by Scott Turow
“So? He’s a good kid. Let them ask questions.”
“They are suggesting that they may grant him immunity.”
Dixon squinted and studied Stern.
“What are you telling me?”
“I’m telling you that they believe he has critical knowledge. They are interested in making him a witness against you.”
“And what am I supposed to say?”
“Is that prospect of concern to you?”
Dixon, perpetually cryptic, made a face—a philosopher could not have done better. Who knows what about whom?
“It might be.”
“I see.” Stern briefly looked away. But he had known this was coming. The tickets from the orders that had been entered in Kindle ahead of the large Chicago trades had reached his office yesterday, and John’s awkward scrawl, even his initials sometimes, were on each form. The prosecutors’ hopes for John were obvious: they wanted him to finger Dixon as the man who’d called the Kindle orders in each time. But it was not clear yet that John could oblige. He took hundreds of orders a day. The possibility remained that Dixon had used John regularly because he was as unimpressionable as a stone, the man on the desk most likely to forget, and that there had been nothing memorable or overt in their dealings that would ignite John’s recollections now. There was no point in asking Dixon. He could not say what John remembered, and would never answer precisely, in any event.
“Then we had best find him another lawyer,” Stern said at last.
“If you think so.”
“I do. I cannot represent someone whose best interests may lie in testifying against you. How could I be loyal to John and loyal to you? It would be a hopeless conflict of interests.”
For an instant the bleak morass of family difficulties, framed in this way, confronted both men. Even Dixon, Stern thought, had a mildly sheepish look.
“Who will you get for him?”
“The choice is John’s. I will suggest some names. Lawyers I am familiar with.” Lawyers who would talk to Stern, who would do their best to moderate the danger of John’s testimony. This was very delicate. Stern, in spite of everything, smiled at his next thought. “Your employees’ manual provides that he will be indemnified for his legal fees.”
Dixon rolled his eyes. “Great.”
The momentary humor, however, seemed to do nothing to allay the heavy mood between them.
“Look,” said Dixon. He was about to explain, but he caught something in Stern’s look that stopped him. Suddenly it was obvious to them both how harshly Stern judged him for leading John into this swamp. Dixon endured this reproof another instant before turning away.
Ralph, by the cart, mentioned that they could hit. Dixon strode to the tee, swung mightily, and hooked his shot miserably, deep into the trees. He walked across the tee, outraged, slamming his club head repeatedly into the sod, and finally flung the wood away.
Stern was standing when he returned.
“Do you have something to say?” Dixon demanded.
There was no pretense he might have been referring to his shot.
“My fee does not include lectures, Dixon.”
“You think it was a stupid-ass thing to do, right? The whole fucking idea. Dumb, as bad as anything else. And you’d expect me at least to be smarter.”
Stern waited.
“Just so,” he answered.
With his driver, he began walking forward on the tee, but Dixon caught his arm with his gloved hand before his brother-in-law could pass. He suddenly seemed too put out for courtesies. He presented his natural self, large, rough, expansive. Since Stern had known it all along, he admitted his nasty secret—in spite of his expensive haircut and Sea Island cotton shirts, Dixon was a vulgarian. He pointed.
“Stern, do you know why a dog licks his balls?”
Stern considered that a moment.
“No, Dixon, I do not.”
“Because he can,” said Dixon, and looked at his brother-in-law squarely. Before he headed toward the cart, alone, he repeated it. “Because he can.”
16
SOMEONE HAD ONCE OBSERVED that when a man was wearing a hat it is harder to tell his troubles. Stern found surprising accuracy in this peculiar commonplace. Under a bright straw boater, with a brilliant red, white, and blue band, he proceeded down the avenues toward the River National Bank, where he would meet with Cal Hopkinson and the officer in charge of Clara’s trust accounts. The day was bright, the perfect sweet late May you expected in Kindle County.
