The Burden of Proof kc-2

by Scott Turow

  Were it someone else, Stern would have been inclined to disparage the frivolity of this life-style, but there was no flaw in his sister which he had not wholeheartedly forgiven. In some ways, Silvia reminded him of Kate, with whom, in fact, she was uncommonly close-she had allowed beauty to be her fate. She had been treated to a privileged education and it had led her to Dixon. End of story. Even in the years when Dixon was out tromping in the cornfields to establish his clientele, he had commanded her not to work, and Silvia, with no apparent misgivings, complied.

  Yet Silvia was graced-redeemed--by kindness. She remained an extraordinary person whose generosity far outran the customary or typical. Clara, who had little use for empty vessels, loved and valued Silvia. They talked two or three times a week, met for lunch, lectures at the County Art Museum, theater matinees. For decades, they had attended the symphony's Wednesday afternoon performances together.

  And whatever motivated others, Stern could voice no complaints. Silvia, as no one else in the world, adored her brother. In certain moods, she sent him brief notes, bought him gifts. She called every day and he continued to speak to her in a way he shared with no others. Difficult to define, but there was a pitch to their exchanges as easy as humming.

  He remained the moon to her, the stars-galaxies, a universe. How was Stern to describe as deficient a life in which he still played such a stellar part?

  "We need to see one another," said Stern to Silvia's husband now. "The sooner, the better."

  "Problems?"

  "Many."

  "Give me a hint."

  "I would rather do this in person, Dixon. We have a great deal to discuss."

  "I'm on my way to New York on the 5:45 tomorrow morning.

  I'll be there the rest of the week." Dixon, again, was hoping for a breakthrough on the Consumer Price Index future, going to meetings in New York or Washington twice each week. "Then Silvia and I are going to the island over the Fourth." He was referring to another of their homes, one in the Caribbean, a serene /tffside refuge on a taxhaven island; the IRS, during its investigation a few years ago, had been driven to a frenzy by the inability to tmee so much as a penny going down there.

  Stern, in his office behind his glass desk, drummed his fingers. Dixon, apparently, did not have time to be in trouble.

  "I spent the day with Margy and Ms. Klonsky."

  "I heard that was happening."

  "Yes," said Stern. Of course, Dixon had heard. That was the point.

  Stern felt at a terrible disadvantage over the phone."There were a number of disturbing developments."

  "Such as?"

  "The prosecutors seem to know about your safe, for one. I believe they will be looking for it shortly, if they are not right now."

  On the other end of the line, Dixon did not stir. "Where the fuck do they find out about that?"

  Where, indeed? Stern had not needed Dixon for that question. There was a certain obvious, if disquieting logic: Margy goes into the grand jury and the records are missing; Margy comes out and the government mentions the safe. In her anger, Margy could have disclosed anything.

  Perhaps Dixon had been prudent enough never to mention the safe or its movements to her, but that was doubtful. In his present mood of dark suspicion it had even struck Stern that Margy might have been the govemment's source of information all along. A ridiculous thought, really, but one that continued to teemerge. In that scenario, everything today and for many -days-and nights-before had been no more than wellacted melodrama. Highly unlikely, of course. But such chacades had occurred in the past. There were cases where the government had indicted their informants to maintain their cover. Stern at this point ruled out nothing.

  "I was hoping, Dixon, you could shed some light."

  "Hardly," said Dixon. "Would John-"

  "John? John's still lookin for the men's room, Stern. Come on."

  Both men breathed into the phone.

  "There are also some records, Dixon, that seem to have disappeared."

  "Records?" asked Dixon, far less impulsively.

  "Concerning the Wunderkind account. Are you aware of that?" 'SAware of what?"

  "The account. The documents. Their disappearance?"

  "I'm not sure I'm following you. We'll have to talk about this next week."

  "Dixon, it is quite clearly the disappearafice of these records that is inspffing the government's interest in the safe."

  "So?"

