Illegal Alien

*29*

Dale pushed open the door to his office and held it open for Frank, who walked in and took his now familiar seat. Dale looked at his watch—5:40 p.m.—then picked up a bottle of brandy from the bar along the back wall of the room. He held it up so that Frank could see it. Frank nodded, and Dale filled two snifters. He walked back toward his desk, paused to hand one snifter to Frank, then took his seat in the high-backed leather chair.

Dale’s receptionist had left a small stack of yellow telephone-message slips on his desk, neatly squared off in a pile. After taking a sip of brandy, he picked up the pile and glanced at each one. His broker. Larry King’s people. Someone from the NAACP asking him to give a guest lecture. And then—

“Frank, forgive me, but I should return this one. It’s Carla Hernandez.”

Frank’s mouth had already formed the word “who?” but he yanked it back before giving it voice, recognizing the name.

Dale punched out seven digits on his phone. “Hello,” he said. “Dale Rice calling for Dr. Hernandez. No, I’ll hold… thanks.” He covered the mouthpiece. “She’s on another call,” he said to Frank, then: “Hello? Dr. Hernandez? It’s Dale Rice, returning your call. Sorry to be so late getting back to you—I’ve been in court all day. No, no, that’s okay. What? No, I suspect it would be all right to tell me. What’s that? Three of them? Are you sure?” Frank was now leaning forward on his chair, openly intrigued.

“They couldn’t have been anything else? Did you take pictures? No, no I suppose not. They don’t show up in the X rays, do they? But you’re sure that’s what they are? Okay. No, you were right to tell me. Thank you. I’ll be in touch. Thanks. Bye.” He put down the handset.

“What is it?” said Frank.

“I’m not sure. Maybe the break we’ve been looking for.”

Dale had used the Reverend Oren Brisbee as an expert witness in other cases—no one could captivate a jury like a Baptist preacher. Brisbee was perhaps an odd choice, given his public clamoring for the death penalty for Hask. Still, it wasn’t out of any presumption that Hask was guilty. And so:

“Reverend Brisbee,” said Dale, “one of Dr. Calhoun’s eyes was missing. Will you tell the Court what’s significant, in your view, about the human eye, please?”

Brisbee smiled broadly, as if warming to a favorite topic. “Ah, my brother, the human eye! Testament to God’s genius! Proof of divine creation! Of all the marvels of the universe, perhaps none bears stronger testament than the human eye to the lie of evolution.”

“Why is that, Reverend?”

“Why, Brother Dale, it’s simply because nothing so complex as the human eye could possibly have evolved by chance. The evolutionists would have us believe that life progresses in tiny incremental stages, a little at a time, instead of having been created full-blown by God. But the eye—well, the eye is a perfect counterexample. It could not have evolved step-by-step.”

Someone in the courtroom snickered, presumably at the mental picture of eyes marching along. Brisbee ignored the sound. “The evolutionists,” he went on, his voice filling the courtroom as it had so many churches, “say complex structures, such as feathers, must have evolved by steps: first as scales for insulation, which then perhaps elongated into a frayed coat to aid running animals in catching small insects inside this fringe, and only then, fortuitously, would the proto-bird discover, lo and behold, that they were also useful for flight. I don’t believe that for one moment, but it’s the kind of stuff they spout. But that argument falls down completely when we contemplate God’s masterwork, the human eye! What good is half an eye? What good is a quarter of an eye? An eye either is an eye, or it isn’t; it can’t evolve in steps.”

Brisbee beamed out at the courtroom. They were all his flock. “Consider the finest camera you can buy today. It’s still not nearly as effective as our eyes. Our eyes adjust automatically to wide variations in lighting—we can see by the light of a crescent moon, or we can see by the brightest summer’s sun. Our eyes can adjust easily between natural light, incandescent light, and fluorescent light, whereas a photographer would have to change filters and film to accommodate each of those. And our eyes are capable of perceiving depth better than any pair of cameras can, even when aided by a computer. A basketball player can routinely determine the precise distance to the hoop, throwing perfect shot after perfect shot. Yes, I can see why the Tosok took the human’s eye as a souvenir—”

“Now, now, Reverend,” said Dale. “You don’t know that that’s what happened.”

“I can see,” continued Reverend Brisbee, somewhat miffed, “why anyone from anywhere would admire the human eye, as a sterling example of God’s craftsmanship.”

At nine a.m. the next morning, Dale and Frank entered Judge Pringle’s chambers. Linda Ziegler was already there, as were juror number 209—a pudgy white woman of forty-one—and a man Dale had seen around the courthouse over the years but didn’t know. A moment later Judge Pringle entered, accompanied by a stenographer. Pringle waited for the stenographer to get set up, then said, “Mr. Wong, will you please introduce yourself to the others?”

“Ernest Wong, representing Juror 209.”

“Thank you,” said the judge. “Let the record show that also present are Ms. Ziegler for the People, and Mr. Rice for Mr. Hask, who is not here. Also present with my permission is Dr. Frank Nobilio, American delegate to the Tosok entourage. Now, Juror 209, good morning to you.”

“Good morning, Judge,” said Juror 209, her voice nervous.

“Okay,” said Judge Pringle, “Juror 209, your attorney is here. Feel free to stop me anytime you want to consult with Mr. Wong, and Mr. Wong, of course anytime you wish to interpose an objection or make an inquiry, you are entitled to do so.”

“Thank you,” said Wong.

