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.
“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
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
