Ken Follett - the Third Twin (1996)

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.”

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!”