Robert Sawyer - Illegal Alien

“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…”

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—”