A QUESTION OF IDENTITY
BY FRANK RILEY
What is a Man?... A paradox
indeed—the world's finest minds
gathered to defend a punk killer....
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, April 1958.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Every pair of eyes in the hushed courtroom watched Jake Emspak walkslowly toward the prospective juror.
Around the Earth, and above it, too, from South Africa and Franz JosephLand to the satellite stations adrift through the black morning, twohundred million pairs of eyes focussed on the gaunt figure that movedso deliberately across the television screen.
In the glass-fronted TV booth, where the 80-year-old Edward R. Murrowhad created something of a stir by his unexpected appearance a fewmoments earlier, newsmen stopped talking to let the viewers see andhear for themselves what was happening.
Jake halted in front of the witness stand, both hands cupped overthe gold head of the cane that had been his trademark, in and out ofcourt, for most of a half century. The shaggy mane of white hair,once as black as the coal in the West Virginia mining country of hisbirth, stood out like an incongruous halo above the bone ridges of hisface. The jutting nose, the forward hunch of his body accentuated theimpression he always gave of being about to leap on a nervous witness.The magnificent voice, which could thunder, rasp, weep and persuade inall the registers of eloquence, now phrased his first question withdisconcerting softness:
"What is a man?"
The prospective juror, a Bronx appliance distributor with sagging jowlsand perpetual tension lines around his mouth, started visibly.
"I—I beg your pardon?"
Again Jake Emspak gently phrased his question:
"What is a man?"
The distributor, who could wake up out of a sound sleep and address asales meeting of unhappy dealers, opened his mouth and closed it again.Jake waited patiently, rocking a little on the point of his cane.
Finally, the distributor said:
"I can't answer that—right off...."
"Thank you," Jake said mildly.
He turned to Judge Hayward and nodded his acceptance of the juror.
Up in the TV booth, Murrow smiled to himself and listened to hiscolleagues chew over the familiar questions: Why had Jake Emspak, the"million dollar mouthpiece", taken a cheap case like this away from thePublic Defender? Who would possibly pay him enough to defend a punklike Tony Corfino—a bungling hoodlum who had killed two bystanders ina miserable attempt to rob a bank?
The Judge noted acceptance of the juror, then brusquely recessed courtuntil 10 A.M. Monday.
The timing was excellent. Jake smiled with satisfaction, and his smilewas like the slash of a paring knife across the skin of a dried apple.
He walked with Tony Corfino and the bailiff as far as the prisoner'sgate.
"Don't worry," Jake said.
Tony's eyes were wide and bewildered, like the eyes of a confusedchild—or of an old man not quite certain whether he is awake ordreaming.
"I ain't worried," Tony replied. As he walked, there was the cracklingsound of a bone twisting in a stiff joint.
From under his shaggy brows, Jake studied him carefully, and wascontent with what he saw. Tony could have been very young, or veryold. Undoubtedly he was both, with a lot of in-between, Jake thoughtsuddenly. The tangle of black, curly hair was the hair of youth. Thecameo-smooth skin had