The 37th Amendment: A Novel (2 page)

Whitfield looked over the scene, crowded with officers taking measurements, taking pictures, collecting small samples and fragments of evidence and sorting it all into plastic bags. The staff from the coroner’s office was standing by, patiently waiting for the police to let them proceed. Whitfield smiled politely. “Officer McMahon, see what you can do to accommodate the mayor,” he said. McMahon nodded.

“Can we move the coroner’s van?” the woman said in a manner that suggested it was not a question. “It would be perfect in the background against that wall. See how the police lights are reflecting in the windows?”

“It might be best if the coroner’s van stays where it is,” Whitfield said.

“No, that won’t work.” The woman pulled a wireless from her bag and keyed in a number. “It’s too far away, you won’t be able to read it.” She held the wireless to her ear. “Hello? Can you hear me? Good, bring everyone around to the Alameda side. Tell the police they’ll have to close the right-hand lane to traffic so the satellite trucks have someplace to park. There’s not much room here.”

Whitfield turned away and walked to the extreme opposite end of the parking lot. He leaned against a white sedan and snapped open his notebook with such force that the stylus popped out, bounced twice and cartwheeled under the car.

Whitfield leaned down awkwardly and felt around under the car without success. Then with an irritated groan he pulled a penlight from his jacket pocket, got down on his hands and knees on the dusty gravel, and aimed the light under the car. He caught his breath.

There, curled up and shaking, was a small child, perhaps two years old, spattered with blood and staring wide-eyed into the narrow beam of light.

Whitfield shifted slightly, the gravel crunching painfully under his knees. He waved his left arm in the direction of two officers nearby, held his index finger to his lips and pointed under the car. Officers Bahr and Setoyan got down on the ground and looked.

“Oh, no,” Setoyan said quietly, “The poor little guy.”

“I’ll call for an ambulance,” Bahr whispered, getting to his feet.

“Tell them no siren,” Whitfield whispered back. He held a hand out to the child, who made a frightened sound and inched further away. “It’s okay,” he said gently.

At the sound of his voice, the child unleashed a shrieking cry that brought Officer Bahr running back. “What happened?” he asked. Whitfield turned to speak to Bahr and saw the mayor, surrounded by TV lights, standing above the crowd on her portable platform and looking over in his direction. “Nothing happened,” he said, “I guess I scared him.” Whitfield stretched out flat on his stomach and made another attempt to reach the screaming child. He heard the crunch of footsteps approaching.

“Maybe we should let Karla try,” Setoyan suggested. Whitfield slid out from under the car and saw that one set of feet belonged to Officer Karla McMahon. He stood up, brushing himself off. “There’s a little kid hiding under there,” he told McMahon. “Maybe a woman’s voice will calm him down.”

McMahon leaned sideways and peered in the direction of the noise. “Is he hurt?” she asked.

“Don’t know yet,” Whitfield said.

McMahon got down on the ground and stuck her head under the car. “Hello
,
” she said uncomfortably. The screaming continued. “Hola!” she tried, without success.

The reporter who had followed Officer McMahon across the parking lot stepped back and keyed a number into his wireless. “There’s a baby under the car,” he said. “Break everything down and set up over here.”

Whitfield watched as one, then two, then three of the camera crews in front of the mayor picked up their equipment and headed in his direction.

Mayor Taylor Martinez, gleaming in a cream silk suit, stood her ground on the portable platform and continued her polished and tightly-written impromptu remarks. She decried the savage crime that had disturbed a peaceful Monday evening in her city. She vowed that Los Angeles would never return to the era of random street violence. Her flawlessly made-up face was full of righteous concern. Even the hostile glances she threw at departing camera crews served to convey an impression of moral outrage.

It was the silent arrival of the ambulance that finally persuaded the mayor to wrap it up. She mentioned the reward one more time and promised that the killer would not escape justice. The clatter of tripods collapsing followed hard on her words, bringing an irritated frown to her face. “What is happening over there?” she demanded. Without waiting for an answer she stepped down and stormed across the parking lot, trailed by her redheaded aide and the few remaining camera crews.