  "If the records could be located-"

  "No chance," Dixon said harshly. For an instant again, both men were silent, equally set back, it seemed, by the many implications of this remark and its tone. Theft Dixon went on, making a token effort to be more ambiguous. "I don't think there's much hope that'll happen."

  "Dixon, this will go very badly for you. Very badly. I have told you before, it is the absolute zenith of stupidity."

  With Dixon's lapse, Stern found himself able to be more direct; he imagined a certain air of affront on the other end, but he continued.

  "In the current atmosphere, Dixon, if this safe is accurately traced, it will provoke many difficulties. Not to mention that it would be sorely embarrassing to me."

  "Embarrassing?"

  "Damaging to my Credibility. You understand. And the blame will be laid to you, nevertheless. The prosecutors will know the safe did not fall to its present location from the sky." On the phone, Sterh felt obliged to exercise some circumspection. Even with a wiretap, the government was prohibited from overhearing this kind of conversation between an attorney and his client. But you could never tell, particularly in a house as large as Dixon's, who might inadvertenfly pick up an extension.

  "You mean, after telling me to hand the thing over, you want to give it back?"

  "Not at ail. I am telling you that you are exercising poor judgment and creating a perilous circumstance."

  "I'll take it. Send it back."

  "Dixon,."

  "Listen, I have to put on my flicking tuxedo. I'll be back on the sixth,"

  "Dixon, this is not an opportune time for a vacation. I must ask you to return as soon as your business is concluded in New York."

  "Come on. To me it sounds like a great time to get away.

  It's a few days. This'll hold. Law things always do."

  "Dixon, I have many questions and I expect plain an-swers.

  ' ' "Sure," said Dixon. "Right. Coming," he yelled, as if Silvia was calling, though Stern heard not the faintest echo of his sister's voice.

  ARRIVING home late Friday night, Stern stood in the foyer of his empty home. Helen was' out of town, i. jetted off to someplace in Texas to inspect a con,a,.I, vention site; she would not be back until Sunday.

  With a certain resolve, Stern prepared to undergo the weekend by himself. While a leftover chop warmed, he wandered about the house, read the mail, and hung in the eddies of various dissatisfactions. A trying week.

  Before the huge windows of the solarium, he paused. By grace of prior work and fortuitous rain, Clara's garden had flourished. The bulbs that had gone into the ground last fall now rose in glorymround peonies, lilies expressly6 as hands. Stern, utterly oblivious all these months, was suddenly struck by the perfect rows and stepped out into the mild evening air. Then in the fading light and rainsweet breeze, he froze, lurching a bit as he came to a complete halt. Across the hedgerow, he caught sight of Fiona Cawley stooping in her yard.

  To say that he had avoided Fiona was not correct. He had hidden from her; he sneaked in and out of his own home like a commando. To his present mind, that incident had absolutely not occurred. Only with the prospect of confrontafion did it recur to him with a harrowing pang.

  What had he done? What grand figure of macho revenge had he thought to imitate? Now, a week later, he was unwilling to accept the image of Alejandro Stern as a reprobate, a bounder making unwelcome passes at the neighborhood wives.

  Other men might have been more casual with their honor, but since a few hoUrs afterwards, everything surroundin
g the episode seemed to have been smashed into storage. He had never phoned Cal. He had stopped searching for Nate, and even felt somewhat relieved of his urge, so great a week ago, to grind Dr. Cawley like pumice. No doubt, he'd have it out with Nate sooner or later. But only when Stern had accepted his own conduct, when he was ready to chat, one cad to another; only, frankly, when he had a better grip on himself and the mysterious world of his intentions.

  Now he stood stock-still, like some creature in the wild, but something, the scent of fear perhaps, gave him away.

  Fiona reared her head, saw him, and with the creel curl of a powerful unpleasant expression advanced on the horny row of privet that marked the property line between the Cawleys' and the Sterns'. She had huge rusty garden shears in hand and was dressed in what she took to be gardening clothes, a monochrome outfit that was the green of an avocado, slacks and a clingy top. Her hair, usually smooth as a helmet, was windblown and hung in clumps, holding a few small brown leaves and twigs. She leaned across the privet, gesturing, hissing actually: Come here.

