by Scott Turow
“Forgive me,” he said.
“Jesus,” said Fiona.
He was going to tell her she was an attractive woman, but that sounded the wrong note.
“I was overcome,” said Stern instead, one of his usual ambiguous formulations.
“You were taking advantage.” This thought, when uttered, caused her, with as little warning as usual, to cry once more. She sat down in a white wicker chair by the window and crushed the ball of tissue to the center of her face. She’d found her drink, and she drained it for comfort, then stood, probably wanting another. She gave Stern a fiery look—one more unspoken curse—but, without further words, departed. The collie loped along behind her as she disappeared down the hall.
Listening to her clump down the stairs, he looked up at the Cawleys’ bedroom ceiling. Cobwebs hung from the stylish fixture. Oh God, he was full of loathing and self-reproach. He had that underwater feeling of being very drunk, so that he knew it would be even worse whenever the adrenaline passed and a feeling of normality returned. What in the world could he have been thinking? Oh, he was going to despise himself. He did already.
He walked over to the chair Fiona had sat in. Through the mullioned window, he could see his own house. In the twenty years he had lived here, he had never viewed it from this angle, and he looked down for some time on the variegated slate roof of the bedroom wing, taken by the sight. When he recognized the gable of his own room, he actually tried to imagine Nate and Clara enwrapped about each other there, but the image, mercifully, refused to flourish.
What about the money? he thought suddenly. What in God’s name did Nate need with 850,000 bucks? But Fiona had given him the answer to that weeks ago: for years she had threatened Nate with financial ruin as the cost of a divorce. She would fight like a terrier for every penny, for the sheer sake of vengeance. But with Clara’s fortune squirreled away, Nate could afford Fiona’s wrath. Did that mean there was a pact between them, Nate and Clara? Were they each to abandon their spouses? Did she mean to leave Stern lonesome, wandering—the way he was?
Downstairs, he heard the front door slam. Fiona was gone—perhaps to take a drunken drive about the city, rattling on to herself about the viciousness of men; or simply to give him a moment to slink off in shame. The collie, deserted by his mistress, trotted back into the room. The animal tilted its head, gazing with luminous greenish eyes. Imagine the dog’s life, always on the seeming verge of comprehension.
This time, with the new thought, Stern was unable to move. This truly was Clara’s legacy to him, instants of horror as he made out the hidden forms in the mess she left behind. In his line of work, he was always attempting to puzzle out precisely what had occurred in the past. The participants, clients or government witnesses, rarely provided reliable accounts. They were knocked off course by winds of fear, blame-shifting, self-justification. But occasionally, as he worked over a case, Stern himself would recognize what had happened. A word, here or there, a piece of paper. The jigsawed pieces fit.
Weak and light-headed, he had the same sensation now. Poor Clara. Now he understood. She had bestowed her enormous gift as the groundwork of whatever plan she and Nate had laid and, only after that, had learned the nature of her new medical predicament. Perhaps it was the first Nate knew of the problem. But in the circumstance he would have had no choice but to admit his other interest—probably the young lady in the video downstairs. Infidelity among the unfaithful. Oh, yes. Stern saw it now. What a drama. It was as tragic as Madama Butterfly. Bilked. Jilted. Diseased. Shame and loss at every window, every door, the future an endless refraction of ugly events: a husband’s wrath, a lover’s departure, and the excruciating knowledge of a fortune squandered in order to buy her boyfriend the freedom he intended to spend in other pursuits. What humiliation! Like a heroine of myth, Clara had lost everything through pride and desire. Sitting now on Fiona’s expensive bedspread, Stern placed one hand over his heart; it felt rough and sore, pumping away within his chest.
He would have to call Cal. At once. What a story this would be to tell. Lawyer Hopkinson would drill another hole in his head. Stern wanted the papers drawn now. With the check, Nate was in a tricky position. His plan from the start must have been to hold it in order to hide the funds from Fiona and her divorce lawyer. But now, with Clara’s death, with bankers and executors, with probate, he would have to move, fearing that someone might soon learn of the transaction and attempt to see it undone. The day Nate found the nerve to present his check, Stern would sue. There would be smoke and fragments everywhere. He would grind Nate Cawley like a seed beneath a stone.
