"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."
"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-class 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 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 God 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 "motherfucker" 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.
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 championships. 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 masses 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 attitudes. 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 balls 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 associate 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 sexual 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 and Maurice Obeli. "But here's the big question," she finished. "Who tipped off the 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."
"There'll be a fight."
"There's already a fight."
The phone rang. Jeannie picked it up and gestured to Ted to pour the coffee. "Hello."
"Naomi Freelander here."
Jeannie hesitated. "I'm not sure I should talk to you."
"I believe you've stopped using medical databases for your research."
"No."
"What do you mean, 'No'?"
"I mean I haven't stopped. Your phone calls have started some discussions, but no decisions have been made."
"I have a fax here from the university president's office. In it, the university apologizes to people whose privacy has been invaded, and assures them that the program has been discontinued."
Jeannie was aghast. "They sent out that release?"
"You didn't know?"
"I saw a draft and I didn't agree to it."
"It seems like they've canceled your program without telling you."
'They can't."
"What do you mean?"
"I have a contract with this university. They can't just do whatever the hell they like."
"Are you telling me you're going to continue in defiance of the university authorities?"
"Defiance doesn't come into it. They don't have the power to command me." Jeannie caught Ted's eye. He lifted a hand and moved it from side to side in a negative gesture. He was right, Jeannie realized; this was not the way to talk to the press. She changed her tack. "Look," she said in a reasonable voice, "you yourself said that the invasion of privacy is potential, in this case."
"Yes...."
"And you have completely failed to find anyone who is willing to complain about my program. Yet you have no qualms about getting this research project canceled."
"I don't judge, I report."
"Do you know what my research is about? I'm trying to find out what makes people criminals. I'm the first person to think of a really promising way to study this problem. If things work out right, what I discover could make America a better place for your grandchildren to grow up in."
"I don't have any grandchildren."
"Is that your excuse?"
"I don't need excuses--"
"Perhaps not, but wouldn't you do better to find a case of invasion of privacy that someone really cares about? Wouldn't that make an even better story for the newspaper?"
"I'll be the judge of that."
Jeannie sighed. She had done her best. Gritting her teeth, she tried to end the conversation on a friendly note. "Well, good luck with it."
"I appreciate your cooperation, Dr. Ferrami."
"Good-bye." Jeannie hung up and said: "You bitch."
Ted handed her a mug of coffee. "I gather they've announced that your program is canceled."
"I can't understand it. Berrington said we'd talk about what to do."
Ted lowered his voice. "You don't know Berry as well as I do. Take it from me, he's a snake. I wouldn't trust him out of my sight."
"Perhaps it was a mistake," Jeannie said, clutching at straws. "Maybe Dr. Obell's secretary sent the release out in error."
"Possibly," Ted said. "But my money's on the snake theory."
"Do you think I should call the Times and say my phone was answered by an impostor?"
He laughed. "I think you should go along to Berry's office and ask him if he meant for the release to go out before he talked to you."
"Good idea." She swallowed her coffee and stood up.
He went to the door. "Good luck. I'm rooting for you."
"Thanks." She thought of kissing his cheek and decided not to.
She walked along the corridor and up a flight of stairs to Berrington's office. His door was locked. She went to the office of the secretary who worked for all the professors. "Hi, Julie, where's Berry?"
"He left for the day, but he asked me to fix an appointment for you tomorrow."
Damn. The bastard was avoiding her. Ted's theory was right. "What time tomorrow?"
"Nine-thirty?"
"I'll be here."
She went down to her floor and stepped into the lab. Lisa was at the bench, checking the concentration of Steven's and Dennis's DNA that she had in the test tubes. She had mixed two microliters of each sample with two milliliters of fluorescent dye. The dye glowed in contact with DNA, and the quantity of DNA was shown by how much it glowed, measured by a DNA fluorometer, with a dial giving the result in nanograms of DNA per microliter of sample.
"How are you?" Jeannie asked.
"I'm fine."
Jeannie looked hard at Lisa's face. She was still in denial, that was obvious. Her expression was impassive as she concentrated on her work, but the strain showed underneath. "Did you talk to your mother yet?" Lisa's parents lived in Pittsburgh.
"I don't want to worry her."
"It's what she's there for. Call her."
"Maybe tonight."
Jeannie told the story of the New York Times reporter while Lisa worked. She mixed the DNA samples with an enzyme called a restriction endonuclease. These enzymes destroyed foreign DNA that might get into the body. They did so by cutting the long molecule of DNA into thousands of shorter fragments. What made them so useful to genetic engineers was that an endonuclease always cut the DNA at the same specific point.
So the fragments from two blood samples could be compared. If they matched, the blood came from the same individual or from identical twins. If the fragments were different, they must come from different individuals.
It was like cutting an inch of tape from a cassette of an opera. Take a fragment cut five minutes from the start of two different tapes: if the music on both pieces of tape is a duet that goes "Se a caso madama," they both come from The Marriage of Figaro. To guard against the possibility that two completely different operas might have the same sequence of notes at just that point, it was necessary to compare several fragments, not just one.
The process of fragmentation took several hours and could not be hurried: if the DNA was not completely fragmented, the test would not work.
Lisa was shocked by the story Jeannie told, but she was not quite as sympathetic as Jeannie expected. Perhaps that was because she had suffered a devastating trauma just three days earlier, and Jeannie's crisis seemed minor by comparison. "If you have to drop your project," Lisa said, "what would you study instead?"
"I've no idea," Jeannie replied. "I can't imagine dropping this." Lisa simply did not empathize with the yearning to understand that drove a scientist, Jeannie realized. To Lisa, a technician, one research project was much the same as another.
Jeannie returned to her office and called the Bella Vista Sunset Home. With all that was going on in her own life she had been lax about talking to her mother. "May I speak to Mrs. Ferrami, please," she said.
The reply was abrupt. "They're having lunch."
Jeannie hesitated. "Okay. Would you please tell her that her daughter Jeannie called, and I'll try again later."
"Yeah."
Jeannie had the feeling that the woman was not writing this down. "That's J-e-a-n-n-i-e," she said. "Her daughter."
"Yeah, okay."
"Thank you, I appreciate it."
"Sure."
Jeannie hung up. She had to get her mother out of there. She still had not done anything about getting weekend teaching work.
She checked her watch: it was just after noon. She picked up her mouse and looked at her screen, but it seemed pointless to work when her project might be canceled. Feeling angry and helpless, she decided to quit for the day.