McCarthy took her arm and escorted her down the steps of the small stage and over to the luxury RV that the mayor’s staff had rented for the day. It was comfortably outfitted with sofas, tables and a fully-stocked refrigerator. Four staffers inside excused themselves and headed to a coffee bar across the street when McCarthy and the mayor arrived.
“So,” McCarthy said when he and the mayor were settled in with cold drinks, “Things have been a little rough for you lately.”
“Not at all,” the mayor said. “We stay very positive, very focused on our issues, and we don’t get distracted or sidetracked.”
McCarthy nodded sympathetically. “Still,” he said, “You have your hands full with those media hounds. I’m in this business a long time, I’ve never seen anybody orchestrate a campaign of self-aggrandizement as well as Dobson Howe has done it. You would think he was running for something.”
The mayor shook her head. “I don’t think that’s it,” she said. “I did at first. But there’s no indication he’s running for anything, or even thinking of running.”
“No?” McCarthy said. “What do you think he’s up to?”
“Off the record?” the mayor asked.
“Certainly.”
“I think it’s ego,” the mayor said. “There’s no limit to what that man will do to get on television.”
“Much as I hate to break this up,” Dobson Howe said to the group seated around his kitchen table, “Opening arguments start tomorrow and two of you still have to drive home.”
Tiffany, looking pale and tired, pushed her chair back. “And it’s a long walk to the guest room,” she said. “Good night, everybody.”
“No, you stay right there,” Howe said gently. “You and I have some unfinished business.” Startled, Tiffany sat down again. Howe turned his gaze on Jordan. “Now, young lady,” he said, “You are not to sneak out of the side door of your building tomorrow morning.”
Jordan looked like she’d been caught shoplifting.
“I want you to go right out the front doors where the cameras are. It’s important,” Howe said.
“But why?” Jordan protested.
“Because the clip of you leaving your apartment in the morning leads the news every night.”
“They can use a shot of me from their file.”
“Not good enough,” Howe boomed across the table. “They’re going to need new footage every day. The better the pictures, the more airtime they’ll give the story. Didn’t you study communications in school?”
“Yes,” Jordan said with the slightest trace of a whine. She glared at Ted.
“It’s not my fault,” Ted said defensively. He looked over at Howe. “I can’t help it if her walk makes the ratings go up.”
The mayor had just finished reapplying a bronze-red lip color when there was a knock on the door of the trailer. Clark McCarthy stood up and tucked his shirt into his pants.
“Mr. McCarthy, we’re ready for you on the set, sir,” said a voice on the other side of the door.
“We’re coming right now,” McCarthy called out.
Mayor Martinez giggled.
Jordan and Ted left, leaving Tiffany alone at the kitchen table with Dobson Howe. Howe leaned back in his chair. “All right,” he said. “Let’s have it.”
“Hmm?” Tiffany asked. “Let’s have what?”
“I assume you want to tell me that I’m wrong to want to repeal the 37th Amendment,” Howe said.
“Mm-hmm.” Tiffany’s voice held no enthusiasm.
Howe frowned. “Have I said anything to offend you?” he asked. “It seems that since you set foot in this house you’ve been upset about something.”
Tiffany looked up and met Howe’s gaze. The intensity of it surprised her. Unconsciously she straightened her hair with her fingers. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s nothing you’ve said, you’ve been wonderful. It was so gracious of you to invite me to stay here through the trial. It’s just...” She hesitated. “It’s difficult for me to be here again, in this neighborhood. Even though you can’t recognize the place. It’s been forty-five, no, fifty years.” She shook her head. “Hard to believe when you look around here that you’re just ten minutes away from downtown. These beautiful homes, and all the trees. How long have you lived here?”
“Twenty years.”
“And I’ll bet you’re the original owner of this house,” Tiffany said.
“Yes, I am,” Howe said. “Do you have friends who live around here?”
“No,” Tiffany said. “My husband used to work in this area.”
