The 37th Amendment: A Novel Read Free

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