Jordan placed her coffee cup on the table. “Now, wait a minute,” she said. “A lot more has changed in America over the last fifty years than just the 37th Amendment. People today are more educated and less prone to violence. It would never go back to the way it was.”
Tiffany sipped her coffee. “Is that right?” she said.
C
HAPTER
12
Monday, July 17, 2056
J
ordan walked into the living room and plunked down onto the couch next to Ted. “I can’t stand it anymore,” she whispered through a clenched smile. “If I hear one more word about due process I’m jumping out that window.”
Ted didn’t look up from the sports pages. “We’re on the first floor,” he said.
“Really?” Jordan snapped. “What’s your point?”
“Don’t get mad at me,” Ted responded defensively.
“Why not?” Jordan demanded.
Ted put the newspaper aside and looked at her. Jordan’s blue eyes were fiery and her skin was flushed with pink. “Why don’t you try reading something?” he suggested.
“Reading something?” Jordan’s words shot out like bullets through a silencer. “Just this morning I had to read Justice Black’s dissent in
Adamson v. California
and Charles Fairman’s Stanford Law Review article refuting Justice Black’s dissent in
Adamson
. That’s enough for one day, don’t you think?”
“I guess,” Ted said. He was watching her gleaming dark hair bounce around the low neckline of the sleeveless black tank top Tiffany had picked up for her.
“Can’t we go somewhere else?” Jordan pleaded. “Can’t we go to a hotel?”
“Of course we can,” Ted said, returning to his newspaper.
“Really?” Jordan squeaked.
“Sure,” Ted said. “We can go to a hotel and be recognized, and then TV news crews will follow us around, and then the governor will be forced to extradite us, and we’ll be back in L.A. before you can say ‘What a moron I was.’”
Jordan stood up and stormed over to the window, arms folded in front of her as she stared icily at a shrub.
Ted sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said. He stood up and walked over to the window. “I didn’t mean that.”
Jordan turned sharply to face him. “I can’t stand it anymore,” she said. “I have to get out of this house. At least for a while. I’m going insane.”
“Jordan, it’s only been three days.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” she seethed. “You didn’t have to read
Duncan v. Louisiana
. How come she never makes you read any of this stuff?”
“Maybe I should be insulted,” Ted smiled. “Just try to be patient.”
“For how long?” Jordan stormed over to the couch and sat down. The black running shorts she was wearing rode up slightly on her legs.
“Until Dobson tells us it’s safe to come back.” Ted walked back to the couch and sat next to Jordan. He patted her bare thigh soothingly. “I’m sure it won’t be too much longer,” he promised.
“Ted? Jordan? Where are you?” It was Tiffany, upstairs.
“We’re in the living room,” Ted called out. He heard the jingle of keys. Tiffany breezed into the room, carrying a small notebook and a large handbag.
“I’m off to do a little shopping,” she said. “I’ll pick up some shirts for you, Ted, you must be awfully tired of wearing that one. Then I’m going to the grocery store. Any requests for dinner?”
“Yes,” Ted said, standing up and taking out his wallet. “I request that you let me pay for all of this.”
“Absolutely not,” Tiffany said. “First, it’s my pleasure. Second, Jimmy said he’s paying for everything. Third, Dobson Howe offered to make it up to me and that’s an offer I intend to accept. See you in an hour or two.”
She breezed out again. Ted heard the door to the garage slam behind her.
“Ahhhh,” Jordan said. “Peace is at hand.”
“Say that again,” Ted said.
“Peace is at hand.”
“No. ‘Ahhhh.’”
Jordan leaned back on the sofa. “Ahhhh,” she said softly.
Ted turned to his left to face her more directly and placed his right hand on the inside of her knee. He moved his hand lightly up her leg. “Say it again,” he ordered.
“Ahhhh,” Jordan said. It sounded to Ted as if she meant it. Just to be sure, he moved his hand down, and then up again.
“Ahhhhh,” Jordan said, throatier this time. Ted moved closer and kissed Jordan’s neck. Her hair felt soft against the side of his face. Her skin smelled of the same faintly floral fragrance that clung to Tiffany, but the effect was quite different. Tiffany’s fragrance was powdery, but Jordan smelled like a rose.
He felt her right hand moving slowly against his leg.
Ted kissed Jordan’s cheek, then slipped both his hands up into her mane of dark hair and pressed his lips against hers. Jordan opened her mouth and caressed his tongue. She felt slippery and suede-like at the same time.
“Let’s go upstairs,” Ted murmured finally.
“No,” Jordan said.
Ted pulled back. “No?” he repeated.
Jordan lifted her tank top over her head and tossed it aside. “What’s wrong with right here?” she asked. She was already out of the shorts and standing before him in a low-cut ivory satin bra and matching thong. Ted was dumbstruck. He’d always believed no woman could really look like that without airbrushing.
“What’s wrong?” Jordan asked teasingly. She sat on his lap and began to unbutton his shirt. Ted ran one hand lightly over her breasts and with the other searched for the hooks at the back of the bra. “It’s in the front,” Jordan said. She reached down and released a hidden clasp, sending the sides of the bra springing off to the left and right and freeing her breasts. He ran his hands gently over them, feeling the nipples harden against his palms. Then he moved his hands around to her back and pulled her toward him, letting her breasts press against his face. His mouth found its way around one of her nipples.
After a moment, Jordan pushed him gently back against the sofa and stood up.
“Why are you still dressed?” she asked. “We may only have an hour.” She turned and walked away from him, toward the center of the room. Ted remembered the first time he had seen her from that angle, on the eighth floor of the Criminal Courts building. She was even more beautiful than he had imagined. In an instant his clothes were on the floor in a heap and he was standing behind Jordan in the middle of the room, his arms around her, caressing her breasts with both hands.
