A Question of Identity

What is a Man?... A paradox indeed—the world's finest minds gathered to defend a punk killer....
Every pair of eyes in the hushed courtroom watched Jake Emspak walk slowly toward the prospective juror.
Around the Earth, and above it, too, from South Africa and Franz Joseph Land to the satellite stations adrift through the black morning, two hundred million pairs of eyes focussed on the gaunt figure that moved so deliberately across the television screen.
In the glass-fronted TV booth, where the 80-year-old Edward R. Murrow had created something of a stir by his unexpected appearance a few moments earlier, newsmen stopped talking to let the viewers see and hear for themselves what was happening.
Jake halted in front of the witness stand, both hands cupped over the gold head of the cane that had been his trademark, in and out of court, 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 his birth, stood out like an incongruous halo above the bone ridges of his face. The jutting nose, the forward hunch of his body accentuated the impression he always gave of being about to leap on a nervous witness. The magnificent voice, which could thunder, rasp, weep and persuade in all the registers of eloquence, now phrased his first question with disconcerting softness:
What is a man?
The prospective juror, a Bronx appliance distributor with sagging jowls and 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 a sales 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: