Ted was silent for a moment. “I wish you hadn’t asked me to keep that secret,” he said.
“You have to keep it secret,” Jordan whispered. “You promised.”
Ted nodded. “All right,” he said, “But you have to do something for me.”
Now Jordan was wide-eyed.
“An innocent man has been killed,” Ted said. “He deserves to have his name cleared. His family deserves that.”
“They deserve that and a huge settlement,” Jordan agreed.
“Well, what are you going to do about it?”
Jordan thought for a moment. She shrugged.
“Why don’t you make the file public?” Ted demanded.
“What file, the file on Bara Salvacion? I can’t, it’s a confidential record. I’d go to prison.”
Ted was startled. “Prison?” he asked.
“You bet,” Jordan said. “Fifteen years per count. Mandatory sentencing. The Confidentiality of Records Act of 2012.”
“Wait a minute,” Ted said. “Didn’t you just say you were supposed to give the file to Robert Rand’s defense lawyers?”
Jordan nodded. “The prosecutors are required, upon finding evidence that might tend to exonerate a defendant, to turn it over to the defense lawyers,” she explained. “But since the file wasn’t officially determined to be evidence, it wasn’t turned over, and it didn’t become part of the record of the trial. So it’s still confidential.”
“Who made the decision not to turn over the file?”
“Well,” Jordan said, “I suppose if there were an investigation, it would find that the lead prosecutor, Merritt Logan, is the person whose fingerprints are on that decision. Gonzales’ hands will be clean. They’re always clean.”
“You don’t get along with him very well, do you?”
“Who, Gonzales?”
“No,” Ted said, “Logan.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, exactly. It’s just that Carl Gonzales is going to retire next year and only one of us can be appointed to replace him.”
“I see,” Ted said. “You want to sabotage him, but you don’t want to be caught at it.”
Jordan said nothing.
“That’s it, isn’t it? You want the world to know that Merritt Logan concealed information that might have caused the jury to acquit Robert Rand.”
Jordan’s blue eyes, dusky in the candlelight, narrowed slightly. “Well,” she said, “Don’t you?”
Ted watched the light glint in Jordan’s eyes for a moment before he answered. “I tried to convince at least a dozen reporters that Robert Rand was innocent,” he said. “Everybody I talked to said my evidence didn’t stack up against the testimony of Rand’s accomplice. You’ve got a file that says she’s a liar. You give me that file, I guarantee they’ll all do the story.”
“I can’t do that,” Jordan said.
“Can’t you make a copy? Can’t you leak it to somebody?”
“There’s no way.” Jordan shook her head. “Every file in the D.A.’s office is encrypted and password-protected. The only way to get access to those documents is to log in with your ID and security code, and your password. That generates a record of who sees what. If one word of that file got into the press, it wouldn’t take five minutes for them to trace it to me.”
“And you’d go to prison for fifteen years?”
“Per document.”
“I see the problem,” Ted said.
Jordan leaned forward. “What about this video you’ve got?” she asked. “Have you shown that to anybody yet?”
“Just Gonzales.”
“So it could be an exclusive,” Jordan said. “I’ve got an idea.”
C
HAPTER
7
Tuesday, May 30, 2056
C
hristina Ferragamo stood with one hand resting on the back of a park bench and her high-heeled pumps planted firmly on the grass. The mauve and teal scarf masking her neck fluttered wildly in the wind. Her heavily-sprayed blonde hair never moved.
Ted watched her from the sidewalk that bordered Johnny Carson Park across from NBC studios in Burbank. She looked like a decorative shrub, motionless in her trim mauve blazer and tree-bark gray skirt, with a helmet of yellow hair that resembled an inverted tulip.
This, Ted thought, is what a celebrity TV reporter considers low profile. He had asked to meet her in an out-of-the-way place where they wouldn’t be seen, and she had chosen a park bench near the 134 freeway and Bob Hope Drive in plain view of two office buildings and the 6:30 p.m. traffic.
