The Third Twin Part 22

Porky took another step back and sat down hard on the toilet, covering his eyes with his hands.

Steve put both hands behind Porky's neck, pulled his head forward, and kneed him in the face. Blood spurted from Porky's mouth. Steve grabbed him by the s.h.i.+rt, yanked him off the toilet seat, and dropped him on the floor. He was about to kick him, when sanity began to return. He hesitated, staring down at Porky bleeding on the floor, and the red mist of rage cleared. "Oh, no," he said. "What have I done?"

The gate of the cell flew open and two cops burst in, brandis.h.i.+ng nightsticks.

Steve held up his hands in front of him.

"Just calm down," said one of the cops.

"I'm calm, now," Steve said.

The cops handcuffed him and took him out of the cell. One punched him in the stomach, hard. He doubled over, gasping. "That's just in case you were thinking of starting any more trouble," the cop said.

He heard the sound of the cell door cras.h.i.+ng shut and the voice of Spike the turnkey in his habitual humorous mood. "You need medical attention, Porky?" Spike said. "'Cause there's a veterinarian on East Baltimore Street." He cackled at his own joke.

Steve straightened up, recovering from the punch. It still hurt but he could breathe. He looked through the bars at Porky. He was sitting upright, rubbing his eyes. Through bleeding lips he replied to Spike, "f.u.c.k you, a.s.shole."

Steve was relieved: Porky was not badly hurt.

Spike said: "It was time to pull you out of there anyway, college boy. These gentlemen have come to take you to court." He consulted a sheet of paper. "Let's see, who else is for the Northern District Court? Mr. Robert Sandilands, known as Sniff...." He got three other men out of cells and chained them all together with Steve. Then the two cops took them to the parking garage and put them on a bus.

Steve hoped he would never have to go back to that place.

It was still dark outside. Steve guessed it must be around six A.M A.M. Courts did not start work until nine or ten o'clock in the morning, so he would have a long wait. They drove through the city for fifteen or twenty minutes then entered a garage door in a court building. They got off the bus and went down into the bas.e.m.e.nt.

There were eight barred pens around a central open area. Each pen had a bench and a toilet, but they were larger than the cells at police headquarters, and all four prisoners were put in a pen that already had six men in it. Their chains were removed and dumped on a table in the middle of the room. There were several turnkeys, presided over by a tall black woman with a sergeant's uniform and a mean expression.

Over the next hour another thirty or more prisoners arrived. They were accommodated twelve to a pen. There were shouts and whistles when a small group of women were brought in. They were put in a pen at the far end of the room.

After that nothing much happened for several hours. Breakfast was brought, but Steve once again refused food; he could not get used to the idea of eating in the toilet. Some prisoners talked noisily, most remained sullen and quiet. Many looked hung over. The banter between prisoners and guards was not quite as foul as it had been in the last place, and Steve wondered idly if that was because there was a woman in charge.

Jails were nothing like what they showed on TV, he reflected. Television shows and movies made prisons seem like low-grade hotels: they never showed the unscreened toilets, the verbal abuse, or the beatings given to those who misbehaved.

Today might be his last day in jail. If he had believed in G.o.d he would have prayed with all his heart.

He figured it was about midday when they began taking prisoners out of the cells.

Steve was in the second batch. They were handcuffed again and ten men were chained together. Then they went up to the court.

The courtroom was like a Methodist chapel. The walls were painted green up to a black line at waist level and then cream above that. There was a green carpet on the floor and nine rows of blond wood benches like pews.

In the back row sat Steve's mother and father.

He gasped with shock.

Dad wore his colonel's uniform, with his hat under his arm. He sat straight backed, as if standing at attention. He had Celtic coloring: blue eyes, dark hair, and the shadow of a heavy beard on his clean-shaven cheeks. His expression was rigidly blank, taut with suppressed emotion. Mom sat beside him, small and plump, her pretty round face puffy with crying.

Steve wished he could fall through the floor. He would have gone back to Porky's cell willingly to escape this moment. He stopped walking, holding up the entire line of prisoners, and stared in dumb agony at his parents, until the turnkey gave him a shove and he stumbled forward to the front bench.

