The Third Twin (29 page)

FRIDAY

38

J
EANNIE WOKE UP IN HER COMPACT WHITE-WALLED LIVING
room, on her black couch, in Steve’s arms, wearing only her fuchsia pink terrycloth bathrobe.

How did I get here?

They had spent half the night rehearsing for today’s hearing. Jeannie’s heart lurched: her fate was to be decided this morning.

But how come I’m lying in his lap?

Around three o’clock she had yawned and closed her eyes for a moment.

And then … ?

She must have fallen asleep.

At some point he had gone into the bedroom and taken the blue-and-red-striped quilt off the bed and tucked it around her, for she was snug beneath it.

But Steve could not be responsible for the way she was lying, with her head on his thigh and her arm around his waist. She must have done that herself, in her sleep. It was a bit embarrassing; her face was very close to his crotch. She wondered what he thought of her. Her behavior had been very off the wall. Undressing in front of him, then falling asleep on him; she was behaving as you would with a longtime lover.

Well, I’ve got an excuse for acting weird: I’ve had a weird week.

She had been ill treated by Patrolman McHenty, robbed by her father, accused by the
New York Times,
threatened with a knife by Dennis Pinker, fired by the college, and attacked in her car. She felt damaged.

Her face throbbed gently where she had been punched yesterday, but the injuries were not merely physical. The attack had bruised her psyche too. When she recalled the fight in the car, her anger returned and she wanted to get the man by the throat. Even when she was not remembering, she felt a low background hum of unhappiness, as if her life were somehow of less value because of the attack.

It was surprising she could trust any man; astonishing that she could fall asleep on a couch with one who looked exactly like her attackers. But now she could be even more sure of Steve. Neither of the others could have spent the night like this, alone with a girl, without forcing himself on her.

She frowned. Steve had done something in the night, she recalled vaguely; something nice. Yes: she had a dreamy memory of big hands rhythmically caressing her hair, it seemed for a long time, while she dozed, as comfortable as a stroked cat.

She smiled and stirred, and he spoke immediately. “Are you awake?”

She yawned and stretched. “I’m sorry I fell asleep on you. Are you okay?”

“The blood supply to my left leg was cut off at about five
A.M.
, but once I got used to that I was fine.”

She sat upright so that she could see him better. His clothes were creased, his hair was mussed, and he had a growth of fair stubble, but he looked good enough to eat. “Did you sleep?”

He shook his head. “I was enjoying myself too much, watching you.”

“Don’t say I snore.”

“You don’t snore. You dribble a little, that’s all.” He dabbed at a damp spot on his pants.

“Oh, gross!” She stood up. The bright blue clock on the wall caught her eye: it was eight-thirty. “We don’t have much time,” she said in alarm. “The hearing starts at ten.”

“You shower while I make coffee,” Steve said generously.

She stared at him. He was unreal. “Did you come from Santa Claus?”

He laughed. “According to your theory, I come from a testtube.” Then his face went solemn again. “What the hell, who knows.”

Her mood darkened along with his. She went into the bedroom, dropped her clothes on the floor, and got into the shower. As she washed her hair, she brooded over how hard she had struggled over the last ten years: the contest for scholarships; the intensive tennis training combined with long hours of study; the peevish nit-picking of her doctoral supervisor. She had worked like a robot to get where she was today, all because she wanted to be a scientist and help the human race understand itself better. And now Berrington Jones was about to throw it all away.

The shower made her feel better. As she was toweling her hair, the phone rang. She picked up the bedside extension. “Yeah.”

“Jeannie, it’s Patty.”

“Hi, sis, what’s happening?”

“Daddy showed up.”

Jeannie sat on the bed. “How is he?”

“Broke, but healthy.”

“He came to me first,” Jeannie said. “He arrived on Monday. Tuesday he got a little ticked off because I didn’t cook him dinner. Wednesday he took off, with my computer and my TV and my stereo. He must have already spent or gambled whatever he got for them.”

Patty gasped. “Oh, Jeannie, that’s awful!”

“Ain’t it just. So lock up your valuables.”

“To steal from his own family! Oh, God, if Zip finds out he’ll throw him out.”

“Patty, I have even worse problems, I may be fired from my job today.”

“Jeannie, why?”

“I don’t have time to explain now, but I’ll call you later.”

“Okay.”

“Have you talked to Mom?”

