The Burden of Proof kc-2

by Scott Turow

  Dixon would never let him live this down. He would ridicule, threaten-whatever advantage he could wring from having caught Stern in fiagrante burglary would be utilized repeatedly. Stern crept into the carpeted corridor, stepping forward with breathtaking precision, like a pantomime character. In some unconscious japcry of this task, he had dressed all in black, in slacks and a cotton golf shirt, and he hung back now in the shadows.

  He could hear the steps rapping out in the stone hallways downstairs, an even slapping rather than the sharp clack of a woman's high heels. Would Dixon be violent? His temper with Stern was ordinarily restrained, but this was a much different setting. If someone popped out of the shadows in Stern's home, what would his reaction be? Probably to run.

  But that was Stern.

  The footfalls drew near the stairs. Stern pushed back into one of the doorways. Whoever was down there lingered, then walked away. With a desperate plunge of his heart, Stern recalled the kitcben. The narrow hall from the garage emerged right beside it; if the person who'd entered noticed the broken glass, he would surely hale the police.

  Stern listened intently; if there was a voice on the phone, he was determined to ran. He looked about to see where he was-Dixon's den.

  Fax, computers, three telephones. The old rolltop desk was heaped with papers, and the shades, for whatever reason, were drawn. A pillow and a blanket were on the sofa. Dixon, he took it, was not sleeping well.

  This room, more than the rest of the house, was rank with the rancid smell of cigarettes.

  The footsteps came back. Then nothing. After a short time, he realized the visitor had started up the carpeted stairs.

  Stern pushed back farther, so that he could see only the landing. The person was upstairs now, but Stern had not yet caught sight of the figure. Then Silvia, in a graffitipatterned beach cover-up ahd fiat shoes, passed by, looking about, wholly abstracted, mumbling to herself.

  She pushed her sunglasses up so they sat atop her upswept hairdo. Like Dixon, she was richly tanned. She was headed for the bedroom where Remo waited.

  Stern held his head and, after one more second's faltering, called his sister's name.

  She shrieked-not for long, but at a high, hysterical pitch. "Oh, my God," said Silvia. She had laid one hand, with its polished nails, over her heart and the other touched the Wall. She was breathing deeply.

  "Sender," she said. "You nearly killed me."

  "Forgive me."

  "What in the world?" she asked.

  Stern actually deliberated saying that he had come to go swimming. But enough was enough.

  "I am stealing something," he answered.

  She took only a second with that. "The safe?"

  He nodded. Silvia's expression became cross-power-fully irritated. She spoke to him in Spanish for the first time in probably forty years: What is in the safe?

  "dQud es 1o que contiene la caja de seguridad?"

  "No s." I do not know.

  "dEsto es para ayudarlo?" This is to help him?

  Stern shrugged. "I believe so," he answered in English "I must do this, in any event."

  "Give me a moment. I want to speak with you about all of this. I came back for a book." She turned again toward her room, but Stern took her hand. There was a man he had brought with him in there, he told her.

  "Oh, Alejandro!" She shook her head in severest reproof. "You are like two boys, you and Dixon."

  "This is a serious matter."

  She made a disgusted sound. She refused to believe it.

  Stern led her downstairs to the living room. Silvia, unfailingly polite, offered him a drink, and he asked for soda. She tapped her shoe for a moment on the servant's button, in the carpet beside the sofa, then, recalling it was Sunday, went off by herself. Stern looked about the vast living room. Silvia and her decorator had strived for a crowded, almost Egyptian effect; the colors were dark, with many eruptions of gold in the fabrics, and there was furniture in all corners-chaises, heavy drapes, twin antimacassars with a whiskery fringe, adorned, for no apparent reason, with voile shawls. On a table was a huge vase of woolly protea, dark desert plants with a primeval look. The far wall of the room was all stone, like the facing walls of the house, with an. enormous hearth of double-width beams. An original oil by a well-known Spanish artist-one of his savage women, purchased years ago by Dixon, with his inevitably astute eye-hung fearsomely over the fireplace. In the winter, logs the size of tree trunks burned here all day. They left, even now, a smoky residue, as if the air had been cure amp; "What did you do to my kitchen?" demanded Silvia as she returned. She handed her brother the glass but looked at him scoldingly. Stern made one of his expressions and Silvia smiled, though she went on shaking her head.

