Cat In A Leopard Spot

Chapter 15

Hussy Fit

Temple lumbered onto the courtroom set when the announcer called her name. She felt like a gunslinger toting a pair of howitzers. Louie’s clumsy carrier bruised one hip, her overloaded tote bag banged into the other.

Savannah Ashleigh had been summoned first, so hers was among the craning faces screwed over their shoulders like Linda Blair’s in The Exorcist to watch Temple’s overburdened progress down the aisle.

It felt a little like a wedding day, only there was no groom looking expectantly for Temple’s arrival.

There was only Judge Geraldine Jones, and she was looking annoyed. But then, she always did in court and on camera. No doubt that was why her ratings were so high.

She was the third wave of TV judges: first came Judge Wapner, a WOM (white old man). Then came Judge Judy, a JOW (Jewish old woman). Now it was open season for judges of both genders and every ethnic background, although they all tended to be in the sunset of their careers. Judge Geraldine Jones was half-black, half-Asian, and all cranky. Of course the number-one qualification for the job was disposition. TV judges had to be traffic cops of the personal relationship highways: ever ready to overtake, lecture, and punish offenders against common sense.

People watched live courtroom shows for the same reason they kept The Jerry Springer Show in the talk-show top three: they loved to see somebody else get chewed out.

The announcer had already blared out the opposing position:

“Temple Barr is a Las Vegas publicist who says her cat, Midnight Louie, was abducted and forcibly sterilized by Savannah Ashleigh, star of stage, screen, and a major cable shopping network, the owner of a female Persian cat named Yvette making a television cat food commercial with her tomcat. The Hollywood actress says that the Las Vegas publicist’s cat got her cat pregnant against her will. The publicist says the actress “fixed” her cat against his and her will. Who will win The Case of the Castrated Cat?.”

So many thumps came from inside Louie’s carrier at the end of this public announcement that the container sounded like it was demon possessed, to carry the Exorcist analogy even further.

“This case is an exploration of the fine points of the civil law,” the judge pronounced, staring over her reading glasses at Temple’s hip-hugging luggage. “Not an expedition to the far Himalayas. Do you need help from the bailiff?”

“No, ma’am,” Temple grunted, finally reaching the table, atop which she could heft both burdens like sacks of flour.

The judge blinked at the twin thuds. “I sincerely hope you don’t have any bodies in there.”

“Just bodies of evidence,” Temple rejoined.

The judge flipped through the papers littering her desktop. “This case does indeed involve alleged rape, impregnation, abduction, and mutilation. My, my, my. These bodies have been busy enough for a soap opera, even though they seem to be feline.

“Since you, Miss Barr, are the complainant, you’ll go first.”

Temple whipped out a sheaf of papers from her tote bag and opened her mouth.

“But first, I advise you to keep it brief.”

Temple shut her mouth. Just how brief was “brief”?

“My cat, Midnight Louie,” she began.

“Wait a minute.”

“Yes, Your Honor?”

“Does this Midnight Louie happen to be in one of those two pieces of baggage?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Well, bring him out to meet the people.”

“He may not, uh, be feeling cooperative.”

“Is he always hard to handle?”

“Well, he isn’t called ‘castrated’ over a loudspeaker every day.”

“I’m afraid you can’t libel a cat, Miss Barr, so don’t go trying to add to the charges against Miss Ashleigh.”

Temple darted a glance at her opponent, forbearing to shoot back that you couldn’t libel a Savannah Ashleigh, either, because anything bad you could say about the woman would be true.

But Temple’s wrath was distracted by Louie, who actually bounded out of the carrier into the bright glare of the television lights like Milton Berle racing to a female impersonator session.

“Well,” said Judge Jones. “He is one big, good-looking guy. I can see why a lady cat might be partial to him, even bowled over.”

“Bowled over and assaulted,” Savannah interrupted. “My little Yvette was defenseless.”

“I will look at your ‘little defenseless Yvette’ in a moment,” the judge said, “but first you will kindly keep your comments to yourself until it is your turn to complain. Oh, all right! Bring on your wronged cat and then we’ll have a pair on the table.”

Savannah tossed ashy bleached locks teased into something resembling burnt meringue over her bare shoulders. She unzipped Yvette’s bag with the flair of a magician unveiling an illusion.

When Yvette’s piquant Persian face, a symphony in silvery white fur, peeked over the pink rim, the courtroom oohed as one.

Temple felt like the owner of plain-marmalade Garfield, the comics cat, up against Nermal, the world’s cutest kitten. Yvette was a sophisticated confection of wispy whiskers, perfectly round aquamarine eyes, and ears so delicately tinted pink they looked lavender through the thin down of silver fur that covered them.

