"No matter how well-intentioned, no matter how much we crave social justice," he says, "we are never going to be color-blind. Face the fact. We are always going to be cognizant of those differences that mark us physically. And it's not just racial," says Crone. "In an age of scientific enlightenment and technological miracles, we judge our leaders on their physical stature and television presence and we select fools and the false priests of corruption to govern us. We embrace diversity but engage in white flight. We want to smile, hug minorities because it makes us feel good. We want to revel in those differences, and yet the very act, the recognition of difference, separates us. Yes, I was working toward erasing those differences. I don't know that I am proud of that. The very endeavor is a d.a.m.ning admission that our species has failed in the one single act that should have come naturally: the act of accepting one another on faith. The knowledge that we all put our pants on the same way each morning, one leg at a time.

"It's a subtle thing," he says. "The recognition of difference. How do we tell the brain not to form a system of cla.s.sification that is impressed on us daily by economics, by the neighborhoods in which we live, by the media in which we are immersed and that we seem to absorb almost by osmosis?"

He looks at me. "Tell me you have no twinge of anxiety when five or six young black men, or a group of macho Mexican teens, walk toward you on the sidewalk. Would you have the same fears if those kids were white?

"Would they feel compelled to engage in the secret rites of gang graffiti, or don gang garb, clothing that sets them apart? These are tribal instincts as old as man. Archeologists will tell you there is evidence of this on the steppes of Africa dating back nine millennia. But that's where we're headed," says Crone, "back to the tribes, back to the darkness. What I hoped for was a way out."

He looks at us, stone-cold from the other side of the gla.s.s. "I admit it was controversial. There is no so-called race gene," he says. "We know that. It is much more subtle. There's more genetic difference within racial groups than among them. We're dealing with a hundred, maybe a thousand, genetic differences. Melanin for skin color, but even that is no indicator of race. Some might call it unethical to even be looking at this. But you tell me a better way to deal with the problem, and I'll change my views."

"How about leaving the decision to nature?" says Harry.

"That's not going to cut it," says Crone. "I'm afraid we don't have a million years to allow evolution to take its course, to blur the distinctions and make us one family. We are very likely to destroy one another in that time. Racial strife is going to devour us."

"I like the way I look," says Harry. "I wouldn't want you s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g with it."

"Future generations," says Crone. "If it worked, it would only work on them."

"Maybe they'd like to be the product of nature, too," I say.

"Nice thought," he says, "but it doesn't address the problem. As a matter of science, as a genetic factor, race doesn't exist; it is purely a social concept. Wouldn't it be nice if society caught up with science? Maybe the race could survive. I'm talking about the human race," he says. "Instead of filling census forms with meaningless data regarding race and ethnic origins, we should be moving away from that. All we are doing is further ingraining racial stereotypes."

He considers for a moment, looks at me, pondering how to get through.

"Let me give you an example. You're a pilot in a small plane. You take off and within minutes you find yourself engulfed in clouds. You look out through the windows and all you see is white. You trust your eyes to tell you which way is up. You rely on your inner ear. Two minutes later you fly the plane into the ground. Why? Because your eyes and your inner ear deceived you. That's how it is with race. We're trusting our perceptions and ignoring the science. Look at the instruments of science and they will tell you there is no genetic difference, no such thing as racial markers. But people believe what they see. So how do you deal with that?"

I have no answer for him.

"People are so stupid," he says. "It's like when you ask someone what it takes to be great, the first and most fundamental element of making a mark on human history, they always think about it, though they never think long enough, and then they start rattling off the characteristics of the great, whittling down the list, looking for that one essential common ingredient. They talk about persistence and brilliance, education and eloquence, natural talent and acquired skills; some of them even come close and mention luck. But they never get it right. They always miss the most essential and obvious element of them all. And it's so simple.

"In order to be great, in fact in order to achieve anything in this life, first rule-you have to survive." He smiles. "Bet you didn't get it."

He knows by my look I didn't.

"And yet we all take it for granted. Do any of us know? Do we have any idea how many Einsteins or Pica.s.sos there might have been but for the fact that they didn't survive to realize the promise of their greatness? How many Churchills or Roosevelts died in their infancy because of disease, war or famine? We'll never know. The world will never know who they were. They never made it into the history books because of the simple fact that they failed the first test of greatness. They didn't survive long enough. And that's where we're headed as a species," he says. "In the race for greatness in the cosmos. Other beings on other planets will never know we existed, because unless we solve the problems here, we'll never survive long enough.

"Do you know that in the last five months, since I've been in here, I've been recruited, at least two dozen times, by Nordic Pride, the Caucasian gang that provides protection?"

What he is telling me I have already heard from jailers whom I know. Places of incarceration are the modern equivalent of the state of nature. You band together or you die.

"It's a caste system constructed on color: brown, black and white. So far, I've refrained," he says. "How much longer I can afford this luxury I'm not sure. If I'm convicted and end up at San Quentin or Folsom, I'm going to have to stop thinking about it and act. My time for commitment will have arrived," he says. "I will have to join the tribe, or die. You can take it on faith," he says, "that I am a survivor."

These are no longer academic questions for Crone. I can tell that he has considered them at night in the dark on his bunk.

For a moment there is just silence. Then he looks at us. "Funny, isn't it?"

"What?" asks Harry.

"That the petri dish growing the culture for modern American society is not the schools, or the corporations or even the family. It's the prisons." He laughs a little at the thought.