  "Stern," she said, "you must tell me what is occurring."

  In her absence, he had pondered how to put this, and he adopted a moderate approach. The government was investigating. They had done so before, but this was a criminal matter and the prosecutors seemed to have hold of evidence of some questionable practices on Dixon's part.

  The investigation had grown increasingly complex, but Dixon was attempting to put his head in the sand. The government had' demanded the safe, and Dixon, against Stern's advice, was endeavoring to hide it, a maneuver which would prejudice not only Dixon but Stern. He spoke allusively, hoping his sister would not gather the full impact, but she understood enough "Is he in danger of prison'?,"

  "He is," answered Stern. Silvia sat still, a small woman sparely knitted together. She looked tiny, with her bare legs and flat shoes.

  She clutdhed her elbows close to her body and drew her face long to maintain her composure.

  Stern himself, to his enormous surprise, found himself on the verge of tears in sympathy.

  "I have been very concerned for him," Silvia said.

  "I as well."

  "You have no idea, Stern." She knotted her hands. "He coughs for thirty minutes When he wakes up in the morning.

  His secretary tells me he is terribly forgetful. He does not sleep. He wanders about at all hours. Or leaves in the middle of the night, headed God knows where. For the last week he has not even slept here once." She glanced up at Stern; this was intended to be a significant remark, referring apparently to something other than Dixon's travel schedule..

  "I am attempting to help him, but he is resisting,"

  "Of course," she said, "but I am afraid he will never survive?"

  "He will survive," said Stern. "He is one of those types who always survive and triumph." Spoken, the words struck him as merely cordial. He had not realized until now how deep-seated his own fears for Dixon were, even as he felt some swell of resentment rise when he predicted his glory,

  "I had hoped to come and go today without involving you."

  "I shall not tell him," said Silvia.

  Stern weighed this, but remained convinced thatjt would be wrong to force Silvia to take sides. Dixon was entitled to the comforts of home.

  "That is not necessary."

  "Unless he asks," she offered.

  "He is certain to ask once he sees the disorder in the kitchen."

  "I shall have it repaired. Tomorrow. Today, if possible. I would be very surprised, at any rate, if he spends the night here." She looked down again at the rag. Years ago, before Silvia had evicted him, Dixon would do this, fail to return. He had an apartment in town where he usually claimed to be, and no doubt often was, enjoying one young woman or another. Once he and Silvia were reunited, however, Dixon seemed to maintain a minimal pretense and confined his roaming to business hours or his many trips out of town. "It is very disturbing," she said.

  He nearly uttered a word or two in Dixon's behalf, about the strain recently, but he realized it would be little comfort. "Do you ask where he goes?"

  "Work." She smiled tersely. "Of course, there is no answer when I phone."

  "I see." Stern at first said nothing. "I must say, I hope this can be endured. It would be a terrible moment for you both to repeat
your separation."

  Silvia made a face. "There will be no repetition. I am accustomed."

  She smiled the same way, briefly, bitterly.

  "As you know, our difficulty was not only that."

  Stern looked at his sister without comprehension.

  "Oh, you knew. Clara knew. She told you; I knew she would.

  You are gallant, Stern, but there is no need to pretend."

  "I am not pretending," said Stern.

  "Truly?"

  "Truly."

  "It is long past," she said, and flipped a dark slender hand. She was ready to give up the subject, but she saw that Stern was still puzzled and she came forth with the truth abruptly to satisfy him. "He had come home with an illness. Which I was afraid he had inflicted on me. It was repulsive.:' "An illness?"

  "A disease. You understand."

  His head was tinging now, and his throat and chest felt terribly constricted. He asked, nonetheless, as he knew he was required to.

  "Herpes?"

