Runaway Heart (38 page)

     
"Just kidding," she smiled. "It belongs to Carlos
Ibanazi."

     
"See. Not even stolen. Purchased with our very own tax
dollars," Jack said, already feeling better about the theft. "We're
gonna have to ditch it, though. Too obvious. We better get a rental, like your
dad suggested." Then, to get her off the theft, he changed the subject.
"I can hardly wait to see your dad in court. All dressed up, leaning on
the rail, representing a chimp."

H
erman's phone rang, blasting him out of
a deep
,
dreamless sleep. He rolled over and snatched it up. After
listening to the recorded wakeup message, he called the federal court clerk's
office, and confirmed that his TRO had arrived. He had been assigned a hearing
for 10:30 that morning in Courtroom Sixteen.

     
Looking at Jack Wirta's rumpled, empty bed, he rolled to a sitting
position feeling surprisingly good. He showered his big, ugly body, soaping and
lathering, being careful not to get the stitches too wet on his lower abdomen.
Then he toweled down and shaved with extra care, dressed in his number 4s, using
a Wellington knot on his black-and-white-striped tie. His last grooming touch
was to plaster his unruly hair down with water.

     
Herm surveyed his sagging, basset hound reflection and said,
"You are one goddamn beautiful son of a bitch."

     
He woke Susan and Sandy by knocking on their door, then found Jack
having breakfast out on the patio overlooking the ocean. Herman heard him come
in around three, and rolled over and snarled at him to be quiet, before going
right back to sleep.

     
"Our TRO goes before a judge at ten thirty, Federal Court
Sixteen," Herman said as he sat at the table. "A very lucky number,
if you believe in numerology."

     
Jack looked puzzled.

     
"Sixteen. One and six equals seven."

     
"Shit, I always miss that one," Jack said sourly.

     
"How'd you and Susan do?"

     
"Depends on the category."

     
Herman looked troubled. "It isn't that I don't want you to
take her out, Jack. Hey, she makes her own decisions on who she dates. It's
just now may not be the most appropriate time."

     
"I'm known for my bad timing. Celebrated for it, in
fact."

     
They sat in silence for a moment. Then Herman reached over and
snagged a slice of Jack's rye toast, buttered it, ladled on some strawberry
jam, and started eating.

    
 
"Chief
Ibanazi lives at 264 Chalon Road in Bel Air," Jack said. "It's a
three-acre Spanish mansion. He's a record producer just setting up a new
company. So far, I think he's still just working on getting cool stationery.
The real news is why he's not living on the reservation." Then Jack
proceeded to explain the federal government lease and the seventeen hundred
acres rented by the feds to beat the EPA restrictions. Herm listened while he
finished the first slice of toast, then helped himself to another.

     
"I can get you some of your own," Jack offered.

     
"Always tastes better off someone else's plate."

     
"Perfect sentiment from a lawyer."

     
"I think we need to find out what's out there on that
reservation," Herman said.

     
"I just told you—a pit full of toxic or nuclear waste. No EPA
leakproof containers, no EPA standards, no ground-pool testing—so everybody
drinking the water out in Indio will probably glow in the dark ten years from
now."

     
"How do we know it's really toxic waste?" Herm was
skeptical.

     
"Ahh . . . you mean a CIA cover story? Conspiracy,
right?"

     
"Right." Herman took another piece of toast.

     
"Steal another slice and you're gonna wear this fork as a tie
pin."

     
"Jesus, you're touchy." Herman grinned; he was really
enjoying the morning. . . the crashing waves and cool
ocean mist. He
was looking forward to the legal jousting that would take place in a couple of
hours.

     
"I think you should go out to Van Nuys airport, rent a plane,
head to Indio, find the reservation, and do a flyover," Herman suggested.

     
"Maybe I'll do that first thing this afternoon."

     
"I wouldn't wait for the afternoon."

     
"Herman, if you think I'm gonna miss seeing you in court with
a monkey as a client, then you've got better drugs than me."

     
"Except he's not gonna be there. His DNA chart is gonna be
there. It's gonna be very dull."

     
"You may be a lot of things, Herman, but dull ain't one of
them."

The good news was that the surprise TRO
made DARPA scramble. Their lawyers arrived in the second floor corridor outside
of Federal District Courtroom Sixteen obviously unprepared. They sat on wooden
benches, riffling through law books propped on their knees. Some were rereading
the rules governing TROs, others were studying Herman's show-cause order. There
were six of them, and they all looked and dressed identically. If the feds ever
started cloning attorneys as well as chimps, Jack thought these guys could be
Exhibit One.

     
The bad news was, Herman had been notified about ten minutes after
he arrived that the judge assigned to the case was none other than his old
nemesis, Melissa King. Since that devastating revelation, Herman, Susan, and
Sandy had been off in a corner, whispering and gesticulating. Herman's entire
strategy had been to get a liberal judge, then squeeze through a legal
loophole. Now he was forced to argue his TRO on behalf of Charles the Chimera
in front of Melissa the Merciless. Impossible.

     
Jack was left standing alone with Dr. Adjemenian. She was in
tailored brown, and her long hawk face and sculpted body looked dangerous and
ready to rumble.

     
"How's Tim?" he said, trying to be friendly and release
some tension.

     
"We haven't been able to get back to our place for two
days," she said angrily. "The landlord said somebody broke in and
searched it."