The hat was Marta’s—from a high-school play a decade ago. Stern had found it in her room, and during one of the lengthy long-distance conversations they had recently been having late at night, she had urged him to wear it, hoping it might improve his mood. He was certain he would feel like a clown as soon as he set foot outside the house. Instead, it proved oddly heartening to think that people who knew him well might not recognize him, could believe he was someone else.
Across the marble lobby of River National, Cal Hopkinson waved. Together, he and Stern found the office of the bank vice president, Jack Wagoner. Wagoner was your usual inoffensive gentleman in banking, immaculately groomed and well mannered. Henry Mittler, long ago, had permanently damaged all bankers in Stern’s estimate with his grudging private opinions of the banking clients who had made him rich.
Whatever disparaging bromide Henry might have employed about Jack, he was smart enough to know there was a problem. His mission was to explain to a man what his wife had done, without his knowledge, with most of a million dollars. Furthermore, the man was a lawyer. A suicide was involved. A will was in question. Bad medicine for a banker, or anyone else. The air in Wagoner’s office full of antique reproductions and a good Oriental rug was decidedly uneasy. A single file folder lay in the center of Wagoner’s otherwise immaculate desk.
“Mrs. Stern issued written instructions to dissolve at least $850,000 in assets in her investment account on March 20th.” With that, Wagoner produced a handwritten letter on Clara’s stationery. Cal and Stern looked it over together on the corner of Wagoner’s desk, then Stern took up the document himself. The hand was strong and clear. She wrote a one-sentence direction, setting forth the amount and granting the bank the discretion to liquidate those securities it deemed best. Holding the note, he recalled the other piece of correspondence Clara had set herself to a few days after. Many messages left behind, but no long explanations. Stern, without thinking, briefly worried his head.
“May I ask who dealt with her?”
Wagoner knew all the answers. His assistant, Betty Fiori, had received Mrs. Stern’s call and told her that written instructions were necessary with an amount of that size.
“And what then became of those funds?” asked Stern.
“They were disbursed,” said Jack, “pursuant to Mrs. Stern’s directions.”
“How?” asked Cal.
“By certified check drawn against her investment account.” Wagoner had obviously spoken to his lawyer and was answering only as questions were asked. He now presented a white slip by which Clara had requested certification; she had wanted to reassure someone that her check would be good. Stern recognized her signature on the form, but the amount, a little over $850,000, was written in another hand.
“Whose writing?” he asked, pointing.
“Betty’s.”
“And to whom,” asked Stern, “was this check made payable?”
“We looked for the canceled check.” He pushed a button on his telephone console and asked that Ms. Fiori be summoned. She appeared at once, another person in a dark blue suit. She recited the steps she had taken to find the wayward check. Their own check-reconciliation department had searched; their bank; the Fed. The trust officers, who normally received the canceled checks and statements on this account, had looked high and low. It was this tracing process, clearly, which had gone on while the bank had been holding Cal at bay.
“I’m positive it hasn’t cleared,” Ms. Fiori said.
&nbs
p; “Can we stop it?” asked Cal.
“Stop?” asked Wagoner. “It’s a certified check. We’ve guaranteed payment.”
“It hasn’t been presented.”
“How could we stop it?” asked Wagoner.
“It’s stale, isn’t it?”
Stern spoke up. The question he had asked before had not yet been answered.
“To whom was this check made payable?”
Ms. Fiori looked to Wagoner.
“We don’t ordinarily make a record of that,” he said. “We have no reason to.”
“You do not know?” Stern spoke to Ms. Fiori. Wagoner might never answer directly.
“We don’t know,” she said. “Usually, you have the returned check. Sometimes we’ll put a note on the requisition. It wasn’t made payable to Mrs. Stern, if it helps. I remember that.”
“You do?” asked Stern.
“Yes.”
“Clearly?”
“Yes.”
He was in the mode of cross-examination now. Familiar ground. Something, he suspected, had made an impression on her.
“There is a particular reason you recall?”
