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.

"You have the number for the federal district court?" she asked. "I'll call over there now. They said they'd have the name by ten o'clock."

Herman flipped through a legal pad, found the number of the federal building in L.A., and slid it across the desk toward her. She crossed to the guest phone and dialed.

"Hello, I'd like the clerk's office, please," she said as she searched for a pencil. "This is Herman Strockmire's office. We're seeking injunctive relief and damages on behalf of the Food Policy Research Center and the Union of Concerned Scientists v. USDA, EPA, FDA, et al. Case number CO3769M. We were notified that the Chief Judge made a last-minute change in the judicial roster, that Judge Miller is not going to be able to hear the case, and that a new judge is being assigned." She dug into her purse. "Yes… yes, I have a pencil. Go." She scowled and started to write, broke the lead, stopped, and tossed the pencil onto the table. "Thanks." She slammed down the receiver and muttered, "For nothing."

"What's wrong? Who is it?"

"You're not going to believe it. We got her again."

"Awww, no. Come on… I thought she was taking a pregnancy leave."

"She is, but I guess she made time in her prenatal schedule to hammer us into the ground."

"Judge King? You sure?"

"How many Melissa Kings could there be on the Ninth Circuit Federal bench?"

"One is plenty," Herman said, realizing this reassignment was just one more anti-Strockmire missile from the federal government. With that realization came an additional weight that descended on his shoulders and chest, pulling him lower, squashing him, making him even more like his dead father.

"Dad, we can't go in front of her."

"We have no grounds to request that she recuse herself.

What am I gonna say? She hates me and the way I practice law? That's not grounds for recusal."

"But Dad…"

"Honey, we'll just have to try this thing on its merits, okay? We'll note every one of her prejudicial rulings or statements, and if we have to go to Circuit Court and get her reversed, then that's where we'll go. But if I don't take this in now we'll miss the planting season next month."

Then the buzzer sounded. "Mr. Strockmire?" The voice of a Lipman, Castle amp; Stein secretary came over the intercom. They were ice queens who always managed to convey their extreme distaste at having a slob like Herman in their sleek environs. He wasn't show biz; he didn't have a personal trainer; he was soiling their palatial offices, like axle grease on their white decorator carpet. "Your clients have arrived." The words pronounced like a death sentence.

"Send them in," Susan said, checking her father to make sure he was presentable. It was the habit of a lifetime. She had started trying to fix his look way back when she was six or seven and realized that her beloved daddy often resembled a five-foot stack of laundry.

"Dad, why didn't you use the numbers?"

"It was dark. I thought I was getting all threes. I must have missed. I was trying not to wake you up."

She scurried around the desk and helped him out of the jacket, took a look, then shook her head and put it back on. "Jeez, you look like Pee Wee Herman on acid."

"That good?" He smiled ruefully.

The door opened and three glum people walked in. From their expressions Herman could tell that his day had not yet hit bottom.

Jim Litke, M.D., Ph.D., and Valerie Taylor, M.S., Ph.D., were co-presidents of the Union of Concerned Scientists. True to their organization, they looked concerned. Their brows were furrowed and pulled close together like caterpillars in a mating dance as they came through the door ahead of J. Thomas Stinson, managing director of the Food Policy Research Center. All three of them looked like they were about to bury their best friend. They found seats in Herman's small, one-window office.

Herman was feeling worse by the minute. His arrhythmia was escalating and he was becoming dizzy and lightheaded, but he didn't want to reach into his briefcase for his pills for fear that he would appear weak. Nobody wanted^: to have a sick, weak lawyer. Clients wanted their lawyer to be a meat eater. A carnivore. A killer. So Herman tried to fix a killer look on his tired, sagging ponim, projecting confidence on the eve of trial. Herman of Bavaria, sword raised, ready to lead his troops into the Valley of Death and come out driving a Cadillac.

"Things are looking very good… surprisingly good," he started to say. But a frog unexpectedly jumped up into his throat-so he more or less gargled this fantasy at them. He cleared his pipes and went on. "We should have the information we need to file our last discovery motions against the defense first thing tomorrow. My senior investigator, Roland Minton, is in San Francisco right now getting that data. He tells me it's going to prove devastating." A lie, but a necessary one. Never let a client sense concern.

Client doubt is the wood rot of legal architecture.

"Oh…" Jim Litke of the Union of Concerned Scientists said. That one little word a packed suitcase of concern.

"Yes?" Herman smelled trouble. A lawyer had to know how to gauge his clients, how to sense the winds of discontent. Herman thought he had a gale blowing here. "You look troubled," he said, stating the obvious.

"Yes," Valerie Taylor, M.S., Ph.D., intoned gravely, glancing over at J. Thomas Stinson of the Food Policy Research Center. It was sort of a "Take it away, Tom," look. He was the designated talker.