He seemed to have run out of conversation. After a while he lay down again.
Steve waited. Was it all over?
After a few minutes, Porky seemed to go back to sleep.
When he snored, Steve slumped against the wall, weak with relief.
After that, nothing happened for several hours.
Nobody came to speak to Steve, no one told him what was going on. There was no customer service desk where you could get information. He wanted to know when he would get the chance to ask for bail, but no one told him. He tried speaking to the new turnkey but the man simply ignored him.
Porky was still asleep when the turnkey came and opened the cell door. He fitted Steve with handcuffs and leg irons, then woke Porky and did the same to him. They were chained to two other men, taken a few steps to the end of the cell block, and ushered into a small office.
Inside were two desks, each with a computer and laser printer. Before the desks were rows of gray plastic chairs. One desk was occupied by a neatly dressed black woman of about thirty years. She glanced up at them, said, “Please sit down,” and continued working, tapping her keyboard with manicured fingers.
They shuffled along the row of chairs and sat. Steve looked around. It was a regular office, with steel file cabinets, notice boards, a fire extinguisher, and an old-fashioned safe. After the cells it looked beautiful.
Porky closed his eyes and appeared to go back to sleep. Of the other two men, one stared with an unbelieving expression at his right leg, which was in a plaster cast, while the other smiled into the distance, plainly having no idea where he was, seeming either high as a kite or mentally disturbed, or both.
Eventually the woman turned from her screen. “State your name,” she said.
Steve was first in line, so he replied: “Steven Logan.”
“Mr. Logan, I’m Commissioner Williams.”
Of course: she was a court commissioner. He now remembered this part of his criminal procedure course. A commissioner was a court official, much lowlier than a judge. She dealt with arrest warrants and other minor procedural matters. She had the power to grant bail, he recalled; and his spirits lifted. Maybe he was about to get out of here.
She went on: “I’m here to tell you what you’re charged with, your trial date, time, and location, whether you will have bail or be released on your own recognizance, and if released, any conditions.” She spoke very fast, but Steve picked up the reference to bail that confirmed his recollection. This was the person whom he had to persuade that he could be relied on to show up at his trial.
“You are before me on charges of first-degree rape, assault with intent to rape, battery, and sodomy.” Her round face was impassive as she detailed the horrible crimes he was accused of. She went on to give him a trial date three weeks ahead, and he remembered that every suspect must be given a trial date not more than thirty days away.
“On the rape charge you face life imprisonment. On the assault with intent to rape, two to fifteen years. Both these are felonies.” Steve knew what a felony was, but he wondered if Porky Butcher did.
The rapist had also set fire to the gymnasium, he recalled. Why was there no charge of arson? Perhaps because the police had no evidence directly linking him to the fire.
She handed him two sheets of paper. One stated that he had been notified of his right to be represented, the second told him how to contact a public defender. He had to sign copies of both.
She asked him a series of rapid-fire questions and keyed the answers into her computer: “State your full name. Where do you live? And your phone number. How long have you lived there? Where did you live prior to that?”
Steve began to feel more hopeful as he told the commissioner that he lived with his parents, he was in his second year at law school, and he had no adult criminal record. She asked if he had a drug or alcohol habit and he was able to say no. He wondered if he would get the chance to make some kind of statement appealing for bail, but she spoke fast and appeared to have a script she had to follow.
“For the charge of sodomy I find lack of probable cause,” she said. She turned from her computer screen and looked at him. “This does not mean that you did not commit the offense, but that there is not enough information here, in the detective’s statement of probable cause, for me to affirm the charge.”
Steve wondered why the detectives had put that charge in. Perhaps they hoped he would deny it indignantly and give himself away, saying, “That’s disgusting, I fucked her, but I didn’t sodomize her, what do you think I am?”
The commissioner went on: “But you must still stand trial for the charge.”
Steve was confused. What was the point of her finding if he still had to stand trial? And if he, a second-year law student, found all this hard to follow, what was it like for the average person?
The commissioner said: “Do you have any questions?”
Steve took a deep breath. “I want to apply for bail,” he began. “I’m innocent—”
She interrupted him. “Mr. Logan, you are before me on felony charges, which fall under rule 638B of the court. Which means that I, as a commissioner, cannot make a bail decision upon you. Only a judge can.”
It was like a punch in the face. Steve was so disappointed he felt ill. He stared at her unbelievingly. “Then what’s the point of this whole farce?” he said angrily.
“At this time you are being held at a no-bail status.”
He raised his voice. “So why have you asked me all these questions and raised my hopes? I thought I could get out of this place!”
She was unmoved. “The information you’ve given me about your address and so on will be checked by a pretrial investigator who will report to the court,” she said calmly. “You go for bail review tomorrow and the judge will make the bail decision.”
“I’m being kept in a cell with him!” Steve said, pointing at the sleeping Porky.
“The cells are not part of my responsibility—”
“The guy is a murderer! The only reason he hasn’t killed me yet is that he can’t stay awake! Now I’m formally complaining to you, as a court official, that I’m being mentally tortured and my life is in danger.”
“When the cells are full you have to share—”
“The cells aren’t full, look out your door and you can see. Most of them are empty. They put me in with him so he would beat me up. And if he does I’m taking action against you, personally, Commissioner Williams, for letting it happen.”
She softened a little. “I’ll look into it. Now I’m handing you some papers.” She gave him the charge summary, the probable cause statement, and several other papers. “Please sign each one and take a copy.”
Frustrated and downhearted, Steve took the ballpoint she offered and signed the papers. As he was doing so, the turnkey prodded Porky and woke him up. Steve handed the papers back to the commissioner. She put them in a folder.
Then she turned to Porky. “State your name.”
Steve buried his head in his hands.
18
JEANNIE STARED AT THE DOOR OF THE INTERVIEW ROOM AS IT slowly opened.
The man who walked in was Steven Logan’s double.
Beside her, she heard Lisa gasp.
Dennis Pinker looked so like Steven that Jeannie would never be able to tell them apart.
The system worked, she thought triumphantly. She was vindicated. Even though the parents vehemently denied that either of these two young men could possibly have a twin, they were as alike as her two hands.
The curly fair hair was cut the same way: short, with a part. Dennis rolled the sleeves of his prison fatigues the same neat way Steven did the cuffs of his blue linen shirt. Dennis closed the door behind him with his heel, the way Steven had when he had walked into Jeannie’s office in Nut House. He gave her an engaging, boyish smile just like Steven’s as he sat. She could hardly believe this was not Steven.
She looked at Lisa. She was staring bug-eyed at Dennis, her face pale with fear. “It’s him,” she breathed.
