Runaway Heart (2003)

by Stephen Cannell

  "Objection, Your Honor," Amato roared.

  "Overruled."

  "Exception."

  "Noted."

  A break in the action. They all sat around looking at one another wondering what to do next.

  "Your Honor," Mr. Amato finally argued. "We don't accept the existence of any such thing as a chimera."

  "I have submitted to this court a chart of Charles Chimera's DNA base pairs. It proves without a doubt that he exists, even though his presence in court is not possible today. However, we will have testimony from witnesses who have seen Charles Chimera. I heard him speak, and will offer my own declarations as to those facts."

  "It's not possible, because there isn't anything or anyone called Charles Chimera. This hybrid animal doesn't exist and Mr. Strockmire has no proof that it does," Amato said.

  "Your Honor, I'm prepared to put on a genetic expert, Dr. Carolyn Adjemenian, who will testify that this gene map could not be reverse-engineered."

  "And we will put on ten experts who will explain how it can be reverse-engineered," Amato shot back. "This map of base pairs is nothing but a puzzle designed in a computer. There is no chimera, or whatever. Counsel can't prove there is! If he could, you'd see it sitting there."

  Herman stood and handed up a discovery motion. "Your Honor, the gene map speaks for itself, but if Mr. Amato wants the real thing, the chimeras are currently being held and experimented on at the Ten-Eyck reservation out by Indio. They're being trained out there to be soldiers by an agency of the federal government. I want this court to grant this discovery motion to allow us to go out there and see for ourselves."

  "A fishing expedition? Is that what this has finally turned into?" Amato said. "Perhaps we should also go looking for Big-foot."

  "No," Herman shot back. "It's not a fishing expedition, it's a discovery motion, a document whereby you, sir, are ordered to produce the hybrid animals in question."

  "Your Honor, I resent that and object. Moreover, if counsel is making a discovery motion, the defense has not been given proper notice."

  Warren Krookshank had his glasses back on and was looking at the motion, flipping pages. Then the judge looked up from the document. "As to the lack of notice, in the interest of time I'll consider this motion now and give Mr. Amato a chance to submit opposition in a minute, if I think it warranted.

  The drones on the defense team were huddled over the motion, reading fast.

  "This discovery motion seems in order, Mr. Amato. I don't think I'll need anything further from you." Krookshank announced.

  "Except for one thing, Your Honor." Amato wasn't out of it

  yet.

  "And what's that?" Krookshank said, looking up.

  "It's an Indian reservation, and as such is not covered by the discovery requests of this court. As you know, tribal lands are sovereign territories much like foreign embassies, and therefore are not subject to U.S. federal laws or rules of evidence. Anticipating this move by Mr. Strockmire, I have already talked to the Ten-Eyck Tribal Administrator, who has informed me that it is their long-standing policy to deny legal summonses and motions with regard to the reservation. With that in mind, we are objecting to this discovery motion under Apache Nation v. the Office of Indian Affairs, U.S.A. v. the Chippewah Nation, U.S.A. v. the Seminole Nation, et al. The list is extensive, Your Honor. Lengthy precedent exists here. This is an old burial ground of legal arguments excuse the pun."

  "Your Honor, I would like to call a witness who I think can clarify this matter for all of us," Herman said.

  "And who is that?" Judge Krookshank asked.

  "Russell Ibanazi, chief of the Ten-Eyck tribe. He has pertinent testimony regarding the issue counsel raises."

  "Your Honor, Chief Ibanazi has no position with regard to this land. He doesn't even live on the reservation. The Tribal Administrator is a man named Scott Nichols. He and he alone is in charge of Ten-Eyck tribal affairs on the reservation. I have his prepared affidavit here denying access."

  "Your Honor, Scott Nichols is no longer "

  "Just a minute. Let me review this affidavit first," Krookshank said as Amato handed up his paperwork. Judge Krookshank readjusted his glasses and began to read. Herman didn't bother to read it because he already knew it was irrelevant. "Counsel seems to have a point," Krookshank said after shooting through the document. He removed his glasses and looked at Herman.

  "Your Honor, may I please call Russell Ibanazi? I promise he can clarify all of this for you."

  "All right, call your witness," Krookshank said.

  "Objection."

  "Overruled."

