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.
"How about you bring him in to say he did," Amato responded.
"Your Honor, in due time, when he is able, that will happen. As to standing, Charles Chimera and his John Doe brothers are, in fact, chimpanzees who have been made almost human with DNA upgrades."
"That's it! I've heard enough. We're done." Melissa started to rise, but it was an awkward procedure that took her a moment, so Herman rushed on.
"Your Honor, I need only a few more minutes. I beg you to listen. If you will not, then I will be forced to take this problem elsewhere."
"Yeah, like where's that, Herman? The Zoo Association?"
"No, Your Honor, to a full judicial review."
"You're really asking for it." She glowered, but sat back down.
"I intend to put a doctor of genetics under oath who will explain to you that a normal chimpanzee's homology is 98.4 percent of human DNA."
"Right," she shot back. "But it's not a human, so it has no legal standing," Melissa growled. "I'm so sick of your sloppy, unorthodox behavior. When will you start practicing the law like the rest of us?"
"It's a hybrid," Herman persisted. "But if, as has been established, we're using DNA to determine the boundary line for humanity, then at least we can probably all agree that chimpanzee DNA is extremely close."
"But it's not human. So, that's it." She rose again.
"Your Honor, would you accept a case on behalf of a Down's syndrome child? Can anyone seriously posit that such a child is not human for purposes of legal standing?"
"Of course there's standing there. But a Down's syndrome child is a human being."
"That's right, Your Honor. It's human, but with DNA that is only 99.1 percent of normal human DNA. That extra chromosome alters the DNA by nine tenths of one percent. But Charles Chimera actually has DNA that is closer to a normal human being than a Down's syndrome child. This being's human-enhanced DNA is ninety-nine point three percent of a normal Homo sapiens. It has just been established by this court that DNA is the proper measurement for determining humanity. Since you just agreed you would accept a Down's syndrome child with only 99.1 percent homology, it is the plaintiff's position that this court cannot refuse standing to one Charles Chimera, whose DNA is two tenths of a point closer to human homology than that of a Down's syndrome child."
Melissa King was on her feet looking down at Herman with her mouth open.
"You can't be serious."
"You accepted the stipulation, Your Honor."
"You son of a bitch. When is the Lawyer Review Board gonna just be done with it and jerk your license?"
"With all due respect, Your Honor, the court must rule. Will you hear this case on behalf of Charles Chimera, whose DNA is closer to normal human DNA than that of a Down's syndrome child? Or will you refuse him his rightful access to due process provided under the Constitution of the United States of America?"
She was trapped. Herman had tricked her into an impossible situation.
Melissa King was furious at him and at herself, but she was dammed if she was going to hear a case with a chimpanzee as the plaintiff. She'd be an even bigger laughingstock in the legal community than Herman Strockmire Jr.
So Melissa King did the only thing she could do to avoid handing down a ruling . . . her water broke and she went into
labor.
Chapter Thirty-Nine.
Jack accessed the Ten-Eyck Indian reservation
Web site. The cartoon Indian with the peace pipe on the welcome screen was probably designed before Izzy's Bel Air record career blossomed.
A map of the reservation indicated it was, as Izzy said, way out past Indio. The exact location was in the Joshua Tree National Forest, which sounded shady and restful, unless you realized that Joshua trees were actually misnamed cactus plants with no leaves and covered with thorns.
After he located the seventeen-hundred-acre plot on a California road map, Jack bought the cheapest digital camera he could find at The Good Guys, then drove out to Van Nuys Airport and cruised around until he found a small, oddly named charter service called Air Jordan.
It was run by an overweight gray-haired woman wearing Ray-Bans, named Jordan Phoenix, which sounded to Jack like a misplaced desert monument. Jordan who liked to be called "Jordy" had small planes for rent. A few were in Jack's limited budget range. He picked a fifteen-year-old Cessna 185 at one-fifty an hour. After being assured that the plane was "top-notch," he watched with concern as Jordy, who it now appeared was also going to be his pilot, walked around and did a preflight check, which consisted of rattling control surfaces, then banging her fist a few times on the engine cowling. When she saw the look on his face she quipped, "Wakes up the birds that nest in the carburetor." Then she got in and motioned to the seat next to her.
"Okay, honey, fly your ass right on up here and drop anchor." No doubt about it, Jordy was a pip.
"Contact," she bellowed in a voice that would blow the fur off a cat. Then the Cessna burped to life.
Jack decided to try to break the ice. "Must be pretty exciting, being a pilot."
"Not if I do it right," she deadpanned.
They taxied out toward the runway. Jordan keyed her mike, identified herself as November-eight-six-eight-Charlie-Bravo, and started talking to the Van Nuys tower. They were cleared for takeoff, and in a few minutes they were streaking down the runway and lifting off into the Southern California smog. The wings immediately started jitterbugging in unstable, choppy air.