“Every day.”

“Oh, good, that makes me feel better. I talked to her once, then the next time I called she was at lunch.”

“The people who answer the phone are really unhelpful. We have to get Mom out of there soon.”

She’ll be there a lot longer if I get fired today.
“I’ll talk to you later.”

“Good luck!”

Jeannie hung up. She noticed there was a steaming mug of coffee on the bedside table. She shook her head in amazement. It was only a cup of coffee, but what astonished her was the way Steve knew what she needed. It seemed to come naturally to him to be supportive. And he didn’t want anything in return. In her experience, on the rare occasions when a man put a woman’s needs ahead of his own, he expected her to act like a geisha for a month in gratitude.

Steve was different.
If I’d known men came in this version, I would have ordered one years ago.

She had done everything alone, all her adult life. Her father had never been around to support her. Mom had always been strong, but in the end her strength had become almost as much a problem as Daddy’s weakness. Mom had plans for Jeannie, and she was not willing to give them up. She wanted Jeannie to be a hairdresser. She had even got Jeannie a job, two weeks before her sixteenth birthday, washing hair and sweeping the floor at the Salon Alexis in Adams-Morgan. Jeannie’s desire to be a scientist was utterly incomprehensible to her. “You could be a qualified stylist before the other girls have graduated college!” Mom had said. She never understood why Jeannie threw a tantrum and refused even to take a look at the salon.

She was not alone today. She had Steve to support her. It did not matter to her that he was not qualified—a hotshot Washington lawyer was not necessarily the best choice to impress five professors. The important thing was that he would be there.

She put on her bathrobe and called to him. “You want the shower?”

“Sure.” He came into the bedroom. “I wish I had a clean shirt.”

“I don’t have a man’s shirt—wait a minute, I do.” She had remembered the white-Ralph Lauren button-down Lisa had borrowed after the fire. It belonged to someone in the math department. Jeannie had sent it to the laundry and now it was in the closet, wrapped in cellophane. She gave it to Steve.

“My size, seventeen thirty-six,” he said. “Perfect.”

“Don’t ask me where it came from, it’s a long story,” she said. “I think I have a tie here somewhere, too.” She opened a drawer and took out a blue silk spotted tie she sometimes wore with a white blouse, for a snappy mannish look. “Here.”

“Thanks.” He went into the tiny bathroom.

She felt a twinge of disappointment. She had been looking forward to seeing him take off his shirt. Men, she thought; the creeps expose themselves without being asked; the hunks are as shy as nuns.

“Can I borrow your razor?” he called.

“Sure, be my guest.”
Memo to self: Do sex with this guy before he becomes too much like a brother.

She looked for her best black suit and remembered she had thrown it in the trash yesterday. “Damn fool,” she muttered to herself. She could probably retrieve it, but it would be creased and stained. She had a long-line electric blue jacket; she could wear that with a white T-shirt and black pants. It was a bit too bright, but it would serve.

She sat at her mirror and did her makeup. Steve came out of the bathroom, looking handsomely formal in the shirt and tie. “There are some cinnamon buns in the freezer,” she said. “You could defrost them in the microwave if you’re hungry.”

“Great,” he said. “You want something?”

“I’m too tense to eat. I could drink another cup of coffee, though.”

He brought the coffee while she was finishing her makeup. She drank it quickly and put on her clothes. When she went into the living room, he was sitting at the kitchen counter. “Did you find the buns?”

“Sure.”

“What happened to them?”

“You said you weren’t hungry, so I ate them all.”

“All four?”

“Uh … in fact there were two packets.”

“You ate
eight
cinnamon buns?”

He looked embarrassed. “I get hungry.”

She laughed. “Let’s go.”

As she turned away he grabbed her arm. “One minute.”

“What?”

“Jeannie, it’s fun being friends and I really like just hanging out with you, you know, but you have to understand this isn’t all I want.”

“I do know that.”

“I’m falling in love with you.”

She looked into his eyes. He was very sincere. “I’m getting kind of attached to you, too,” she said lightly.

“I want to make love to you, and I want it so bad it hurts.”

I could listen to this kind of talk all day, she thought. “Listen,” she said, “if you fuck like you eat, I’m yours.”

His face fell, and she realized she had said the wrong thing.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to make a joke of it.”

He gave a “never mind” shrug.

