“Yes.”
“You recall it now,” said Pringle.
“I’ve always recalled it—but you asked me about flying saucers, not UFOs.”
Pringle was getting more annoyed by the minute. “What’s the difference?”
“A UFO is an unidentified flying object. By definition, it’s something the nature of which you don’t know.”
“And you put on your survey that you’d never seen a UFO.”
“That’s right.”
“The Court has received a letter from a member of the Bay Area chapter of MUFON. That’s the… the—”
“The Mutual UFO Network,” said Juror 209.
“Yes,” said Pringle. “A member of the Bay Area chapter of the Mutual UFO Network, saying that you were a speaker at one of their meetings about eight years ago. Is that true?”
“Yes. I lived in San Rafael back then.”
“What was the subject of your talk?”
“My abduction experience.”
“You were kidnapped?” said Pringle.
“Not that kind of abduction. I was taken aboard an alien spacecraft.”
Judge Pringle visibly moved away from the woman, shifting her weight on her chair. “Taken aboard an alien spacecraft,” she repeated, as if the words had been unclear the first time.
“That’s correct, Your Honor.”
“But you specified on your questionnaire that you had never seen a UFO.”
“And I never have. What I saw was wholly identified. It was an alien spaceship.”
“Alien—as in from another world?”
“Well, actually, I believe the aliens come from another dimension—a parallel time track, if you will. There’s a lot of good evidence for that interpretation.”
“So you’re making a distinction between a UFO—something unknown—and an alien spaceship?”
“Yes.”
“Surely you’re splitting hairs, Juror 209.”
“I do not believe so, ma’am.”
“You felt completely comfortable denying having ever seen a UFO on your jury questionnaire?”
“Yes.”
“But surely the spirit of the question—”
“I can’t comment on the spirit of the question. I simply answered the question that was asked of me.”
“But you knew what information we were looking for.”
“With all due respect, Your Honor, it says right on the questionnaire, it says—may I see that? May I see the questionnaire?” Pringle handed it to her. “It says right here, right at the top, it says, ‘There are no right or wrong answers. Do not try to anticipate the answers likely to get you placed on or removed from the jury panel. Simply answer the questions as asked truthfully and to the best of you knowledge.’ ”
Pringle sighed. “And you felt what you gave was a truthful answer?”
“Objection!” said Wong. “Self-incrimination.”
“All right,” said Pringle. “Did you—”
“No, I don’t mind answering,” said Juror 209. “Yes, I felt my answer was truthful.”
“But you know in court we want the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”
“Forgive me, Your Honor, but it’s been quite clear throughout this case that you want nothing of the kind. I’ve seen Mr. Rice, there, and Mrs. Ziegler, cut off all sorts of answers because they were more than either of them wanted the jury to hear. By every example I’ve ever seen, the Court wants specific answers to the narrow, specific questions posed—and I provided just that.”
“Did you have a special reason to want to be on this jury?”
“Objection!” said Wong. “Self-incrimination again.”
“All right, all right,” said Pringle. “Juror 209, I don’t mind telling you I’m extremely disappointed in you. As of this moment, you’re dismissed from the jury panel.”
“Please don’t do that,” said Juror 209.
“You’ve given me no choice,” said Pringle. “Just be happy that I’m not finding you in contempt. Deputy Harrison will take you home. We’ll try to get you there before the press gets wind of this, but I suspect they’ll be all over you by this evening. I cannot order you to be silent, but I do ask you to please consider the impact any statements you might make to the media will have. All right? You’re dismissed.” Pringle sighed, then turned to the lawyers. “We’ll move up the appropriate alternate juror. I’ll see you in the courtroom in”—she looked at her watch—“twenty minutes.”
The lawyers rose and filed out of the judge’s chambers. Frank sidled over to stand next to Dale. “Does this happen often?”
“People with a particular ax to grind trying to get on juries?” Dale shrugged. “It’s most common in cases like this one, with big potential jury pools. Obviously, you can’t volunteer for jury duty, but if you ask a big enough group of people to come on down, there’s bound to be someone who wants on.”
Frank waited for Ziegler to drift far enough down the corridor. “This woman—actually, she would have been on our side, wouldn’t she?”
Dale nodded. “Probably. A real alien-lover. Anyway, one of the alternates will replace her.”
“Let’s hope that it’s somebody who isn’t crazy but will still support us.”
Dale grunted.
“What?” said Frank.
Dale lowered his voice. “I still haven’t figured out what to do with the information from Dr. Hernandez, but, well, it may only be crazy people who will support us.”
Frank looked like he was going to protest this, but after a moment he nodded. “Yeah.”
*30*
Dale Rice came into the courtroom. He looked at the new juror. Of course, he’d been in the room since the beginning, but this was his first day as an actual voting member of the panel. He was an Asian man, perhaps twenty-five or thirty. There was nothing in his face to convey which way he would vote. Dale smiled at him—a warm smile, a “trust me” smile, a “we’re all in this together” smile. It couldn’t hurt.
The day had been devoted to minor witnesses and arguing points of law.
Dale got home after nine P.M., exhausted—as he was more and more these days; he couldn’t deny his age.
Years ago, after having received a Los Angeles County “Lawyer of the Year” award, Dale Rice was asked by a reporter “whether he was proud today to be a Black American.”
Dale gave the reporter the kind of deadly cross-examinational stare normally reserved for lying police officers. “I’m proud every day to be a Black American,” he said.
Still, there weren’t many times when it was an actual advantage to be African-American. He was used to the screwups in restaurants. Waitresses bringing him the wrong meal—mixing up his order with that of the only other black person in the entire place. White people constantly confused him with other black men, men who, except for their skin color, looked nothing like him, and were often decades younger.
But the one time it perhaps was to his advantage to be big and black was when he wanted to go for late-night walks. Even here in Brentwood, most people were afraid to be out on the streets after midnight, but Dale knew that no one would try to mug him, and since he rarely got home from the office before nine p.m., he was grateful that at least the streets weren’t denied to him after dark, as they were to so many others. Of course, there was always the problem of police cars pulling up to him and asking to see his ID—for no good reason other than it was night, and he was black, and this was a rich white neighborhood.
Tonight, as he walked along, he thought about the case. The evidence against Hask seemed compelling. His lack of an alibi; his having shed his skin the night of the murder; the fact that he was experienced at dissection, having recently carved up the body of the dead Tosok, Seltar; the video showing him wielding precisely the sort of cutting device used to commit the crime—and his musings on that video about his people having given up too much by no longer hunting their own food.