Then Savannah, a ham actor who couldn’t resist piling on the honey glaze, cooing adoringly and lifted little Yvette to her cheek, all the better for the judge and the audience to eyeball the petite charmer.

Yvette squalled like a demon infant. She flailed her dainty feet, lashed her plumy tail, and sank her tiny claws into Savannah’s naked shoulder.

Savannah squealed.

Temple stroked Louie’s back and tail as he paced and turned in front of her, a perfect gentleman.

At Yvette’s uproar, he moved to the table’s edge and directed a disapproving growl at Savannah.

“She’s upset,” Savannah said, whimpering as she tried to unhook each pearlescent curve of claw from her flawless, microdermabrasioned skin.

“I would be upset,” Judge Jones said, “if I had been hoisted from my afternoon nap to have my manicure messed with. Put the cat down on the table and wait for Miss Barr to finish.”

A dark, unyielding eye fixed on Temple. “And? What is your proof that Mr. Midnight there is innocent of all charges? That Yvette minx looks pretty irresistible to me. I can imagine what a dude of her own species would think.”

“As you see, Your Honor, Yvette is more capable of self-defense than one would think. No one is contesting the fact that Yvette became pregnant during the commercial shoot. But I have photographic proof that all her offspring were yellow striped. Not a one was black. Or shaded-silver, for that matter.”

“Wait a minute. Wait a minute!” The judge had grabbed her gavel at protesting sounds from Savannah. “What’s this here ‘shaded silver’ stuff? Sounds like a designer drug.”

“It’s a designer cat,” Temple explained. It was her turn to talk, after all. “A purebred Persian color.”

“No doubt that is why Miss Ashleigh is upset over any unauthorized breeding. Just nod or shake, Miss Ashleigh, until it’s your turn to present your case.”

Miss Ashleigh nodded until her own particular Silicone Valley underwent an .8 on the Richter scale. No one could say she had disobeyed the judge’s admonition to “nod or shake,” having done both.

“That will do,” the judge ordered. “I did not ask for break dancing. Now.” Her gaze returned to Temple. “Where is this photograph?”

Temple whipped up a copy of a national tabloid.

The bailiff, a dignified man in police uniform, made a ponderous trip to collect the photo and convey the exhibit to the judge. He was like a not-very-good bit actor who had been given too many chances to execute long, silent stalks across stage.

Judge Jones was squinting at the telephoto-lens-blurred image. The paparazzi had caught Yvette in the act of nursing while her mistress sunbathed behind a privacy fence that wasn’t quite private enough.

“These are definitely striped, every last one,” was the judge’s verdict. “Any similarly striped candidate for the office of father of the brood?” she asked Temple.

“As it happens, Your Honor, a yellow-striped male cat was on the set during the entire filming schedule. His name is Maurice, and he was the spokescat Midnight Louie replaced.”

“Hmmm. Any expert evidence that Louie is not the father of the little convicts? Well, they are wearing stripes!” she told a protesting Savannah.

The audience tittered obediently at the judge’s broad delivery of her own joke.

Temple, in the meantime, fished out another sheet of paper from her tote bag. “The veterinarian has written a statement about how unlikely it would be for a solid color black father not to produce any black offspring.”

This too was brought to the judge’s bench, which was really more of a high desk.

“Anything else?”

“Only that on the very flimsiest of suspicions, Miss Ashleigh had Midnight Louie abducted and taken to a facility where he was physically altered without my knowledge or participation, and obviously against his will.”

“His will does not matter. He is a cat.”

Louie stopped his contented sashaying back and forth against the grille of his carrier—such a nice side-scratching post—and regarded the judge balefully.

She seemed well aware of unfriendly fire when she saw it.

“An animal is property,” she said, leaning forward to address Louie directly. “It does not have free will, and it has no more than demonstrable market value.” Her glance skipped to Temple, but her tone remained stern. “I do hope, Miss Barr, that you are equipped to prove demonstrable market value. I can only award you damages in the amount of the animal’s intrinsic value, and he is not even a purebred, like little Yvette there. Is he?”

“No, Your Honor, but he is a performing cat who earns a salary and residuals. I have here a videotape of his TV commercials.”

The judge nodded, impressed for the first time. “Yes. I would indeed like to see this fellow performing. But you have not yet proven that Miss Ashleigh had anything to do with what you term ‘permanent tampering.’ I assume you mean that he was neutered without your permission.”