A woman clerk sat at the front of the court, facing the prisoners. A male turnkey guarded the door. The only other official present was a bespectacled black man of about forty wearing a suit coat, tie, and blue jeans. He asked the names of the prisoners and checked them against a list.

Steve looked back over his shoulder. There was no one on the public benches except for his parents. He was grateful he had family that cared enough to show up; none of the other prisoners did. All the same he would have preferred to go through this humiliation unwitnessed.

His father stood up and came forward. The man in blue jeans spoke officiously to him. "Yes, sir?"

"I'm Steven Logan's father, I'd like to speak to him," Dad said in an authoritative voice. "May I know who you are?"

"David Purdy, I'm the pretrial investigator, I called you this morning."

So that was how Mom and Dad found out, Steve realized. He should have guessed. The court commissioner had told him an investigator would check his details. The simplest way to do that would be to call his parents. He winced at the thought of that phone call. What had the investigator said? "I need to check the address of Steven Logan, who is in custody in Baltimore; accused of rape. Are you his mother?"

Dad shook the man's hand and said: "How do you do, Mr. Purdy." But Steve could tell Dad hated him.

Purdy said: "You can speak to your son, go ahead, no problem."

Dad nodded curtly. He edged along the bench behind the prisoners and sat directly behind Steve. He put his hand on Steve's shoulder and squeezed gently. Tears came to Steve's eyes. "Dad, I didn't do this," he said.

"I know, Steve," his father said.

His simple faith was too much for Steve, and he started to cry. Once he began he could not stop. He was weak with hunger and lack of sleep. All the strain and misery of the last two days overwhelmed him, and tears flowed freely. He kept swallowing and dabbing at his face with his manacled hands.

After a while Dad said: "We wanted to get you a lawyer, but there wasn't time-we only just made it here."

Steve nodded. He would be his own lawyer if he could just get himself under control.

Two girls were brought in by a woman turnkey. They were not handcuffed. They sat down and giggled. They looked about eighteen.

"How the h.e.l.l did this happen, anyway?" Dad said to Steve.

Trying to answer the question helped Steve stop crying. "I must look like the guy who did it," he said. He sniffed and swallowed. "The victim picked me out at a lineup. And I was in the neighborhood at the time, I told the police that. The DNA test will clear me, but it takes three days. I'm hoping I'll get bail today."

"Tell the judge we're here," Dad said. "It will probably help."

Steve felt like a child, being comforted by his father. It brought back a bittersweet memory of the day he got his first bicycle. It must have been his fifth birthday. The bike was the kind with a pair of training wheels at the back to prevent it falling over. Their house had a large garden with two steps leading down to a patio. "Ride around the lawn and steer clear of the steps," Dad had said; but the first thing little Stevie did was try to ride his bicycle down the steps. He crashed, damaging the bike and himself; and he fully expected his father to get mad at him for disobeying a direct order. Dad picked him up, bathed his wounds gently, and fixed the bike, and although Stevie waited for the explosion, it did not come. Dad never even said "I told you so." No matter what happened, Steve's parents were always on his side.

The judge came in.

She was an attractive white woman of about fifty, very small and neat. She wore a black robe and carried a can of Diet c.o.ke which she put on the desk when she sat down.

Steve tried to read her face. Was she cruel or benign? In a good mood or a foul temper? A warmhearted, liberal-minded woman with a soul, or an obsessive martinet who secretly wished she could send them all to the electric chair? He stared at her blue eyes, her sharp nose, her gray-streaked dark hair. Did she have a husband with a beer gut, a grown son she worried about, an adored grandchild with whom she rolled around on the carpet? Or did she live alone in an expensive apartment full of stark modern furniture with sharp corners? His law lectures had told him the theoretical reasons for granting or refusing bail, but now they seemed almost irrelevant. All that really mattered was whether this woman was kindly or not.

She looked at the row of prisoners and said: "Good afternoon. This is your bail review." Her voice was low but clear, her diction precise. Everything about her seemed exact and tidy-except for that c.o.ke can, a touch of humanity that gave Steve hope.