  "Sandy, I need to talk to you." She advanced along the row.

  "I don't want you avoiding me."

  Stern at last stood his ground. He had no idea who he was, but the person inhabiting the skin of Sandy Stern was going to get it. His smile was appeasing. Fiona, in. the meantime, seemed wordstruck. She had him where she wanted, and now had no idea what to say "I need to talk to you," she repeated.

  Determined to make it easy for her, Stern said, "Of course."

  At that moment, behind her, Stern caught sight of Nate. He appeared to have just arrived home; his tie was wrung down from his collar and he was still carrying his case. He peeked about the shingled corner of his house and stared with a wide look on his pale narrow face. Fiona, following Stern's eye, turned. As soon as she recognized her husband, her face shot about again with a grieving, stricken expression.

  "Oh God." She put both hands on her cheeks in a childish way.

  Stern waited to see who would speak. He had once again the sensation of something momentous. And then, through the mild night, he heard the pealing of his telephone, clearly audible to all of them as it carried from the open French door of the solarlure. Stern begged off without words; he threw up his hands futilely-Marcel Marceau could not have done better-and trotted a bit as he went toward the house, delighted, actually thrilled, to have escaped. But some intimation of the likely outcome of the scene he had left behind slowed his pace and eventually the thought came to form: Fiona would tell him. If She had not already.

  Think of the advantage she'd gain. With her tale of refusal, she could lord a superior moral character, while still punishing Nate by hinting that she, too, was not beyond temptation. With his growing sense of the Cawley marriage-nasty, com-perifive, and pained-Stern knew Fiona could never keep this episode to herself. In the darkness of the house, he stood still while the phone went on ringing, and his spirit gathered blackly about a hard seed of apprehension and shame.

  Oh, he.thought, this was preposterous. What had he to fear from Nate Cawley? What apology could Nate demand from Stern, of all people--Nate, who had $htupped his wife and stripped her fortune? He withered in anxiety at the prospect, nonetheless. He saw suddenly that he would look across whatever space he shared with Nate CawIcy and confront the very figure of all the failures in his own marriage. He was not sure he was ready for that, even now.

  The machine had answered the phone. Through the light-less house Stern heard the amplified voice, made deliberately husky and sinister: "'I want your blood." It was Peter.

  Stern picked up the extension.

  "So you are there," his son said. They waited the usual agitated instant before either spoke again. "Well, are we going to do this or what?"

  Stern, who had begun to think the test was unnecessary, found that he did not have the strength to argue.

  "I am at your convenience."

  "I've got my average exciting Friday night going, dictat'rag charts. You can come over right now, if you've got the time. Or are you seeing Helen?"

  Peter liked Helen. On the few recent occasions when they had all been together, Peter seemed to have imposed some self-conscious restraint on his usual inappropriate or acerbic remarks. Stern explained that she was gone until Sunday and said he would come ahead now. Closing the sunroom door, he paused. The Cawleys were together in their yard, standing close, arguing. When Fiona's hand swept up in the direction of the Sterns' house, he jumped away from the door and waited, pressed against the wall, while he quietly lowered.the blind.

  Perhaps it was the effect of Peter's joke on the phone, but there were few places as eerie as a darkened office building on a weekend evening.

  Stern found both sets of plate-glass doors at the front still open, but inside, he was at once drilled to the core by the sensation of being alone; the large, darkened building hulked about him. The pharmacy on the first floor was black-grated and closed.

  He rode the elevator up and, disembarking, found the long, tiled corridor lit in each direction only by a single fluorescent fixture, offering not much more illumination than a child's night-light.

  What had Peter said? His average Friday night. As unpredictably as most of his feelings about his son, the stark sadness of this' declaration overcame him. The stylish admiring friends of Peter's college and high-school years seemed to have faded away. There was no one Stern knew of besides Kate who regularly shared Peter's company.