“He was kidnapped, taken to a facility, altered, and then dumped on my apartment doorstep in a groggy condition inside a white satin pillowcase.”

“White satin. That does sound like a Hollywood touch,” the judge said, glancing Savannah’s way.

Temple reached into her tote bag with grim satisfaction, soon flourishing a limp white article stained with small portions of red.

“The bloodstained pillowcase in which a drugged Midnight Louie was returned to me. It is embroidered with these initials: S. A.”

A gasp filled the courtroom as the camera operator zoomed in on the lurid trophy.

“Bailiff.”

Once again the kindly man clomped over to convey evidence from Temple’s table to the judge’s bench.

“S. A.” The judge looked judicial. “This could stand for “South America, Miss Barr.”

Temple could hardly cite the most damning evidence: that only Savannah Ashleigh was dim enough to return an abducted cat in a Porthault pillowcase bearing her initials. That would sound like libel, even though it was the unvarnished, uncollagened, unteased and sprayed, and unlipo-ed truth.

The judge’s eagle eye had rested on Savannah’s table now. “Your complaint is that your cat was unwillingly impregnated.”

“Well, we will never know how unwilling she was,” Savannah said. “I cannot believe that a Persian of her breeding would run around with an alley cat like that Louie, or even that Maurice. But they are both big, nasty bruisers. Yvette is only seven pounds, and delicate. It would not take much to overpower her. As for the striped kittens, it so happens that tabby-striped cats were used to give white cats that faint silver-fox striping, so of course it might come out in the kittens. That tabloid photo proves nothing, except that I am a subject of such interest to the national press that even my cat cannot have kittens without an event being made of it.”

Temple refrained from making gagging sounds, but Louie did not forbear from having a hairball attack.

“Must he do that?”

“I’m afraid so, Your Honor. Hairball attacks are unpredictable. And it is upsetting for the animals to come to court.”

“You can’t say they’re not used to hot lights and attention. So. Louie was returned to you minus his, ah, hairballs.”

The audience hooted.

“No.”

“No! I thought this case was about unauthorized neutering.”

“Not neutering. Louie was the victim of a vasectomy.”

’Vasectomy. Honey, they do not do that to cats. They do that to dudes.”

“Well, Louie must be a dude, then, because that’s what he got.”

“Now, wait a minute.” The judge sat back against her chair, frowning. “You’re saying that this cat had a human operation. What kind of vet would do that?”

“A veterinarian did not perform the procedure, which further points to Miss Ashleigh as the one behind it.”

“This cat was vasectomized by an unlicensed individual? By some amateur? You may have a case here, after all.”

“Not only that, I have a witness!”

“To the surgery?”

“Yes.”

“Who is this witness?”

“The surgeon.”

“But you just said the cat was not vasectomized by a vet.”

“No. He was operated on by Miss Ashleigh’s personal plastic surgeon.”

“I object, I object,” Savannah jiggled up and down in high-heeled indignation, one of her best camera angles.

“This may be a hostile witness, Your Honor,” Temple warned.

The judge’s gavel rapped the benchtop as Savannah jiggled, Yvette began hissing, and Louie yowled. “This is civil court, Miss Barr. We don’t have hostile witnesses. Either you’ve got a witness who will support your story, or you don’t. Where is this ‘expert’ who is not a veterinarian?”

A slow shuffling started from the back of the courtroom.

If this were a horror movie—and Temple was not sure that it was not—you would have heard the oncoming shuffling for a long time before any clue to the shuffler’s identity came into camera range.

But this was court TV, and this audience was unwilling to wait.

A man in a two-hundred-dollar haircut and an antipasto of Italian designer clothing shuffled forward like an eleven-year-old truant.

“It is I, Your Honor,” he said.

Savannah shrieked as if cut to the heart. “Dr. Mendel! Et tu, Brut?”

Temple didn’t think Savannah’s mangled Shakespeare had any relevance other than betrayed trust until Dr. Mendel sidled up beside her and she smelled his aftershave cologne. Brut. Unmistakably. Savannah was evidently astute in some very minor matters.

The doctor thrust his hands in his pockets until only a hint of his high-karat bracelet showed on the right wrist.

The judge leaned forward, glasses practically sliding off the tip of her nose. “Did you do this cat, Doctor?”

“I performed some procedures on him, yes.” He directed a misery-filled glance at Savannah, whose toe was striking a furious beat on the courtroom floor.

“Procedures?” the judge demanded. “Is that what we call castrating nowadays?”

“I do not perform castration. Miss Ashleigh brought me the animal. I naturally refused to do anything, but she became quite hysterical.”