"Have you all received your statement of charges?" They all had. She went on to recite a script about what their rights were and how to get a lawyer.

After that was done, she said: "When named, please raise your right hand. Ian Thompson." A prisoner raised his hand. She read out the charges and the penalties he faced. Ian Thompson had apparently burglarized three houses in the sw.a.n.ky Roland Park neighborhood. A young Hispanic man with his arm in a sling, he showed no interest in his fate and appeared bored by the whole process.

As she told him he was ent.i.tled to a preliminary hearing and a jury trial, Steve waited eagerly to see if he would get bail.

The pretrial investigator stood up. Speaking very fast, he said that Thompson had lived at his address for one year and had a wife and a baby, but no job. He also had a heroin habit and a criminal record. Steve would not have released such a man onto the streets.

However, the judge set his bail at twenty-five thousand dollars. Steve felt encouraged. He knew that the accused normally had to put up only 10 percent of the bail in cash, so Thompson would be free if he could find twenty-five hundred dollars. That seemed lenient.

One of the girls was next. She had been in a fight with another girl and was charged with a.s.sault. The pretrial investigator told the judge that she lived with her parents and worked at the checkout of a nearby supermarket. She was obviously a good risk, and the judge gave her bail in her own recognizance, which meant she did not have to put up any money at all.

That was another soft decision, and Steve's spirits rose a notch.

The defendant was also ordered not to go to the address of the girl she had fought with. That reminded Steve that a judge could attach conditions to the bail. Perhaps he should volunteer to stay away from Lisa Hoxton. He had no idea where she lived or what she looked like, but he was ready to say anything that might help get him out of jail.

The next defendant was a middle-aged white man who had exposed his p.e.n.i.s to women shoppers in the feminine hygiene section of a Rite-Aid drugstore. He had a long record of similar offenses. He lived alone but had been at the same address for five years. To Steve's surprise and dismay, the judge refused bail. The man was small and thin; Steve felt he was a harmless nutcase. But perhaps this judge, as a woman, was particularly tough on s.e.x crimes.

She looked at her sheet and said: "Steven Charles Logan."

Steve raised his hand. Please let me out of here, please. Please let me out of here, please.

"You are charged with rape in the first degree, which carries a possible penalty of life imprisonment."

Behind him, Steve heard his mother gasp.

The judge went on to read out the other charges and penalties, then the pretrial investigator stood up. He recited Steve's age, address, and occupation, and said that he had no criminal record and no addictions. Steve thought he sounded like a model citizen by comparison with most of the other defendants. Surely she had to take note of that?

When Purdy had finished, Steve said: "May I speak, Your Honor?"

"Yes, but remember that it may not be in your interest to tell me anything about the crime."

He stood up. "I'm innocent, Your Honor, but it seems I may bear a resemblance to the rapist, so if you grant me bail I'll promise not to approach the victim, if you want to make that a condition of bail."

"I certainly would."

He wanted to plead with her for his freedom, but all the eloquent speeches he had composed in his cell now vanished from his mind, and he could think of nothing to say. Feeling frustrated, he sat down.

Behind him, his father stood up. "Your Honor, I'm Steven's father, Colonel Charles Logan. I'd be glad to answer any questions you may want to ask me."

She gave him a frosty look. "That won't be necessary."

Steve wondered why she seemed to resent his father's intervention. Maybe she was just making it clear she was not impressed by his military rank. Perhaps she wanted to say, "Everyone is equal in my court, regardless of how respectable and middle-cla.s.s they might be."

Dad sat down again.

The judge looked at Steve. "Mr. Logan, was the woman known to you before the alleged crime took place?"

"I've never met her," Steve said.

"Had you ever seen seen her before?" her before?"

Steve guessed she was wondering whether he had been stalking Lisa Hoxton for some time before attacking her. He replied: "I can't tell, I don't know what she looks like."

The judge seemed to reflect on that for a few seconds. Steve felt as if he were hanging on to a ledge by his fingertips. Just a word from her would rescue him. But if she refused him bail it would be like falling into the abyss.