Officers Bahr and Setoyan took three long strides forward and blocked the group from getting close to the car. The mayor glared at them. “What is going on here, officers?” she asked in a authoritative voice. Just then, a paramedic slid out from under the white sedan with the screaming toddler strapped to a small stretcher.

“Oh, my goodness,” the mayor said, pushing past the officers, “Is he hurt?” The paramedic was wide-eyed to see the mayor of Los Angeles standing in front of him. “No, ma’am,” he stammered, “He doesn’t appear to be injured.”

“But all this blood on his clothes. Oh!” The mayor’s face took on a softer expression. “The poor little thing,” she murmured, reaching out and gently taking the child’s hand. He gripped her finger. “There,” she said soothingly, her wide blue eyes fixed on his small face. The crying stopped. “There,” she said again. Deftly she unbuckled the straps on the stretcher, lifted the little boy into her arms and turned to face the cameras.

“No child,” she said, her voice trembling just slightly, “should ever have to witness what this child saw today. We will find the killer of this baby’s mother, and he will pay the ultimate penalty. And make no mistake. We will keep Los Angeles safe. We will never go back to the Los Angeles our grandparents knew. I tell you now, as we stand here today at the corner of 4th and Alameda, that we will not surrender this block, or the next block, or any block of any street to violent criminals and vicious predators.”

Bystanders watching from an opening in the barricade broke out into applause. The mayor stroked the child’s back reassuringly.

“I announce today,” she continued, “a
$
3 million reward for information leading to the arrest of the person or persons who killed this child’s mother, Maria Sanders, and seriously injured LAPD officer William Szafara, who is still in surgery at this hour and is in all our prayers tonight. Furthermore, I am today releasing emergency law enforcement funds to cover overtime and additional patrol officers until this killer is captured and brought to justice. I’ve just spoken to the governor and he has approved emergency surveillance at all California airports, on I-15 at the Nevada border, on I-5 at the Oregon and Mexico borders and at other locations where a fugitive might attempt to leave the state. This killer will not escape California and he will not escape justice.”

Gently, the mayor cradled the blood-spattered toddler’s head against her shoulder. A storm of strobe lights bounced off the buildings.

Los Angeles, California. Thursday, May 11, 2056

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you.” Julia Thomsen was in an exceptionally good mood. Her fingers played expressively over imaginary piano keys on the Corvette’s dark blue leather dashboard. “Happy birthday, dear Ted, happy birthday to you.” She finished with a dramatic arpeggio, sweeping her hand from left to right across the dashboard and up into the open air.

“Thank you.” Ted Braden’s voice was polite. He made an effort not to say anything about the fingerprints. No point in telling her again. He turned the radio on. “Sigalert on the eastbound 10 west of the 110 junction,” a static-covered voice reported.

“Now that’s perfect timing,” Julia said pleasantly. “I never catch the traffic report exactly when....”

“Sh-sh-sh,” Ted interrupted.

“...lanes are closed due to an injury wreck,” the voice continued.

“Great,” Ted muttered. He made a U-turn at the next stoplight and headed north on Western to Wilshire, squeezing a left turn past the start of a red light. It was 6:55.

 Julia’s hand was planted in a death grip against the burled wood interior of the passenger door, her long legs gripping the edge of the leather seat with the insides of her knees. Ted turned north on Rossmore and made an immediate right turn into the Sixth Street tunnel. Three tightly-packed lanes of eastbound traffic were moving smoothly at a speed of about forty miles per hour. Ted sighed in relief. “Good,” he said. “I thought we were going to miss the tip-off.”

“Are you ever going to get the top fixed?” Julia shouted. The traffic noise in the tunnel made conversation a challenge in the convertible.

“Still trying to track down new latches,” Ted said. “You know what it’s like getting parts for classic cars.”

