Stephen Cannell - Runaway Heart

"We understand," J. Thomas continued, "that you have sued the Department of the Air Force over alien research supposedly taking place at Area Fifty-one in central Nevada."

"Yes… yes… that's the truth," Herman said. "We are in appellate review on that important piece of business. Why? Is there something about it that's troubling you?" Herman could feel his heart now. It was beating so fast it was tickling the walls of his throat. He was going back into arterial fibrillation. Shit! He wished he could just lie down on the leather sofa in the office.

Susan was watching him like a hen with one chick, her beautiful features arranged into an expression of alarm. "Dad," she said softly. "Dad, I think we need to…"

"I'm fine, Susie, just fine." He looked at his clients and tried to salvage his case. He could sense a dismissal coming, but he needed these clients in order to go into court tomorrow. He couldn't litigate a suit for damages without a client who had been irreparably damaged. He needed a plaintiff.

"Research on aliens?" J. Thomas said, pouring more than his fair share of disdain into those three words.

"Let me ask you a question…" Herman was having trouble focusing on J. Thomas Stinson because the room had just started spinning. The first signs of acid reflux were burning his esophagus, then acute nausea arrived like the last guest at a hanging. "Let me ask you how you would feel if, in fact, experiments on aliens were being done in the desert. Let's say, for instance, that in nineteen forty-five an alien spacecraft did crash in New Mexico. Let's

say our government captured some dead alien life-forms and transported them to Area Fifty-one, where for over fifty years they have spent billions, maybe even a trillion dollars in taxpayer money, conducting illegal experiments building a huge, electronically secure science pod around the crashed spaceship, freezing the dead life forms, studying them. And, while this is happening while our tax dollars are being used for this ill-conceived experiment, Social Security is going broke, many Americans are without health care, and high school reading scores are going to hell. Money that should have been spent on these important social functions was and is, instead, being diverted to do research on dead extra-terrestrials! You're damn right, I'm suing them!" All of this came out without much thought or effort. Herman had made this speech a hundred times at university fundraisers. It was one of his prepackaged sound bites.

"Aliens?" This was the first word of the meeting James Litke, M.D., Ph.D., said, but he hissed it at Herman like a curse. "So you don't even deny any of this?"

"Not only do I not deny it, I'm proud to be trying to expose this colossally wasteful research. I'm attempting to divert the staggering sums thrown away on that project into necessary and worthwhile social programs."

"Tell him about the other thing," Valerie prodded again. "The Rockefeller thing, for the love of God."

"We understand you've filed a RICO suit against the Rockefeller family, charging them with conspiracy in creating the Trilateral Commission."

"I'm afraid my father doesn't want to be grilled about his other cases," Susan said jumping in, trying to fend them off, concerned that her father was in an arrhythmic crisis, wanting to get these three assholes out of the office so she could take his pulse and find out.

"What is it you came here to tell me?" Herman asked, his voice sagging like a sack full of broken dreams.

"That you're fired. We no longer want you to represent us. We intend to find another attorney," J. Thomas Stinson replied.

"You can't fire me, sonny," Herman said, looking at the fifty-five-year-old man who was approximately his same age but looked ten years younger. "I came to you, remember? I told you about the butterflies. / solicited you. You didn't hire me, ergo, you can't fire me." He couldn't help it now; he was so dizzy, he had to put his elbows up on the desk and grab his shaggy head in both hands. He felt like he was about to vomit, and swallowed twice to keep the bile down.

"You're going to lose the case. From what we found out yesterday, you're a less than brilliant lawyer, and that's being kind," J. Thomas said. "We all agree this is an important case, but if you lose it you'll have established an important legal precedent that will be difficult to overcome later."

"Precedent? There's no precedent here! Stick to science, Jimmy boy, I'll do the legal stuff," Herman growled, suddenly seeing his high school locker, remembering the hateful gray metal rectangle and the fear he felt each time he opened it. Remembering the turd somebody had once put inside.

"Then there's the whole problem of your standing in the legal community," Valerie was saying. "What if the California Bar decertifies you? If we're in the middle of this trial or on appeal, and you lose your license… what do we do then?" Valerie Taylor had snatched the ball, or maybe it was a planned hand off. Either way, she had the old pigskin wrapped up tight and was charging at him, knees high, going for extra yardage.

"To begin with, Dr. Taylor, my hearing is a year away, and I'm going to prevail… It's a no-brainer. But even if I don't, some kind of writ of goddamnus on appeal would tie up the State Bar for two more years, and by then our butterfly case will be history." He held her gaze, then got up. "Excuse me for a minute." He lumbered out of the office hoping he could make it to the men's room, but he had to detour at Marty Castle's secretary.

"Excuse me, could I borrow your wastebasket for a moment, please?" he asked.

She glanced up, wrinkled her Barbie-like features, and handed Herman the round plastic container.

Herman, still teetering from dizziness, promptly vomited into her wastebasket. "Thank you." With as much dignity as he could manage he set it down. "Got a bad Egg McMuffin, I think." He turned, and weaving dangerously, made his way back to his office. As he neared his closed door, he heard Susan inside, reading their ex-clients the riot act.

"You people don't know what you're throwing away," she said hotly. "Where else will you find an advocate who is so damned committed to his cases that he works most of them pro-bono, even spends his own money? The damages he's suing for were incurred by him, not you. If you can look at him and not see how great how beautiful he is, then you don't deserve him!"

Herman heard chairs scraping inside.

"And one other thing," Susan said. "My father is right. This is not your case, it's ours. It's being filed by the Institute for Planetary Justice. It doesn't belong to you. It doesn't belong to any of us. It belongs to the people of the United States of America, and it is in the very capable hands of Herman Strockmire Jr."

The door opened and, while Herman slumped pitifully against the doorjamb, they filed out, not acknowledging him, their eyes down, sparking anger. Susan followed, but stopped in the threshold and looked at her father.

"Y'know, baby, I think maybe I do need to go to the hospital," Herman the German admitted sadly.

Roland Minton parked his white, piece-of-shit

rental Camry across from the shiny, blue-tiled, windowless buildings that looked like five huge blocks of ice scattered randomly across three or four acres of manicured lawn. The property was fenced and had more digitized security than the Midwestern Federal Reserve.

A monument sign out front announced:

Roland stuffed his new purple hair into his white phone company hard hat, glancing at himself in his rearview mirror as he tucked the last strands up under the hatband. God, he loved this new shade. It

was Technicolor-tight. The gay hairdresser at the San Francisco beauty salon had mixed some awesome red-and-blue streaks in with the purple, and Roland thought the do rocked majorly. He pulled the bill down on the hard hat and grabbed his computer cracking kit out of the backseat: a tool belt with screwdrivers, pliers, wire cutters, lines, and alligator clips. He checked his phony ID badge made with his new CD-ROM computer package. His picture, geeky and proud, grinned back at him; PACIFIC BELL was in block sans-serif letters underneath. Roland clipped it on, grabbed his computer packed in its expensive Cordura case, and again turned his attention to the shimmering, blue, fortress-like science lab. "Bet you assholes got a load'a pixel-dust security," he muttered, "but I is de Dustbuster."