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CH003

B
arry Sindler,
divorce lawyer to the stars, shifted in his chair. He was trying to pay attention to the client seated across the desk from him, but he was having trouble. The client was a nerd named Diehl who ran some biotech company. The guy talked abstractly, no emotion, practically no expression on his face, even though he was telling how his wife was screwing around on him. Diehl must have been a terrible husband. But Barry wasn’t sure how much money there was in this case. It seemed the wife had all the money.

Diehl droned on. How his first suspicions arose when he called her from Las Vegas. How he discovered the charge slips for the hotel that she went to every Wednesday. How he waited in the lobby and caught her checking in with a local tennis pro. Same old California story. Barry had heard it a hundred times. Didn’t these people know they were walking clichés? Outraged husband catches wife with the tennis pro. They wouldn’t even use that one on
Desperate Housewives.

Barry gave up trying to listen. He had too much on his mind this morning. He had lost the Kirkorivich case, and it was all over town. Just because DNA tests had shown that it wasn’t the billionaire’s baby. And then the court wouldn’t award him his fees, even though he had cut them to a measly $1.4 mil. The judge gave him a quarter of that. Every damn lawyer in town was gloating, because they all had it in for Barry Sindler. He had heard that
L.A. Magazine
was doing a big story on the case, sure to be unfavorable to Barry. Not that he gave a crap about that. The truth was, the more he got portrayed as an unprincipled,
ruthless prick, the more clients flocked to him. Because when it came to a divorce, people wanted a ruthless prick. They lined up for one. And Barry Sindler was without a doubt the most ruthless, unscrupulous, publicity-hungry, self-aggrandizing, stop-at-nothing son-of-a-bitch divorce lawyer in Southern California. And proud of it!

No, Barry didn’t worry about any of those things. He didn’t even worry about the house he was building in Montana for Denise and her two rotten kids. He didn’t worry about the renovations on their house in Holmby Hills, even though the kitchen alone was costing $500K, and Denise kept changing the plans. Denise was a serial renovator. It was a disease.

No, no, no. Barry Sindler worried about just one thing—the lease. He had one whole floor in an office building on Wilshire and Doheny, twenty-three attorneys in his office, none of them worth a shit, but seeing all of them at their desks impressed the clients. And they could do the minor stuff, like take depositions and file delaying motions—stuff Barry didn’t want to be bothered with. Barry knew that litigation was a war of attrition, especially in custody cases. The goal was to run the costs as high as you could and stretch the proceedings out as long as you could, because that way Barry earned the largest possible fees, and the spouse eventually got tired of the endless delays, the new filings, and of course the spiraling costs. Even the richest of them eventually got tired.

By and large, husbands were sensible. They wanted to get on with their lives, buy a new house, move in with the new girlfriend, get a nice blow job. They wanted custody issues settled. But the wives usually wanted revenge—so Barry kept things from being settled, year after year, until the husbands caved. Millionaires, billionaires, celebrity assholes—it didn’t matter. They all caved in the end. People said it wasn’t a good strategy for the kids. Well, screw the kids. If the clients cared anything about the kids, they wouldn’t get divorced in the first place. They’d stay married and miserable like everybody else, because—

The nerd had said something that jogged him back to attention.

“I’m sorry,” Barry Sindler said. “Run that by me again, Mr. Diehl. What did you just say?”

“I said, ‘I want my wife tested.’”

“I can assure you, these proceedings will test her to the limit. And of course we’ll put a detective on her, see how much she drinks, whether she does drugs, stays out all night, has lesbian affairs, all that. Standard procedure.”

“No, no,” Diehl said. “I want her tested genetically.”

“For what?”

“For everything,” he said.

“Ah,” Barry said, nodding wisely. What the hell was the guy talking about? Genetic testing? In a custody case? He glanced down at the papers in front of him, and the business card.
RICHARD “RICK” DIEHL, PH.D.
Barry frowned unhappily. Only assholes put a nickname on the card. The card said he was CEO of BioGen Research Inc., some company out in Westview Village.

“For example,” Diehl said, “I’ll bet my wife has a genetic predisposition to bipolar illness. She certainly acts erratic. She might have the Alzheimer’s gene. If she does, psychological tests could show early signs of Alzheimer’s.”

