by Ken Follett
He had come immediately to Berrington for help. A few years earlier Berrington had shocked everyone, especially his wife, Vivvie, by joining the army just when antiwar sentiment was boiling up among Americans of his age. He had gone to work at Fort Detrick, in Frederick, Maryland, studying fatigue in soldiers. By the early seventies he was the world’s leading expert in the heritability of soldierly characteristics such as aggression and stamina. Meanwhile Preston, who had stayed at Harvard, had made a series of breakthroughs in understanding human fertilization. Berrington had talked him into leaving the university and becoming part of the great experiment with him and Proust.
It had been Berrington’s proudest moment. “I also remember how exciting it was,” he said. “We were at the leading edge of science, we were setting America right, and our president had asked us to do this job for him.”
Preston toyed with his salad. ‘Times have changed. It’s no longer an excuse to say: ‘I did it because the president of the United States asked me to.’ Men have gone to jail for doing what the president told them.”
“What was wrong with it?” Jim said testily. “It was secret, sure. But what’s to confess, for God’s sake?”
“We went undercover,” Preston said.
Jim flushed beneath his tan. “We transferred our project into the private sector.”
That was sophistry, Berrington thought, though he did not antagonize Jim by saying so. Those clowns from the Committee to Re-elect the President had got caught breaking into the Watergate hotel and all of Washington had run scared. Preston set up Genetico as a private limited corporation, and Jim gave it enough bread-and-butter military contracts to make it financially viable. After a while the fertility clinics became so lucrative that its profits paid for the research program without help from the military. Berrington moved back into the academic world, and Jim went from the army to the CIA and then into the Senate.
Preston said: “I’m not saying we were wrong—although some of the things we did in the early days were against the law.”
Berrington did not want the two of them to take up polarized positions. He intervened, saying calmly: “The irony is that it proved impossible to breed perfect Americans. The whole project was on the wrong track. Natural breeding was too inexact. But we were smart enough to see the possibilities of genetic engineering.”
“Nobody had even heard the goddamn words back then,” Jim growled as he cut into his steak.
Berrington nodded “Jim’s right, Preston. We should be proud of what we did, not ashamed. When you think about it, we’ve performed a miracle. We set ourselves the task of finding out whether certain traits, such as intelligence and aggression, are genetic; then identifying the genes responsible for those traits; and finally engineering them into test-tube embryos—and we’re on the brink of success!”
Preston, shrugged. “The entire human biology community has been working on the same agenda—”
“Not quite. We were more focused, and we placed our bets carefully.”
“That’s true.”
In their different ways Berrington’s two friends had let off steam. They were so predictable, he thought amiably; maybe old friends always were. Jim had blustered and Preston had whined. Now they might be calm enough to take a cool look at the situation. “That brings us back to Jeannie Ferrami,” Berrington said. “In a year or two she may tell us how to make people aggressive without turning them into criminals. The last pieces of the jigsaw are falling into place. The Landsmann takeover offers us the chance to accelerate the entire program and get Jim into the White House, too. This is no time to draw back.”
“That’s all very well,” said Preston. “But what are we going to do? The Landsmann organization has a goddamn ethics panel, you know.”
Berrington swallowed some snapper. “The first thing to realize is that we do not have a crisis here, we just have a problem,” he said. “And the problem is not Landsmann. Their accountants won’t discover the truth in a hundred years of looking at our books. Our problem is Jeannie Ferrami. We have to stop her learning anything more, at least before next Monday, when we sign the takeover documents.”
Jim said sarcastically: “But you can’t order her, because it’s a university, not the fucking army.”
Berrington nodded. Now he had them both thinking the way he wanted. “True,” he said calmly. “I can’t give her orders. But there are more subtle ways to manipulate people than those used by the military, Jim. If you two will leave this business in my hands, I’ll deal with her.”
Preston was not satisfied. “How?”
Berrington had been turning this question over and over in his mind. He did not have a plan, but he had an idea. “I think there’s a problem around her use of medical databases. It raises ethical questions. I believe I can force her to stop.”
“She must have covered herself.”
“I don’t need a valid reason, just a pretext.”
“What’s this girl like?” Jim said.
“About thirty. Tall, very athletic. Dark hair, ring in her nose, drives an old red Mercedes. For a long time I thought very highly of her. Last night I discovered there’s bad blood in the family. Her father is a criminal type. But she’s also clever, feisty, and stubborn.”
“Married, divorced?”
“Single, no boyfriend.”
“A dog?”
“No, she’s a looker. But hard to handle.”
Jim nodded thoughtfully. “We still have many loyal friends in the intelligence community. It wouldn’t be so difficult to make such a girl vanish.”
Preston looked scared. “No violence, Jim, for God’s sake.”
A waiter cleared away their plates, and they fell silent until he had gone. Berrington knew he had to tell them what he had learned from last night’s message from Sergeant Delaware. With a heavy heart, he said: “There’s something else you need to know. On Sunday night a girl was raped in the gym. The police have arrested Steve Logan. The victim picked him out of a lineup.”
Jim said: “Did he do it?”
“No.”
“Do you know who did?”
Berrington looked him in the eye. “Yes, Jim, I do.”
Preston said: “Oh, shit.”
Jim said: “Maybe we should make the boys vanish.”
Berrington felt his throat tighten up as if he were choking, and he knew he was turning red. He leaned over the table and pointed his finger at Jim’s face. “Don’t you ever let me hear you say that again!” he said, jabbing his finger so close to Jim’s eyes that Jim flinched, even though he was a much bigger man.
Preston hissed: “Knock it off, you two, people will see!”
Berrington withdrew his finger, but he was not through yet. If they had been in a less public place he would have got his hands around Jim’s throat. Instead he grabbed a fistful of Jim’s lapel. “We gave those boys life. We brought them into the world. Good or bad, they’re our responsibility.”
“All right, all right!” Jim said.
“Just understand me. If one of them is even hurt, so help me Christ, I’ll blow your fucking head off, Jim.”
A waiter appeared and said: “Would you gentlemen like dessert?”
Berrington let go of Jim’s lapel.
Jim smoothed his suit coat with angry gestures.
“Goddamn,” Berrington muttered “Goddamn.”
Preston said to the waiter. “Bring me the check, please.”
17
STEVE LOGAN HAD NOT CLOSED HIS EYES ALL NIGHT.
“Porky” Butcher had slept like a baby, occasionally giving a gentle snore. Steve sat on the floor watching him, fearfully observing every movement, every twitch, thinking about what would happen when the man woke up. Would Porky pick a fight with him? Try ta rape him? Beat him up?
He had good reason to tremble. Men in jail were beaten up all the time. Many were wounded, a few killed. The public outside cared nothing, figuring that if jailbirds maimed and slaughtered one another they
would be less able to rob and murder law-abiding citizens.
At all costs, Steve kept telling himself shakily, he must try not to look like a victim. It was easy for people to misread him, he knew. Tip Hendricks had made that mistake. Steve had a friendly air. Although he was big, he looked as if he would not hurt a fly.
Now he had to appear ready to fight back, though without being provocative. Most of all he should not let Porky sum him up as a clean-living college boy. That would make him a perfect target for gibes, casual blows, abuse, and finally a beating. He had to appear a hardened criminal, if possible. Failing that, he should puzzle and 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.”
&
nbsp; 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.