the Third Twin (1996)

in handcuffs, when he ought to be sitting in Jeannie Ferrami’s apartment with a cold drink in his hand? They had just better get this over with quickly, that was all.

Police headquarters was a pink granite building in Baltimore’s red-light district, among the topless bars and porn outlets. They drove up a ramp and parked in the internal garage. It was full of police cruisers and cheap compacts like the Colt.

They took Steve up in an elevator and put him in a room with yellow-painted walls and no windows. They took off his handcuffs then left him alone. He assumed they locked the door: he did not check.

There was a table and two hard plastic chairs. On the table was an ashtray containing two cigarette butts, both filter tips, one with lipstick on it. Set into the door was a pane of opaque glass: Steve could not see out, but he guessed they could see in.

Looking at the ashtray, he wished he smoked. It would be something to do here in this yellow cell. Instead he paced up and down.

He told himself he could not really be in trouble. He had managed to get a look at the picture on the flyer, and although it was more or less like him, it was not him. No doubt he resembled the rapist, but when he stood in the lineup with several other tall young men, the victim would not pick him out. After all, the poor woman must have looked long and hard at the bastard who did it: his face would be burned into her memory. She would not make a mistake.

But the cops had no right to keep him waiting like this. Okay, they had to eliminate him as a suspect, but they did not have to take all night about it. He was a law-abiding citizen.

He tried to look on the bright side. He was getting a close-up view of the American justice system. He would be his own lawyer: it would be good practice. When in the future he represented a client accused of a crime, he would know what the person was going through in police custody.

He had seen the inside of a precinct house once before, but that had felt very different. He was only fifteen. He had gone to the police with one of his teachers. He had admitted the crime immediately and told the police candidly everything that had happened. They could see his injuries: it was obvious the fight had not been one-sided. His parents had come to take him home.

That had been the most shameful moment of his life. When Mom and Dad walked into that room, Steve wished he were dead. Dad looked mortified, as if he had suffered a great humiliation; Mom’s expression showed grief; they both looked bewildered and wounded. At the time, it was all he could do not to burst into tears, and he still felt choked up whenever he recalled it.

But this was different. This time he was innocent.

The woman detective came in carrying a cardboard file folder. She had taken off her jacket, but she still wore the gun on her belt. She was an attractive black woman of about forty, a little on the heavy side, and she had an I’m-in-charge air.

Steve looked at her with relief. ‘Thank God,” he said.

“For what?”

“That something is happening. I don’t want to be here all damn night.”

“Would you sit down, please?”

Steve sat.

“My name is Sergeant Michelle Delaware.” She took a sheet of paper from the folder and put it on the table. “What’s your full name and address?”

He told her, and she wrote it on the form. “Age?”

“Twenty-two.”

“Education?”

“I have a college degree.”

She wrote on the form then pushed it across to him. It was headed:

POLICE DEPARTMENT

BALTIMORE, MARYLAND

EXPLANATION OF RIGHTS

Form 69

    “Please read the five sentences on the form, then write your initials in the spaces provided beside each sentence.” She passed him a pen.

He read the form and started to initial.

“You have to read aloud,” she said. He thought for a moment. “So that you know I’m literate?” he asked.

“No. It’s so that you can’t later pretend to be illiterate and claim that you were not informed of your rights.”

This was the kind of thing they did not teach you in law school.

He read: “You are hereby advised that: One, you have the absolute right to remain silent.” He wrote SL in the space at the end of the line, then read on, initialing each sentence. “Two, anything you say or write may be used against you in a court of law. Three, you have the right to talk with a lawyer at any time, before any questioning, before answering any questions, or during any questioning. Four, if you want a lawyer and cannot afford to hire one, you will not be asked any questions, and the court will be requested to appoint a lawyer for you. Five, if you agree to answer questions, you may stop at any time and request a lawyer, and no further questions will be asked of you.”

“Now sign your name, please.” She pointed to the form. “Here, and here.” The first space for signature was underneath the sentence

I HAVE READ THE ABOVE EXPLANATION OF MY

RIGHTS, AND I FULLY UNDERSTAND IT.

Signature

Steve signed.

“And just below,” she said.

I am willing to answer questions, and I do not want any attorney at this time. My decision to answer questions without having an attorney present is free and voluntary on my part.

Signature

He signed and said: “How the hell do you get guilty people to sign that?”

She did not answer him. She printed her name, then signed the form.

She put the form back in the folder and looked at him. “You’re in trouble, Steve,” she said. “But you seem like a regular guy. Why don’t you just tell me what happened?”

“I can’t,” he said. “I wasn’t there. I guess I just look like the jerk that did it.”

She sat back, crossed her legs, and gave him a friendly smile. “I know men,” she said in an intimate tone. “They have urges.”

If I didn’t know better, Steve thought, I’d read her body language and say she was coming on to me.

She went on: “Let me tell you what I think. You’re an attractive man, she took a shine to you.”

“I’ve never met this woman, Sergeant.”

She ignored that. Leaning across the table, she covered his hand with her own. “I think she provoked you.”

Steve looked at her hand. She had good nails, manicured, not too long, varnished with clear nail polish. But the hand was wrinkled: she was older than forty, maybe forty-five.

She spoke in a conspiratorial voice, as if to say “This is just between you and me.” “She was asking for it, so