Illegal Alien

"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 eighty-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?"