Part 24 (2/2)

Walking fast, we're at a near jog, down the front steps of the courthouse and around the corner toward the jail. Harry is out front, the two of us angling toward the curb. It's like one of those surreal dreams. I'm listening to Harry talk, but my brain isn't in it, as the tumblers of recognition turn, clicking into place.

It is almost by us before I realize. The driver could have turned around in the middle of the block, pulled a U-y, but he was already committed; it would have been too obvious. The best he can do is lift an elbow to shade his face as he glides past, headed for the larger herd of vehicles on Broadway. The elbow up was a good effort, except that I have seen the move too many times on the basketball court, and it's hard to be inconspicuous when you're seven feet two.

”You see that?” I say.

”What?” Harry looks up, at me, then at the sky-it's a bird . . . it's a plane.

”The car,” I tell him. ”That van.”

By the time he turns, the vehicle is at the corner sixty yards away.

”I didn't see it.”

”Epperson was behind the wheel.”

Harry gives me a dull look, then finally stops to turn and get a fix. ”What do you think he's doing down here? A long way from work. And he's excluded from the courtroom.”

”Yeah. I know.” But what is most troubling to me is the vehicle itself, the dark blue van with a sizeable dent in the left front fender, its parking light smashed on that side: the same van that was parked in front of my house last night.

By the time we get to the jail, Crone is waiting, and Harry and I are in no mood for games. We are positioned on the other side of the thick gla.s.s that separates us from the jail holding area. Though we can hear every word and see each gesture, we can't touch Crone, and Harry at this moment is ready to. There are no smiles from either side of the gla.s.s.

Crone is the picture of concern, as anxious as I have seen him from the start of the trial, though this isn't saying much. What we are getting is mostly denials.

”I don't know what she's talking about. I had a lot of students over the years. I can't remember them all.”

”She remembers you,” says Harry.

”I probably gave her a bad grade.”

Harry and I have decided not to mention Cybergenomics or questions regarding the grant until we know more. We confine ourselves to Epperson and Tanya Jordan's testimony.

”The fact is, Bill and I had a good working relations.h.i.+p,” says Crone. ”We got on well. I have nothing but wonderful things to say about him.”

”Let's hope the feeling is mutual,” I say, ”when they put him on the stand.”

”From what we're hearing, I doubt it,” says Harry.

”There's nothing that I know of. Believe me.”

”Where have we heard that before?” Harry is starting to get short with Crone. ”We're not interested in stories about collegial working relations.h.i.+ps or academic mutual respect. What we want to know is whether you were working on anything with a racial edge.”

Crone looks at him over the top of his gla.s.ses. ”We're back to that.”

”We've never left that,” says Harry. ”Apparently this good working relations.h.i.+p you had with Dr. Epperson included his disclosure of information to Kalista Jordan's mother that involved some-how do I say it?-'socially divisive issues.' ”

Crone looks at him from beyond the gla.s.s.

”Racial genetics,” says Harry. ”And we're not talking a cure for sickle-cell anemia. Tell us about this racial graying.”

Crone shakes his head. ”There was a misunderstanding back then.”

”Back when?” says Harry.

”When I was at Michigan.”

”We're not talking about Michigan. We're talking about now.”

Crone actually looks mystified, as if he doesn't understand. ”What is she saying, that I'm doing it now?”

”That seems to be what she's saying, and according to her, Epperson is prepared to substantiate it on the stand.”

”No,” says Crone. His eyes suddenly flash toward me. ”Paul, you have to believe me. I don't know what the woman is talking about.” He has both palms laid flat on the countertop in front of him, leaning toward the acrylic part.i.tion, staring intently into my eyes as if to emphasize the truth he is telling.

”Tell us about racial graying,” says Harry. He's not about to be put off.

Crone is a bundle of frustration. Eyes darting, looking at everything but us. ”Where do I start?”

”Try the beginning,” says Harry.

”Fine. Let's go back to the beginning, back to the Middle Ages when there were dynastic wars, when armies fought under the banner of Christendom to blot religious differences from the map. They butchered in the name of G.o.d: a higher calling than what we are about to engage in if we continue heading in the direction we're drifting.”

Suddenly his eyes are on us, cutting through me like twin lasers. ”Do you have any idea how many people over the ages have lost their lives as a result of religious strife?”

No answer.

”You're wondering what this has to do with genetics?”

”It crossed my mind,” says Harry.

”The sectarian wars of religion were merciful compared with the racial and ethnic conflicts that will engulf man if we don't deal with them now. People could convert to new religions if presented with the sharp blade of a sword or the heat of the flames as an alternative. But how do you change the pigmentation of your skin, the shape of your nose, the texture of your hair?

”We are already engaged in the new Inquisition; if you don't believe me, just look at the racial composition of our prisons. We are headed for the new Crusades and if you don't buy that, witness what is happening in the Balkans.

”You know,” he says, ”the great thinkers, the masters of intellect from the earliest writings, lectured on the equality of the species since long before Christ and yet we have lived through eons of slavery.

”Here in the Land of the Free it took seventy-five years, a Civil War and six hundred thousand dead before the preamble of Jefferson's declaration became fact: that all men are created equal. And still there are those who don't accept it.

”Yes, that's what I was working on. Back in Michigan. I admit it.” He looks at Harry.

”You don't get it?”

There is only the sound of silence from our side of the gla.s.s. Harry and I are now confronted with the thought, How do we put Crone on the stand to talk about this?

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