“Good, very good.” Barry Sindler was nodding vigorously now. This was making him happy. Fresh, new disputed areas. Sindler loved disputed areas. Administer the psychological test. Did the test show early Alzheimer’s or not? Who the fuck could say for sure? Wonderful, wonderful—whatever the test results, they would be disputed. More days in court, more expert witnesses to interview, battles of the doctorates, dragging on for days. Days in court were especially lucrative.

And best of all, Barry realized that this genetic testing could become standard procedure for all custody cases. Sindler was breaking new ground here. He’d get publicity for this! He leaned forward eagerly. “Go on, Mr. Diehl…”

“Test her for the diabetes gene, breast cancer from the
BRCA
genes, and all the rest. And,” Diehl continued, “my wife might also have the gene for Huntington’s disease, which causes fatal nerve degeneration. Her grandfather had Huntington’s, so it’s in her family. Both her parents are still young, and the disease only shows up when you’re older. So my
wife could be carrying the gene and that would mean a death sentence from Huntington’s.”

“Umm, yes,” Barry Sindler said, nodding. “That could render her unfit to be the primary caregiver to the children.”

“Exactly.”

“I’m surprised she hasn’t been tested already.”

“She doesn’t want to know,” Diehl said. “There’s a fifty-fifty chance she may have the gene. If she does, she’ll eventually develop the disease and die writhing in dementia. But she’s twenty-eight. The disease might not appear for another twenty years. So if she knew about it now…it could ruin the rest of her life.”

“But it could also relieve her, if she didn’t have the gene.”

“Too big a risk. She won’t test.”

“Any other tests you can think of?”

“Hell yes,” Diehl said. “That’s just the beginning. I want her tested with all the current panels. There are twelve hundred gene tests now.”

Twelve hundred! Sindler licked his lips at the prospect. Excellent! Why had he never heard of this before? He cleared his throat. “But you realize that if you do this, she will demand you be tested, as well.”

“No problem,” Diehl said.

“You’ve already been tested?”

“No. I just know how to fake the lab results.”

Barry Sindler sat back in his chair.

Perfect.

CH004

B
eneath the
high canopy of trees, the jungle floor was dark and silent. No breeze stirred the giant ferns at shoulder height. Hagar wiped sweat from his forehead, glanced back at the others, and pushed on. The expedition moved deep into the jungles of central Sumatra. No one spoke, which was the way Hagar liked it.

The river was just ahead. A dugout canoe on the near bank, a rope stretched across the river at shoulder height. They crossed in two groups, Hagar standing up in the dugout, pulling them across on the rope, then going back for the others. It was silent except for the cry of a distant hornbill.

They continued on the opposite bank. The jungle trail grew narrower, and muddy in spots. The team didn’t like that; they made a lot of noise trying to scramble around the wet patches. Finally, one said, “How much farther is it?”

It was that kid. The whiny American teenager with spots on his face. He was looking to his mother, a largish matron in a broad straw hat.

“Are we almost there?” the kid whined.

Hagar put his finger to his lips. “Quiet!”

“My feet hurt.”

The other tourists were standing around, a cluster of bright-colored clothing. Staring at the kid.

“Look,” Hagar whispered, “if you make noise, you won’t see them.”

“I don’t see them anyhow.” The kid pouted, but he fell into line as
the group moved on. Today they were mostly Americans. Hagar didn’t like Americans, but they weren’t the worst. The worst, he had to admit, were the—

“There!”

“Look there!”

The tourists were pointing ahead, excited, chattering. About fifty yards up the trail and off to the right, a juvenile male orangutan stood upright in the branches that swayed gently with his weight. Magnificent creature, reddish fur, roughly forty pounds, distinctive white streak in the fur above his ear. Hagar had not seen him in weeks.

Hagar gestured for the others to be quiet, and moved up the trail. The tourists were close behind him now, stumbling, banging into one another in their excitement.

“Ssssh!” he hissed.

“What’s the big deal?” one said. “I thought this was a sanctuary.”

“Ssssh!”

“But they’re protected here—”

“Ssssh!”

Hagar needed it quiet. He reached into his shirt pocket and pressed the Record button. He unclipped his lapel mike and held it in his hand.

They were now about thirty yards from the orang. They passed a sign along the trail that said
BUKUT ALAM ORANGUTAN SANCTUARY
. This was where orphaned orangs were nursed to health, and reintroduced into the wild. There was a veterinary facility, a research station, a team of researchers.

