the Third Twin (1996)

“I can’t ask you not to release that press statement. I don’t have the right. You can’t put one research project above the welfare of the entire university, I realize that.” He looked up.

Maurice hesitated. For a split second Berrington wondered fearfully if he suspected he was being maneuvered into a corner. But if the thought crossed his mind it did not linger. “I appreciate your saying that, Berry. But what will you do about Jeannie?”

Berrington relaxed. It seemed he had done it. “I guess she’s my problem,” he said. “Leave her to me.”

22

STEVE DROPPED OFF TO SLEEP IN THE EARLY HOURS OF Wednesday morning.

The jail was quiet, Porky was snoring, and Steve had not slept for forty-two hours. He tried to stay awake, rehearsing his bail application speech to the judge for tomorrow, but he kept slipping into a waking dream in which the judge smiled benignly on him and said, “Bail is granted, let this man go free,” and he walked out of the court into the sunny street. Sitting on the floor of the cell in his usual position, with his back to the wall, he caught himself nodding off, and jerked awake several times, but finally nature conquered willpower.

He was in a profound sleep when he was shocked awake by a painful blow to his ribs. He gasped and opened his eyes. Porky had kicked him and was now bending over him, eyes wide with craziness, screaming: “You stole my dope, motherfucker! Where d’you stash it, where? Give it up right now or you’re a dead man!”

Steve reacted without thinking. He came up off the floor like a spring uncoiling, his right arm outstretched rigid, and poked two fingers into Porky’s eyes. Porky yelled in pain and stepped backward. Steve followed, trying to push his fingers right through Porky’s brain to the back of his head. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear a voice that sounded a lot like his own, screaming abuse.

Porky took another step back and sat down hard on the toilet, covering his eyes with his hands.

Steve put both hands behind Porky’s neck, pulled his head forward, and kneed him in the face. Blood spurted from Porky’s mouth. Steve grabbed him by the shirt, yanked him off the toilet seat, and dropped him on the floor. He was about to kick him, when sanity began to return. He hesitated, staring down at Porky bleeding on the floor, and the red mist of rage cleared. “Oh, no,” he said. “What have I done?”

The gate of the cell flew open and two cops burst in, brandishing nightsticks.

Steve held up his hands in front of him.

“Just calm down,” said one of the cops.

“I’m calm, now,” Steve said.

The cops handcuffed him and took him out of the cell. One punched him in the stomach, hard. He doubled over, gasping. “That’s just in case you were thinking of starting any more trouble,” the cop said.

He heard the sound of the cell door crashing shut and the voice of Spike the turnkey in his habitual humorous mood. “You need medical attention, Porky?” Spike said. “ ’Cause there’s a veterinarian on East Baltimore Street.” He cackled at his own joke.

Steve straightened up, recovering from the punch. It still hurt but he could breathe. He looked through the bars at Porky. He was sitting upright, rubbing his eyes. Through bleeding lips he replied to Spike, “Fuck you, asshole.”

Steve was relieved: Porky was not badly hurt.

Spike said: “It was time to pull you out of there anyway, college boy. These gentlemen have come to take you to court.” He consulted a sheet of paper. “Let’s see, who else is for the Northern District Court? Mr. Robert Sandilands, known as Sniff.…” He got three other men out of cells and chained them all together with Steve. Then the two cops took them to the parking garage and put them on a bus.

Steve hoped he would never have to go back to that place.

It was still dark outside. Steve guessed it must be around six A.M. Courts did not start work until nine or ten o’clock in the morning, so he would have a long wait. They drove through the city for fifteen or twenty minutes then entered a garage door in a court building. They got off the bus and went down into the basement.

There were eight barred pens around a central open area. Each pen had a bench and a toilet, but they were larger than the cells at police headquarters, and all four prisoners were put in a pen that already had six men in it. Their chains were removed and dumped on a table in the middle of the room. There were several turnkeys, presided over by a tall black woman with a sergeant’s uniform and a mean expression.

Over the next hour another thirty or more prisoners arrived. They were accommodated twelve to a pen. There were shouts and whistles when a small group of women were brought in. They were put in a pen at the far end of the room.