The Third Twin (19 page)

Berrington concealed his satisfaction. It was paradoxical that she was so fiery, yet she had the patience and perseverance to do lengthy and tedious scientific research. He had seen her working with her subjects: they never seemed to irritate or tire her, even when they messed up the tests. With them, she found bad behavior as interesting as good. She just wrote down what they said and thanked them sincerely at the end. Yet outside the lab she would go off like a firecracker at the least provocation.

He played the role of concerned peacemaker. “But, Jeannie, Dr. Obeli feels we have to put out a firm statement.”

“You can’t say the use of my computer program has been discontinued!” she said. “That would be tantamount to canceling my entire project!”

Maurice’s face hardened. “I can’t have the
New York Times
publishing an article that says Jones Falls scientists invade people’s privacy,” he said. “It would cost us millions in lost donations.”

“Find a middle way,” Jeannie pleaded. “Say you’re looking into the problem. Set up a committee. We’ll develop further privacy safeguards, if necessary.”

Oh, no, Berrington thought. That was dangerously sensible. “We have an ethics committee, of course,” he said, playing for time. “It’s a subcommittee of the senate.” The senate was the university’s ruling council and consisted of all the tenured professors, but the work was done by committees. “You could announce that you’re handing over the problem to them.”

“No good,” Maurice said abruptly. “Everyone will know that’s a stall.”

Jeannie protested: “Don’t you see that by insisting on immediate action you’re practically ruling out any thoughtful discussion!”

This would be a good time to bring the meeting to a close, Berrington decided. The two were at loggerheads, both entrenched in their positions. He should finish it before they started to think about compromise again. “A good point, Jeannie,” Berrington said. “Let me make a proposal here—if you permit, Maurice.”

“Sure, let’s hear it.”

“We have two separate problems. One is to find a way to progress Jeannie’s research without bringing a scandal down upon the university. That’s something Jeannie and I have to resolve, and we should discuss it at length, later. The second question is how the department and the university present this to the world. That’s a matter for you and me to talk about, Maurice.”

Maurice looked relieved. “Very sensible,” he said. Berrington said: “Thank you for joining us at short notice, Jeannie.”

She realized she was being dismissed. She got up with a puzzled frown. She knew she had been outmaneuvered, but she could not figure out how. “You’ll call me?” she said to Berrington.

“Of course.”

“All right.” She hesitated, then went out.

“Difficult woman,” Maurice said.

Berrington leaned forward, clasping his hands together, and looked down, in an attitude of humility. “I feel at fault here, Maurice.” Maurice shook his head, but Berrington went on. “I hired Jeannie Ferrami. Of course, I had no idea that she would devise this method of work—but all the same it’s my responsibility, and I think I have to get you out of it.”

“What do you propose?”

“I can’t ask you not to release that press statement. I don’t have the right. You can’t put one research project above the welfare of the entire university, I realize that.” He looked up.

Maurice hesitated. For a split second Berrington wondered fearfully if he suspected he was being maneuvered into a corner. But if the thought crossed his mind it did not linger. “I appreciate your saying that, Berry. But what will you do about Jeannie?”

Berrington relaxed. It seemed he had done it. “I guess she’s my problem,” he said. “Leave her to me.”

22

S
TEVE DROPPED OFF TO SLEEP IN THE EARLY HOURS OF
Wednesday morning.

The jail was quiet, Porky was snoring, and Steve had not slept for forty-two hours. He tried to stay awake, rehearsing his bail application speech to the judge for tomorrow, but he kept slipping into a waking dream in which the judge smiled benignly on him and said, “Bail is granted, let this man go free,” and he walked out of the court into the sunny street. Sitting on the floor of the cell in his usual position, with his back to the wall, he caught himself nodding off, and jerked awake several times, but finally nature conquered willpower.

He was in a profound sleep when he was shocked awake by a painful blow to his ribs. He gasped and opened his eyes. Porky had kicked him and was now bending over him, eyes wide with craziness, screaming: “You stole my dope, motherfucker! Where d’you stash it, where? Give it up right now or you’re a dead man!”

Steve reacted without thinking. He came up off the floor like a spring uncoiling, his right arm outstretched rigid, and poked two fingers into Porky’s eyes. Porky yelled in pain and stepped backward. Steve followed, trying to push his fingers right through Porky’s brain to the back of his head. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear a voice that sounded a lot like his own, screaming abuse.

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 shirt, 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, brandishing 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 crashing 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, “Fuck you, asshole.”

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
. 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 basement.

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 God 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 hell 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 Coke 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 Coke 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 swanky 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 entitled 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 assault. 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 penis 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 sex crimes.

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

Steve raised his hand.
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.”