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…”
*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 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—”
“Now, now, Reverend,” said Dale. “You don’t know that that’s what happened.”
“I can see,” continued Reverend Brisbee, somewhat miffed, “why anyone from anywhere would admire the human eye, as a sterling example of God’s craftsmanship.”
At nine a.m. the next morning, Dale and Frank entered Judge Pringle’s chambers. Linda Ziegler was already there, as were juror number 209—a pudgy white woman of forty-one—and a man Dale had seen around the courthouse over the years but didn’t know. A moment later Judge Pringle entered, accompanied by a stenographer. Pringle waited for the stenographer to get set up, then said, “Mr. Wong, will you please introduce yourself to the others?”
“Ernest Wong, representing Juror 209.”
“Thank you,” said the judge. “Let the record show that also present are Ms. Ziegler for the People, and Mr. Rice for Mr. Hask, who is not here. Also present with my permission is Dr. Frank Nobilio, American delegate to the Tosok entourage. Now, Juror 209, good morning to you.”
“Good morning, Judge,” said Juror 209, her voice nervous.
“Okay,” said Judge Pringle, “Juror 209, your attorney is here. Feel free to stop me anytime you want to consult with Mr. Wong, and Mr. Wong, of course anytime you wish to interpose an objection or make an inquiry, you are entitled to do so.”
“Thank you,” said Wong.
“Now, Juror 209, some questions have been raised.” Pringle held up a hand, palm out. “I’m not saying you’ve done anything wrong, but when questions are raised relating to juror conduct or juror impaneling, the appellate law here in California requires me to make an investigation, so that’s what we’re doing. Okay? Okay. You were asked to fill out a questionnaire prior to serving on this jury, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you fill out the questionnaire truthfully?”
“Objection!” said Wong. “Calls for self-incrimination.”
Judge Pringle frowned. “Very well. Juror 209, we have a problem here. Question 192 on the jury questionnaire asked if you had ever seen a flying saucer. Do you recall that question?”
“I don’t recall a question using that term, no, Your Honor.”
Judge Pringle looked even more irritated. “Well, let me read the question to you.” She rummaged on her desk, looking for the questionnaire. Linda Ziegler rose to her feet, her copy in hand. Pringle motioned for her to bring it forward. The judge took the sheaf of papers, flipped through it until she found the appropriate page, and read, “ ‘Have you ever seen a UFO?’ Do you recall that question?”