"That's it! I've heard enough. We're done." Melissa started to rise, but it was an awkward procedure that took her a moment, so Herman rushed on.

"Your Honor, I need only a few more minutes. I beg you to listen. If you will not, then I will be forced to take this problem elsewhere."

"Yeah, like where's that, Herman? The Zoo Association?"

"No, Your Honor, to a full judicial review."

"You're really asking for it." She glowered, but sat back down.

"I intend to put a doctor of genetics under oath who will explain to you that a normal chimpanzee's homology is 98.4 percent of human DNA."

"Right," she shot back. "But it's not a human, so it has no legal standing," Melissa growled. "I'm so sick of your sloppy, unorthodox behavior. When will you start practicing the law like the rest of us?"

"It's a hybrid," Herman persisted. "But if, as has been established, we're using DNA to determine the boundary line for humanity, then at least we can probably all agree that chimpanzee DNA is extremely close."

"But it's not human. So, that's it." She rose again.

"Your Honor, would you accept a case on behalf of a Down's syndrome child? Can anyone seriously posit that such a child is not human for purposes of legal standing?"

"Of course-there's standing there. But a Down's syndrome child is a human being."

"That's right, Your Honor. It's human, but with DNA that is only 99.1 percent of normal human DNA. That extra chromosome alters the DNA by nine tenths of one percent. But Charles Chimera actually has DNA that is closer to a normal human being than a Down's syndrome child. This being's human-enhanced DNA is ninety-nine point three percent of a normal Homo sapiens. It has just been established by this court that DNA is the proper measurement for determining humanity. Since you just agreed you would accept a Down's syndrome child with only 99.1 percent homology, it is the plaintiff's position that this court cannot refuse standing to one Charles Chimera, whose DNA is two tenths of a point closer to human homology than that of a Down's syndrome child."

Melissa King was on her feet looking down at Herman with her mouth open.

"You can't be serious."

"You accepted the stipulation, Your Honor."

"You son of a bitch. When is the Lawyer Review Board gonna just be done with it and jerk your license?"

"With all due respect, Your Honor, the court must rule. Will you hear this case on behalf of Charles Chimera, whose DNA is closer to normal human DNA than that of a Down's syndrome child? Or will you refuse him his rightful access to due process provided under the Constitution of the United States of America?"

She was trapped. Herman had tricked her into an impossible situation.

Melissa King was furious at him and at herself, but she was damned if she was going to hear a case with a chimpanzee as the plaintiff. She'd be an even bigger laughingstock in the legal community than Herman Strockmire Jr.

So Melissa King did the only thing she could do to avoid handing down a ruling… her water broke and she went into labor.

Jack accessed the Ten-Eyck Indian reservation Web site. The cartoon Indian with the peace pipe on the welcome screen was probably designed before Izzy's Bel Air record career blossomed.

A map of the reservation indicated it was, as Izzy said, way out past Indio. The exact location was in the Joshua Tree National Forest, which sounded shady and restful, unless you realized that Joshua trees were actually misnamed cactus plants with no leaves and covered with thorns.

After he located the seventeen-hundred-acre plot on a California road map, Jack bought the cheapest digital camera he could find at Good Guys, then drove out to Van Nuys Airport and cruised around until he found a small, oddly named charter service called Air Jordan.

It was run by an overweight gray-haired woman wearing Ray-Bans, named Jordan Phoenix, which sounded to Jack like a misplaced desert monument. Jordan-who liked to be called "Jordy"-had small planes for rent. A few were in Jack's limited budget range. He picked a fifteen-year-old Cessna 185 at one-fifty an hour. After being assured that the plane was "top-notch," he watched with concern as Jordy, who it now appeared was also going to be his pilot, walked around and did a preflight check, which consisted of rattling control surfaces, then banging her fist a few times on the engine cowling. When she saw the look on his face she quipped, "Wakes up the birds that nest in the carburetor." Then she got in and motioned to the seat next to her.

"Okay, honey, fly your ass right on up here and drop anchor." No doubt about it, Jordy was a pip.

"Contact," she bellowed in a voice that would blow the fur off a cat. Then the Cessna burped to life.

Jack decided to try to break the ice. "Must be pretty exciting, being a pilot."

"Not if I do it right," she deadpanned.

They taxied out toward the runway. Jordan keyed her mike, identified herself as November-eight-six-eight-Charlie-Bravo, and started talking to the Van Nuys tower. They were cleared for takeoff, and in a few minutes they were streaking down the runway and lifting off into the Southern California smog. The wings immediately started jitterbugging in unstable, choppy air.

"I'm gonna get up over this chop at ten thousand," Jordy shouted at him. "Air's a little thin, but I hate flying through Indian country at standard altitudes."

"Indian country?" Jack yelled back, wondering if she was talking about the Ten-Eyck reservation.

"Yeah, it's what we call all this airspace between here and San Bernardino." She smiled. "Buncha dentists out here flying around in Cherokees and Apaches. Most docs can't fly for shit. I hate it when they park their birds in my front seat."

"In that case, don't worry about oxygen. Go as high as you want, I'll hold my breath."

She nodded, keeping the 185 in a steep climb.

She was right. There were a lot of little planes. Some were flying in circles, practicing maneuvers, others were just sightseeing.

Once Jordy was at altitude, the San Bernardino Flight Center routed them in tight behind an American Eagle twin prop shuttle. After fighting his slipstream for a few miles, Jordan keyed her mike and asked San Bernardino Flight Control for more separation.

A frustrated and overworked air traffic controller came back at her immediately: "If you want more room, Captain, push your seat back."

"Asshole," she muttered.

There were enough comics up here to book an open-mike night at the Comedy Store. Soon they were out over the desert past Indio and turning southeast. Jordy called air traffic control to discontinue her flight plan. She notified them she was going to visual flight rules and dropping to two thousand feet.

"Roger, eight-six-eight-Charlie-Bravo," the traffic controller said. "But, if you stay on that heading, in twenty miles you'll be over a Code Sixty-one."

" San Bernardino Center, that's not on my map."

"Roger, Charlie-Bravo, this is a new directive. One month old. Turn right at Longitude one-one-six point seven and notify Palm Desert Flight Control. Good day."

She looked over at Jack.

"Trouble?" Jack asked, reading her look.

"Yeah. That place you wanna go look at is in restricted airspace. Code Sixty-one is a military no-fly zone."

"How close can you get?" Jack asked.

"Not very."

They flew out toward the reservation, but before they could see much of it Jordan banked right and flew along the perimeter of the restricted area.

"This is my hold point," she said.

"What happens if you just do it anyway?"

"I'd have to trade in this Cessna for a taxicab."

"They'll take your license?"