  "The plaintiff calls Russell Ibanazi," Herman announced.

  The bailiff opened the door and Izzy strode into court. He was dressed in a charcoal suit, starched white shirt, with a black-and-red tie and matching pocket square. His black hair glistened. Jack thought he looked better than Wayne Newton on Hollywood Squares. Izzy took the stand and was sworn in.

  Herman moved toward him. "Mr. Ibanazi, could you tell us your position with respect to the Ten-Eyck tribe?"

  "I am the chief. My male ancestors have held that position for almost two hundred years."

  "I see. And who is currently in charge of tribal affairs at the Ten-Eyck reservation?" Herman asked.

  I am.

  "Objection, Your Honor," Amato said. "This statement is clearly in conflict with the affidavit I just submitted, which confirms that Scott Nichols is the Tribal Administrator."

  "Was the Tribal Administrator," Herman said. "He was voted out of his job last night by the entire Ten-Eyck tribe."

  Herman stepped forward. "I have here a copy of the Ten-Eyck tribal laws, which provide that the Tribal Administrator may be replaced at any time by a majority vote of the Tribal Council. I also have a notarized record of that vote, which was taken at ten thirty-five last night." Herman opened a folder and removed the notarized records, then dealt out copies like a blackjack dealer.

  "Your Honor, the Ten-Eyck tribe has entered into a binding contract with the U.S. government to lease that land," Amato persisted. "This vote is in violation of the government's lease agreement." He was scanning the document.

  "Counsel?" Krookshank said looking over at Herman.

  "Didn't Mr. Amato just say that reservation land was sovereign and not subject to the jurisdiction of the American courts? Didn't we just hear that?" Herman crowed.

  "I believe we did," Krookshank was smiling slightly.

  "Then I think if he wants to argue that one he needs to file a breach-of-contract suit and see if he can get some civil court to overrule the long-standing list of decisions he just provided us with."

  Herman held up Amato's list of Vs.

  "I agree," Krookshank said. "Proceed, counselor."

  "Chief Ibanazi, I'm going to show you a discovery motion and ask if you have any objections to the court making a trip out to your reservation to see if Charles Chimera and these five John Doe chimeras can be located?" Herman said.

  "Absolutely no problem," Izzy responded. "You're all invited."

  Judge Krookshank looked at his watch. "In the interest of preserving the evidence, how 'bout three this afternoon? I'll have the marshal arrange for some vans." He banged his gavel. "This court stands in recess."

  Chapter Forty-Seven.

  While everybody else waited for three o'clock and

  the vans, Jack Wirta took a taxi over to Cedars-Sinai to see Casimiro Roca. As the cab driver bounced through a construction zone south of Pico, Jack's head felt like sun-rotted fruit about to explode. He silently cursed everybody, especially his driver, who was a Greek. The name on the hack license looked like it belonged on the Rosetta Stone.

  "Slow down," he growled to the man who replied "Hokay," but didn't.

  When they arrived at the main entrance of Cedars, Jack felt like he'd gone ten rounds with Lennox Lewis.

  After a few minutes of wandering the polished, antiseptic halls of the hospital he finally found himself outside of Miro'
s door. He pushed it open and discovered the little ex-dancer reading The Advocate.

  When he looked up, Jack winced . . . Miro's face had gone half purple with bruises. His swollen eyes were greased with some kind of ointment and, as Susan had said, he'd lost several teeth.

  Jack moved into the room and sat next to the bed on an institutional metal chair that sagged in the middle. He tried to ignore his own symphony of aches and pains as he focussed on Miro's damaged face.

  "Are you using too much Maybelline blush, or is that actually a bruise?" he said, trying to keep it light.

  "I guess I got myself kinda stomped," Miro said. "Those men . . . they came back."

  "Yeah, I got it all from Susan. What you did for me . . . that was something pretty special. I just wanted you to know if you hadn't gotten that info about Black Star in Cleveland I'd be opening at Forest Lawn this weekend."

  "That's what neighbors do for one another."

  "Listen, Miro, neighbors just call the cops when th*music is too loud. What you did was heroic, man. We're buds for life. I owe you."

  "You do?" he smiled suggestively. "How were you thinking of paying Miro back?"