"Make no mistake," he says, "the tribes that are growing there aren't going to stay there. We can't lock them up fast enough or hold them long enough to isolate the problems and to fix them. We'd better do something, and do it quickly."

"And that's what you were doing," says Harry. "Dealing with the problem."

"Trying to. At least coming up with an option," says Crone. "In Michigan."

"We're back to that," says Harry.

"Because it's the truth. My views have not changed," says Crone. "But I was not engaged in racial genetic research at the center. That is a fact. If you don't believe me, bring Bill Epperson into the courtroom. I'm sure he'll tell you that I wasn't working on anything of the kind."

"We won't have to bring him in," says Harry. "The prosecution is taking care of that."

"Then talk to Bill if you don't believe me."

"We've tried," I tell him. "He doesn't want to talk to us." Harry had followed up on a meeting with Epperson after our encounter in the elevator. Harry got nowhere. Epperson declined to give him a statement signed under oath and said he couldn't discuss the matter further. He asked Harry to leave.

"I don't understand."

"That makes three of us," says Harry.

"Why wouldn't he talk to you? I know Kalista's death hit him hard. They were close. But I don't think Bill believes I had anything to do with it. In fact, I know he doesn't. He told me so."

"When was that?"

Crone thinks for a moment. "A week or so before they arrested me. We were talking in my office. Everybody at the center knew the police were nosing around, that I was a suspect. They let the word out, tried to destroy my reputation. I think they wanted to see if I would run."

"And what did you say to Epperson?"

"I told him I didn't know why the police kept questioning me."

"And what did he say?"

"He couldn't figure it out either. He said he couldn't think why anyone would want to hurt Kalista. He said he knew that we'd had some disagreements, but that he was certain I had nothing to do with her death. He didn't hold me responsible. I know he didn't. And believe me, if he had any suspicions he would never have talked to me."

"Why not?"

Crone suddenly looks away as if maybe he's crossed the line, said something he shouldn't have.

"Listen," I tell him. "If you're holding something back, now's not the time. We can't represent a client who is holding out."

"It's not something that's important," says Crone.

"Let me decide that," I tell him.

He thinks about how he's going to say it, tries to measure his words, then just blurts it out: "Epperson was in love."

I don't say anything, but he knows the question.

"With Kalista," he says.

"Next you're going to tell me the feelings weren't mutual?"

He seesaws his head back and forth on his shoulders as if he'd rather not say, then does. "She liked him. They were friends."

"But nothing more."

Crone shakes his head.

"And Epperson was looking for more?"

"He wanted to marry her."

"Did he ever ask her?" says Harry. Something we might confront Epperson with on the stand.

Crone now gets out of the chair on the other side of the gla.s.s. He is in a small, enclosed cubicle, the guard on the other side of a closed door. I can see the uniform through the acrylic part.i.tion that separates us and the gla.s.s in the door over Crone's shoulder.

"Don't talk with your back to us," says Harry. "They can read lips."

Crone turns around. "He'd tried to give her an engagement ring."

"Epperson?" I say.

He nods.

"She turned him down."

"When?" asks Harry.

"About three weeks before she disappeared."

"Why the h.e.l.l didn't you tell us?" I say.

"Because it had nothing to do with her murder."

"How do you know that?" asks Harry. "It seems to me only two people could be as certain about that as you seem to be: Epperson if he didn't kill her, and if he didn't whoever did."

Crone ignores him. "Kalista took her troubles to a friend, an older woman at the center; the friend came to me. She told me Kalista didn't want to ruin a good friendship with Epperson."

"When?" I ask.

"A few days after he tried to give her the ring."

"Who was the intermediary?" asks Harry. "The older woman?"

"Carol Hodges."

Hodges has already taken the stand in the state's case. She was one of the witnesses to the argument between Crone and Jordan in the faculty dining room the night Jordan disappeared.

"She was close to Kalista. She thought maybe I could help."

"How could you have helped?" I ask. "You and Jordan were at war. She'd taken the working papers from your office. She'd filed a s.e.xual hara.s.sment complaint against you."

"At the time, Hodges didn't know that."

"Hodges thought I could talk to Bill, try to make him understand that she simply didn't love him, but that she wanted him as a friend. I did what I could."

"You talked to Epperson?" I ask.

He nods.

"Where did he buy the ring?" asks Harry.

"What?"

"The engagement ring." Harry has a notepad open on the counter in front of him, pen at the ready.

"I don't know. Why is it important?"

"Did he show it to you?"

"No."

Nothing we can check out. No evidence with which to confront Epperson on the stand. With Kalista Jordan dead, anything Hodges has to say on this point is hearsay.

"Did Epperson ever talk to anybody else at the center, maybe somebody he might have confided in?"

"Some of the younger staff," says Crone, "a few of the younger guys ran together, partied."

"Why the h.e.l.l didn't you tell us sooner?" I ask.

"Because I was sure he didn't kill her. He was in love with her."

"Yes, and she'd rejected him," says Harry.

"He didn't do it."

"How do you know?"

All we get is a shrug and a stare from the other side of the acrylic.

Harry wants to talk outside, where Crone can't hear. He tugs me by one arm. I tell Crone to sit tight. Harry and I step outside and close the door on our side of the cubicle, and stand there to make sure that the guard doesn't take Crone away.

"Question is," says Harry, "do we talk to Epperson now or hit him on the stand?"

"We have nothing to hit him with. You think you can run down the ring?" I ask.

"If it exists."

"You don't believe him."