“Now, Juror 209, some questions have been raised.” Pringle held up a hand, palm out. “I’m not saying you’ve done anything wrong, but when questions are raised relating to juror conduct or juror impaneling, the appellate law here in California requires me to make an investigation, so that’s what we’re doing. Okay? Okay. You were asked to fill out a questionnaire prior to serving on this jury, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you fill out the questionnaire truthfully?”

“Objection!” said Wong. “Calls for self-incrimination.”

Judge Pringle frowned. “Very well. Juror 209, we have a problem here. Question 192 on the jury questionnaire asked if you had ever seen a flying saucer. Do you recall that question?”

“I don’t recall a question using that term, no, Your Honor.”

Judge Pringle looked even more irritated. “Well, let me read the question to you.” She rummaged on her desk, looking for the questionnaire. Linda Ziegler rose to her feet, her copy in hand. Pringle motioned for her to bring it forward. The judge took the sheaf of papers, flipped through it until she found the appropriate page, and read, “ ‘Have you ever seen a UFO?’ Do you recall that question?”

“Yes.”

“You recall it now,” said Pringle.

“I’ve always recalled it—but you asked me about flying saucers, not UFOs.”

Pringle was getting more annoyed by the minute. “What’s the difference?”

“A UFO is an unidentified flying object. By definition, it’s something the nature of which you don’t know.”

“And you put on your survey that you’d never seen a UFO.”

“That’s right.”

“The Court has received a letter from a member of the Bay Area chapter of MUFON. That’s the… the—”

“The Mutual UFO Network,” said Juror 209.

“Yes,” said Pringle. “A member of the Bay Area chapter of the Mutual UFO Network, saying that you were a speaker at one of their meetings about eight years ago. Is that true?”

“Yes. I lived in San Rafael back then.”

“What was the subject of your talk?”

“My abduction experience.”

“You were kidnapped?” said Pringle.

“Not that kind of abduction. I was taken aboard an alien spacecraft.”

Judge Pringle visibly moved away from the woman, shifting her weight on her chair. “Taken aboard an alien spacecraft,” she repeated, as if the words had been unclear the first time.

“That’s correct, Your Honor.”

“But you specified on your questionnaire that you had never seen a UFO.”

“And I never have. What I saw was wholly identified. It was an alien spaceship.”

“Alien—as in from another world?”

“Well, actually, I believe the aliens come from another dimension—a parallel time track, if you will. There’s a lot of good evidence for that interpretation.”

“So you’re making a distinction between a UFO—something unknown—and an alien spaceship?”

“Yes.”

“Surely you’re splitting hairs, Juror 209.”

“I do not believe so, ma’am.”

“You felt completely comfortable denying having ever seen a UFO on your jury questionnaire?”

“Yes.”

“But surely the spirit of the question—”

“I can’t comment on the spirit of the question. I simply answered the question that was asked of me.”

“But you knew what information we were looking for.”

“With all due respect, Your Honor, it says right on the questionnaire, it says—may I see that? May I see the questionnaire?” Pringle handed it to her. “It says right here, right at the top, it says, ‘There are no right or wrong answers. Do not try to anticipate the answers likely to get you placed on or removed from the jury panel. Simply answer the questions as asked truthfully and to the best of you knowledge.’ ”

Pringle sighed. “And you felt what you gave was a truthful answer?”

“Objection!” said Wong. “Self-incrimination.”

“All right,” said Pringle. “Did you—”

“No, I don’t mind answering,” said Juror 209. “Yes, I felt my answer was truthful.”

“But you know in court we want the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

“Forgive me, Your Honor, but it’s been quite clear throughout this case that you want nothing of the kind. I’ve seen Mr. Rice, there, and Mrs. Ziegler, cut off all sorts of answers because they were more than either of them wanted the jury to hear. By every example I’ve ever seen, the Court wants specific answers to the narrow, specific questions posed—and I provided just that.”

“Did you have a special reason to want to be on this jury?”

“Objection!” said Wong. “Self-incrimination again.”

“All right, all right,” said Pringle. “Juror 209, I don’t mind telling you I’m extremely disappointed in you. As of this moment, you’re dismissed from the jury panel.”

“Please don’t do that,” said Juror 209.

“You’ve given me no choice,” said Pringle. “Just be happy that I’m not finding you in contempt. Deputy Harrison will take you home. We’ll try to get you there before the press gets wind of this, but I suspect they’ll be all over you by this evening. I cannot order you to be silent, but I do ask you to please consider the impact any statements you might make to the media will have. All right? You’re dismissed.” Pringle sighed, then turned to the lawyers. “We’ll move up the appropriate alternate juror. I’ll see you in the courtroom in”—she looked at her watch—“twenty minutes.”

The lawyers rose and filed out of the judge’s chambers. Frank sidled over to stand next to Dale. “Does this happen often?”

“People with a particular ax to grind trying to get on juries?” Dale shrugged. “It’s most common in cases like this one, with big potential jury pools. Obviously, you can’t volunteer for jury duty, but if you ask a big enough group of people to come on down, there’s bound to be someone who wants on.”

Frank waited for Ziegler to drift far enough down the corridor. “This woman—actually, she would have been on our side, wouldn’t she?”

Dale nodded. “Probably. A real alien-lover. Anyway, one of the alternates will replace her.”

“Let’s hope that it’s somebody who isn’t crazy but will still support us.”

Dale grunted.

“What?” said Frank.

Dale lowered his voice. “I still haven’t figured out what to do with the information from Dr. Hernandez, but, well, it may only be crazy people who will support us.”

Frank looked like he was going to protest this, but after a moment he nodded. “Yeah.”