Robert Sawyer - Illegal Alien

The intercom on District Attorney Ajax’s desk buzzed. “Reverend Oren Brisbee is here to see you, sir.”

Ajax rolled his eyes. “All right. Send him in.”

The door to Ajax’s office opened, and in came a thin black man of about sixty, with a fringe of white hair that, when he tipped his head down, looked like a halo.

“Mr. Ajax,” said Reverend Brisbee. “How good of you to see me.”

“I always have time for the pillars of the community, Reverend.”

“Especially when about to announce a gubernatorial challenge,” said Brisbee. His voice was a decibel or two too loud; Brisbee always spoke as if trying to reach the last pew, even when only one other person was present.

Ajax spread his arms. “My door has always been open to you.”

“And let us hope, Mr. Ajax, that for a good long time to come you will always have a public door… either here in L.A., or up in Sacramento.”

Ajax struggled not to sigh audibly. “What did you want to see me about, Reverend?”

“The murder of Cletus Calhoun.”

“A tragedy,” said Ajax. “But we will ensure that justice is done.”

“Will you, now?” The words actually echoed slightly off of the office window.

Ajax felt the beginnings of heartburn. He reached into his desk drawer and took out a roll of Rolaids. “Of course. We’ve already had some pressure from Washington to drop the case—and I’m told Washington has been pressured by other nations.” He forced a chuckle. “But if cases were dropped whenever Washington wanted them to be, Richard Nixon would have finished his term of office, Bob Packwood would still be in the Senate, and no one would ever have heard of Ollie North.”

“I admire your stick-to-itiveness, Mr. Ajax. But tell me, sir, will you have the backbone to stick to it until the bitter end?”

Ajax narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, good sir, that this fine state of California recognizes the right of the people to do collectively that which individually we must not.” Brisbee pointed a finger directly at Ajax. “We have capital punishment here, sir, and this is a capital crime. Will you have the moral courage to push for the death penalty in this case?”

The DA spread his arms. “Well, surely there are extenuating circumstances, Reverend. And although I won’t bow to political pressure, I do accept that there are some gigantic issues at stake here.”

“There are indeed. Would you like to know which issue is foremost in my mind, sir? Foremost in my mind is the fact that during your term as district attorney, you have called for the death penalty in sixty-four percent of the first-degree murder cases involving black defendants, whereas you’ve only asked for it in twenty-one percent of the cases involving white defendants.”

“Those statistics don’t tell the whole story, Reverend. You have to look at the severity of the individual crimes.”

“And no crime is more severe than killing a white man, is it? In cases when a black person is accused of killing a white, you have sought execution e ighty-six percent of the time. Well, good-old-boy Cletus Calhoun was as white as they come, Mr. Ajax. If I had been the one to butcher him like a hog, sir, you’d be looking to fry my black ass.”

“Reverend, I hardly think—”

“That, sir, is apparent. In your gubernatorial campaign, you can be sure the African-American constituency will be asking why you would execute a black man for killing a white man, but would demur from putting down an alien dog.”

“It’s more complex than that.”

“Is it, sir? If you don’t call for the death penalty in this case, what message are you sending? That this Tosok is more valuable than a black human being? That this alien traveler, with his advanced civilization and obvious education and great intelligence, is worthy of being spared, but a young Negro, victim of cruel poverty and racism, should be sent to the electric chair?”

“We are carefully weighing all the factors in deciding what penalty to seek, Reverend.”

“See that you do, Mr. Ajax. See that you do. Because if you do not, sir, you will feel the wrath of a nation oppressed. We carry within each of us the divine spark of a soul, and we will not be treated as inferior, disposable products while you go easy on some soulless creature that has committed the most brutal killing and mutilation this city has ever seen.”

Mary-Margaret Thompson was Dale Rice’s usual jury consultant. She was a trim, birdlike brunette, who perched herself on the corner of Dale’s wide desk. She looked at Frank, who was once again swimming in the giant easy chair. “There are several phases to the process, Dr. Nobilio. First, there are the jury-selection surveys. For a normal case, they call in about fifty prospective jurors. For the Simpson criminal case, they called in twenty times that number—a thousand prospects. You can bet they’re going to call in a similar amount this time. We’ll get to consult with the prosecution on the survey that these people will have to fill out. That’s step one—coming up with the right questions.

“Step two is voir dire —that’s where the lawyers get to question the prospective jurors one-on-one. Now, we can end the consulting process there, but I suggest we go all the way. Once the jury is impaneled, we should set up a shadow jury—a group of people who are as closely matched as possible demographically to our real jury. We then monitor them throughout the trial; that way we can tell which arguments are working, which ones aren’t, and how they’re leaning day by day.”

“A shadow jury,” repeated Frank. “What does that cost?”

“We usually pay the shadow jurors seventy dollars apiece each day—which is ten times what the real jurors are making.” A pause. “Now, the most important thing is to get someone on the panel who will serve as our virtual defendant—someone who will identify strongly with the defendant, taking on the role of Hask and presenting his viewpoint during deliberations. Of course, finding someone to do that is going to be rather tricky in this case…”

The squad room was bustling with activity—a blood-splattered black man being booked at one desk; two hookers, one white, one Asian, being booked at another; and three black gang members, maybe fourteen or fifteen, waiting to be processed. Dale looked at them, and shook his head.

They looked back at him, at his three-thousand-dollar suit, at his gold cuff links and the chain for his gold pocket watch. “Oreo,” said one to his homey as Dale walked by. Dale bristled, but didn’t turn around. He continued along until he came to the door he was looking for. An engraved sign on the door said “J. Perez.” Taped below it were a picture of a bail of hay and a picture of an old white man holding a plush-toy Cat in the Hat. “Hay” “Seuss”—Perez’s first name.

Oreo my ass , thought Dale. Just call me Uncle Rebus.

He knocked on the door. Perez barked out something, and Dale entered.

“Counselor,” said Perez, not rising. “Haven’t seen you for a while.”

“Lieutenant.” The stiff, formal word carried years of history behind it.

Perez jerked a thumb in the direction of the squad room. “I didn’t think any of those lowlifes could afford you.”

“My client is Hask.”

Perez nodded. “So I’d heard. What’s he paying you in? Gold-pressed latinum?”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Perez paused. “You missed out on being part of Simpson’s Dream Team, so now you’ve replaced the trial of the century with the trial of the Centauri.” The detective chuckled at his own wit. “It’s too bad, counselor. You had a pretty good winning streak going there.”