     
"Really? Well, my gosh." So much for small talk.

     
The bailiff opened the door and stepped into the hall.
"Everybody for Judge King's Federal Court hearing on the temporary restraining
order against DARPA, we're getting ready to start," he announced.

     
The cloned attorneys all spun around and looked over their
shoulders like guys caught jerking off.

     
Nobody seemed ready—not Herman, or any of DARPA's gunslingers.

     
Jack found a seat in the back next to an old woman dressed in a
forty-year-old running suit with "L.A. Thunderbirds" printed on it.
She smelled a little like wine and moldy newspapers. Next to him on the other
side was a thirty-year-old, stringy-haired man who had cleverly released the
pressure on his swollen feet by cutting the toes out of his shoes.

     
Good spot. I fit right in,
Jack mused.

After the "oyez" the door
opened and Melissa King waddled into her courtroom.

     
Herman had moved behind the plaintiff's table with Susan and
Sandy. Everyone stood as Melissa hoisted herself up the four steps using the
rail, pulling on it like a stevedore dragging a line ashore. She made it to the
landing, then into her chair.

     
The baby had dropped since Herman had last seen her, she was now
carrying it low in front of her like a basket of laundry. She banged her gavel
just as Joseph Amato, the government's lead attorney, swept into the courtroom
dressed to kill. He was late and still reading the TRO as he came through the
door.

     
"All here, Mr. Amato?" Melissa said.

     
"Seems so, Your Honor," he replied, still scanning the
document.

     
"Okay, so what's the deal on this one, Herman?" Starting
right in on him.

     
"Your Honor, I've filed all of the paperwork with your office
and—"

     
"I've read it. Seems pretty flaky, if you ask me."

     
"Flaky, Your Honor? Well, uh. . . we'll have to trust you to
see the merits once we've argued them."

     
"Right. So who is this Charles Chimera? Where is he?"

     
"Your Honor, he's not able to be here. I will shortly enter
evidence of his existence. However, if I might have permission to do this in
the way I have planned . . ."

     
"How's that, Herman? With balloons and a dancing bear?"

     
Herman heaved a deep sigh. He wasn't going to get into it with her
this time. . . at least, not if he could help it. Fortunately there was no
jury.

     
"I see in this TRO, words like, 'being,' and 'end-product.' I
hope Mr. Chimera isn't some kinda animal, Herman, 'cause if he is, you're outta
here feet first."

     
"Your Honor, you ask a very good question, and that leads me
to my first request."

     
"Oh, for the love of God, who's your client? We did
butterflies last week. What is it now?"

     
"Your Honor, are you familiar with DNA and its use in regard
to the identification of a specific species?"

     
"Of course, Herman. I'm a federal judge. We deal with DNA
constantly."

     
"Since Your Honor is familiar with DNA identification
techniques, then you must agree that DNA is an infallible tool for classifying
species. If, for instance, a tiny speck of DNA is left behind at a crime scene,
we know we can determine exactly what species left it. We can run a DNA scan on
that tissue, and, for example, if it was left by a dog, we can determine that
it is a dog's DNA beyond a scintilla of a doubt. But more than just any dog, we
can determine its exact breed. We can even determine between
close breeds
such as an Alaskan Husky and a Siberian Husky. We can similarly determine if
the blood or tissue was left by a
Homo sapiens
—a human being. It is very
exact.

     
"Your Honor, we will stipulate that DNA is a perfect
yardstick for species identification," Amato said, putting a tinge of both
frustration and boredom into his voice—a thing that Jack knew, from hours in
court as a cop, was very hard to do. Only a guy billing out at over a thousand
dollars an hour would even attempt it.

     
"Good. Counsel stipulates," Herman smiled. "But I
would also like Your Honor's ruling."

    
 
"Okay,
Herman, I accept the stipulation of the parties that DNA provides exact
identification of a species. For the record, that fact will be deemed
established for all purposes in this case. Now what or who is Charles Chimera?
Stop messing around here."

     
"Charles Chimera and the five John Doe chimeras I represent
are all human-chimp genetic hybrids," Herman said softly.

     
"I beg your pardon?" Judge King leaned forward.

     
"Charles Chimera is a genetically designed being. He is a
chimpanzee who has illegally had his DNA altered and upgraded, making him much
closer to
Homo sapiens
than a normal chimpanzee."

     
"Objection, Your Honor," Amato chimed in, coming to his
feet this time. "If this TRO is being sought on behalf of an animal, that
strikes to 'standing.' As Your Honor knows, animals don't have rights under the
United States Constitution. Furthermore, we demand that this TRO be voided on
the grounds that animals can't hire attorneys, so therefore Mr. Strockmire has
no authority to represent this so-called being."

     
"Herman?" Judge King said, scowling at him while at the
same time trying to find a position that was more comfortable. Her huge stomach
had somehow gotten wedged below the desk. She pushed her swivel chair back to
make
room for the
baby, who Herman thought would probably be born wearing a black cape.

     
"Your Honor," Herman continued, "Charles Chimera,
in fact, did hire me. Last night, out at Barbra Streisand's pool. There is a
witness." Herman glanced at Sandy. "He reached out his hand and
beseeched me to help him. If Mr. Amato disagrees, let him bring Charles Chimera
into court to testify that he didn't hire me."