Suddenly Jordan dropped to her knees and then down onto her hands. She arched her back and leaned forward like a cat. Ted followed her down to the carpet and tugged the ivory satin thong down to her knees and then off. It felt wet in his hand. Then her soft skin was against his abdomen and the palms of his hands were gripping her hip bones, pulling her body toward him in powerful stroking motions. Jordan made a sound that was half-moan, half-cry. Ted released her. Jordan turned her head and looked at him, her face shining with perspiration.
“Why did you stop?” she breathed.
Ted did not stop again. He pounded relentlessly against her, pausing only once to turn her over to face him. Her breasts were suffused with pink, the nipples dark and hard. He let his weight pin her helplessly to the carpet. Jordan’s eyes were closed, her brows knit together. A deep blush swept over her cheeks. A moaning sound escaped her. He felt her hips move sharply, repeatedly, under him.
Ted pulled out suddenly and shot over Jordan’s smooth stomach, watching her chest heave with her breathing. He dropped down onto his side next to her, breathing hard and drenched with sweat.
They were motionless for several minutes. Then Ted stood up, got a box of tissues from the bathroom, and gently cleaned up Jordan’s glistening body.
“Got anything for rug burns?” she asked.
“Turn over and let’s see,” he said.
Jordan stretched her arms over her head and rolled over onto her stomach. Sure enough, there were red marks across her upper back and on her bottom. Ted gave her a playful slap. “How’s that?” he asked.
“Ow,” she wailed. Jordan rolled over again. She watched him for a moment, thoughtfully, as if trying to fit a piece into a jigsaw puzzle. “Tell me about your girlfriend from RCN Data Systems,” she said.
“Ex-girlfriend,” Ted answered.
“Really?”
“Really.”
Jordan looked up at him, her blue eyes twinkling. “Good,” she said.
Gregory Ulrich pushed the room service tray to the far side of the table and put on his reading glasses. In front of him was a stack of file folders, each labeled with Ted Braden’s name and a number. There were six of them. Ulrich sighed and stared out the window.
The Wellington St. Clair on MacArthur Park offered a spectacular view of the city. From the 25th floor of the hotel he should have been able to see all the way to the ocean. Unfortunately, it was a hot July day and all he could see was smoggy haze. Still, the suite was expansive, the liquor was comped and the bathrobe was softer than a baby lamb. He’d worked in worse places.
Ulrich sat down on a blue brocade loveseat and put his bare feet up on the polished walnut coffee table. He opened the first folder and looked at the top page. It was a transcript of Ted Braden’s meeting with Carl Gonzales and Jordan Rainsborough ahead of the Robert Rand trial. He uncapped a highlighter pen and started to read, flipping quickly through the pages.
On page one hundred and seventeen, he noticed something.
RAINSBOROUGH:
Have you ever had any conversations about Robert Rand with anyone?
BRADEN:
Just with my girlfriend. Last night I took her to the game and, like I said, I noticed that Rob wasn’t there. So, you know, we talked about it.
RAINSBOROUGH:
And what’s her name?
BRADEN:
You’re not going to send the deputies for her, are you?
GONZALES:
Mr. Braden, this is a serious matter. We have charged Robert Rand with the murders of Maria Sanders and LAPD officer William Szafara. However, we have both an obligation and a responsibility to seek and consider all evidence that might tend to exonerate him. You may not be aware that we have the power to compel the testimony of witnesses, even to the point of locking them up in county jail if they don’t cooperate.
RAINSBOROUGH:
It’s because of the Public Safety Act. Violent crimes in California are tried under what are called ‘expedited procedures.’ That means we have to move things along.
BRADEN:
If you have to talk to her, I’ll bring her in.
RAINSBOROUGH:
Well, for now, all I need is her name and a few facts.
BRADEN:
Julia Thomsen.
RAINSBOROUGH:
And where does she work?
BRADEN:
Can I just give you her home address?
RAINSBOROUGH:
All right.
BRADEN:
422 Hobart Place.
GONZALES:
Where does she work?
RAINSBOROUGH:
We can easily find out. We found you.
BRADEN:
RCN Data Systems.
Ulrich stood up and walked over to the desk where his computer was plugged in.
Jordan came out of the bathroom wearing a towel, her dark hair hanging straight and dripping. “Ted?” she whispered. “Is she back yet?”
There was no answer. Jordan padded down the hall in her bare feet to the top of the stairs and peered down into the living room. She saw Tiffany’s keys on the table next to the sofa.
In the kitchen, Ted and Tiffany were watching Dobson Howe give an interview on a news network.
“We may never know if he was the killer,” Howe was saying. “The confession that was beaten out of him surely doesn’t prove anything.”
A blond man seated in front of a bookcase jumped in. “That’s pure speculation,” he shouted. “The police department is still investigating how Michael Dency was hurt.”
“We can imagine what their report will say,” Howe thundered, “now that he’s died of his injuries and can’t contradict the police account.”
Howe and the blond man continued to argue. Tiffany reached for the remote control and turned the volume down slightly. “Heard enough?” she asked.
Ted nodded.
“He certainly spends a lot of time on television,” Tiffany said. “I must have seen him on ten shows in the last three days. When does he find time to work on your case?”
“I’m sure he’s working on it,” Ted said uncertainly. “I know he must have some kind of a plan in mind.”
“It looks like he’s planning to run for something,” Tiffany observed.
Ted glanced at the television. A youthful host was soliciting Howe’s comments on the latest revelations of wrongful convictions in Los Angeles County. “Legal misconduct does nothing to make our cities safer,” Howe said. “If anything, you have more to fear when your government is out of control.”