“If it’s a sanctuary, I don’t understand why—”

“George, you heard what he said. Be quiet.”

Twenty yards, now.

“Look, another one! Two! There!”

They were pointing off to the left. High in the canopy, a one-year-old, crashing through branches with an older juvenile. Swinging gracefully. Hagar didn’t care. He was focused on the first animal.

The white-streaked orang did not move away. Now he was hanging by one hand, swinging in the air, head cocked to one side as he looked
at them. The younger animals in the canopy were gone. White-streak stayed where he was, and stared.

Ten yards. Hagar held his microphone out in front of him. The tourists were pulling out their cameras. The orang stared directly at Hagar and made an odd sound, like a cough.
“Dwaas.”

Hagar repeated the sound back. “Dwaas.”

The orang stared at him. The curved lips moved. A sequence of guttural grunts:
“Ooh stomm dwaas, varlaat leanme.”

One of the tourists said, “Is he making those sounds?”

“Yes,” Hagar said.

“Is he…
talking
?”

“Apes can’t talk,” another tourist said. “Orangs are silent. It says so in the book.”

Several snapped flash pictures of the hanging ape. The juvenile male showed no surprise. But the lips moved:
“Geen lichten dwaas.”

“Does he have a cold?” a woman asked nervously. “Sounds like he’s coughing?”

“He’s not coughing,” another voice said.

Hagar glanced over his shoulder. A heavyset man at the back, a man who had struggled to keep up, red-faced and puffing, now held a tape recorder in his hand, pointing it toward the orang. He had a determined look on his face. He said to Hagar, “Is this some kind of trick you play?”

“No,” Hagar said.

The man pointed to the orang. “That’s Dutch,” he said. “Sumatra used to be a Dutch colony. That’s Dutch.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Hagar said.

“I would. The animal said, ‘Stupid, leave me alone.’ And then it said, ‘No lights.’ When the camera flashes went off.”

“I don’t know what those sounds were,” Hagar said.

“But you were recording them.”

“Just out of curiosity—”

“You had your microphone out long before the sounds began. You knew that animal would speak.”

“Orangs can’t speak,” Hagar said.

“That one can.”

They all stared at the orangutan, still swinging from one arm. It scratched itself with the free arm. It was silent.

The heavyset man said loudly,
“Geen lichten.”

The ape just stared, blinked slowly.

“Geen lichten!”

The orang gave no sign of comprehension. After a moment, he swung to a nearby branch, and began to climb into the air, moving easily, arm on arm.

“Geen lichten!”

The ape kept climbing. The woman in the big straw hat said, “I think it was just coughing or something.”

“Hey,” the heavyset man yelled.
“M’sieu! Comment ça va?”

The ape continued up through the branches, swinging in an easy rhythm with its long arms. It did not look down.

“I thought maybe it speaks French,” the man said. He shrugged. “Guess not.”

A light rain began to drip from the canopy. The other tourists put their cameras away. One shrugged on a light, transparent raincoat. Hagar wiped the sweat from his forehead. Up ahead, three young orangs were scampering around a tray of papayas on the ground. The tourists turned their attention to them.

From high in the canopy came a growling sound:
“Espèce de con.”
The phrase came to them clearly, surprisingly distinct in the still air.

The heavyset man spun around.
“What?”

Everyone turned to look upward.

“That was a swear word,” the teenager said. “In French. I know it was a swear word. In French.”

“Hush,” his mother said.

The group stared up at the canopy, searching the dense mass of dark leaves. They could not see the ape up there.

The heavyset man yelled,
“Qu’est-ce que tu dis?”

There was no answer. Just the crash of an animal moving through branches, and the distant cry of a hornbill.

CHEEKY CHIMP CHEWS OFF TOURISTS

(
News of the World
)

AFFE SPRICHT IM DSCHUNGEL, FLÜCHE GEORGE BUSH

(
Der Spiegel
)

ORANG PARLE FRANÇAIS?!!

(
Paris Match,
beneath a picture of Jacques Derrida)

MUSLIM MONKEY BERATES WESTERNERS

(
Weekly Standard
)

MONKEY MOUTHS OFF, WITNESSES AGAPE

(
National Enquirer
)

TALKING CHIMPANZEE REPORTED IN JAVA

(
New York Times,
subsequent correction printed)

POLYGLOT PRIMATES SIGHTED IN SUMATRA

(
Los Angeles Times
)