She shrugged. “Not really.”
“You remember the name?”
“I don’t, Mr. Stern. I’ve racked my brain.”
“But it was not an entity? A corporation? Partnership?”
“No, I’m sure of that.”
“Not a charity or a foundation?”
“No.”
“An individual?”
“I believe so.”
“I see,” said Stern. He knew the rest. It was obvious now why she remembered. “A man’s name,” said Stern finally.
Ms. Fiori, involuntarily, allowed her teeth to close a bit against her upper lip.
“Yes,” she said.
Yes, thought Stern. Of course.
For a moment no one in the room spoke.
“So some fellow is walking around with my wife’s check for $850,000 in his pocket?”
It was absurd, of course, but the humiliation was unbearable. It raced through him, like acrid fumes, and seemed to force its way to his eyes. He knew he was flushed.
Cal at last said something.
“Jack, there has to be a way to stop that check.”
“Cal, it’s certified. We’d be buying ourselves a lawsuit for wrongful dishonor. We don’t know what kind of transaction was involved here.” Wagoner, provoked by Cal, glanced as an after thought at Stern. He had been indelicate. “I promise you this much. We’ll let you know when the check is presented. If you want to get an injunction at that point, God bless you.”
Stern was already on his feet. He spoke to Wagoner and Ms. Fiori, thanking them for their assistance, told Cal he would be in touch, then left the office. He was—again—reeling.
Outside the bank’s revolving doors, he placed Marta’s skimmer on his head and watched as the wind took the hat away and bounced it down the pavement, weaving among the pedestrians. When he turned, Cal was beside him, watching it go.
“I’ll chase it,” Cal said, but did not move.
Stern gestured that he ought not bother. They walked in the direction of the hat without speaking.
“I’ll bet,” said Cal at last, “when everything is said and done, we’ll still have a chance to unwind that transaction. She couldn’t have had the slightest idea of the tax implications of what she was doing.”
Stern barely contained himself. What a numskull Cal was, always congratulating himself at length because he was not even dumber. Who gave a damn about the money? Here at last, three decades along, Clara had found the way to curtail his interest in her wealth. When he turned back, Stern found his eyes fastening on the dark spot behind Cal’s ear.
“I am not concerned, Cal. Whatever it was, shall be.” He caught sight of the banner on his hat; it was resting against a mesh trash bin a hundred yards away.
He took a step in that direction, and then stood still while that ugly interrogatory suddenly burned through him: Who? Oh yes, it was time for that again. Who was it? In the first few days, Stern with considerable discipline, and an aversion to pain, had refused to lower himself to this debased parlor game. But eventually the outrage boiled up in him and he could not suppress his dismal curiosity. It would have been more noble to be able to claim that it was vengeance for Clara’s sake he was after—to find and punish the heartless scoundrel who’d inflicted what became a mortal disease. But his needs were more basic, and entirely his own. Whether or not it was a lurid interest, he simply had to fill in the picture.
In these moods, he suspected virtually every man who came into his view. Was it the mailman or, as in some filthy story, a salesman traveling door-to-door? Today he’d learned that it was someone who needed money—perhaps an impoverished student of hers whom she had fallen for and sought to mother; or a struggling musician in a garret who wanted a permanent endowment? Perhaps a young man starting out in business. Or an older, married fellow who needed cash to finance his divorce?
Once or twice, at home, he’d picked up Clara’s leather-covered address book and had gone through it page by page, weighing prospects with every male’s name, no matter how unlikely. Any man would do. How about Cal? Perhaps his surprise at the money’s disappearance was only an elaborate act. With a lover’s gratitude, Clara had made a gift of what Cal had long superintended. But Ms. Fiori surely could not have failed to recall Cal’s name with him seated right there. Perhaps it was Dixon. Of course, Clara’s distaste for him seemed so sincere, and Dixon with his plastic-coated penis was, by Peter’s evidence, not likely to be spreading—or contracting—any such disease. Nor had Dixon the need for anybody else’s money. How about Nate Cawley? He had the sex life of a chimpanzee. Perhaps all his skulking about was a reflection of guilt. Or the pompous rabbi at the temple? He certainly was an object of Clara’s esteem and generosity.
