Джеффри Дивер - The Final Twist

Goateed Steven Field invited them into the kitchen, fragrant with the scents of baking. He was thin, balding and of grayish pallor — though he didn’t seem unhealthy. He probably didn’t get outside very much. He certainly had plenty to occupy him here. There must have been five thousand books neatly arranged on shelves in all the visible rooms — which didn’t include the bedrooms. Even the kitchen was filled with reading matter.

Field wore pressed gray wool slacks, a white shirt and tie and a gray cardigan sweater. Shaw had a sense that he dressed this way every day, whether he was teaching or staying home.

He was sorry they couldn’t meet his wife. She was teaching a class.

“Gertie’s a professor at Cal too.” His eyes crinkled. “Last year, I got married. A younger woman... One month younger!” He chuckled.

The three men sat in overstuffed chairs in the library, Field, against a dark wood-paneled wall, on which were mounted delft blue plates, pastoral scenes of Dutch farmhouses, windmills and level countryside.

Shaw and Russell opted out of any offered refreshments. Field was drinking tea from a cup that still had the bags — two of them — inside. The aroma was of herbs.

He looked them over. Now came the resemblance comment, how each brother bore some characteristics of his father, and how they differed. “I was so sorry to hear about Ash. An accident of some kind?”

“That’s right.” There was no time for details. To explain what had happened at Echo Ridge could take hours, and the clock was ticking down on SP and their family.

“Unfortunate. And Mary Dove, and Dorion?”

“They’re doing well.”

As well as can be expected while hunkering down in survival mode.

“Dorion’s married and has two girls.”

“Ah, wonderful.” He looked them over carefully. “Now what can I do you gentlemen for?”

Shaw explained that they’d found a document, an old one. “A lot of people want to get their hands on it. I remember you and Ashton would spend hours talking political science and law and government. We thought maybe you could help us figure out what it is, why it’s so important.”

“Ash didn’t teach poli sci, I believe, but it was one of his passions. And with your father, that’s passion with an uppercase ‘P.’”

Shaw took the ruling from his backpack and handed it to the professor.

Before he read, Field turned it over in his hand, held it up to the light. “Original.”

“That’s right. Nineteen oh-six.”

“Typewritten. Most official documents were, back then. People think typewriters’re a modern invention.” Field produced glasses and pulled it closer, pushing aside the teacup so there’d be no accidents. He began to read, speaking absently. “Did you know the first electric typewriter was invented by Edison in the eighteen seventies? It became the ticker tape for the stock market and—”

He stopped speaking abruptly and his eyes grew wide as he stared at the words.

“Professor Field?” Shaw asked.

The man didn’t seem to hear. He leapt to his feet and pulled down an old leather-bound book from the shelf. He cracked it open and read, his face a knot of concentration. He closed this volume and found another. He flipped pages again and, still standing, traced a passage with his finger.

Then he uttered a gasp of shock and whispered, “Holy Jesus.”

Field ushered the brothers into the kitchen. “Bigger table. We need a bigger table.”

The professor cleared the round piece of furniture of flowers and cookbooks. Then he set about gathering books from the library and stacking them here.

“Can we help?” Shaw asked.

Field didn’t answer. He was lost in thought — and clearly dismayed.

Russell ran the back of his hand over the beard and he and his brother eyed the titles of the books the professor had plucked from shelves, all of which seemed to have to do with California history.

The last batch involved law books, California reporters and treatises. A U.S. Supreme Court Reporter too.

The professor didn’t say a word. He kept skimming passages, marking some with a Post-it note and, in other instances, apparently synopsizing them on a yellow pad. Finally he sat back and muttered to himself. “It’s true. It can’t be but it is...”

“Professor?” Shaw was getting impatient. It was clear that Russell was too.

Staring at the tally certificate as if it were a land mine, Field said, “California’s always had direct democracy — where citizens themselves approve or reject a certain law, including constitutional amendments. The governor and legislature approve a measure and then it goes to the people directly for a vote. If the majority approves, it changes the constitution. No further action’s required.

“Enter Roland C. T. Briggs. Nineteen oh-six.” Field tapped a thin, leather-bound volume with the man’s name embossed in gold on the cover and spine. “He commissioned this biography himself. It wasn’t exactly a bestseller. The subject was, let’s say, unappealing. He should have had a co-author byline: written with his ego. Briggs was a real estate and railroad baron. Typical of the time: stole Native American land, worked his employees to death, drove competitors out of business illegally, monopolized industries. And I won’t even get into his personal peccadillos.”

Shaw thought immediately of Devereux.

“His team of lawyers drafted Proposition Oh-Six. It was full of obscure changes to trade and taxation. Briggs and his operatives managed to coerce and cajole — and bribe — the state assembly and the governor into approving the referendum vote. And it went on the ballot.

“His bludgeoning didn’t stop there. He and his political machine pressured the people to vote for the referendum and it nearly made it. But it failed by a hairsbreadth. Everyone thought that was the end of the matter. But — according to this — no. It actually passed.” He nodded at the tally.

“I guess someone noticed irregularities in voting in the Twelfth Congressional District. That’s San Francisco. Maybe new ballots were discovered or there was evidence some were forged or duplicates. Anyway, a complaint must have been lodged and a state court judge reviewed the ballots and certified the new count — which was enough for the measure to pass and amend the constitution. Except that never happened.”

“Why?”

“Because of the earthquake. Look at the date on the certified vote tally. April seventeenth. The earthquake was at five in the morning the next day. A number of government buildings and records were destroyed, and dozens of officials were killed. The judge, this Selmer Clarke, was one of the fatalities. In the chaos and destruction after the earthquake, the recount was forgotten — and no one knew the proposition had in fact passed. Briggs probably wanted to put the matter on the ballot again but he died not long after — of syphilis, it seems — and the whole question of the amendment went away.”

Shaw asked, “What’s the ‘Holy Jesus’ factor?”

“Proposition Oh-Six was dozens of pages long, but Briggs didn’t care about ninety-nine percent of the measure. That was all smoke screen — so no one would focus on the only provision he cared about. Paragraph Fifteen.”

Field opened a book and thumbed through musty pages. “Here.” He pushed the volume toward the brothers.

Paragraph 15. That section of the Constitution of the State of California which sets forth the requirements to hold office in the State shall be amended by the following:

To hold any public office in this State, all persons:

1. must have been a resident of California for the five years preceding their election or appointment,