I supposed to do?” he shouted. “Order eleven executions in one day? Have every editorial page in the country call me bloodthirsty? Stand at the window and wave at the ten thousand people marching around the governor’s mansion with picket signs?”

“You don’t have to do that,” said the black-haired man. “You could always go against the will of sixty-eight percent of the voters and lose your job in two years to that idiot mayor.”

John Morley Jackson’s wireless rang at 10:50 a.m., just as he was turning his ‘46 Mercedes into the driveway of the parking structure under Dobson Howe’s building. “Yes?” he answered.

“John, it’s Brenda,” a voice said. “I know you like to get bad news as soon as possible.”

“Brenda!” he said. A wave of static enveloped the connection as he drove under the building. “Brenda? Brenda! Damn!” Jackson made a sharp left turn into a fire lane, hit the brakes and backed up. Horns sounded. Nearly scraping the wall, Jackson drove out through the entrance and turned right onto the street. More horns. He keyed a number into the wireless. “Court clerk’s office,” a woman’s voice answered.

“Brenda, it’s John.”

“What happened?”

“Ah, this phone. You’d think somebody would have invented a better one by now. What’s up?” He made a right turn.

“Well, hon, I saw something cross my desk about your client and I thought you’d like early warning on it.”

“You bet. Which client?”

“Robert Rand. The execution has been scheduled for 9:00 a.m. Wednesday.”