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 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