“Ohhhh!” Savannah screeched.

He shrugged. “She insisted that I was to make sure this cat—”

“The black one here?”

“I’d have to examine the animal, Your Honor.”

“Make it so,” the judge barked, Captain Jean-Luc Picard style.

Both cats jumped and arched their backs.

Temple tried to hold and calm Louie, but he growled furiously as Dr. Mendel gingerly explored his hindsection.

“Yes, this is the cat. I see that my tummy tuck is holding up well. One of the best I’ve ever done, actually. The skin of cats is not attached to the underlying musculature, you know, so a tummy tuck can make a real difference. Especially in front of the camera, eh, boy?”

“A tummy tuck. So the dude got a free cosmetic procedure?”

“Unnecessary,” Temple said. “You will see from the videotape that Midnight Louie’s handsome coat of hair hides any presumed flaws.”

The judge was uninterested in Temple’s testimony. She was more interested in Dr. Mendel’s.

“So you did not remove anything from the cat?”

“I merely snipped segments from his vas deferens and siphoned some ugly excess fat from the abdominal area. The incisions were so tiny they didn’t require stitches.”

“Impressive. I think you may have happened on a profitable two-fer for your human clients. I know more than a few gentlemen who would like to get fixed and lipo-ed at the same time. Why did you bother with the tummy tuck? That wasn’t in Miss Ashleigh’s instructions.”

He shrugged. “I am a plastic surgeon, a perfectionist by nature. If I see something ungainly that’s easy to fix, I do it.”

Louie growled again and showed his fangs at Dr. Mendel’s hand. The surgeon quickly moved both hands back to his pockets, out of Louie’s snapping range.

“Some would say that Dr. Mendel, and Miss Ashleigh, had done you and Louie a favor, Miss Barr.”

“Louie is a television star, Your Honor. Who is to say his breeding potential is not valuable? Not only that, the pain and suffering I underwent when he was missing, and then returned in such a savage manner, in a drugged and altered condition—”

“Pain and suffering are not awardable conditions, Miss Barr.” The judge turned to Savannah. “All right. What’s your defense? It appears you had no evidence but prejudice and contact to blame your cat’s pregnancy on Midnight Louie. It also looks like you abducted the wrong Romeo. This Maurice fellow seems the far more likely suspect for Yvette’s delicate condition.”

“Well, later on, Your Honor, it did. But at the time…besides, I know my Yvette would never participate willingly in such an event.”

“Wait a minute. We are talking cats here. Female cats who are not neutered—and the evidence is clear that Yvette was not and still is not neutered—do go into heat, don’t they? You do know what heat is, don’t you, Miss Ashleigh? Haven’t you portrayed a human variation of that condition on film often enough?”

“Your Honor has seen my films?”

“Seen them? I’ve had them presented in evidence.”

“Surely not as evidence of violating the ratings system? They are clearly marked ‘R.’”

“No, Miss Ashleigh, I’ve seen them as evidence of fraudulent filmmaking. Some investors said the films were made with no intentions of being distributed, but merely to divest them of their money. But that was a while back, when I was a Hollywood judge, not a TV judge. Luckily”—the judge showed clean white teeth but did not smile—“I am not hearing that kind of case anymore.”

Temple was trying to keep herself from jiggling up and down in triumph, even though it wouldn’t have the gelatinous effect of Savannah Ashleigh’s jiggles. Things didn’t sound good for the Tinseltown floozy.

Judge Jones swept all the papers and Temple’s videotape into a pile. “I’ll adjourn to view all the evidence and then return with the verdict. “Ladies. Control your…cats.”

The admonition was well deserved. Both Louie and Yvette, unobserved by their distracted human chaperons, had each come to their separate table edges and now leaned over the brink of space that kept them apart, sniffing futilely at the unkindly air that separated them.

“Get back in your carrier, you sssshaded ssssilver sssslut!” Savannah hissed. “Issssn’t one mongrel litter enough?”

“He’s fixxxxxed, thankssss to you,” Temple hissed back. “And poor Yvette isssss only a victim in all thissss. She would have never chossssen Maurissse over Louie.”

The kindly silver-haired bailiff stepped into the space between the cats.

“Ladiesssss, pleasssse,” he hissed so that the microphones wouldn’t pick up the catfight.

They each grabbed a peacefully purring cat and moved them back to the center of their tables, as if separating enemies.

The judge’s “few moments” for the viewing audience was twenty foot-tapping, nail-nibbling, cat-herding minutes for the combatants.

The biggest problem, Temple found, was trying to keep the two cats apart. Louie and Yvette, that is.