In this burst of vicious impulse, Stern was smitten suddenly, overpoweringly, with the sensation of how preposterous this was. None of this had occurred. He thought that clearly. Any second, groping for the switch, he would find the light and see where he really was. But when he turned about, the collie was truly there, still watching, and the house he had lived in for twenty years was out the window, viewed at this angle from which he had never seen it before. His lip was beginning to thicken and welt from the impact of one of Fiona’s rings. He found his way down, closed the dog in the kitchen, and then, feeling that something he could never recall was utterly lost, let himself out the door.
For him, the most evocative memories of their courtship were of the times he sat in the parlor of the Mittler home while Clara played the piano. Her soft reddish hair followed just behind the occasional downward movements of her head; her eyes were fast upon the keyboard, or closed, as she turned herself over to the music. Her high intelligence sang through the instrument. The first time she performed for him, he had no idea what to say. He had come to the door to collect her and she invited him to step inside a moment. Neither of her parents was home and apparently she felt free to show him about. “My piano,” she said. He asked her to play, and instead of demurring as he expected, she set herself free. He sat on the red plush divan in his scarf and overcoat, utterly ignorant of the music, but overcome by the conviction with which she struck the keys. He admired her intensely.
“Magnificent,” he said.
She stood shyly beside the instrument, absorbing his praise.
They went then to the show. The movie—he still remembered—was the subject of some excitement. Marty. The story of this lonely, inept man, full of longing, stirred Stem. That was him, him! Afterwards, walking to George Murray’s Chevy, parked far down the block, he recognized that Clara, too, had been sadly moved. She clung to him firmly as they strolled, speaking of certain harrowing moments lived out on the screen.
When they reached the car, Stern could not help himself. He cried out and doubled over for a moment.
“Oh, George,” he said.
Whoever had sideswiped George Murray’s car had left a number of victims. The scratches began behind the door, growing in a broadening trail until the point of impact on the front fender. There the metal was cruelly withered and the filament of the front headlamp hung down from a single wire. The auto ahead was worse; the entire trunk was folded up like a smashed carton.
“Oh, God,” she said when she finally saw it. She grabbed his arm. “This isn’t your car, is it?”
“Oh, no.” The loss seemed incalculable. His mind fumbled ahead futilely for some way it all could be restored.
“I’m so sorry.”
He shrugged, staring at the wreckage.
“No telephone this month,” he said.
He was required to call the police. They walked to a drugstore and the police were there by the time they had returned to the car. George Murray, thankfully, was not home. Somehow Stern felt he could tolerate all this, except telling him. This girl and her sympathy seemed to give him courage. The cop was an amiable type, an older white-haired man who had been put out to pasture. He asked Stern about his accent in an honest, inquisitive way and then lay in the boulevard hauling on the bumper in order to straighten it out so that Stern did not dirty his suit. Stern sat behind the wheel, turning it as the policema
n pulled on the dimpled sheet metal.
“Good enough to drive,” the cop finally announced. “Save you a penny or two on the tow. Those fellas are pirates.”
The policeman, Leary, tipped his hat when they drove away. Stern had no idea where they were going.
“Shall I take you home?” he asked her.
“Oh, not yet,” she said, so emphatically that Stern was taken by surprise. The car had no radio, but there was a clock. It was five past midnight. “I have to be certain you’re well. Are you?”
He made a sound. He was badly shaken. Yet it was amazing how buoyed he was by female attention. He reminded himself of the cartoons he saw in the theater of Popeye when he ate his spinach. With her, before he faced George and the months of bills, he felt almost invincible.
“Where shall we go, then?” he asked. “Are you hungry?”