At last she spoke: "Bail is granted in the sum of two hundred thousand dollars."

Relief washed over Steve like a tidal wave, and his whole body relaxed. "Thank G.o.d for that," he murmured.

"You will not approach Lisa Hoxton nor go to 1321 Vine Avenue."

Steve felt Dad grasp his shoulder again. He reached up with his manacled hands and touched his father's bony fingers.

It would be another hour or two before he was free, he knew; but he did not mind too much, now that he was sure of freedom. He would eat six Big Macs and sleep around the clock. He wanted a hot bath and clean clothes and his wrist-watch back. He wanted to bask in the company of people who did not say "motherf.u.c.ker" in every sentence.

And he realized, somewhat to his surprise, that what he wanted most of all was to call Jeannie Ferrami.

23.

JEANNIE WAS IN A BILIOUS MOOD AS SHE RETURNED TO HER office. Maurice Obeli was a coward. An aggressive newspaper reporter had made some inaccurate insinuations, that was all, yet the man had crumpled. And Berrington was too weak to defend her effectively. office. Maurice Obeli was a coward. An aggressive newspaper reporter had made some inaccurate insinuations, that was all, yet the man had crumpled. And Berrington was too weak to defend her effectively.

Her computer search engine was her greatest achievement. She had started to develop it when she had realized that her research into criminality would never get far without a new means of finding subjects for study. She had taken three years over it. It was her one truly outstanding achievement, not counting tennis champions.h.i.+ps. If she had a particular intellectual talent, it was for that kind of logical puzzle. Although she studied the psychology of unpredictable, irrational human beings, she did it by manipulating ma.s.ses of data on hundreds and thousands of individuals: the work was statistical and mathematical. If her search engine was no good, she felt, she herself would be worthless. She might as well give up and become a stewardess, like Penny Watermeadow.

She was surprised to see Annette Bigelow waiting outside her door. Annette was a graduate student whose work Jeannie supervised as part of her teaching duties. Now she recalled that last week Annette had submitted her proposal for the year's work, and they had an appointment this morning to discuss it. Jeannie decided to cancel the meeting; she had more important things to do. Then she saw the eager expression on the young woman's face and recalled how crucial these meetings were when you were a student; and she forced herself to smile and say: "I'm sorry to keep you waiting. Let's get started right away."

Fortunately she had read the proposal carefully and made notes. Annette was planning to trawl through existing data on twins to see if she could find correlations in the areas of political opinions and moral att.i.tudes. It was an interesting notion and her plan was scientifically sound. Jeannie suggested some minor improvements and gave her the go-ahead.

As Annette was leaving, Ted Ransome put his head around the door. "You look as if you're about to cut someone's b.a.l.l.s off," he said.

"Not yours, though." Jeannie smiled. "Come in and have a cup of coffee."

"Handsome" Ransome was her favorite man in the department. An a.s.sociate professor who studied the psychology of perception, he was happily married with two small children. Jeannie knew he found her attractive, but he did not do anything about it. There was a pleasant frisson of s.e.xual tension between them that never threatened to become a problem.

She switched on the coffee maker beside her desk and told him about the New York Times New York Times and Maurice Obeli. "But here's the big question," she finished. "Who tipped off the and Maurice Obeli. "But here's the big question," she finished. "Who tipped off the Times?" Times?"

"It has to be Sophie," he said.

Sophie Chapple was the only other woman on the faculty of the psychology department. Although she was close to fifty and a full professor, she saw Jeannie as some kind of rival and had behaved jealously from the beginning of the semester, complaining about everything from Jeannie's miniskirts to the way she parked her car.

"Would she do a thing like that?" Jeannie said.

"Like a shot."

"I guess you're right." Jeannie never ceased to marvel at the pettiness of top scientists. She had once seen a revered mathematician punch the most brilliant physicist in America for cutting in line in the cafeteria. "Maybe I'll ask her."

He raised his eyebrows. "She'll lie."

"But she'll look guilty."