The Third Twin

  "This is Berrington."

  "Good morning." Her tone was wary. Had she sensed his desire to seduce her on Monday night? Maybe she wondered if he was planning to try again. Or perhaps she had already got wind of the New York Times problem.

  "Can I see you right away?"

  "In your office?"

  "I'm in Dr. Obell's office at Hillside Hall."

  She gave an exasperated sigh. "Is this about a woman called Naomi Freelander?"

  "Yes."

  "It's all horseshit, you know that."

  "I do, but we have to deal with it." "I'll be right over."

  Berrington hung up. "She'll be here momentarily," he told Maurice. "It sounds as if she's already heard from the Times."

  The next few minutes would be crucial. If Jeannie defended herself well, Maurice might change his strategy. Berrington had to keep Maurice firm without seeming hostile to Jeannie. She was a hot-tempered, assertive girl, not the type to be conciliatory, especially when she thought she was in the right. She would probably make an enemy of Maurice without any help from Berrington. But just in case she was uncharacteristically sweet and persuasive, he needed a fallback plan.

  Struck by inspiration, he said: "We might rough out a press statement while we're waiting."

  "That's a good idea."

  Berrington pulled over a pad and began scribbling. He needed something that Jeannie could not possibly agree to, something that would injure her pride and make her mad. He wrote that Jones Falls University admitted mistakes had been made. The university apologized to those whose privacy had been invaded. And it promised that the program had been discontinued as of today.

  He handed his work to Maurice's secretary and asked her to put it through her word processor right away.

  Jeannie arrived fizzing with indignation. She was wearing a baggy emerald green T-shirt, tight black jeans, and the kind of footwear that used to be called engineer boots but were now a fashion statement. She had a silver ring in her pierced nostril and her thick dark hair was tied back. She looked kind of cute, to Berrington, but her outfit would not impress the university president. To him she would appear the kind of irresponsible junior academic who might get JFU into trouble.

  Maurice invited her to sit down and told her about the call from the newspaper. His manner was stiff. He was comfortable with mature men, Berrington thought; young women in tight jeans were aliens to him.

  "The same woman called me," Jeannie said with irritation. "This is ludicrous."

  "But you do access medical databases," Maurice said.

  "I don't look at the databases, the computer does. No human being sees anyone's medical records. My program produces a list of names and addresses, grouped in pairs."

  "Even that ..."

  "We do nothing further without first asking permission of the potential subject. We don't even tell them they're twins until after they've agreed to be part of our study. So whose privacy is invaded?"

  Berrington pretended to back her. "I told you, Maurice," he said. "The Times has it all wrong."

  "They don't see it that way. And I have to think of the university's reputation."

  Jeannie said: "Believe me, my work is going to enhance that reputation." She leaned forward, and Berrington heard in her voice the passion for new knowledge that drove all good scientists. "This is a project of critical importance. I'm the only person who has figured out how to study the genetics of criminality. When we publish the results it will be a sensation."

  "She's right," Berrington put in. It was true. Her study would have been fascinating. It was heartbreaking to destroy it. But he had no choice.

  Maurice shook his head. "It's my job to protect the university from scandal."

  Jeannie said recklessly: "It's also your job to defend academic freedom."

  That was the wrong tack for her to take. Once upon a time, no doubt, university presidents had fought for the right to the unfettered pursuit of knowledge, but those days were over. Now they were fund-raisers, pure and simple. She would only offend Maurice by mentioning academic freedom.

  Maurice bristled. "I don't need a lecture on my presidential duties from you, young lady," he said stiffly.

  Jeannie did not take the hint, to Berrington's delight. "Don't you?" she said to Maurice, warming to her theme. "Here's a direct conflict. On the one hand is a newspaper apparently bent on a misguided story; on the other a scientist after the truth. If a university president is going to buckle under that kind of pressure, what hope is there?"

  Berrington was exultant. She looked wonderful, cheeks flushed and eyes flashing, but she was digging her own grave. Maurice was antagonized by every word.

  Then Jeannie seemed to realize what she was doing, for she suddenly changed tack. "On the other hand, none of us wants bad publicity for the university," she said in a milder voice. "I quite understand your concern, Dr. Obeli."

  Maurice softened immediately, much to Berrington's chagrin. "I realize this puts you in a difficult position," he said. "The university is prepared to offer you compensation, in the form of a raise of ten thousand dollars a year."

  Jeannie looked startled.

  Berrington said: "That ought to enable you to get your mother out of that place you're so worried about."

  Jeannie hesitated only for a moment. "I'd be deeply grateful for that," she said, "but it wouldn't solve the problem. I still have to have criminal twins for my research. Otherwise there's nothing to study."

  Berrington had not thought she could be bribed.

  Maurice said: "Surely there must be another way to find suitable subjects for you to study?"

  "No, there's not. I need identical twins, raised apart, at least one of whom is a criminal. That's a tall order. My computer program locates people who don't even know they're twins. There's no other method of doing that."

  "I hadn't realized," Maurice said.

  The tone was becoming perilously amicable. Then Maurice's secretary came in and handed him a sheet of paper. It was the press release Berrington had drafted. Maurice showed it to Jeannie, saying: "We need to be able to issue something like this today, if we're to kill this story off."

  She read it quickly, and her anger returned. "But this is bullshit!" she stormed. "No mistakes have been made. No one's privacy has been invaded. No one has even complained!"

  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 meet
ing 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

  STEVE 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. T
he 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."