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 schooclass="underline" 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.”
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.