The Third Twin - Ken Follett [80]
In the back row sat Steve’s mother and father.
He gasped with shock.
Dad wore his colonel’s uniform, with his hat under his arm. He sat straight backed, as if standing at attention. He had Celtic coloring: blue eyes, dark hair, and the shadow of a heavy beard on his clean-shaven cheeks. His expression was rigidly blank, taut with suppressed emotion. Mom sat beside him, small and plump, her pretty round face puffy with crying.
Steve wished he could fall through the floor. He would have gone back to Porky’s cell willingly to escape this moment. He stopped walking, holding up the entire line of prisoners, and stared in dumb agony at his parents, until the turnkey gave him a shove and he stumbled forward to the front bench.
A woman clerk sat at the front of the court, facing the prisoners. A male turnkey guarded the door. The only other official present was a bespectacled black man of about forty wearing a suit coat, tie, and blue jeans. He asked the names of the prisoners and checked them against a list.
Steve looked back over his shoulder. There was no one on the public benches except for his parents. He was grateful he had family that cared enough to show up; none of the other prisoners did. All the same he would have preferred to go through this humiliation unwitnessed.
His father stood up and came forward. The man in blue jeans spoke officiously to him. “Yes, sir?”
“I’m Steven Logan’s father, I’d like to speak to him,” Dad said in an authoritative voice. “May I know who you are?”
“David Purdy, I’m the pretrial investigator, I called you this morning.”
So that was how Mom and Dad found out, Steve realized. He should have guessed. The court commissioner had told him an investigator would check his details. The simplest way to do that would be to call his parents. He winced at the thought of that phone call. What had the investigator said? “I need to check the address of Steven Logan, who is in custody in Baltimore; accused of rape. Are you his mother?”
Dad shook the man’s hand and said: “How do you do, Mr. Purdy.” But Steve could tell Dad hated him.
Purdy said: “You can speak to your son, go ahead, no problem.”
Dad nodded curtly. He edged along the bench behind the prisoners and sat directly behind Steve. He put his hand on Steve’s shoulder and squeezed gently. Tears came to Steve’s eyes. “Dad, I didn’t do this,” he said.
“I know, Steve,” his father said.
His simple faith was too much for Steve, and he started to cry. Once he began he could not stop. He was weak with hunger and lack of sleep. All the strain and misery of the last two days overwhelmed him, and tears flowed freely. He kept swallowing and dabbing at his face with his manacled hands.
After a while Dad said: “We wanted to get you a lawyer, but there wasn’t time—we only just made it here.”
Steve nodded. He would be his own lawyer if he could just get himself under control.
Two girls were brought in by a woman turnkey. They were not handcuffed. They sat down and giggled. They looked about eighteen.
“How the hell did this happen, anyway?” Dad said to Steve.
Trying to answer the question helped Steve stop crying. “I must look like the guy who did it,” he said. He sniffed and swallowed. “The victim picked me out at a lineup. And I was in the neighborhood at the time, I told the police that. The DNA test will clear me, but it takes three days. I’m hoping I’ll get bail today.”
“Tell the judge we’re here,” Dad said. “It will probably help.”
Steve felt like a child, being comforted by his father. It brought back a bittersweet memory of the day he got his first bicycle. It must have been his fifth birthday. The bike was the kind with a pair of training wheels at the back to prevent it falling over. Their house had a large garden with two steps leading down to a patio. “Ride around the lawn and steer clear of the steps,” Dad had said; but the first thing little Stevie did was try to ride his bicycle down 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