  How did he spend his time? Stern had little idea. He had inherited his mother's tastes for music; he cycled; he worked. When he came to visit his parents, as he had done now and then while Clara was living, he liked to go running through the public forests in the Riverside neighborhood.

  Afterwards, dripping with sweat, he would sit in the kitchen and read the newspaper aloud to his mother, making various caustic remarks about events. Clara served him soft drinks, puttered with-dinner. Stern witnessed these scenes largely as an outsider, struck by the very oddness of his son. Peter would be affronted to think he had his father's sympathy; his tightly wound personality also reflected a kind of strength. But approaching the office door, Stern felt the blackish wellspring of Peter's sarcasm, aloofness: his pain.

  How, Stern thought to himself, how had it become this way?

  He had in mind suddenly not merely Peter but the girls as well. Somehow these children had come into be'lng-enaerged with that strange agglomeration of talents and temperament he recognized as being essential to each. By three or four years of age, they had left behind the indefinitehess of infancy and were as fully formed as tulips on a stalk, ready to unfold. As a parent, he seemed so often to be no more than a spectator, applauding the expanding capacities, silently concerned by other developments. When Peter was six, his parents began to notice certain traits. Moodiness.

  A quietude that seemed to border on despair. Peter, who now fashioned himself a renegade, had the unyielding character of a steel soldier. And in time his sisters manifested, each in her way, discontents of their own. Marta, outwardly engaging, was known to become lost-so much like someone elserain impenetrable sulky dreams. Katy, who Clara always privately insisted was the brightest of the three, remained sunny and affable, but almost clino ically indisposed to strive for any form of achievement.

  Stern to this day found all this shocking. In his childhood, there had been such remarkable disorder born of his father's fragile condition, and the consistent watchful eye the entire family maintained on free-floating Argentine hostilities. But the home that Clara and he created was peaceful, prosperous-normal insofar as Stern understood the word. The children were cared for-and loved. Loved.

  Oh, he may have had failings as a parent-at his best, he was undoubtedly too contained with the kids for American tastes-but even in his dimmest, most distracted state his love for his children was genuine, glinting like some fiery gemstone in his breast. And no person would ever be able to measure the bounds of Clara's dedication..Thus, as a younger man, it had stunn
ed him to learn that every good fortune the world could offer wasn't enough: his children suffered, nevertheless.

  Their difficulties became one more thing over the years to note about each and, with whatever halting efforts, to attempt to embrace. Geh Gezunderhayt, as his mother would have put it. Let them go in health, in peace.

  Peter showed him inside with little ceremony. With the office closed, he was free to take his father into an examining room, a tiny tiled space with an antiseptic smell and a leather patient's table, test equipment, and instruments.

  "Roll up ze sleeve, bitte," said Peter. Tonight it was accents. Stern complied, and his son precisely, instantly inserted the needle. "You okay?"

  Stern nodded. "And you, Peter?"

  His son, equivocally, opened his palm: Who knew, who could say. They spoke of Marta, expected in town any day. Stern asked about Kate.

  "I thought you went to the ball game with her the other night, Looks great, doesn't she?"

  "Actually, her looks concerned me," said Stern. "There is a difficult situation at hand. The circumstances are such that I must be somewhat removed, but I fear it is affecting her."

  "I've heard about that," said Peter quiefiy. Stern had come with 'no intention of raising the matter of Tooley. What was done was done, and besides, it would be unprofessional for Stern to complain. Yet they proceeded into disagreement as if commanded by nature. It turned out that Iate in her concern for her husband had involved her brother. The thought that the situation had required her to turn to Peter rather than him wounded Stern unexpectedly:

  "John wanted a name, I gave him a name," said Peter. He withdrew the needle and flicked the vial with a certain pesky discontent. "Mel's competent, isn't he? What did I do wrong? You already told John you didn't want to get involved."

  How typical, Stern thought. His fault, his shortcomings. A quarreling voice, in which Stern would explain the ethical concerns that had led him to treat John as he had, died unuttered. What was the point? He had already come out second best again wth his family.