Runaway Heart (40 page)

A
fter 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 & 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&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 & 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."

J
erome Sutherland had more catchy
nicknames than a minor league baseball team. During his forty-plus years in PR,
he was "The Flack in a Hat," because in the fifties he favored snap
brims. In the seventies, he'd been called "Deadline," and for two
years during the eighties, when some of his clients were Wall Street crooks, he
was "Junk Bond Jerry." But the name that fit him best and lasted the
longest was Swifty. He was a hundred and twenty pounds of kinetic energy packed
in a diminutive, fast-moving body. His bald head was shaved and his eyebrows
loomed like tangled brush, dominating a face that never stopped smiling.

     
Swifty had played high-stakes celebrity roulette for almost half a
century, scraping up more nasty messes than a waste-removal contractor. He got
fluff printed and bad news buried while cornering the market on insincerity.

     
One of Swifty's patented tactics was to dig up and archive
scandalous, unpublished stories on stars he didn't represent. When one of his
own clients checked into Betty Ford, or was on the verge of being outed by
The
Advocate,
he would call up the reporter who was about to print the career
disaster and offer up somebody else's horror story in return for keeping his
star's indiscretions secret. This practice had earned him the nickname
"Liar for Hire." He definitely knew how to walk the edge of a
troublesome press release.

     
Swifty suggested that Herman meet him for dinner at the trendy
Bistro Garden in the Valley where the flack had
a reserved nightly "gunfighter
table" that commanded a good view of the high-ceilinged, attractive room.
The happy little man who never seemed to stop smiling sat with his back to the
wall and gazed over Herman's shoulder at restaurant traffic while Herman filled
him in. Swifty nodded as if the unusual nature of the tale was not in the least
bit troublesome.

     
"Babs says this is on her account. She's the best, so you got
the best," the little man said after Herman finished. For a
behind-the-scenes employee, the statement showed a surprising lack of modesty.
During all of this Swifty almost never looked at Herman, preferring to watch
the busy room instead. "Dick Zanuck with Richard Cook. Wonder what those
two guys are up to?" he said unexpectedly.

     
"Huh?" Herman was getting irritated.

     
"Nothing. So, what's the drill? You want me to get this trial
you're doing into the press?" he said, shooting his gaze to the right as
two new groups of patrons came through the door. They must've been nobodies,
because he discarded them immediately, finding something else that interested
him to Herman's right, slowly leaning around Herman's bulk.

     
"Am I in the way?"

     
"Nope, just workin' the hall," Swifty smiled. "So
tell me how soon you need this published and what you're looking to
accomplish."

     
Herman explained some more about DARPA and their mission to
develop advanced weaponry. He explained about the TRO. When he got into more
detail about the chimeras, Swifty flicked his gaze back to Herman. But instead
of commenting on the strange nature of hybrid soldiers he commented on the
story's newsworthiness. "Sounds more like an
Enquirer
lead."
He spread his hands and contributed a headline: "New World Police . . .
Government Breeds Genetic Monsters."

     
"Our story's gotta go in the
Wall Street Journal
or
the
LA. Times"
Herman insisted. "My investigator is missing
and I need this played up big and legit so they won't do
something
stupid, like kill him. If I shine enough light on the case maybe they won't
commit a high-profile murder."

     
Swifty buttered his bread, took a bite, then shot his cuffs. His
links would have paid Herman's office rent for a month—rubies the size of a
robin's eggs.

     
"Okay, hitting the high points then." Swifty recapped:
"We wanna make it look like he was snatched because of this restraining
order against DARPA. That somebody bagged this Jack Wirta character because he
got wind of something big. We wanna make it look like maybe these DARPA cats
are the ones who have the most to gain by grabbing your boy, but we can't prove
it, so we can't exactly say they did it, but we imply it. Probably try and get
that in the lead if we can." He took another bite. "And it has to go
in a rag like the
Journal
or the
L.A. Times?'

     
"Exactly."

     
"And you need this when?"

     
"The morning paper. Time is everything here."

   
  
"Jesus. Aside from the fact that
the chimpanzee-clone thing sounds like silly putty, they put the
Times
to
bed in an hour. They usually keep some holes open in Sports and Metro for late
scores and hot breaking stuff, but, shit."

     
"That's why I came to the best."