“Is that right?” Howe said politely. “What kind of work did he do?”
“He was a cop,” Tiffany said. “He was shot to death not three blocks from here.”
Tuesday, August 8, 2056
Carl Gonzales stepped to the lectern. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said to the jury, “This is a very simple case.” The jurors watched him attentively. “It may appear,” he continued, “that something enormously involved has happened here. But that’s just not true. This is a simple case of a law being broken. That’s all.”
Gonzales picked up a remote control device and pressed two buttons. A graphic appeared on wide-screen monitors in the courtroom. It read, “The Confidentiality of Records Act of 2012.”
“This law,” Gonzales continued, “was enacted to protect your privacy. In the era when records were kept on physical pieces of paper, this law wasn’t necessary. In order to get your private records, a person had to get inside a locked file room, something that was very difficult to do and very easy to discover. But today, your records are kept electronically. And we all know how fast and easy it is to copy an electronic file and send it halfway around the world and back. What protection do you have? You have the integrity of the people who handle this sensitive information. And you have something else.”
He clicked the remote control. The new graphic read, “It shall be unlawful to disclose, copy or distribute confidential records except as specifically allowed or required by law. The penalty for such disclosure, copying or distribution shall be not less than fifteen and not more than twenty-five years in prison and a fine not to exceed $500,000.”
“You have the law,” Gonzales said.
The jury looked solemnly at the monitors.
“You have the assurance,” Gonzales continued, “that when someone in a position of trust violates your privacy, that person will pay a high price. A price high enough to discourage, to strongly discourage, any intrusion into your confidential records.”
Dobson Howe made a note.
“What happened here,” Gonzales said, “is this: Ted Braden and Jordan Rainsborough conspired to copy all the confidential records in the district attorney’s files. All of them. They got every document on every case, even the sealed files of juvenile defendants, even the home addresses of protected witnesses. They got everything. Then they looked for cases in which mistakes were made. Now the mistakes were very serious, there’s no question about that. But ask yourself: do you want anyone, anyone, for any reason, to go searching through your confidential records? They’re just asking you to trust them? No, that’s not correct, is it? They’re not asking at all.”
Gonzales sat down.
Judge Martina Bernard wrote something down on a pad. “Mr. Howe?” she said.
Dobson Howe stood up slowly and walked with great deliberation to the lectern. He fixed a demanding stare on the jury. “I think you know,” he said quietly in a voice like distant thunder, “that this has nothing to do with privacy. This case is about justice.” He extended his arm and pointed to Ted and Jordan, seated together at the defense table. “Who are these people?” Howe continued. “They are not a pair of common snoops, looking for gossip to sell to the tabloids. Who is Ted Braden? He’s a man who saw a terrible injustice and tried to stop it. He saw an innocent man convicted and executed for a murder he did not commit. He dedicated himself to clearing that man’s name. That man was Robert Rand. Today, thanks largely to the personal efforts of Ted Braden, we all know that Robert Rand was an innocent man. And while that is not justice, it is truth.”
Howe pointed to Jordan. “And who is Jordan Rainsborough? She’s a woman who saw innocent people wrongly convicted and tried to do something about it. She’s an assistant district attorney, bound by law to release any person who has been arrested without sufficient cause. She’s the next-to-last line of defense protecting innocent people from wrongful imprisonment. But she is not the last line of defense. You are.”
Dobson Howe rested one hand on the lectern and looked intensely at the jurors. “You will decide who is innocent and should go free,” he said, “and who is guilty and should be punished.”
Howe sat down.
The judge made a note. “Mr. Gonzales,” she said, “Call your first witness.”
“Thank you, your honor,” Gonzales said. “The people call Christina Ferragamo.”
Heads turned in the courtroom as the door opened and the celebrity reporter made her entrance. A cloud of expensive perfume trailed behind her. She took the witness stand and was sworn in.
