The 37th Amendment: A Novel (24 page)

“That’s it,” Tiffany said irritably. She pointed the remote control at the television like a handgun and fired it. The TV went black. “I’m not listening to another word. The man is trying to destroy the country.”

Ted was startled. “I think he’s just trying to build public support to repeal the 37th Amendment and bring back due process,” he said.

“You are too young to know what a terrible idea that is,” Tiffany said. “Due process may sound very nice and reasonable. But one day the U.S. Supreme Court will revive the incorporation doctrine and it will be the end of law enforcement.”

Ted looked at her, confused. She didn’t seem senile but she was making no sense. “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he said. “What does this have to do with corporations?”

“It has nothing to do with corporations,” Tiffany said. “The incorporation doctrine is something the Supreme Court dreamed up during the 20th century. The justices gradually incorporated the Bill of Rights into the due process clause of the Fourteenth Amendment. They decided that the first eight amendments to the U.S. Constitution applied to the states as well as the federal government.”

“But I thought they didn’t,” Ted said, even more confused.

“They don’t,” Tiffany said in frustration. “The state governments are restricted by their own state constitutions. That’s the way it was when the country was founded, and that’s the way it stayed for over one hundred years.”

“And that’s the way it is now, right?” Ted said. “The Bill of Rights protects you from the federal government’s actions only.”

“That’s right,” Tiffany said. “But there was a lapse in the middle. And it’s all because of Dobson Howe’s precious due process clause.”

Ted looked at the slightly-built woman across the table from him. Her eyes were flashing with an anger that struck Ted as a little over-the-top.

“You can’t even imagine what it was like,” Tiffany said. “Every state law, every local ordinance in the country had to meet with the Supreme Court’s approval. Want a law against panhandling in front of ATM machines? Sorry, that violates the First Amendment. Want to search gang members for weapons? Sorry, that violates the Fourth Amendment. Want to arrest someone for a crime you just saw them commit? You’d better do everything just the way the Supreme Court tells you to or you’re the one who’s going to need a lawyer.”

Ted watched Tiffany’s face turn redder. The flaming color of her hair seemed to be leaking into her cheeks.

“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 network, 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.