Abjectly, unwillingly, Stern on the street corner placed his hand across his heart. Cal was down the avenue waving Stern’s hat to show it had been safely recovered. Stern studied the throng of suited men striding the street. Who? he thought, seething with hatred, weakened by shame. Who?
17
IN MD’S OFFICES in the Kindle County Futures Exchange, Stern asked the receptionist for John Granum and took a seat. Dixon had a showpiece office a few blocks south of here, a place with exposed brick walls and banners and baffles used for sound deadening that was often pictured in architectural magazines; that was the site of MD’s local trading room and central executive offices. But the order desk and back office remained here in a bright, functional-looking space in the KCFE.
After a few moments Al Greco, Dixon’s number-two person in Kindle, affable, half bald, too fat, greeted him. Dreading this meeting, Stern had put it off much longer than he should have. Finally, this morning he had left a message that he was coming, but John apparently had been needed on the floor. They would have to go get him. From his desk drawer, Al grabbed his red plastic trading badge, engraved with his initials and MD’s clearing number, and pulled his navy-blue floor jacket off a hook. Downstairs, at a security desk, Stern was signed onto the floor for fifteen minutes. Two years ago, a fellow in a wig had placed dozens of trades and disappeared without settling the losing transactions. Now, if Stern exceeded his granted time by more than a minute, a cadre of security officers would spill across the floor and pull him out as unceremoniously as a spy.
This was an exciting place. On the Exchange floor, the profusion of color and the volume were exceptional. It was like being on the playing field in a thronged athletic stadium. The huge black tote boards thirty feet overhead flashed in optic shades of orange, red, green, and yellow as their digits fell, while a red band of local and national news raced by below. Young people—runners, traders, order clerks—dashed about in their colored coats and corduroys, each looking purposeful, hyped-up, single-minded. The floor was confettied with discarded orders. In the meantime, in the tiered trading pits, the fundamental business
went on, the brokers, the locals, the top stair men, forty and fifty deep, buying and selling in a screaming melee of surging hands. Fingers up and out; beckoning or refusing. From their black wrought-iron observation posts, the pit reporters overhead copied down each fill. For all the electronic circuitry, the phones and faxes and computers that took information to and from this place, at the junction point one still depended on physical skills: visual acuity, strong lungs, and good ears. The din, the fierce voices, rang out incredibly. At the windows three stories above, various gawkers stood with their faces pressed to the glass.
In this world, greed had annealed with some kind of benighted manliness, so that there was at times an atmosphere of savagery. Young men—too many of them Jewish for Stern’s comfort—moved about with astonishing swagger. Twenty-eight years old, thirty. Kids who had barely scraped their way through high school had bought seats on the Exchange and traded for their own accounts, often making millions. Others would lose their shirts or trade away an accumulated fortune in a matter of days. It made no difference. Those who went into the pits wore the macho pride of bullfighters. Like cavemen they lived on the unpredictable whims of wind and rain, markets, seasons. This, they believed, made them tough. The risk made them high. Stern had heard stories, amusing if not true, of handjobs delivered in the jostling trading pits by certain female clerks. Verity was not the point of these tales. They emphasized the exhilarated air that many believed they breathed here. They had it better than ordinary drips—money, the blood of life, was always passing through their hands in staggering amounts. Once, years ago, when Dixon was still often on the floor, Stern had met him for lunch and found him conferring with four younger colleagues, all traders.
‘I got this one,’ a man had said, moving in front of one of the elevators.
‘For what?’ a second asked.
‘A bill.’
‘A big bill?’
‘Right.’
Dixon laughed and dug through his pockets. He stepped before the second elevator.