Illegal Alien

  The cops nodded, and hustled the assailant into a car. Meanwhile the two ambulance attendants had transferred the alien to their stretcher and were now lifting him off the ground.

  The Tosoks arrived. Their breathing orifices seemed to be spasming, and they each lifted their arms away from their bodies, possibly to help dissipate heat. Kelkad and Stant came immediately over to Hask and began peering at the wound. They chatted among themselves, then Stant’s translator spoke: “There is insufficient time to get him up to the mothership. Your germs are no problem for us, so we do not need a particularly sterile place to work. But we will need surgical implements.”

  “We’re taking him to the Los Angeles County-USC Medical Center,” said one of the attendants. “It’s a huge hospital; they’ll have everything you’ll need there.”

  “I’m coming with you,” said Frank.

  They got the alien body into the back of the ambulance, and then Kelkad and one of the attendants climbed in the rear door. The other attendant got into the driver’s seat and Frank hopped into the passenger’s seat. The ambulance took off, a police car carrying Stant providing an escort.

  “Frank,” said Kelkad’s voice, from the back of the ambulance. Frank turned around and looked into the rear compartment. “Who is responsible for this act, Frank?”

  “We have the man,” said Frank. “He sounded like a religious fanatic to me. Don’t worry, Kelkad. He will pay for his crimes.”

  “Shooting one of our people could be construed as an act of war,” said Kelkad.

  “I know, I know. Believe me, you will have every apology possible, and I promise you the man will be punished.”

  “A fanatic, you said?”

  “He called Hask a devil—a demon, a supernatural creature.”

  “His lawyer will try the insanity defense, then.”

  The ambulance’s tires squealed as the driver took it through a tight turn. Frank shrugged. “It’s possible.”

  “See to it that my faith in this thing you call justice is not betrayed,” said Kelkad.

  They continued on to the hospital, siren wailing.

  CHAPTER

  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 acetic acid?”

  “Acet—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 a
ny 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.”

  CHAPTER

  28

  Carla Hernandez was never home during the day to watch the live coverage of the Hask trial. CNN did an hour-long recap at nine P.M. Pacific, but that was more than she had time for; her job as chief of surgery required at least an eighty-hour week. Besides, she’d gotten sick enough of Greta Van Susteren and Roger Cossack during the two Simpson trials. Fortunately, every L.A. station had its own nightly special on the trial; she was partial to Bob Pugsley’s 10:30 P.M. commentary on Channel 13.

  She’d thought that after she’d assisted Stant in operating on Hask, her involvement with the Tosoks would cease. But she’d seen something when prepping Hask for surgery, something that bothered her. Something she couldn’t explain.

  There, on the TV, was Dale Rice, surrounded by a hundred reporters outside the courthouse. They were shouting questions at him about his client’s chances and the effect the shooting would have on the case.

  Of course, Rice would have an unlisted home number—that was something most doctors and lawyers had in common. But he must have a business listing—although Hernandez had no idea what Rice’s firm’s name was. Still, it was worth a try. She got up and found her phone book.

  A firm called Rice and Associates did indeed have offices on West Second Street.

  She’d call them tomorrow.

  Frank came by Rice and Associates each morning at eight-thirty for a quick update on the day’s strategy. When he entered Dale’s office this morning, Dale leaned back in his chair and interlocked his thick fingers behind his head. “I think Stant did it.”

  Frank’s eyebrows went up. “Why?”

  “Well, he took the Fifth on testifying about blood—so he’s got something to hide. And, more than that, he’s trained as a surgeon—he performed the bullet extraction from Hask, after all. The murderer was somebody who clearly had medical skill.”

  “But what about his alibi?”

  Dale shrugged. “His alibi is entirely other Tosoks. They were all seated alone at the back of the lecture hall—they’d put in Tosok chairs for them behind the last row of normal chairs. Stephen Jay Gould’s lecture was illustrated with slides, and it lasted seventy-five minutes, before the house-lights were brought up for a question-and-answer session. The theater is only five minutes from the dorm. Stant could have easily slipped out—excusing himself to use the bathroom, maybe—done the deed, and returned. He’s got his own key for the dorm; he could have entered through the back door.”

  “Unseen?” said Frank. “Going clear across the campus?”

  “It was a dark night, and it was during Christmas holidays—the university was mostly deserted.”

  Frank scratched his chin. “I suppose. So you want to demonstrate that there’s enough slack in the prosecution’s time line for this to be possible?”