  "Don't start with that," Jack smiled. "But you saved my life. I just want you to know I'll never forget it."

  "Now you're making Miro blush."

  "How can you tell?" Jack quipped.

  "Take my word ..." Miro smiled, then winced. "Oooh . . . sorry . . . hurts."

  "So, what can I get you? Anything. Just name it."

  "Jack, would you go to my office, make sure the Reflections answering machine isn't maxed? Pick up the messages and call the boys in the book to give them their appointments?"

  "Uh . . . sure," Jack said. "You mean set up some, uh . . . whattayacallit. . . dates?"

  "Yes . . . dates." He didn't smile because it hurt, but his eyes were twinkling as he gave Jack the key.

  "I have to be back in court at three this afternoon, but I guess I could do that," Jack agreed hesitantly.

  So Jack Wirta, ex-LAPD sergeant and one-time kick-ass homicide dick, cabbed across town to Reflections where he opened the door with Miro's key, entered, and hit the playback button on the answering machine.

  "This is Leon," a voice said. "I'm calling for Marlon. I'm ready to party. Call me at 555-3478."

  Jack wrote it down: Marlon Leon's ready to party. He found a book of names, flipped it open, then had to scan the whole book because he didn't have a last name. There was only one Marlon, so Jack phoned and left a message on his machine with Leon's number. So far so good. Forgetting that prostitution was a crime, he thought this was pretty easy.

  The next message was from somebody named Carl, for somebody named Jack, but Wirta didn't know if that was Jack with the nipple pierce or Jack with the fox terriers.

  Jack Wirta, temporary escort service intern, worked on the Reflections weekend business for almost an hour. He had done some strange things in his life, but this was number one on his list of all-time favorites.

  The van ride to Indio was long and nobody had much to say. Jack thought the driver, an overweight deputy marshal in a too-tight uniform, might have been snoozing between Banning and San Bernardino, but that was just an impression and he hoped he was wrong. Jack rolled down a window to perk himself up some. He'd had enough freeway madness for awhile.

  On the highway to Indio the terrain became decidedly less interesting. Shopping malls and gas stations thinned down to

  roadside jewelry stands and faded real estate signs.

  There were two Indio Sheriff's cars parked at the side of the road as the Econoline vans turned onto the dirt lane leading to the Ten-Eyck reservation. The deputy had cut the old padlocks off the gate and it was now standing open.

  "This the whole shebang?" an Indio deputy sheriff drawled as he stood in the desert heat with his stomach and gunbelt sagging.

  Judge Krookshank got out of the lead van and stood at the side of the road while Joseph Amato gathered up his collection of identical cocounsels. Most of the attorneys looked slightly more human to Jack with sweat on their faces and their ties rolled up in their pockets.

  "Okay," Krookshank said to Herman. "This is your discovery, so you do it."

  They all squeezed into the front van and rumbled past the main gate led by the Sheriff's department escort car, jouncing along on the dirt road, all of them cheek to jowl, scowling like prisoners who didn't make bail. Herman was looking out the window trying to spot the chimera lab, which he was pretty sure would be a big brick or concrete block science pod. What they saw was considerably less noteworthy. There was certainly no shortage of cactus, broken trucks, and old tires. It was an impressive collection of rubble, but there wasn't one chimera to be seen. There were a few trailers rusting away in the dusty sunshine, but no huge concrete research facility. No little furry soldiers with human faces and talking computers. No spirited games of Capture the Flag taking place in the desert heat with DARPA coaches holding clipboards, scoring, and shouting instructions . . . just seventeen hundred acres of arid desert.

  "Let's look in that one," Herman said with a sigh, pointing at a rusting, silver Airstream trailer. They climbed out of the van and Herman knocked on the door. Russell Ibanazi had some keys and opened up. It was empty.

  "This was Bob Horsekiller's place," Izzy said. "He's got a big Spanish Tudor on Charing Cross Road now."

  Good for Bob Horsekiller, Jack thought, as he looked inside the threadbare trailer. I'd rather live in a mansion on Charing Cross, too.

  There was nothing inside the Airstream but broken furniture.

  Back in the van, they headed off again. Herman was getting frustrated. "It has to be a large facility," he said, then pointed at a dirt road. "Try that one there."

