“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 any 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.”
*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 9 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 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 houselights 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.