“Uh-huh,” Julia answered. She opened a concealed storage console under the dashboard, retrieved a silver barrette and clipped her shoulder-length blonde hair into a sporty ponytail.

Ted smiled at her. “That looks cute,” he said.

Julia smiled back. “I have a surprise for you,” she yelled.

Ted felt a wave a tension tighten his neck and shoulders. “Really?” he asked.

“Yes.” Julia leaned as far to the left as her shoulder belt would allow. “I made reservations for the Kite Festival in Montecito next weekend. For your birthday.”

Ted fought hard to keep a grimace off his face. “You shouldn’t have,” he said.

“I know,” Julia chirped. “But I just felt like having a romantic weekend away with you. We haven’t gone away in so long. And the Kite Festival is so beautiful.”

Ted lost his battle with the grimace. However, with timing a comedian would envy, he was rescued by the flashing blue and red lights of a police car behind him.

Ted groaned convincingly, turned on his right turn signal and made three cautious lane changes to the narrow shoulder against the concrete wall. He stopped the car and killed the engine, although in the noisy tunnel he could barely hear the difference.

A moment later a member of the Los Angeles Police Department was standing next to Ted’s door, his eyes taking in every detail of the car; the curved fenders, the leather interior, the reedy, bare-legged blonde in the short pink linen dress. “Evening,” the officer grunted.

“Evening,” Ted answered.

“This is an incredible car,” the officer said. “What year is it?”

Ted’s face lit up with a smile. “2011,” he said. “But the design is 1961. This is the 50th anniversary edition of the Mako Shark Corvette.”

“No kidding.” The cop’s tone was respectful, even awed. “Is this the original paint?”

“Mostly,” Ted said. “It’s a nightmare to match it.”

“I’ll bet,” the cop said. The Corvette was painted an iridescent dark blue on the upper body and pearl white on the sides and lower body, blending seamlessly from one to the other like the natural coloring of the shark that inspired it.

“Look at these,” the cop said, and he ducked down almost out of Ted’s sight. He was examining the four parallel chrome sidepipes that emerged from the lower front fender and swept sleekly to the right, disappearing into a chrome muffler just below the door. “Beautiful,” the cop murmured, “They look like gills.”

“No, the gills are at the front,” Ted said, leaning out and pointing. “See? In front of the tire?” The cop nodded, running his hand lightly over the sculpted fender. A gill-like cutout concealed the turn signal. “Beautiful,” he said again. Cars whizzed by behind his back and he stood up.

Ted smiled. “Would you like to see what’s under the hood?” he asked.

“That’d be great,” the cop said.

Ted reached under the dashboard and popped the hood release. Then, with a wink at Julia, he got out of the car and lifted the hood. The engine glittered silver-blue under the lights.

“Toxic,” the cop said admiringly. “Four hundred horsepower?”

“Four twenty-five,” Ted said. “V-8.”

“Toxic,” the cop said again.

Ted smiled and nodded. The unfamiliar slang from the twenty-something officer left him feeling unpleasantly mature.

“I can’t believe this is a 2011 car. Forty-five years old and it looks like it just rolled off the showroom floor.”

“Thanks.” Ted smiled.

The cop nodded.

Ted nodded.

“The thing is,” the cop said, “You can’t drive a car with an internal combustion engine inside a tunnel in Los Angeles. Only the gutless wonders are allowed down here. I’m going to have to ask for your license and registration.”

Ted glanced at his watch. “No problem,” he said, reaching for his wallet. He handed over the license, closed the hood and walked back to the driver’s side of the car. Julia already had the registration in her hand. She held it out to him. “Thanks,” he grunted.

“Hey,” the cop said, handing the license back to him, “I’m not gonna write you on your birthday. Turning fifty is bad enough.”

Ted trotted down the concrete stairs of Chick Hearn Arena with Julia barely keeping up behind him. There were four empty seats on the aisle at rows 26 and 27. Ted stopped at row 27, and as he turned to allow Julia in ahead of him, his face looked like a thundercloud.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.