the Third Twin (1996)

confuse Porky by sending out unfamiliar signals.

And if none of that worked?

Porky was taller and heavier than Steve and might be a seasoned street fighter. Steve was fitter and could probably move faster, but he had not hit anyone in anger for seven years. In a bigger space, Steve might have taken Porky out early and escaped without serious injury. But here in the cell it would be bloody, whoever won. If Detective Allaston had been telling the truth, Porky had proved, within the last twenty-four hours, that he had the killer instinct. Do I have the killer instinct? Steve asked himself. Is there any such thing as the killer instinct? I came close to killing Tip Hendricks. Does that make me the same as Porky?

When he thought of what it would mean to win a fight with Porky, Steve shuddered. He pictured the big man lying on the floor of the cell, bleeding, with Steve standing over him the way he had stood over Tip Hendricks, and the voice of Spike the turnkey saying, “Jesus Christ Almighty, I think he’s dead.” He would rather be beaten up.

Maybe he should be passive. It might actually be safer to curl up on the floor and let Porky kick him until the man tired of it. But Steve did not know if he could do that. So he sat there with a dry throat and a racing heart, staring at the sleeping psychopath, playing out fights in his imagination, fights he always lost.

He guessed this was a trick the cops played often. Spike the turnkey certainly did not appear to think it unusual. Maybe, instead of beating people up in interrogation rooms to make them confess, they let other suspects do the job for them. Steve wondered how many people confessed to crimes they had not committed just to avoid spending a night in a cell with someone like Porky.

He would never forget this, he swore. When he became a lawyer, defending people accused of crimes, he would never accept a confession as evidence. He saw himself in front of a jury. “I was once accused of a crime I did not commit, but I came close to confessing,” he would say. “I’ve been there, I know.”

Then he remembered that if he were convicted of this crime he would be thrown out of law school and would never defend anyone at all.

He kept telling himself he was not going to be convicted. The DNA test would clear him. Around midnight he had been taken out of the cell, handcuffed, and driven to Mercy Hospital, a few blocks from police headquarters. There he had given a blood sample from which they would extract his DNA. He had asked the nurse how long the test took and been dismayed to learn that the results would not be ready for three days. He had returned to the cells dispirited. He had been put back in with Porky, who was mercifully still asleep.

He guessed he could stay awake for twenty-four hours. That was the longest they could hold him without court sanction. He had been arrested at about six P.M., so he could be stuck here until the same time tonight. Then, if not before, he must be given an opportunity to ask for bail. That would be his chance to get out.

He struggled to recall his law school lecture on bail. “The only question the court may consider is whether the accused person will show up for trial,” Professor Rexam had intoned. At the time it had seemed as dull as a sermon; now it meant everything. The details began to come back to him. Two factors were taken into account. One was the possible sentence. If the charge was serious, it was more risky to grant bail: a person was more likely to run away from an accusation of murder than one of petty theft. The same applied if he had a record and faced a long sentence in consequence. Steve did not have a record; although he had once been convicted of aggravated assault, that was before he was eighteen, and it could not be used against him. He would come before the court as a man with a clean sheet. However, the charges he faced were very grave.

The second factor, he recollected, was the prisoner’s “community ties”: family, home, and job. A man who had lived with his wife and children at the same address for five years and worked around the corner would get bail, whereas one who had no family in the city, had moved into his apartment six weeks ago, and gave his occupation as unemployed musician would probably be refused. On this score Steve felt confident. He lived with his parents and he was in his second year at law school: he had a lot to lose by running away.

The courts were not supposed to consider whether the accused man was a danger to the community. That would be prejudging his guilt. However, in practice they did. Unofficially, a man who was involved in an ongoing violent dispute was more likely to be refused bail than someone who had committed one assault. If Steve had been accused of a series of rapes, rather than one isolated incident, his chances of getting bail would have been close to zero.

As things stood he thought it could go either way, and while he watched Porky he rehearsed increasingly eloquent speeches to the judge.

He was still determined to be his own lawyer. He had not made the phone call he was entitled to. He wanted desperately to keep this from his parents until he was able to say he had been cleared. The thought of telling them he was in jail was too much to bear; they would be so shocked and grieved. It would be comforting to share his plight with them, but each time he was tempted he remembered their faces when they had walked into the precinct house seven years ago after the fight with Tip Hendricks, and he knew that telling them would hurt him more than Porky Butcher ever could.

Throughout the night more men had been brought into the cells. Some were apathetic and compliant, others loudly protested their innocence, and one struggled with the cops and got professionally beaten up as a result.

Things had quieted down around five o’clock in the morning. At about eight, Spike’s replacement brought breakfast in Styrofoam containers from a restaurant called Mother Hubbard’s. The arrival of food roused the inmates of the other cells, and the noise woke Porky.

Steve stayed where he was, sitting on the floor, gazing vacantly into space but anxiously watching Porky out of the corner of his eye. Friendliness would be seen as a sign of weakness, he guessed. Passive hostility was the attitude to take.

Porky sat up on the bunk, holding his head and staring at Steve, but he did not speak. Steve guessed the man was sizing him up.

After a minute or two Porky said: “The fuck you doin’ in here?”

Steve set his face in an expression of dumb resentment, then let his eyes slide over until they met Porky’s. He held his gaze for a few moments. Porky was handsome, with a fleshy face that had a look of dull aggression. He gazed speculatively at Steve with bloodshot eyes. Steve summed him up as dissipated, a loser, but dangerous. He looked away, feigning indifference. He did not answer the question. The longer it took Porky to figure him out, the safer he would be.

When the turnkey pushed the food through the slit in the bars, Steve ignored it.

Porky took a tray. He ate all the bacon, eggs, and toast, drank the coffee, then used the toilet noisily, without embarrassment.

When he was done he pulled up his pants, sat on the bunk, looked at Steve, and said: “What you in here for, white boy?”

This was the moment of greatest danger. Porky was feeling him out, taking his measure. Steve now had to appear to be anything but what he was, a vulnerable middle-class student who had not been in a fight since he was a kid.

He turned his head and looked at Porky as if noticing him for the first time. He stared hard for a long moment before answering. Slurring a little, he said: “Motherfucker started fuckin’ me around so I fucked him up, but good.”

Porky stared back. Steve could not tell whether the man believed him or not. After a long moment Porky said: “Murder?”

“Fuckin’-a.”

“Me too.”

It seemed Porky had bought Steve’s story. Recklessly, Steve added: “Motherfucker ain’t gonna fuck me around no fuckin’ more.”

“Yeah,” said Porky.

There was a long silence. Porky seemed to be thinking. Eventually he said: “Why they put us in together?”

“They got no fuckin’ case against me,” Steve said. “They figure, if I waste you in here, they got me.”

Porky’s pride was touched. “What if I waste you?” he said.

Steve shrugged. “Then they got you.”

Porky nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “Figures.”