Illegal Alien

*27*

Frank and Kelkad got out of the ambulance at emergency admitting. “Of all our crew, the best choice for performing the surgery now is Stant, our biochemist.”

Stant had arrived in one of the police cruisers at the medical center moments after the ambulance did. He was still rubbing his back arm, which had been crushed behind him in the car’s unmodified seat, but his tuft moved forward in agreement. “I can do the operation,” he said, “but I will need a human to assist me—not so much in procedures, but in equipment.”

He looked out at the large crowd of doctors and nurses who had gathered in the ER lobby, as well as the many often-bloodied, mostly Latino, mostly indigent patients waiting for treatment. “Is there someone who will help?”

“Yes, certainly,” said a black man of about fifty.

“I’d be glad to,” said a white man in his forties.

A third person simply cleared her throat. “Sorry, boys—rank hath its privileges. I’m Carla Hernandez, chief of surgery here.” She looked at Stant. “I’d be honored to assist you.” Hernandez was in her mid-forties, with short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair.

“Very well. Let us get to work. Do you have devices for seeing into the body?”

“X rays. Ultrasound.”

“X rays are acceptable. We will need pictures to determine the depth of the bullet.”

Hernandez nodded. “I’ll take Hask down to radiology, then prep him for surgery.” She pointed to the black man who had volunteered a few moments before. “Paul, take Stant to surgical supplies and let him select whatever tools he’ll need…”

The operation went quickly. Stant was obviously a practiced surgeon—so practiced that it occurred to Frank, watching from the packed observation gallery above, that he would have been quite capable of doing the dissection of Calhoun.

There was very little blood, despite the deep incision Stant made. The other doctors watching with Frank seemed amused by the way Stant operated: he held the X ray up to his rear pair of eyes with his back hand, and watched the operation with his front eyes, wielding the scalpel with his front hand. It took about eight minutes to complete the extraction of the bullet, which Stant pulled out with tongs and dropped into a stainless-steel pan Hernandez was holding.

“How do you close wounds?” asked Stant. His translated voice was difficult for Frank to make out over the staticky speakers in the observation gallery.

“With suture,” said Hernandez. “We sew the wound shut.”

Stant was quiet for a moment, perhaps appalled by the barbarism of it all.

“Oh,” he said at last. “You can do it, then.” He stepped aside, and Hernandez moved in over the wound, and, in a matter of about two minutes, had it neatly closed.

“When will he regain consciousness?” said Hernandez.

“Do you have ascetic acid?”

“Ascet—do you mean vinegar? Umm, maybe in the cafeteria.”

“Get some. A small amount given orally should wake him up.” Stant looked at Hernandez. “Thank you for your help.”

“It was an honor,” said Hernandez.

Hask was still recuperating the next day, and so court could not sit; the defendant had to be present for all testimony. But Dale and Linda Ziegler started the day in Judge Pringle’s chambers. “Your Honor,” said Ziegler, “the People would like to move for a mistrial.”

Judge Pringle was obviously expecting this. She nodded, and began writing on a legal pad. “On what grounds?”

“On the grounds that, given that our jury is not sequestered, its members have doubtless become aware of the fact that an attempt has been made on the defendant’s life.”

Dale spoke firmly. “Your Honor, the defense is quite content with the current jury. We vigorously oppose the motion to throw so many months of work—not to mention so many thousands of taxpayer dollars—out the window.”

Ziegler’s voice had taken on an earnest note. “Your Honor, surely seeing the defendant staggering into the courtroom all bandaged up will cause the jury to feel undue sympathy toward him, sympathy that could color their verdict in this case.”

Judge Pringle raised her eyebrows. “You’re not going to find another twelve people anywhere who haven’t heard about the shooting of Hask, Ms. Ziegler.”

“And,” said Dale, “surely knowing that at least one person felt so strongly that Hask was evil would have a prejudicial effect against my client.”

“Your Honor, if counsel thinks it’s prejudicial, then he should be arguing for a mistrial, too,” said Ziegler sharply. “The reason he isn’t is obvious: this fanatic, this Jensen, clearly felt Hask was going to go free, or he wouldn’t have bothered trying to kill him. His act is a clear signal to the jury of how they are being read.”

“Being read by one person,” said Dale, also facing Pringle. “Anyway, I’m sure there’s no need to remind my colleague of this, but Hask was supposedly under the protection of the LAPD when the attempt was made on his life. The State is at fault here; let’s not compound the State’s damage to my client by asking him to go through another trial.”

“But the prejudicial effect—”

“As Ms. Ziegler surely knows, Your Honor, I’ve built my whole career on believing that juries can rise above their prejudices. Ms. Katayama and I have faith in this one.”

“What’s the case law?” asked Judge Pringle. “I can think of cases where the defendant was killed during the trial, but I can’t think of any offhand where he was shot but survived.”

“We haven’t found anything yet,” said Ziegler.

“Well, unless you get me something compelling, I’m inclined to agree with Mr. Rice. Mistrials are expensive.”

“In that case, Your Honor,” said Ziegler, “may I request a special jury instruction?”

Drucilla Pringle frowned, but then nodded. “Agreed. I’ll advise them that they are to avoid any feelings of sympathy because the defendant is injured.” She turned to Dale. “And I’ll also instruct them that they are in no way to take the fact that Hask was considered a devil by one man to be any indication of his guilt.”