Stephen Cannell - Runaway Heart

His lovely daughter, Susan, light of his life, friend, colleague, and paralegal, carefully chose his court attire, sewing little numbers on the labels of matching outfits. Unfortunately, he had dressed in the dark this morning, not wanting to wake her. She'd been up all night, typing pretrial motions. He had decided this would be a number-3 day, but standing in the dark closet, squinting at the numbers, he had mixed some 8s in with the 3s. He now realized he had on his gray-and-black-checked jacket, a blue-and-green-striped shirt, and a bright yellow tie. He thought he must look like the host of a Saturday-morning cartoon show.

Herman turned away from the mirror, unable to stomach any further self-examination, grabbed his heavy briefcase, then lugged it down the hall to the borrowed office, turned on the lights, and sat behind his desk. Across the Avenue of the Stars the sound stages of Twentieth Century Fox movie studio were already teeming with activity. The productions started very early, almost at the crack of dawn. At 8 A.M. trucks, cars, and actors were already

bustling between sound stages, well into their morning labors. Lipman, Castle 8c Stein took a more gentlemanly approach to the morning. He'd learned that agents and lawyers in show business started at around nine-thirty with a leisurely power breakfast, usually at the Polo Lounge in Beverly Hills, or Jerry's Deli in the Valley. Most of the hip Lipman crowd came sharking in at 10:30 or 11:00 toting their expensive wafer cases young, lean, sculpted men and women with tanning-salon complexions and improbably perfect teeth. Herman was a rolling, lumbering walrus in this sleek, fast-moving school of piranhas.

He decided not to tell Susan about the tachycardia when she got in. She would just insist he go back to the hospital. The doctors at Cedars-Sinai had "converted" him once already last week, using medication. It had taken four hours on an IV bag.

His condition was called ventricular arrhythmia, which was more dangerous than the supraventricular kind. The first episode had hit him six months ago without warning. His second arrhythmia occurred four months later, and now this one made two in ten days. Not a good sign. The cardio docs at Cedars were urging that a "procedure" be performed. Procedure was their PR-friendly way of saying operation. But Herman couldn't take two weeks off now. He had just dragged three federal agencies and four private research labs kicking and screaming into court. This case finally had a hearing date set for tomorrow, and if he missed it he'd never get back in front of a judge before this year's planting season. Once the new crop of genetically engineered corn went into the ground, it guaranteed that millions more monarch butterflies would die. Herman was determined to prevent this from happening. He felt as if he was the only one left protecting one of God's great treasures. In the meantime he was popping more and more pills, which seemed to be doing him less and less good.

The morning dragged by like mud oozing downhill. It was eleven o'clock when Susan finally came through the door and dropped her briefcase on the chair opposite his desk. Every time

he saw her he was overcome by her style and beauty. She had inherited all of her mother's physical perfection and mental activity but none of her shallowness. Okay, maybe that was harsh, but, damn it, that's the way he felt. His ex had a keen mind but no interest in using it.

Lillian was a wealthy country club brat who had rebelled against her waspish upbringing by choosing Herman Strockmire Jr. over a field of more acceptable, attractive suitors. He had always been puzzled by her choice, until he finally realized it was just her spoiled way of giving her domineering father the finger. Take that, Daddy, you controlling, overbearing shitheel!

Lillian had said she loved Herman's idealism, that she had never met anyone with thoughts as deep as his… thoughts about the environment, or civil rights, or governmental abuse. She once complained that all her country club friends ever worried about was their golf scores.

She fascinated him like a delicate crystal treasure. He used to marvel at her classic, fine-boned beauty as she flitted around in their small, rundown Boston apartment, fluffing pillows and promising to do the dishes that were piling up in the sink.

Her allowance, given to her by her father each month, was more than Strockmire Sr. took home from his mill job, and it helped Herman through the last year of Harvard Law School. So, although he resented taking the money, it allowed him to quit his side jobs and concentrate on his studies full time. He had kept his mouth shut to get his diploma.

However, Lillian soon found out that a steady diet of idealism and heavy thoughts, like her membership in the Vegan Society, was boring. Bottom line: Herman was pretty much of a drag. "You're no fun," she'd pout. "No fun and always brooding. Would it kill you to smile, for Chrissake?"

But Herman, fresh out of law school, was already overwhelmed with the injustices he saw all around him. Injustices that nobody else seemed to care about because there was no money

to be made in fixing them. He passed on an offer from an old-line Philadelphia law firm in order to pursue his passion for important legal redress, filing a rash of lawsuits: Miller v. USD A a drug-testing case; Billingsley v. CM domestic espionage; Clark v. FBI Fourth Amendment search and seizure. More and more, Herman found he had powerful federal agencies on the other side of the "v." His IRS tax audits became annual and punitive.

He loved Lillian, but it was hard not to brood when he was constantly fighting city hall, overmatched, and behind the eight ball. Like most members of spirited-but-pampered species, Lillian soon flitted away from him, as beautiful and carefree as the monarch butterfly he now defended, leaving behind one lasting treasure his daughter, Susan.

Lillian had bestowed her physical genes on Susan as surely as the old mill worker had cursed Herman Jr. with his. But Susan also had Herman's single-mindedness and sense of social outrage. Unlike her mother, she never became bored with Herman's struggle. She often seemed more dismayed at the injustices they fought against than he did.

Sometimes Herman Strockmire Jr. wondered how he and Lillian had made such a remarkable creature. Both of them were so flawed: Herman plodding, overinvolved, and physically unremarkable; Lillian beautiful, pampered, and quick-tempered. In Susan, they had filtered out their worst traits without losing any of their best. Talk about miracles.

"You heard from Roland yet?" Susan asked, carrying a stack of pretrial motions across the office. She set them on the side table, kicked off her shoes, then sat and put her nyloned feet up on his desk.

"Nope. Guess he's still up in San Francisco looking for the lab where those pricks are hiding their research. Once I get the right data bank I'll spring a discovery motion on them, and hopefully they won't have time to digitally erase the evidence before I get ahold of it. Roland will find it for me; he can't stand to lose."

Roland Minton was a twenty-two-year-old computer hacker with dyed purple hair who worked for Herman as an electronic detective. He was one of four full-time employees of Herman's law firm, The Institute for Planetary Justice. Okay smile if you must, but that's what it was, damn it.

"Dad, are you okay? You look terrible." Susan leaned forward and studied him carefully.

Herman went for an airy grin and a casual wave of his meaty right hand, then turned toward the window to avoid closer scrutiny. "Just stressed, baby. Did you call to see which federal judge we got after Miller was reassigned?" They had received the notification just yesterday. The chief district court judge had reassigned the jurist on their case after jury selection and only two days before the injunction hearing. They were waiting to be notified of the new judge so they could look him up in the "Federal Reporter" and read about his past decisions. Herman was also trying to steer Susan onto another subject to get her off his appearance, which he damn well knew was worrisome.