"I'm gonna get up over this chop at ten thousand," Jordy shouted at him. "Air's a little thin, but I hate flying through Indian country at standard altitudes."
"Indian country?" Jack yelled back, wondering if she was talking about the Ten-Eyck reservation.
"Yeah, it's what we call all this airspace between here and San Bernardino." She smiled, "Buncha dentists out here flying around in Cherokees and Apaches. Most docs can't fly for shit. I hate it when they park their birds in my front seat."
"In that case, don't worry about oxygen. Go as high as you want, I'll hold my breath."
She nodded, keeping the 185 in a steep climb.
She was right. There were a lot of little planes. Some were flying in circles, practicing maneuvers, others were just sightseeing.
Once Jordy was at altitude, the San Bernardino Flight Center routed them in tight behind an American Eagle twin prop shuttle. After fighting his slipstream for a few miles, Jordan keyed her mike and asked San Bernardino Flight Control for more separation.
A frustrated and overworked air traffic controller came back at her immediately: "If you want more room, Captain, push your seat back."
"Asshole," she muttered.
There were enough comics up here to book an open-mike night at the Comedy Store. Soon they were out over the desert past Indio and turning southeast. Jordy called air traffic control to discontinue her flight plan. She notified them she was going to visual flight rules and dropping to two thousand feet.
"Roger, eight-six-eight-Charlie-Bravo," the traffic controller said. "But, if you stay on that heading, in twenty miles you'll be over a Code Sixty-one."
"San Bernardino Center, that's not on my map."
"Roger, Charlie-Bravo, this is a new directive. One month old. Turn right at Longitude one-one-six point seven and notify Palm Desert Flight Control. Good day."
She looked over at Jack.
"Trouble?" Jack asked, reading her look.
"Yeah. That place you wanna go look at is in restricted airspace. Code Sixty-one is a military no-fly zone."
"How close can you get?" Jack asked.
"Not very."
They flew out toward the reservation, but before they could
see much of it Jordan banked right and flew along the perimeter of the restricted area.
"This is my hold point," she said.
"What happens if you just do it anyway?"
"I'd have to trade in this Cessna for a taxicab."
"They'll take your license?"
"And feed it to me."
While they were flying along the perimeter a Blackhawk helicopter suddenly appeared on their starboard side. In the open bay door of the huge military chopper were several men dressed in black helmets and SWAT gear. In a side door, behind a fifty-caliber machine gun, sat a waist gunner. The pilot waved Jordan off. The two aircraft flew on the same heading only about thirty feet apart.
Jack took out his digital camera and photographed the Blackhawk. As soon as he did one of the SWAT soldiers flipped him off. Then Jack aimed the camera at the terrain to the east. Somewhere out there in the desert beyond their hold point was the Ten-Eyck Indian reservation. He took a few more shots, hoping he could blow them up or digitally enhance them and maybe discover something.
Suddenly the door gunner let loose a short burst of tracers that didn't hit the Cessna, but streaked past the nose about forty or fifty feet in front.
"That's it. I'm gone." Jordan made a circle motion with her hand, and the pilot of the Blackhawk waved back and nodded. Then she banked the Cessna and headed back to L.A.
"Sorry," Jordy said. "But I ain't looking for no fifty-caliber renovations. Not much else I can do."
Jack was shaken by the incident.
When they landed at Van Nuys there was a windowless van parked out on the tarmac. Jordan Phoenix shut down the Cessna, and as they climbed out the doors of the van opened, revealing four men in plainclothes and blue windbreakers. They jumped onto the tarmac and headed toward the plane. Jack recognized one of the men from the stairwell at Mrs. Zimbaldi's apartment. He turned, looking for an escape, but two other men were already walking toward the plane from the hangar on the right, two more appeared from behind a fuel truck.
The plainclothes feds pulled out Berettas. No lasers this time just good, old-fashioned, Italian hardware.
One of the men, who was tall and lean with a dark Hispanic complexion, spoke: "Get down on your face, please."
Jack assumed the position. They frisked him, but he wasn't packing. His hands were cuffed and he was yanked quickly back up to his feet.
"Federal arrest," the Hispanic man said, showing a badge to Jordan, who was standing there looking at them through her Ray-Bans, her sun-dried complexion as expressionless as theirs.
"You boys can have him, but he still owes me for two hours of flight time." Jordy was a good pilot, but pretty much worthless when it came to backup. "Two hundred an hour for two hours, fifteen minutes," she calculated, adding fifty bucks to their hourly agreement.
Somebody reached into Jack's back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and extracted cash. "You oughtta have a discount when your clients end up in handcuffs," Jack groused at her as they pulled a hood over his head and pushed him toward their van.
"Renting airplanes is like renting sex," Jordy said, counting her money. "It's expensive, and someone is always keeping track of time."
The case was really starting to piss him off.
Chapter 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 & Stein to wai
t.
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.
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