“Really, no. I couldn’t, not now. I lost whatever appetite I had. I don’t take a drink very often, but I could use one now. You, too?”
He answered her again with a sound. “Under the circumstances, I could drink,” he said.
“You know what might be nice? Why don’t you stop at a package store and we can sit out by the river. There’s a lovely spot. I’ll show you.”
So that is what they did. They bought a bottle of Southern Comfort and two cheap tumblers and drove a few blocks to a parking lot on a low bluff over the river. The river was wide here, black and wild with sound beneath them. The moon was up, high in the trees, filling the Kindle with racing light.
As she opened the bottle, he cautioned her.
“George,” he said, “expects his car to be returned in mint condition.”
She eyed him over the cap, unimpressed on this occasion by his mild humor.
“You’re going to suffer terribly over this, aren’t you?”
He hesitated, then shook his head bravely.
“You wouldn’t consider letting me pay for this, would you?” she asked.
He shook his head again.
“I could, you know. I have quite a bit of money. My mother’s sister left a trust. It was available after I was twenty-five and it just sits there.”
“And what would your father think of that?”
“I don’t care what my father thinks.”
Stern again made his sound. He thought of her as he first saw her, on Henry’s footstool.
“Do you care?” she asked. “About him?”
“I am afraid to say I do.”
“I do, too,” she said, after a moment. “I’d rather say I don’t, but I do. I think most girls care more about their mothers, but my mother worships him. Is your family like that?”
Stern laughed, thinking of his father as he came to know him toward the end, an agitated, feckless human being on the verge of one breakdown or another.
“No,” he said.
“Do you like my father?”
Stern contemplated the question. The engine was running, a throaty rumble, so they could have heat.
“I believe I am too afraid of him to know the answer.”
She laughed out loud.
“Do you know what I like about you, Sandy? You don’t remind me of anyone.”
He was tempted to remark about making virtues out of faults. But he realized that this pleased him. He was who he was. The car, the disaster, had allowed a remarkable candor between them. Moreover, as was usually true on the rare occasions when anyone could inspire him to straightforward response, he learned a good deal about himself.
“And how do you feel about your father?”
“The same as you,” she said. “I admire him. When I was a girl, I wanted to be just like him. Before I realized that he wouldn’t let me. I resent him, I suppose. It’s hard to know. My parents have been quite angry with me for some time.”
Stern sat back against the door to look at her. The liquor had begun to make him warm and somewhat drunk.
“What is the story you seem to have to tell? I sense great unhappiness.”
“Do you?”
“You must forgive me. I suppose that was rather blunt.”
“Rather,” she said. In the dark, fear reached up to seize him. He had gone too far. He was on a cliff with this girl. At any moment this atmosphere of intimacy could fade and she could revert to being the daughter of a wealthy man, well beyond him. He knew that was what she meant before—that she did not know how to regard him. Like any person born to great wealth, she was proficient with an offhanded officiousness—she could instantly push him off to a million-mile distance, if she wanted to.
“I don’t think of myself as a happy person,” she said. “I’m very shy. Except around you.” She smiled. “Are you happy?”
“I enjoy my work. I care for my sister. But no, I do not consider myself a cheerful person by disposition.”
“I didn’t think so,” she said. They were both quiet. “I’m going to tell you everything,” Clara Mittler said presently.
He waited a moment in the dark before he said, “All right.”
24
“MEL? SANDY STERN,” he said into the telephone.
“San-dy!” cried Mel in return, the usual trumpet blast: hail fellow well met. Face forward, Tooley had a single expression, a beaming countenance of unlimited goodwill. Turn your back, however, and the knives came out, the mischief started. An insidious fellow. Tooley claimed to be Irish—it was in this city, like many others, a political advantage, particularly at the bar—but he had the swarthy look of a more Southerly heritage. Mel wore a wig—profuse, dark, and curly as the coat of a poodle—a trait which Stern, in spite of his efforts at tolerance, found shabby and insincere. The man was always sweating and, in consequence, bathed in cologne. And he was overweight—not that Stern was the kind to criticize this fault; but Mel, cut to the dimensions of certain cattle, still favored double-breasted suits and flashy pocket hankies, and refused to accept biology as fate. He squeezed himself into tapered shirts and sat with his dark hairy gut bulging between the buttons, his oily smile suggesting an unambiguous belief that he was suave.
