Stephen Cannell - Runaway Heart

"Are you on the board of this thing, Herman? Is this a sham foundation?"

Herman stood before her, head down, face reddening, heart racing.

"I can go to the Corporations Commissioner in Michigan and get the filing with a list of its officers. Don't put me through that."

"Your Honor, I have the right, as a U.S. citizen with access to the federal court system, to file a suit on behalf of a corporation I happen to control," he protested.

"That's a fact. But you don't have the right to file a false affidavit in my court and lie to me about it. I'm holding you in contempt and I'm throwing this whole mess out. I won't hear a case where one of the principal attorneys before me is filing bogus paper. Furthermore, Herman, I think you and I have come to the end of the road. I can't tell you how angry your courtroom behavior makes me. I have been wracking my brain, trying to think of a way to demonstrate my displeasure to you."

"Your Honor…"

"Shut up!" she ordered, and now he feared the worst.

"I'm going to apply Rule Eleven of the U.S. Code of Civil

Procedure." Rule Eleven gave a sitting judge the right to discipline lawyers for filing frivolous, groundless, or harassing lawsuits.

"Your Honor, this isn't a Rule Eleven situation. This lawsuit has legal merit. I would like to meet with you in chambers to discuss this," Herman said.

"I'm sure you would, but that isn't going to happen Herman, at least not today. So you'll get the point, the fine I'm going to attach to this incident is in the amount of one million dollars."

Herman heard a sharp intake of breath from Susan and even from a few of the defense attorneys seated behind him.

" What?" Now Herman's heart was beating so fast it was tickling the inside of his throat. He could feel his arteries expanding and contracting with each rapid heartbeat.

"A million dollars, Your Honor? I've never heard of a Rule Eleven penalty exceeding ten or twelve thousand dollars. You can't be…"

"You're damn right I'm serious!" she interrupted.

He glanced back at Susan, who had a defeated look on her face. She found his eyes, but shook her head sadly. They didn't have anything close to a million dollars.

"I'm going to arrange for a meeting in my chambers tomorrow with an order to show cause why such a sanction should not be imposed. My clerk will get in touch to set the time. Do not be late, Mr. Strockmire." It was the first time she had used his surname. Then she cleared her throat and started to rise, but hesitated. "One more thing," she said, looking down at him like Moses from the mountaintop. "I've been made aware of your spat with the California Bar. I'm going to write them a letter detailing this incident, to be included in that file. Case dismissed. Witness is excused."

Melissa King banged her gavel, got up, and waddled off the platform. All eyes followed her as she made her way through the back door to her chambers, slamming it shut as she exited.

Herman was left in the center of the courtroom, his tired body sagging. He began to feel woozy. The opposing attorneys had stopped slapping each other on the back and were now packing up their briefcases. The old men and women in Vulture's Row shook their heads and muttered. They'd been cheated out of the full day's entertainment. "What a gyp," one of them said.

Herman felt Susan's hand on his arm. "Come on, Dad," she said. "Let's go."

He moved with her, feeling shame and anger at himself. He picked up the glass box containing the three monarchs and carried it out of the courtroom. Susan and Dr. DeVere followed in his wake. They watched him from the steps of the courthouse as he took the glass terrarium across the street into the park and set the three monarchs free.

"What happened?" Dr. DeVere asked Susan.

"Dad took a chance and he lost."

"You mean we can't get this back into court?"

"Probably not. She was gonna kill us anyway, but Dad never sees that. Never thinks it will happen. All he sees is what he's trying to do."

Herman flushed the last orange and black monarch out of the terrarium. The three beautiful butterflies fluttered around his head for a moment as he watched, then two of them flew away. But the third one landed on Herman's shoulder. It posed there, delicate wings pulsing just inches from his nose, almost as if it were saying, "Thanks, anyway, we know you tried." Then it, too, flew away, leaving Herman standing by himself in the park.

A squat little man with a runaway heart.

Herman was back in the cardio unit hooked up to

flashing, beeping monitors. He had once again been electronically converted, while Susan endured another stern lecture from Dr. Shiller, who scolded her that Herman could easily have a heart attack next time, or even a stroke, and that they couldn't continue to cheat the odds.

"I'll talk to him about it, I promise," she said, as Shiller was being called into an emergency. He walked off at a brisk gait to fix the heart of a more reasonable patient.

Susan went back into the C.C.U. and sat with her father. He seemed crushed by the events of the day, his chin down on his furry chest. The hospital gown, printed with strange little red balloon drawings, looked comical and inappropriate, but at least the balloons matched Herman's bloodshot eyes.

"Dad, you need to get the operation," she said creeping up on the subject carefully.

"And miss out on all this heart-unit fun?" he said, trying to elicit a smile but getting nothing from her.

"Dad, they say if you don't you're gonna die."

"At least that'll cheat Melissa King out of her damn million-dollar fine," he said.

"Daddy, I can't lose you." She put her head on his chest and hugged him. "You're all I've ever had. You're the person I most want to be like. I need you with me. I need you to teach me."

"Don't bullshit your daddy," he said, smiling down at the top of her head.

She looked up at him as he stroked her long blond hair, running his fat, sausage-like fingers through it.

"Daddy, promise me you'll get this operation."

"Okay," he said softly. "If the food in here was better, I probably wouldn't. But, I don't think I can eat another cardboard sandwich." She hugged him with gratitude. "But I can't do it till I get this thing squared away with Melissa on the fine." He added, "I gotta get that cut down somehow. She misapplied Rule Eleven. The suit wasn't groundless. I'll work something out with her tomorrow, but we'll probably have to sell some stuff in D.C. the antique cabinets, or some computers, maybe my car. I'll probably have to set up another university speaking tour to get some cash. Once I make those arrangements I'll do the radio ablation thing."

"Thank you, God," she said softly.

"I admit there's a strong resemblance, but I'm just his mouthpiece," he teased her.

There was a knock at the door. The Korean floor nurse appeared with two men wearing Sears and Roebuck suits, brown shoes, and athletic socks. Everything about them screamed "Cop."

"Yes," Herman said.

"These gentlemen were asking to see you," the nurse said.

The men entered the room clawing at their back pockets like bubbas about to pay for the last round of beers, but coming out instead with faded brown badge carriers, flopping them open, flashing gold shields.

"I'm Sergeant Lester Cole and this is Detective Investigator Dusty Halverchek," the heavier and shorter of the two said. Sergeant Cole was about Herman Strockmire's height, but with a muscular, weightlifter's body and eyes so tired they seemed to hold disgust for everything they saw. Dusty Halverchek was younger. Blond, in a tan suit. He was average in all respects: height, weight, and coloring. Beige. Nondescript. Dusty.

"We're with the San Francisco PD."