Frank frowned again. "I told you I don’t have access to any funds."

"I’ll take care of it," said Rice.

"Thank you." A pause. "But what you were saying before — I mean, isn’t it illegal to discriminate in jury selection on the basis of race or gender?"

Dale nodded. "Of course; the Supreme Court has confirmed that. Batson v.

Kentucky, among others. But all that means is if you don’t want any blacks on the jury, you find some other reason to get rid of them. For instance, you see a black gentleman in the jury pool, and you want grounds to excuse him, ask him if he’s ever had reason to distrust the police. Of course he’s going to say yes, and — presto! — he’s off the jury, without race ever being mentioned. The point is that with the right jury, it’s possible to get someone off even if they committed the crime—"

"Like O.J."

"No, not like O.J.," said Dale. "We’ve been down that road before. But consider the case of Lorena Bobbitt — there was zero doubt that she’d cut off her husband’s penis. Or California v. Powell : there was zero doubt that those officers had beat Rodney King within an inch of his life — the whole thing was caught on videotape. Still, in both cases, the undisputed perpetrators of the crimes were acquitted by juries."

Frank nodded slowly. "So in this case we want bright people, people who can follow a scientific argument?"

"I don’t know about that. The standard advice is if you’re defending a guilty party — which, my friend, despite your wide-eyed optimism, we might indeed be doing — then you want a dull-witted jury. Bunch of rubes who won’t see through the tricks you’re pulling. That means we’re off to a good start right away. The jury pool is always skewed toward the poorly educated and the unemployed. A bright person can usually find a good reason to get out of jury duty." Dale paused. "You know why the DNA evidence failed in the Simpson criminal case? Because there were conflicting experts. You’ve got one side saying one thing, the other side saying something else, and the uneducated jury says, well, if these experts can’t figure it out, then how can we? And so they simply ignore that line line of evidence, and make their decision based on other considerations."

’Okay, so who do we want? Space buffs?"

"I wish. But you can bet the prosecution will get those eliminated."

"Star Trek fans? Science-fiction fans?"

"They’d probably be good, but, again, too obvious — the other side will strike them."

"People who think they’ve seen a UFO?"

"No — too unpredictable. Could be crazy, and the last thing you want on the jury is a crazy person. No way to guess what they’ll do."

"Okay. So who don’t we want on the jury?"

"The most important thing to watch out for is the ideologue — a person who wants to be on the jury to push for a particular verdict, no matter what.

You find them a lot in abortion cases, civil-rights cases, and so on. Such people can be really crafty — they know exactly what to say and what not to say to get on the jury, then, once there, they hang the jury. We’ll do our best to weed them out during voir dire, but in a case like this, we’ve got to be particularly careful not to get some aliens-are-devils nut impaneled…"

The intercom on District Attorney Ajax’s desk buzzed. "Reverend Oren Brisbee is here to see you, sir."

Ajax rolled his eyes. "All right. Send him in."

The door to Ajax’s office opened, and in came a thin black man of about sixty, with a fringe of white hair that, when he tipped his head down, looked like a halo.

"Mr. Ajax," said Reverend Brisbee. "How good of you to see me."

"I always have time for the pillars of the community, Reverend."

"Especially when about to announce a gubernatorial challenge," said Brisbee. His voice was a decibel or two too loud; Brisbee always spoke as if trying to reach the last pew, even when only one other person was present.

Ajax spread his arms. "My door has always been open to you."

"And let us hope, Mr. Ajax, that for a good long time to come you will always have a public door… either here in L.A., or up in Sacramento."

Ajax struggled not to sigh audibly. "What did you want to see me about, Reverend?"

"The murder of Cletus Calhoun."

"A tragedy," said Ajax. "But we will ensure that justice is done."

"Will you, now?" The words actually echoed slightly off of the office window.

Ajax felt the beginnings of heartburn. He reached into his desk drawer and took out a roll of Rolaids. "Of course. We’ve already had some pressure from Washington to drop the case — and I’m told Washington has been pressured by other nations." He forced a chuckle. "But if cases were dropped whenever Washington wanted them to be, Richard Nixon would have finished his term of office, Bob Packwood would still be in the Senate, and no one would ever have heard of Ollie North."

"I admire your stick-to-itiveness, Mr. Ajax. But tell me, sir, will you have the backbone to stick to it until the bitter end?"

Ajax narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, good sir, that this fine state of California recognizes the right of the people to do collectively that which individually we must not." Brisbee pointed a finger directly at Ajax. "We have capital punishment here, sir, and this is a capital crime. Will you have the moral courage to push for the death penalty in this case?"

The DA spread his arms. "Well, surely there are extenuating circumstances, Reverend. And although I won’t bow to political pressure, I do accept that there are some gigantic issues at stake here."

"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.