She took his hand. “Listen. First we’re going to save me. Then we’re going to save you. Then we’ll have some fun.” He squeezed her hand. “Okay.”

They went outside. “Let’s drive together,” she said. “I’ll bring you back to your car later.”

They got into her Mercedes. The car radio came on as she started the engine. Easing into the traffic on 41st Street she heard the news announcer mention Genetico, and she turned up the volume. “Senator Jim Proust, a former director of the CIA, is expected to confirm today he will seek the Republican nomination in next year’s presidential election. His campaign promise: ten percent income tax, paid for by the abolition of welfare. Campaign finance will not be a problem, commentators say, as he stands to make sixty million dollars from an agreed takeover of his medical research company Genetico. In sports, the Philadelphia Phillies—”

Jeannie switched off the radio. “What do you think of that?”

Steve shook his head in dismay. “The stakes keep getting higher,” he said. “If we break the true story of Genetico, and the takeover bid is canceled, Jim Proust won’t be able to payfor a presidential campaign. And Proust is a serious bad guy: a spook, ex-CIA, against gun control, everything. You’re standing in the way of some dangerous people, Jeannie.”

She gritted her teeth. “That makes them all the more worth fighting against. I was raised on welfare, Steve. If Proust becomes president, girls like me will always be hairdressers.”

39

T
HERE WAS A SMALL DEMONSTRATION OUTSIDE
H
ILLSIDE
Hall, the administrative office building of Jones Falls University. Thirty or forty students, mostly women, stood in a cluster in front of the steps. It was a quiet, disciplined protest. Getting closer, Steve read a banner:

Reinstate Ferrami Now!

It seemed like a good omen to him. “They’re supporting you,” he said to Jeannie.

She looked closer, and a flush of pleasure spread across her face. “So they are. My God, someone loves me after all.”

Another placard read:

U
can’t do
this to
JF

A cheer went up when they spotted Jeannie. She went over to them, smiling. Steve followed, proud of her. Not every professor would get such spontaneous support from students. She shook hands with the men and kissed the women. Steve noticed a pretty blond woman staring at him.

Jeannie hugged an older woman in the crowd. “Sophie!” she said. “What can I say?”

“Good luck in there,” the woman said.

Jeannie detached herself from the crowd, beaming, and they walked toward the building. He said: “Well,
they
think you should keep your job.”

“I can’t tell you how much that means to me,” she said, “That older woman is Sophie Chapple, a professor in the psychology department. I thought she hated me. I can’t believe she’s standing up for me.”

“Who was the pretty girl at the front?”

Jeannie gave him a curious look. “You don’t recognize her?”

“I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen her before, but she couldn’t take her eyes off me.” Then he guessed. “Oh, my God, it must be the victim.”

“Lisa Hoxton.”

“No wonder she stared.” He could not help glancing back. She was a pretty, lively-looking girl, small and rather plump. His double had attacked her and thrown her to the floor and forced her to have sex. A small knot of disgust twisted inside Steve. She was just an ordinary young woman, and now she had a nightmare memory that would haunt her all her life.

The administrative building was a grand old house. Jeannie led him across the marbled hall and through a door marked Old Dining Room into a gloomy chamber in the baronial style: high ceiling, narrow Gothic windows, and thick-legged oak furniture. A long table stood in front of a carved stone fireplace.

Four men and a middle-aged woman sat along one side of the table. Steve recognized the bald man in the middle as Jeannie’s tennis opponent, Jack Budgen. This was the committee, he presumed: the group that held Jeannie’s fate in its hands. He took a deep breath.

Leaning over the table, he shook Jack Budgen’s hand and said: “Good morning, Dr. Budgen. I’m Steven Logan. Wespoke yesterday.” Some instinct took over and he found himself exuding a relaxed confidence that was the opposite of what he felt. He shook hands with each of the committee members, and they told him their names.

Two more men sat on the near side of the table, at the far end. The little guy in the navy vested suit was Berrington Jones, whom Steve had met last Monday. The thin, sandy-haired man in a charcoal double-breasted pinstripe had to be Henry Quinn. Steve shook hands with both.

Quinn looked at him superciliously and said: “What are your legal qualifications, young man?”

Steve gave him a friendly smile and spoke in a low voice that no one else could hear. “Go fuck yourself, Henry.”

Quinn flinched as if he had been struck, and Steve thought, That will be the last time the old bastard condescends to me.

