Runaway Heart

FORTY

After Melissa King went into labor, the Federal Court Clerk's office notified Joseph Amato and Herman Strockmire that the TRO was being assigned to a new jurist and they would be notified of his identity in less than an hour.

Herman packed up his files and, along with Sandy and Susan, returned to his borrowed office at Lipman, Castle amp; Stein to wait.

The secretaries were thrilled to see him. They checked three times to make sure it was still okay for him to use the office.

At four that afternoon, Herman, Susan, and Sandy were still waiting, trying not to become overly concerned about the prolonged delay for judicial notification, or about Jack Wirta's unexplained disappearance.

He was way overdue.

Herman's anxiety finally redlined. "Honey, get on the phone and call around. See if you can find out what air charter service Jack used."

Susan left the office and returned with the three-inch-thick L.A. Yellow Pages. She cracked it open to "Air Charters" and started making calls, speaking urgently and softly into the phone, trying to find out if one of them had chartered a plane to Jack Wirta.

While she was working her way through the list, Sandy and Herman were going over their legal notes and strategies.

"On the plus side, I'm certainly glad to be rid of Melissa," Herman conceded. "But unfortunately I revealed my DNA strategy. I'm afraid whoever they assign next is going to be ready to block us on that."

"Herman, it was always a long shot," Sandy argued. "And what was all that about the chimera hiring you? Where the hell did that come from?"

"He reached out to us when we were in the pool and he was on the diving board. You saw him pleading with his eyes." Sandy cocked an eyebrow at Herman. "Hey, let Amato prove otherwise."

"Herm, you've got a huge attorney-client problem. Why can't we just refile using the SPCA on behalf of the chimeras?"

"Two reasons. First, if we refile, it's gonna take another two days, and with Jack missing, that takes the pressure off, gives DARPA a chance to plan their next move, or maybe even kill him. Second, with a new judge, maybe I can get this in. If I can, it will change the way all animals are treated under the law from this point forward. That's the whole reason I did it this way."

"Except this may not be the way to do it, Herm," Sandy frowned.

"If I can get legal standing for any species other than pure Homo sapiens, then I've changed the law. My God, Sandy, you above all people should…"

"I know, I know. Don't preach at me using my own sermons. It's just, even though these chimeras are being illegally experimented on and need injunctive relief, I'm afraid this strategy is gonna backfire."

"We know they exist, Sandy. We saw one with our own eyes. They're being illegally designed and cloned."

"Then file your TRO with the SPCA as a client," Sandy argued. "This other thing about legal standing is more of a conceptual issue."

"Democracy is conceptual," Herman said hotly. "The death penalty is conceptual. Everything important worth fighting for is conceptual!"

After that outburst they sat in silence while Susan continued calling charter services.

The intercom buzzed. "Federal Court Clerk on line two," one of the LC amp;S ice goddesses chirped.

Herman lunged at the phone. "Herman Strockmire," he said into the receiver while Sandy and Susan watched intently. Then he said, "Thanks," and hung up. "Look up Warren Krookshank, with a K. I've never heard of him."

Susan put her phone on speaker, went to the bookshelf, and retrieved the federal judges directory. It was a loose-leaf binder that Lipman, Castle amp; Stein provided for each office. She flipped it open, found his page, and laid the binder on Herman's desk. In the upper right-hand corner was a picture of a middle-aged African-American man.

"Harvard Law," Herman read aloud, as he scanned the page. "Maybe we can sing the fight song together." Then he grinned. "Been on the bench for ten years. This guy seems perfect. Look at this! Pro-civil rights, pro-gun control… liberal record. He's one of us."

"Then why would he get this case?" Susan asked, immediately suspicious. "You know DARPA had a hand in getting Melissa assigned. If Warren Krookshank is a friendly ear, why would they let that happen?"

"Because they didn't expect Melissa King to go into labor. Somebody took their eye off the ball, or they didn't have enough time to rerig it. So we simply got the next available guy-Krookshank." He looked up and smiled. "We're back in court, nine a.m. tomorrow. It's still fast-tracked."

"You really think it's gonna be that simple?" Susan wondered. She walked over and took the phone back off speaker, cradling the receiver under her ear.

"Yeah, it could be just that simple," Herman replied. "We're due for a break."

Suddenly, Susan snapped her head back toward the receiver. "You did?!" she asked. "When? How long ago? Who is this?" She listened, then turned to her father, "I found the service-Air Jordan. This is the pilot who flew him, Jordan Phoenix." She put the phone back on speaker as Herman hustled across the room to get closer.

"Yes. Say that again," he demanded.

"Just like I told her." A rough female voice came over the phone. "We got chased out of the desert by a military chopper. Once we landed, a buncha federal cops swarmed the plane with guns. They arrested Wirta and took him off in a van."

"How long ago?" Herman asked.

"Must've been a little past three. By the way, he left his camera if you wanta come pick it up. But, except for a shot or two of the helicopter that chased us, he didn't take many pictures."

Herman thanked her and said they'd get it. Then Susan disconnected the call.

"What do you think they're gonna do to him?" Susan asked with concern.

"I don't know," Herman answered. "But we've gotta do something to turn the heat up on those guys. We need to get some headlines fast… something to keep them from killing Jack and dropping him in a hole somewhere."

Susan's beautiful face was distorted with worry. "How… how do we do that, Dad?"

"Get my phone directory," he said.

Susan reached into her briefcase and pulled out a leather book full of his important numbers.

"Call Barbra's PR guy… Swifty something. Little guy. We met him last year at her Christmas party."

"Swifty Sutherland?" Susan said, finding it in the book.

"Right, that's the guy. And while I talk to him, try to reach Donald Trump in New York."