Stern had dealt with Mel for years when Tooley was a prosecutor, a prickly relation marked by many bitter struggles. Mel, in a word, was underhanded, an exception in an office in which most of the lawyers were overly aggressive but generally respectful of rules and rights. Stern’s most serious run-in with Mel had occurred five years ago, when Stern represented a contractor whom Tooley desperately wanted to testify against two gentlemen whose names ended in vowels. The contractor had been granted immunity, but he persisted in a version of events which even Stern, privately, regarded as improbable. When he and his client showed up for his grand jury appearance, the contractor, a hard-boiled, tight-lipped kind, suddenly paled; the sweat on his scalp looked like rain. He was a Knights of Columbus man, the father of nine, and Tooley had the contractor’s former mistress seated primly on the sofa outside the grand jury room. For the sake of his client, Stern, always reluctant to publicly criticize any attorney, had to file a disciplinary complaint with the District Court Executive Committee. The judges had clucked their tongues and chastised Mel, but in the end the contractor testified, and just as Mel liked. Tooley had the last laugh. Face to face, he claimed to bear no grudges and was quick to praise Stern’s ability. But in a world where ego mattered so, one knew better than to believe that. Stern wondered again how it was John had wandered into Tooley’s hands.
Tooley, now, said he had been about to call, a remark which Stern took as being within striking distance of the truth. Tooley naturally was interested in making arrangements for MD to pay his fee. He wanted a $15,000 retainer—on the high side for a fellow of Tooley’s age, but what Stern might have expected. They chatted as best they could about the case. Stern said nothing to Tooley about the house error account; he had to assume that every word would go back to the prosecutors, to be used however Tooley saw fit, for John’s advantage or simply as some way to curry favor for the future. Stern described the customer orders that the g
overnment was tracing, said the prosecutors seemed to think that Dixon had made some sort of improper profit.
“I take it that they believe the orders were placed with John,” said Stern.
“Were they?” inquired Tooley, as if he did not have a client to ask. “I mean, I don’t have any documents to look at. I wouldn’t mind seeing whatever you’ve turned over.”
Stern made a note and said that he would send them.
“Well, of course,” said Stern, “he may have received these orders but might be unable to recall them, given the crush of daily business. I have no idea whether or not that is a possibility, but a reasonable person might understand that.” Tooley was very quick—he would not miss the hint—but he did not answer, which Stern regarded as unpromising. Stern went on: “What exactly is it that Klonsky tells you she wants with him?”
“Actually,” said Tooley, “I haven’t dealt with Sonny. I’ve talked just a little bit to Stan.” Sennett again. Stern shook his head. “He’s got his hand on the throttle on this one. Did you know that?” asked Tooley. He would have been delighted to one-up Stern with the news.
“I have gotten that drift. I imagine he has his own agenda.”
“He always does,” said Tooley, joining in brotherly fashion in the familiar complaints defense lawyers had with the present United States Attorney. From Tooley, this was mostly show. He had worked for Sennett for more than a year before entering private practice, and in that time Stan had promoted Tooley to chief of the office’s Special Investigations Division. Stan had made Mel a big macher. There was a reason Tooley had chosen him as his point of contact. “So, how you like dealing with Funny Sonny?” Mel asked, obviously skirting. “She’s a piece of work, isn’t she?”
“Ms. Klonsky?” asked Stern. “I hadn’t heard that name.”
“That’s what I call her,” said Mel. “Everybody calls her something. She’s my fault, you know. I hired her, right before I left the office. I mean, Stan did. But I interviewed her. I thought she had some balls. You know?”