He held a chair for Jeannie and they both sat down.

“Well, perhaps we should begin,” Jack said. “These proceedings are informal. I believe everyone has received a copy of the rubric, so we know the rules. The charge is laid by Professor Berrington Jones, who proposes that Dr. Jean Ferrami be dismissed because she has brought Jones Falls University into disrepute.”

As Budgen spoke, Steve watched the committee members, looking eagerly for signs of sympathy. He was not reassured. Only the woman, Jane Edelsborough, would look at Jeannie; the others did not meet her eyes. Four against, one in favor, at the start, he thought. It was not good.

Jack said: “Berrington is represented by Mr. Quinn.”

Quinn got to his feet and opened his briefcase. Steve noticed that his fingers were stained yellow from cigarettes. He took out a sheaf of blowup photocopies of the
New York Times
piece about Jeannie and handed one to every person in the room. The result was that the table was covered with pieces of paper saying
GENE RESEARCH ETHICS: DOUBTS, FEARS AND A SQUABBLE
. It was a powerful visual reminder of the trouble Jeannie had caused. Steve wished he had brought some papers to give out, so that he could have covered up Quinn’s.

This simple, effective opening move by Quinn intimidatedSteve. How could he possibly compete with a man who had probably thirty years of courtroom experience? I can’t win this, he thought in a sudden panic.

Quinn began to speak. His voice was dry and precise, with no trace of a local accent. He spoke slowly and pedantically. Steve hoped that might be a mistake with this jury of intellectuals who did not need things spelled out for them in words of one syllable. Quinn summarized the history of the discipline committee and explained its position in the university government. He defined “disrepute” and produced a copy of Jeannie’s employment contract. Steve began to feel better as Quinn droned on.

At last he wound up his preamble and started to question Berrington. He began by asking when Berrington had first heard about Jeannie’s computer search program.

“Last Monday afternoon,” Berrington replied. He recounted the conversation he and Jeannie had had. His story tallied with what Jeannie had told Steve.

Then Berrington said: “As soon as I clearly understood her technique, I told her that in my opinion what she was doing was illegal.”

Jeannie burst out:
“What?”

Quinn ignored her and asked Berrington: “And what was her reaction?”

“She became very angry—”

“You damn liar!” Jeannie said.

Berrington flushed at this accusation.

Jack Budgen intervened. “Please, no interruptions,” he said.

Steve kept an eye on the committee. They had all looked at Jeannie: they could hardly help it. He put a hand on her arm, as if restraining her.

“He’s telling barefaced lies!” she protested.

“What did you expect?” Steve said in a low voice. “He’s playing hardball.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Don’t be,” he said in her ear. “Keep it up. They could see your anger was genuine.”

Berrington went on: “She became petulant, just as she is now. She told me she could do what she liked, she had a contract.”

One of the men on the committee, Tenniel Biddenham, frowned darkly, obviously disliking the idea of a junior member of faculty quoting her contract to her professor. Berrington was clever, Steve realized. He knew how to take a point scored against him and turn it to his advantage.

Quinn asked Berrington: “What did you do?”

“Well, I realized I might be wrong. I’m not a lawyer, so I decided to get legal advice. If my fears were confirmed, I could show her independent proof. But if it turned out that what she was doing was harmless, I could drop the matter without a confrontation.”

“And did you take advice?”

“As things turned out, I was overtaken by events. Before I had a chance to see a lawyer, the
New York Times
got on the case.”

Jeannie whispered: “Bullshit.”

“Are you sure?” Steve asked her.

“Positive.”

He made a note.

“Tell us what happened on Wednesday, please,” Quinn said to Berrington.

“My worst fears came true. The university president, Maurice Obeli, summoned me to his office and asked me to explain why he was getting aggressive phone calls from the press about the research in my department. We drafted a press announcement as a basis for discussion and called in Dr. Ferrami.”

“Jesus Christ!” muttered Jeannie.

Berrington went on: “She refused to talk about the press release. Once again she blew her top, insisted she could do what she liked, and stormed out.”

Steve looked in inquiry at Jeannie. She said in a low voice: “A clever lie. They presented me with the press announcement as a fait accompli.”

Steve nodded, but he decided not to take up this point in cross-examination. The committee would probably feel Jeannie should not have stormed out anyway.