  The van swung right and headed in that direction. More tires, more trailers, some stables, and an occasional dilapidated wood barn.

  Herman got out and checked everything, walking into empty living rooms, kicking old rugs, unlocking the empty barns and leading them inside where there was nothing but empty stalls and piles of petrified horse shit. Through it all they were getting strafed by horseflies large enough to carry passengers.

  Up until now Amato had remained silent, but he had started smiling. "Seen enough?" he quipped, managing to sound bored and ballsy, prickish and disgusted. Ten letters, two words and it was all there. Brilliant, Jack thought.

  Then the tour was over. Izzy seemed glad to be heading out of there. His dark childhood memories of the place reconfirmed. He was a resident of Bel Air now and his Michelins were where they belonged under his Porsche, not his porch.

  They stopped at the gate. The sheriff waited as Russell Ibanazi locked up tight, putting on new padlocks he had brought with him. What he was protecting seemed a mystery.

  "Anything else before we go home?" Krookshank asked.

  "No ... no ... I guess not," Herman replied. He looked over at Susan, who shrugged.

  Jack watched Herman carefully. He looked very old in that moment, older than his fifty-five years, heavier than his two hundred and forty pounds, more worn and tired than his shiny black suit.

  "Oh well," Herman said. Two words, and they conveyed nothing but fatigue. Herman seemed outgunned and out of luck.

  Jack felt sorry for him. It must be hard to believe in something so passionately and be completely wrong.

  Chapter Forty-Eight.

  I'm worried about Dad," she said. "I've never seen

  him this way before."

  They were sitting in La Dome, a very trendy Hollywood restaurant. Jack had made the reservation. He couldn't afford the place. Jack usually tried to avoid restaurants where the price of a dinner for two was higher than his golf score and where the waiters were better looking than he was. La Dome definitely fit that classification, but women liked this place. Stars dined there. What a thrill to look over and see Jim Carrey comically spitting his water out onto the floor while your date is nibbling a seventy-dollar plate of Duck ala Bordelaise. The cheapes
t thing on the menu was a monkfish cooked whole. Jack ordered that. Susan had the lobster. After the waiter left she said, "I'm worried about what will happen

  in court tomorrow. We only have Carolyn Adjemenian to verify that this gene map is legit and proves the existence of the chimeras. Amato will have a parade of lying experts, all guys from government labs, paid through secret government contracts, who will bullshit like car salesmen to prove his point. I can't let Dad fail. I can't let them destroy him, steal his soul."

  "Yeah," Jack said. Strange way to put it, but he knew she was right. As he was looking at her in the dim light of the restaurant he was thinking that she had to be one of the most remarkable women he had ever encountered. It wasn't just her physical beauty, it was the way she kept standing in there, fighting for her poor, wheezing father right to the end, never once doubting him, even in the face of total defeat. Their trip to the desert had revealed tumbleweeds and dust devils, but not one furry hybrid monster. But she had never lost faith. Even now she was still trying to salvage the mission, still trying to bail Herman out.

  "Dad and Sandy saw a chimera," she said suddenly. "You saw Sandy's drawing. We need to find out where the government took them . . . where they are. We need to catch one."

  "Right. Good idea," Jack replied somewhat less than honestly, as his plate of monkfish arrived. The head was attached and his meal was staring at him, giving him the fish eye.

  Susan was saying, "He just never looks crushed like that. Even after the MK Ultra case he got angry and rededicated himself. He's just sort of sluggish now, going through the motions with Sandy, like his spirit is gone like he doesn't care anymore."

  All afternoon Jack had been plagued by a thought, but he'd been trying to ignore it. Part of him wanted to just bag this whole case, shake hands with Herman, kiss and make love with Susan, and hope the business with the chimeras would all fade away. But another part of him, the heroic, rarely seen part, wanted to help pull lumbering Herman Strockmire Jr. out of his funk and save the day for the corny but valiant Institute for Planetary Justice. This thought he'd been having this epiphany had been rattling around in his empty head like a marble in a metal bucket for about three hours. He had desperately tried to push it away. It was a question really, and maybe there was no answer. But maybe there was; and if the answer was what he thought it was, it threatened to not only ruin this romantic evening with Susan, but to take them down a road that Jack was pretty sure he didn't want to travel.