"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.