Ted tucked his briefcase under his arm and crossed the grass to where she was standing. He extended his hand.
“Mr. Braden?” Christina Ferragamo asked with a tight smile.
“How are you?” Ted said.
She shook his hand warmly. “I wish it weren’t so windy,” she said, blinking. “Bothers my contact lenses.”
“My car’s right over there,” Ted said, “We could...” He stopped. His car had attracted a small crowd of admirers from a nearby softball game. “Maybe we could walk somewhere,” he said.
“Let’s go across the street,” Christina said. She pointed toward Alameda Avenue and a few minutes later they were seated at a corner table in the bar of The Abattoir, an unrepentant steakhouse of the old school. Christina turned her teal blue contact lenses on him earnestly. “I understand you have some information for me,” she said in a low voice.
Ted nodded. “
Disclosure
is the only place I would consider going with this information,” he said convincingly, “And you’re the only reporter I would consider talking to.”
Christina beamed. He had her full attention.
“The wrong man was executed for the Maria Sanders murder,” Ted said. “I have the proof right here.” He opened his briefcase, took out a disk and placed it on the table.
Christina unzipped her handbag and pulled out a microvideo player no bigger than a romance novel. She flipped up the screen and inserted the disk into a slot in the base.
The promo for
Power Play
blasted from the tiny speaker. Christina jabbed a button on the unit until the announcer’s voice was barely audible. Ted showed her where to freeze the frame, right at the moment where Robert Rand was standing in the alley, holding an aluminum baseball bat. Christina nodded, her expression a mixture of thoughtfulness and concern, her eyes still on the screen. She nodded again. Then she turned to Ted.
“What is this?” she asked.
“It’s Robert Rand,” Ted said.
Her face was awesome in its blankness.
“The man who was convicted and executed for the murder of Maria Sanders. He didn’t do it. This is the proof.”
Christina nodded knowingly. “I don’t understand,” she said.
It took about an hour for Ted to explain it all to Christina, and for Christina to tell Ted she wasn’t interested in doing the story unless he could produce one of three things: a witness recanting, a confession from the real killer, or a document from the D.A.’s office that would prove someone knowingly prosecuted the wrong man. Then she signed the tab, shook Ted’s hand, and left the bar.
Ted crossed the street and walked back toward the park, feeling uneasy. Though it was only 7:30, the streets seemed oddly empty. Then he saw it: an open space where his Corvette had been parked. Seven feet above the curb, shining in the beige glow of a smoggy sunset, was a sign reading, “Towaway after 7 p.m.”
Chinese funk music blared from Royce’s car when Ted opened the door. “Thanks for picking me up,” he said.
Royce turned the volume down. “I’m sorry,” she said, “What did you say?”
Ted leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “I said, thanks for picking me up.”
“Oh, no problem. Your poor car. This is what happens when you park in fire lanes.”
“I didn’t,” Ted said defensively. “I was totally legal. At least until seven o’clock.”
“The thought of that car on a tow hook,” Royce said, shuddering. “Where are we going?”
Ted consulted a scrap of paper in his hand. “Turn left when you get to San Fernando,” he said.
“You know, I’m glad you called me,” Royce said. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Flynn.”
“What about her?” Ted was always on guard on the subject of his daughter.
“I promised to take her and two of her friends to Las Vegas for the Elvis Centennial. But now I can’t go. Peter booked me into a club in Orlando for two weeks and I just can’t turn it down. The money’s too good.”
Ted smiled to himself. Royce wouldn’t turn down a singing gig if they paid her in Confederate war bonds. “When were you going to go?” he asked.
“Next Friday night and Saturday night. Do you think you could take them? I know you hate Las Vegas but it’s only for the weekend and the girls are so looking forward to it.”
“Sure,” Ted said.
“Oh, thank you. You’re a wonderful father.” Royce turned left on San Fernando Road. “Okay, now where?”
