Robert Sawyer - Illegal Alien

“I understand,” said Frank. “Who are you sending out here to handle things?”

“Nobody, Frank. You’re it. You’re my man.”

“Me, sir?”

“I’d love to fly half the attorney general’s office out there, but it’d be suicide for me to be seen to be meddling directly. You’re already there, and as part of the Tosok entourage, you’ve got a legitimate role apparently unrelated to the murder case. You’re going to have to coordinate a defense for Hask, without being seen to be involved at all.”

“What about money, sir? I’ll need to hire a lawyer.”

“That’s a problem. We can’t be seen to be underwriting the defense in any way.”

Frank sighed, contemplating the magnitude of the task now facing aim. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

“I know you will, Frank.”

Olympus clicked off.

Frank went to Kelkad’s room in Valcour Hall. “Captain,” he said, “we will require money to hire a lawyer to defend Hask.”

“Money?” said Kelkad. “That green paper stuff? I am sure Engineer Rendo can replicate whatever we need aboard the mothership.”

Frank allowed himself his first faint smile since the murder. “No, you can’t do that. Duplicating money is a crime.”

“Oh. We have none of our own.”

“I know,” said Frank. “But I think I know a way…”

During his sixty-seven years of life, Dale Rice had heard the name for what he was change from Colored to Negro to Black to African-American. When he’d been born, there were still people alive who had been called slave.

Dale had white hair but black eyebrows, and large pouches of skin beneath his rheumy eyes. His nose was wide and misshapen. His three-hundred-pound body resembled an Aztec step pyramid; over it, he usually wore a charcoal-gray Armani suit, the pants held up by suspenders.

His wide, smooth face had seen a lot of history. Dale had been born in Montgomery, Alabama. He was a young man in 1955 when Rosa Parks was arrested there for refusing to give up her seat on a bus for a white man.

In 1961, Dale had become a Freedom Rider, testing the Supreme Court’s order outlawing segregation in bus terminals. When the bus he was on pulled into Anniston, Alabama, a mob of white men with clubs, bricks, metal pipes, and knives was waiting. The bus was firebombed, and as the black and white passengers escaped they were savagely beaten; it was during this fight that Dale’s nose had been broken.

In 1965, he and two hundred and fifty thousand other people marched on Washington, D.C., and heard the Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr., give his “I Have a Dream” speech.

Dale Rice had known King, and he’d known Malcolm X. He knew Jesse Jackson and Louis Farrakhan. There were those who called him the top civil-rights lawyer in the United States. Dale himself thought that was probably true; he also thought it very sad that after all this time the United States still needed civil-rights lawyers.

The intercom on his desk buzzed. He pushed the talk button with a sausagelike finger. “Yes?” he said, his voice low and deep.

“Dale,” said a woman, “there’s a man here to see you. He doesn’t have an appointment, but…”

“Yes, Karen?”

“He’s shown me some ID. He works for the president of the United States.”

The dark eyebrows rose toward the white cloud of hair. “Send him in.”

A thin white man came into the room. He was wearing gold wire-frame glasses and a gray suit that looked much less expensive than Dale’s. “Mr. Rice,” he said, in a slightly nasal voice, “my name is Francis Nobilio. I’m the science advisor to the president.”

Dale sat looking out at Frank over his own half glasses. Dale was a man of few movements, and he did not offer his hand. He indicated one of the empty chairs facing his desk not with a gesture, but simply with glance of his old, tired eyes. “I’ve seen you on TV,” he said. “You’re part of the entourage living with those aliens.”

“That’s correct, sir. And that’s why I’m here. One of the Tosoks has been arrested for murder.”

Dale nodded. “I was at the county courthouse today. Everyone was talking about it. The victim was that gentleman from PBS, right?”

“Cletus Calhoun, yes.”

“And you want me to defend the Tosok?”

“Yes.”

“Why me?”

Frank shrugged, as if it were obvious. “Your track record.”

“There are lots of good lawyers in this town.”

“True. But, well…” He paused, apparently not sure what to say next. “Look, it’s not exactly a civil-rights case, but…”

“But I’m black.”

Frank looked away. “There’s that.”

“And many of my most prominent cases have involved black defendents.”

“Yes.”

“Including a number of blacks accused of murdering whites.”

Frank shifted in his chair. “Well, yes.”

“So you figured I’m an expert at defending individuals that the court might be inclined to view as second-class citizens.”

“I, ah, I wouldn’t put it that way.”

“But that’s the issue, isn’t it? You’re afraid the jury will consider the Tosok to be something less than human.” Dale had a James Earl Jones voice; his every syllable was as a pronouncement from on high.

“The thought had crossed my mind, yes.”

Dale’s eyes were unflinching. “Would you have come to me if the deceased man had been black?”

“I— I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about that.”

“Black stiff, alien killer—not quite the same issue, is it? A jury is less likely to be enraged over the death of a black man.”

“I’d like to think that the color of the victim makes no difference.”

Dale’s eyes continued to bore into Frank’s skull for a few moments. “But it does,” he said simply.

“Look, I’ve got to find someone to represent Hask today. I called Janet Reno, and Janet says you’re the best there is. But if you don’t want the job—”

“I didn’t say that. I just want to make sure that it’s the right case for me—and that your expectations are realistic. I’m offered a hundred cases a day; I turn almost all of them down.”

“I know. You were asked to be a part of the Dream Team for the O.J. Simpson criminal trial.”

“True. And I passed.”

“Why?”

Dale thought for a moment about whether he wanted to answer this. Finally, he said, “Too many chiefs. Too many egos. I don’t work that way. You hire me, you get me—me, and one of my associates as second chair. Half the reason the Simpson trial lasted so long was that each of the gentlemen sitting at the defense table had to get his time in the spotlight.”

“You would be lead counsel. The rest of the team would be up to you.”

Dale considered. “You mentioned Simpson, Dr. Nobilio. Let me ask you a question. Why was he found not guilty in the criminal trial?”

Frank tucked his lower lip behind his teeth. He seemed to be trying to think of a politic answer. Finally, he shrugged. “Slick lawyering.”

“You think he did it? Think he killed Nicole Brown and Ronald Goldman?”

“Well, yes.”

“Was justice done in that trial?”

Frank shook his head.

“You need a different lawyer. My secretary will suggest some names to you.” Dale heaved his massive bulk up from his leather chair, and this time he did extend a beefy hand.

Frank didn’t get up. “Don’t brush me off, Mr. Rice. I need you. If you think my opinion is incorrect, tell me why.”

Dale knew his own natural expression was a frown; he now let Frank see what his real frown looked like. But then he lowered himself back down, the chair creaking as it took his weight again. “The Simpson criminal jury only deliberated for four hours,” Dale said. “You know why? Because it was an open-and-shut case.”