  Dale nodded. “It’s a little late for a new strategy, but the shadow jury is still saying Hask is almost certainly going to be convicted if we don’t come up with something new; I’d hoped the shooting of Hask would have swayed them toward leniency, but apparently it didn’t.”

  “You won’t get any help from the Tosoks if they’re shielding Stant—and I’m not sure why they’d want to protect him at the expense of Hask.”

  “Hask said it himself,” said Dale. “He is ‘First’—the most expendable member of the crew. Kelkad may have decided that if someone has to take the fall for this, it should be Hask.”

  Frank considered this, then nodded. “And Hask seems to be a loyal enough officer that he’s willing to abide by that.”

  “Exactly.” Dale looked at his antique brass desk clock. “We better get going.”

  “Rice and Associates.”

  “Hello. Dale Rice, please.”

  “Mr. Rice has already left for the courthouse. Would you like to leave a message?”

  “Umm, yes. Sure. Could you tell him that Dr. Carla Hernandez called. I’m the chief of surgery at Los Angeles County-USC Medical Center, and I assisted in the operation on his client Hask.”

  “I’ll give him the message.”

  “Good morning, everyone,” said Judge Pringle. “On the record now in California v. Hask. The jury is present, as is the defendant and his counsel, Mr. Rice and Ms. Katayama. The People are represented by Ms. Ziegler and Ms. Diamond.”

  Judge Pringle looked up—and something caught her eye. A small commotion in the bank of chairs set aside for the Tosoks. Stant had folded his front arm at its upper and lower elbows so that his hand could reach to the area between that arm and his left leg. He used one of the four fingers on that hand to pry free a diamond-shaped scale from there; it had apparently already begun to pop loose on his own. The scale fell to the floor. Stant picked some more at the spot where the scale had come from, and an adjacent patch of six or seven scales came free. He used the stubby, flat ends of his fingers to scratch the white skin underneath, and his tuft rippled back and forth, conveying some emotion, although Judge Pringle couldn’t say what it was.

  “You there,” she said. “The Tosok in the middle of the first row.”

  Stant looked up. “My name is Stant.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I am fine, but—”

  “What’s happening to your skin?”

  A rift had begun to appear in Stant’s hide, continuing down from the exposed patch where the scales had come free. The split had a zigzag edge, neatly following the edges of the diamond scales.

  “I am shedding. Apologies; I should leave the courtroom.” He rose to his feet.

  “This isn’t an intensely personal or private experience, is it?” said Pringle.

  “Of course not—it relates to the outer body, after all. Still—”

  “Then do not feel pressure to leave.”

  Stant hesitated for a moment, then sat back down. But as he went down, Dale Rice got up, almost like a counterbalance. “Your Honor, surely this shouldn’t be displayed in front of the jury.”

  Linda Ziegler apparently hadn’t been sure what to make of it, either, so she simply fell into the comfortable old role of disputing whatever her opponent said. “On the contrary, Your Honor, had such a demonstration been possible at the Court’s convenience, I would have arranged for it as part of the People’s case-in-chief.”

  “But your case-in-chief is over,” said Dale, “and it’s time—”

  “Enough,” said Pringle. “Mr. Stant is hardly being deliberately disruptive. He will remain in the courtroom. If need be, I’ll call him as a witness.”

  Dale was fuming. Across the room, Stant had brought his back hand around to the front side of his body, and was now using both arms to help widen the gap. The old skin peeled away without difficulty, although it did make a sound like Scotch tape being pulled off a hard surface. Stant worked the joints where his legs and arms met his torso back and forth, and soon a second split and then a third appeared in his old hide. Meanwhile, he was now using his fingers to scratch itches in a variety of newly exposed places.

  It took a total of about fifteen minutes for Stant’s entire old hide to be shed, and everyone in the courtroom watched. Most were fascinated, although one man with a severe sunburn was wincing throughout. The hide came off in four separate pieces. Stant wadded them up and stuffed them into a canvas carrying bag that he’d had stored under his chair. His new skin was white with just a tinge of yellow, and it glistened brightly under the harsh fluorescent lights.

  Judge Pringle appeared satisfied. “Fascinating,” she said. “Now, on to today’s testimony. Mr. Rice, you may call a witness…”

  CHAPTER

  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 brand
y from the bar along the back wall of the room. He held it up so that Frank could see it. Frank nodded, and Dale poured some into 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?”