Ted consulted his note and read her the address. A minute later, Royce turned into the driveway of the impound lot. “I’ll wait here until you’re sure there’s no problem,” she said.
Ted looked through the chain link fence and saw his Corvette parked directly in front of the office, surrounded by admirers.
“There’s no problem,” he said. He took out his wallet. “I’ll just swap this for the car. It’s probably an even exchange.”
Las Vegas, Nevada. Friday, June 9, 2056
The sun was just touching the horizon as the plane approached McCarran International Airport. Streaks of candy pink soared across a brilliant blue sky, shamelessly upstaging the winking corridor of neon on the ground. The jet’s wheels rumbled against the runway and Flynn’s friend Nadia unbuckled her seat belt.
“Stay there,” Ted said. Nadia, Pearl and Flynn were so excited over their first trip to Las Vegas they had barely needed the plane.
They made their way to the baggage claim area and the girls watched old videos of hotels imploding while Ted waited for the bags. Flynn pulled Ted over to see the old Excalibur blow up. Memphis, the hotel where they were staying, was built on that site.
Thankfully, Memphis was a short cab ride from the airport, and they were at the hotel before the cab driver could finish telling Flynn and her friends a story about Elvis in Las Vegas which was more than 12-year-olds really needed to know.
The cab pulled into a long curving driveway lined with sycamores that must have been seventy feet tall, interspersed with weeping willow trees that were only slightly smaller. They were as lush and green as if the desert climate had issued an exemption for seedlings from the home of Elvis Presley.
The exterior of the hotel was an oversized replica of Graceland, a massive Southern mansion distinguished by four enormous white columns in front. Dark green-painted shutters framed four tall windows on the first floor and smaller windows above, all warmly lit from the inside to make the faux house appear occupied. Behind the white columns was a huge wooden door, easily thirty feet high, surrounded by white-painted trim and stained glass panels. The bottom third of the door was the real entrance, sliding open on invisible tracks to allow guests easy access to the casino and closing seamlessly behind them again.
Ted and the girls walked into the hotel, a bizarre enterprise that was part plantation mansion, part riverboat, and part Ed Sullivan show. Immediately a bellman dressed in a 1950s-era plaid jacket rushed up to Ted. “Would you like me to hold your bags for you while you check in, sir?” he asked with a beaming smile. Ted traded some cash for a luggage check, remembering to grab his briefcase before the cart rolled away. The girls were already on the move.
“Hold it,” Ted yelled to them. He managed to keep them close until he had checked in and given each of them a room key, strict instructions to stay out of the casinos, and an 11:00 p.m. curfew. When he turned them loose they raced away from the check-in desk, running down the carpeted walkway toward a 20-foot likeness of Elvis Presley dressed in black leather.
“It’s the ‘68 comeback outfit,” said the clerk behind the desk. “Girls can’t resist it.”
“They’re too young for Las Vegas,” Ted said.
“Jailbait Rock,” said the clerk with a big grin.
Ted glared at him.
“We have security guards and cameras everywhere,” the clerk said reassuringly.
Ted picked up his briefcase and started for the elevators.
“Oh, Mr. Braden,” the clerk called after him, “I nearly forgot, we have a phone message for you.” He waved a slip of pink paper.
“Thanks,” Ted said. He looked at the message. It read, “Call Jordan Rainsborough.” “Urgent” was circled twice.
Ted walked immediately to a pay phone, swiped a credit card through it and keyed the number that was written on the message.
“Jordan Rainsborough.” Her voice was faint against the ringing din of the casino.
“Jordan, it’s Ted. How’d you know I was here?”
“Oh, I have ways of finding things out,” Jordan said. “It’s a perk of the job.”
Ted found that unsettling. “Okay,” he said. “What’s so urgent?”
“You didn’t check your messages?”
“No,” Ted said, “I just checked into the hotel. Haven’t even been up to the room yet. What’s going on?”