  Her mouth opened somewhat and then, to his amazement, Silvia smiled-in a reltictant fashion, part grimace. She would never see through him, she would never understand him. Only from Stern in the entire world might this be tolerable, but if he insisted, she would find humor in the pain of the past. Older brothers, after all, forever reserved the tight to tease,.

  "Oh, Stern," she said to him with a girlish wag, "you knew all along."

  EVENTUALLY, Remo descended the staircase. H had brought the safe with him, and he took eac step sideways, in a straddle, lowering one booted foot, then the other. It was slow work and he stopped at one point and rested the safe.

  He lit a cigarette and eased down the remaining stairs, with the Marlboro tucked in the comer of his mouth and one eye closed to the smoke. From his seat on a living-more settee, Stern could see Remo coming, but he made no move to assist him, nor did he open his mouth to speak. He was capable of movement, no doubt of that; but he was uninterested. Perhaps he would remain here, with his hands folded, for what was left of his life. He did not feel any emotion with particular strength, except that he was no longer himself. His head was still ringing, and his arms were light; but, predomi-nanfly, he was beset with the sensation of difference, departure. A new man-not better or worse-but someone else would leave here.

  "I heard you talking in the hallway," said Remo when he finally arrived.

  He knew his presence was no secret.

  "Of course," said Stern. "Remo Cavarelli, Silvia Hartnell."

  Silvia nodded properly to the man who had broken into her house.

  "We goin or what.9" asked Remo.

  "Stern, are you all right?" asked Silvia. This was not the first fime ,'Quite all right." Stern managed a smile. His voice, sounded peculiar to him, weak. It was as if his spirit had fled his body and was outside, examining him,

  "We still takin this thing?" Remo nodded to the safe at his feet. art grimace. She would never see through him, she would never understand him. Only from Stern in the entire world might this be tolerable, but if he insisted, she would find humor in the pain of the past. Older brothers, after all, forever reserved the tight to tease,.

  "Oh, Stern," she said to him with a girlish wag, "you knew all along."

  EVENTUALLY, Remo descended the staircase. H had brought the safe with him, and he took eac step sideways, in a straddle, lowering one booted foot, then the other. It was slow work and he stopped at one point and rested the safe.

  He lit a cigarette and eased down the remaining stairs, with the Marlboro tucked in the comer of his mouth and one eye closed to the smoke. From his seat on a living-more settee, Stern could see Remo coming, but he made no move to assist him, nor did he open his mouth to speak. He was capable of movement, no doubt of that; but he was uninterested. Perhaps he would remain here, with his hands folded, for what was left of his life. He did not feel any emotion with particular strength, except that he was no longer himself. His head was still ringing, and his arms were light; but, predomi-nanfly, he was beset with the sensation of difference, departure. A new man-not better or worse-but someone else would leave here.

  "I heard you talking in the hallway," said Remo when he finally arrived.

  He knew his presence was no secret.

  "Of course," said Stern. "Remo Cavarelli, Silvia Hartnell."

  Silvia nodded properly to the man who had broken into her house.

  "We goin or what.9" asked Remo.

  "Stern, are you all right?" asked Silvia. This was not the first fime ,'Quite all right." Stern managed a smile. His voice, sounded peculiar to him, weak. It was as if his spirit had fled his body and was outside, examining him,

  "We still takin this thing?" Remo nodded to the safe at his feet. Stern, after recalling ehat he was speaking aborn, smiled fieetingly again,

  "Oh, yes"

  Remo departed for the car. Silvia, too, left the room m make a phone call, Thereforas a local fireman who did work around the house and might even be available on Sunday to repair thekitchen.

  Stern was left alone with the safe. Remarkable, really, Stern thought, that he had spoken Spanish to Silvia-he would have wagered a Iarge sum that he could not finish a sentence. Occasionally over the years, certain latino gentlemen appeared in Stern's office, Cubans usually, who needed the assistance of bilingual counsel. And of course, during the 1970s there were the pathetic impoverished Mexicans who were arrested here by the gross for distributing browr heroin, sad, unlettered men, spewing their chingas and begging Stern to take their case at any price.

