"And feed it to me."

While they were flying along the perimeter a Blackhawk helicopter suddenly appeared on their starboard side. In the open bay door of the huge military chopper were several men dressed in black helmets and SWAT gear. In a side door, behind a fifty-caliber machine gun, sat a waist gunner. The pilot waved Jordan off. The two aircraft flew on the same heading only about thirty feet apart.

Jack took out his digital camera and photographed the Blackhawk. As soon as he did, one of the SWAT soldiers flipped him off. Then Jack aimed the camera at the terrain to the east. Somewhere out there in the desert beyond their hold point was the Ten-Eyck Indian reservation. He took a few more shots, hoping he could blow them up or digitally enhance them and maybe discover something.

Suddenly the door gunner let loose a short burst of tracers that didn't hit the Cessna, but streaked past the nose about forty or fifty feet in front.

"That's it. I'm gone." Jordan made a circle motion with her hand, and the pilot of the Blackhawk waved back and nodded. Then she banked the Cessna and headed back to L.A.

"Sorry," Jordy said. "But I ain't looking for no fifty-caliber renovations. Not much else I can do."

Jack was shaken by the incident.

When they landed at Van Nuys there was a windowless van parked out on the tarmac. Jordan Phoenix shut down the Cessna, and as they climbed out, the doors of the van opened, revealing four men in plainclothes and blue wind-breakers. They jumped onto the tarmac and headed toward the plane. Jack recognized one of the men from the stairwell at Mrs. Zimbaldi's apartment. He turned, looking for an escape, but two other men were already walking toward the plane from the hangar on the right, two more appeared from behind a fuel truck.

The plainclothes feds pulled out Berettas. No lasers this time-just good, old-fashioned, Italian hardware.

One of the men, who was tall and lean with a dark Hispanic complexion, spoke: "Get down on your face, please."

Jack assumed the position. They frisked him, but he wasn't packing. His hands were cuffed and he was yanked quickly back up to his feet.

"Federal arrest," the Hispanic man said, showing a badge to Jordan, who was standing there looking at them through her Ray-Bans, her sun-dried complexion as expressionless as theirs.

"You boys can have him, but he still owes me for two hours of flight time." Jordy was a good pilot, but pretty much worthless when it came to backup. "Two hundred an hour for two hours, fifteen minutes," she calculated, adding fifty bucks to their hourly agreement.

Somebody reached into Jack's back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and extracted cash. "You oughtta have a discount when your clients end up in handcuffs," Jack groused at her as they pulled a hood over his head and pushed him toward their van.

"Renting airplanes is like renting sex," Jordy said, counting her money. "It's expensive, and someone is always keeping track of time."

The case was really starting to piss him off.

After Melissa King went into labor, the Federal Court Clerk's office notified Joseph Amato and Herman Strockmire that the TRO was being assigned to a new jurist and they would be notified of his identity in less than an hour.

Herman packed up his files and, along with Sandy and Susan, returned to his borrowed office at Lipman, Castle amp; Stein to wait.

The secretaries were thrilled to see him. They checked three times to make sure it was still okay for him to use the office.

At four that afternoon, Herman, Susan, and Sandy were still waiting, trying not to become overly concerned about the prolonged delay for judicial notification, or about Jack Wirta's unexplained disappearance.

He was way overdue.

Herman's anxiety finally redlined. "Honey, get on the phone and call around. See if you can find out what air charter service Jack used."

Susan left the office and returned with the three-inch-thick L.A. Yellow Pages. She cracked it open to "Air Charters" and started making calls, speaking urgently and softly into the phone, trying to find out if one of them had chartered a plane to Jack Wirta.

While she was working her way through the list, Sandy and Herman were going over their legal notes and strategies.

"On the plus side, I'm certainly glad to be rid of Melissa," Herman conceded. "But unfortunately I revealed my DNA strategy. I'm afraid whoever they assign next is going to be ready to block us on that."

"Herman, it was always a long shot," Sandy argued. "And what was all that about the chimera hiring you? Where the hell did that come from?"

"He reached out to us when we were in the pool and he was on the diving board. You saw him pleading with his eyes." Sandy cocked an eyebrow at Herman. "Hey, let Amato prove otherwise."

"Herm, you've got a huge attorney-client problem. Why can't we just refile using the SPCA on behalf of the chimeras?"

"Two reasons. First, if we refile, it's gonna take another two days, and with Jack missing, that takes the pressure off, gives DARPA a chance to plan their next move, or maybe even kill him. Second, with a new judge, maybe I can get this in. If I can, it will change the way all animals are treated under the law from this point forward. That's the whole reason I did it this way."

"Except this may not be the way to do it, Herm," Sandy frowned.

"If I can get legal standing for any species other than pure Homo sapiens, then I've changed the law. My God, Sandy, you above all people should…"

"I know, I know. Don't preach at me using my own sermons. It's just, even though these chimeras are being illegally experimented on and need injunctive relief, I'm afraid this strategy is gonna backfire."

"We know they exist, Sandy. We saw one with our own eyes. They're being illegally designed and cloned."

"Then file your TRO with the SPCA as a client," Sandy argued. "This other thing about legal standing is more of a conceptual issue."

"Democracy is conceptual," Herman said hotly. "The death penalty is conceptual. Everything important worth fighting for is conceptual!"

After that outburst they sat in silence while Susan continued calling charter services.

The intercom buzzed. "Federal Court Clerk on line two," one of the LC amp;S ice goddesses chirped.

Herman lunged at the phone. "Herman Strockmire," he said into the receiver while Sandy and Susan watched intently. Then he said, "Thanks," and hung up. "Look up Warren Krookshank, with a K. I've never heard of him."

Susan put her phone on speaker, went to the bookshelf, and retrieved the federal judges directory. It was a loose-leaf binder that Lipman, Castle amp; Stein provided for each office. She flipped it open, found his page, and laid the binder on Herman's desk. In the upper right-hand corner was a picture of a middle-aged African-American man.

"Harvard Law," Herman read aloud, as he scanned the page. "Maybe we can sing the fight song together." Then he grinned. "Been on the bench for ten years. This guy seems perfect. Look at this! Pro-civil rights, pro-gun control… liberal record. He's one of us."

"Then why would he get this case?" Susan asked, immediately suspicious. "You know DARPA had a hand in getting Melissa assigned. If Warren Krookshank is a friendly ear, why would they let that happen?"

"Because they didn't expect Melissa King to go into labor. Somebody took their eye off the ball, or they didn't have enough time to rerig it. So we simply got the next available guy-Krookshank." He looked up and smiled. "We're back in court, nine a.m. tomorrow. It's still fast-tracked."

"You really think it's gonna be that simple?" Susan wondered. She walked over and took the phone back off speaker, cradling the receiver under her ear.