“The reporter told us she had a deadline of noon that day,” Berrington continued smoothly. “Dr. Obeli felt the university had to say something decisive, and I must say I agreed with him one hundred percent.”

“And did your announcement have the effect you hoped for?”

“No. It was a total failure. But that was because it was completely undermined by Dr. Ferrami. She told the reporter that she intended to ignore us and there was nothing we could do about it.”

“Did anyone outside the university comment on the story?”

“They certainly did.”

Something about the way Berrington answered that question rang a warning bell in Steve’s head and he made a note.

“I got a phone call from Preston Barck, the president of Genetico, which is an important donor to the university, and in particular funds the entire twins research program,” Berrington continued. “He was naturally concerned about the way his money was being spent. The article made it look as if the university authorities were impotent. Preston said to me, “Who’s running the damn school, anyway?’ It was very embarrassing.”

“Was that your principal concern? The embarrassment of having been defied by a junior member of the faculty?”

“Certainly not. The main problem was the damage to Jones Falls that would be caused by Dr. Ferrami’s work.”

Nice move, Steve thought. In their hearts all the committee members would hate to be defied by an assistant professor, and Berrington had drawn their sympathy. But Quinn had moved quickly to put the whole complaint on a more high-minded level, so that they could tell themselves that by firing Jeannie they would be protecting the university, not just punishing a disobedient subordinate.

Berrington said: “A university should be sensitive to privacy issues. Donors give us money, and students compete for places here, because this is one of the nation’s most venerable educational institutions. The suggestion that we are careless with people’s civil rights is very damaging.”

It was a quietly eloquent formulation, and all the panel would approve. Steve nodded to show that he agreed too, hoping they would notice and conclude that this was not the question at issue.

Quinn asked Berrington: “So how many options faced you at that point?”

“Exactly one. We had to show that we did not sanction invasion of privacy by university researchers. We also needed to demonstrate that we had the authority to enforce our own rules. The way to do that was to fire Dr. Ferrami. There was no alternative.”

“Thank you, Professor,” said Quinn, and he sat down.

Steve felt pessimistic. Quinn was every bit as skillful as expected. Berrington had been dreadfully plausible. He had presented a picture of a reasonable, concerned human being doing his best to deal with a hot-tempered, careless subordinate. It was the more credible for having a lacing of reality: Jeannie
was
quick-tempered.

But it was not the truth. That was all Steve had going for him. Jeannie was in the right. He just had to prove it.

Jack Budgen said: “Have you any questions, Mr. Logan?”

“I sure do,” said Steve. He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts.

This was his fantasy. He was not in a courtroom, and he was not even a real lawyer, but he was defending an underdog against the injustice of a mighty institution. The odds were against him, but truth was on his side. It was what he dreamed about.

He stood up and looked hard at Berrington. If Jeannie’s theory was right, the man had to feel strange in this situation. It must be like Dr. Frankenstein being questioned by his monster. Steve wanted to play on that a little, to shake Berrington’s composure, before starting on the material questions.

“You know me, don’t you, Professor?” Steve said.

Berrington looked unnerved. “Ah … I believe we met on Monday, yes.”

“And you know all about me.”

“I … don’t quite follow you.”

“I underwent a day of tests in your laboratory, so you have a great deal of information on me.”

“I see what you mean, yes.”

Berrington looked thoroughly discomfited.

Steve moved behind Jeannie’s chair, so that they would all have to look at her. It was much harder to think evil of someone who returned your gaze with an open, fearless expression.

“Professor, let me begin with the first claim you made, that you intended to seek legal advice after your conversation with Dr. Ferrami on Monday.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t actually see a lawyer.”

“No, I was overtaken by events.”

“You didn’t make an appointment to see a lawyer.”

“There wasn’t time—”

“In the two days between your conversation with Dr. Ferrami and your conversation with Dr. Obeli about the
New York Times,
you didn’t even ask your secretary to make an appointment with a lawyer.”

“No.”

“Nor did you ask around, or speak to any of your colleagues, to find out the name of someone suitable.”

“No.”

“In fact, you’re quite unable to substantiate this claim.”

Berrington smiled confidently. “However, I have a reputation as an honest man.”

“Dr. Ferrami recalls the conversation very vividly.”

“Good.”

“She says you made no mention of legal problems or privacy worries; your only concern was whether the search engine worked.”

“Perhaps she’s forgotten.”