  Stern h/td always declined 'such representations. It was not the drags that bothered him; it was the old fear of being recognized for what he feared he was, someone else who did not belong here. But he saw very clearly, as he held off more pressing thoughts, that that period and those attitudes were behind. him. Those clients would henceforth be welcome. The words, he was sure, would come back to him over time.

  He reached for his soft drink and tasted it. Silvia had' said he knew all along. She had meant something else, naturally, but alone here he wondered if the unintended meanings were also correct. A part of him remained solidly composed with the truth; his first faith would always be in the facts. But in another region-someplace silent but still known to him-the toll was mounting, the damages were still being assessed. If he had foreseen this, it was only with that inner eye that always envisions the bad dreams-the worst dreams-coming true. It was clear now that it was who much more than what that Clara dared not live to tell.

  Her choice of a lover was no accident; he would never be persuaded otherWise- Clara knew her husband too well. AfterWards, even she must have been frightened by the sheer ferocious spite that had moved her. It Was that which she trembled to reveal. Well, at least the evidence of his senses had not failed him. Clara indeed had no use for Dixon after he returned to Silvia. She must have been disgusted with him. And herself. What transpired between them? What conversations? He was back here again, a familiar point of arrival, feeling he would probably rather not know.

  Stern hunched forWard on the settee and brought a toe to the door of the safe. It was still open and Stern with the sole of his shoe wedged the little door wider. The lump of papers was in there. Oh, why not? he thought. He could put up with anything.

  There were two full sheets from a microfilm printer, heavy with toner, each folded in four. As he removed them from the safe, various items, about which the records were wrapped, fell out: two checks and a number of the.gray celluloid squares which Stern recognized as microfiche cards.

  "The phones are not working," said Silvia, coming back to the living room; she was deeply perturbed. "How can I reach him?"

  Remo returned at that moment.

  "Who's that?" he asked. "Who's comin?" Remo'd had enough time in the closet to noflce the weights and, all things considered, wished to be gone when the man of the house arrived. Silvia explained her difficulty, and they disappeared together so Remo could reconnect the phone lines. In the interval, Stern
went through the papers from the safe, studying them for some time. Remo returned first, then Silvia breezed back in.

  "He's on his way now," Silvia said. She seemed consoled by the thought that the disorder in her kitchen would be quickly repaired.

  "Well, let's get goin," said Remo, a hasty departure still on his mind.

  He bent over the safe. "Alley-oop," he said.

  Stern and his sister followed? he lumbered through the stone hailway.

  Stern had all the papers from the safe cradled in his hands. Silvia held the screen for Remo, and at his request opened the rear door to the Mercury.

  Squinting in the brilliant sunshine, Stern and his sister watched as Remo sank to his knees to lower the safe onto the dirty floor of his spring-shot Cougar. He stood up straight and dusted off his hands while he waited to catch his breath. A fill of sweat had run down his temple.

  "On second thought," said Stern suddenly, "we shall leave it."

  Remo's jaw fell open, revealing a mouth full of bad teeth.

  "If you would, Remo, I shall ask you to replace the safe where we found it."

  "No," he said, in disbelief.

  "Please," said Stern. He had assumed, without thought, his most commanding manner, and Remo looked. at him uncertainly, reluctant to obey but unwilling to object further. Stern turned to Silvia. "It shall all be as it was. You need say nothing."

  She, too, appeared confused, but, like Remo, did not-know how to respond to the change in his manner.

  "Very good," said Stern to both of them. He walked back into the house, mining to ask Remo to bring the safe into the living room for a moment.

  Stern had continued to hold all the items from the safe, and he sat again on the settee and laid them out on the raw-silk fabric so that he could arrange the papers as he had found them. The two copied pages were first, then the microfiche squares, then, at last, the two checks, one nested inside the other. He studied them again. The first was Dixon's canceled personal check for $252,646 made payable to MD Clearing Corp. The note in the memo section said "Debit A/c 06894412," which was surely the number of the Wunderkind account. This was the check which the government, according to what Sonny had told him in Dulin, had already obtained a microfilm copy of through the subpoena to Dixon's bank.