“Please state your name for the record,” Gonzales said.
“Christina Ferragamo,” she answered. “Would you like me to spell it?”
“I’m sure that’s not necessary,” Gonzales said. “Ms. Ferragamo, do you recognize this document?” He handed three stapled pages to the bailiff, who walked the papers over to the witness stand. Christina flipped through them. “Yes,” she said. “This is the report on the medical condition of Michael Dency after he was taken into custody and questioned by the police.”
Gonzales nodded to the judge. “I believe the defense will stipulate,” he said, “that this is in fact the medical report on Michael Dency, and that the document has been authenticated.”
The judge made a note. “Mr. Howe?” she asked.
Howe stood up. “So stipulated, your honor,” he said.
Judge Bernard turned to the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she began, “A stipulation is an agreement between the two sides about a fact in question. When you hear that the attorneys have stipulated to a fact, that means you are to accept it as true insofar as it pertains to this case. Mr. Gonzales?”
“Thank you, your honor,” Gonzales resumed. “Ms. Ferragamo, when did you first see this document?”
Christina glanced at the pages in her hand. “When Jordan Rainsborough gave it to me in June,” she said.
Gonzales made a note. “Your honor,” he said, “I believe the defense will stipulate that Ms. Rainsborough did in fact give that document to Ms. Ferragamo on June 9, 2056.”
“Mr. Howe?” the judge asked.
“So stipulated, your honor,” Howe boomed.
Ted watched the judge make a note. He felt a flutter of sickness in the pit of his stomach. He looked over at Jordan. She was pale.
Reporters and cameras were waiting when Dobson Howe’s driver pulled the car up in front of his office building. Howe, sitting in front, peered through the window at the crowd. “A very good turnout,” he said. “But we won’t take any questions right now. We have too much work to do upstairs. Everything must be handled with precision in court tomorrow or the consequences could be quite grave.” He opened the door. A din of shouted questions flooded into the quiet interior of the Bentley. Howe got out of the car. “No questions at this time,” he said, and closed the door, leaving Ted and Jordan in the quiet again.
“Ready?” Ted asked. Jordan leaned forward and looked past Ted to the crowd on the sidewalk. “I guess,” she said. Ted opened the door and stepped out, turning to assist Jordan. Cameras flashed and voices in the crowd shouted indecipherable questions. “Step out of the way, Ted,” Howe said, leaning close to Ted’s ear. “Let them get their shot.” Ted stepped to the side and cameras flashed again as Jordan’s long legs emerged from the car. The night before, the short skirt of her business suit had led two national news shows.
“Jordan! Over here!” a photographer shouted.
“Mr. Howe, are your clients going to confess on the stand tomorrow?”
“Did you know Christina Ferragamo was going to testify?”
“Ladies and gentlemen, please,” Howe said, holding up his hands. “I’ll just make a brief statement because we have a lot of work to do to prepare for tomorrow’s testimony. Today you saw the prosecution’s case against my clients. We do not dispute their version of the facts. Tomorrow we will present our defense. We are confident that the jury will, in the end, make the right decision.”
“Are you arguing for jury nullification?” a reporter shouted, “Are you saying the jury should acquit because the law is wrong?”
“As I said today in court,” Howe answered, “This case is about justice.” He swept his arm expansively behind Jordan and Ted and ushered them into the building.
Ted helped himself to Howe’s Scotch. “I think it went well today,” Howe said, settling into the leather chair behind his desk.
“Well, yes,” Ted answered. “We stip-u-lated,” he sounded out the word like a gradeschooler, “that all the charges are true.”
“No point in dragging out the trial,” Howe responded. “You want the networks to stay with the live coverage.”
Jordan, standing at the window, turned around to look at Howe. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” she said in a voice that sounded both casual and vaguely threatening.
Howe caught the tone. “Do you think I don’t?” he asked sharply.
Jordan turned away again. “I think every cause needs its martyrs,” she said.