by Scott Turow
“On Dixon?” By the window, Stern was still. “And what was to happen when your uncle was tape-recorded denying any role in the scheme?”
Peter looked at him at length. “You still don’t get it, do you?”
Weary of being derided, Stern closed his eyes for an instant and searched in himself for restraint.
“I had to explain it to Mom, too. The idea wasn’t to get Uncle Dixon for what John did. I mean, he didn’t do it, after all. I knew he would deny it. He’d say it was all John’s doing. And John would say Dixon was scared and was trying to save his skin by blaming the whole thing on him. It would be a pissing contest in the end, a flatfooted fucking tie. There’d be nobody to prosecute because the government would never know which version was true. Everybody’d just go on. With no jail. And no torture. It was a decent solution for both of them.”
“But?”
“But he kept his mouth shut. Uncle Dixon did.”
“Why?”
Peter threw both hands in the air.
“You ask me? You’re his lawyer. I don’t know what’s going on. I sit awake at night. I just can’t believe it’s gone as far as it has. Have you got any idea?”
Stern pondered, reluctant to speak.
“I have suspected for a few days now that he is assuming blame that properly lies with John and Kate. I cannot imagine what would move him to do that, particularly given what you tell me.” He turned back to the old double-hung window, the frame lumpy with generations of paint. “And what happened to this plan to tape-record Dixon?”
“That’s why they were trying to subpoena him. In March? They were sure he’d go running for John as soon as he was served. It was a setup. John was wearing the equipment for two weeks. But the agents could never find Dixon. And once they did, he wouldn’t talk to John. I mean, not even hello or goodbye. There hasn’t been word one between them in months. Uncle Dixon just gives him his killer look—John is still terrified. Sennett figures you’d warned Dixon not to go near him.”
“Need I ask, Peter, how Agent Horn was finally able to find your uncle to serve him that day?”
“No, you needn’t ask. They were supposed to catch up with him outside, as he came in.”
Stern shook his head. How pitiful it was. He returned to the kitchen for his suit coat.
“You’ve placed yourself in enormous jeopardy, Peter. If the government is ever able to piece this together, you will join your brother-in-law in prison.”
“Oh, I was scared at first. But the three of us talked about what would happen if it all went to shit.” Peter smiled wanly. “How do they prove I knew John was lying?”
Peter had learned a good deal in those years sitting at his father’s dinner table with his bored, superior look. When his children were young, Stern would look at them, arrayed at that table, with such gratitude—they were all clever, all healthy, all pleasing to the eye. They had every good fortune, he thought.
“They were never really skeptical,” said Peter. “After they went out to the bank and confirmed that Dixon had written the check to cover the debit on the Wunderkind account. They never seemed to figure there could be any other reason he might do it. And, of course, Dixon had the records that showed who owned the account, and was hiding them. And what’s-her-name even lied for him in the grand jury. It looked pretty convincing,” said Peter.
“You are referring to Margy?”
“Yeah. Kyle says that after the indictment they’ll give her a chance to ‘refresh her recollection.’” He made the quotation marks in the air.
Stern straightened the sleeves on his coat. His son, reconsidering everything, sat with his head in his hands. Occasionally, Stern was called upon to represent young people—sixteen, seventeen, eighteen years old, children really—who had taken part in events so heinous that they would be tried as adults. The most recent example was Robert Fouret, a sulky college freshman who, stoned on something, had put his father’s Porsche in drive rather than reverse and crushed his waiting girlfriend against the garage wall, killing her. In these circumstances Stern always felt for the parents, wealthy people who had retained him in the hope that he could repair all damage, and who discovered in time that not even a favorable sentence would still the reverberations of great wrongs. It was the parents who saw clearly, helplessly, the way the excesses and impulses of youth, stupid empty-headed acts, childish compulsions acted out in an instant, could burden and even extinguish the opportunities of a young life. Stern saw this, too. But he spared himself, at least for the moment, that anguish.
For the moment, all that made itself clear was that his son and he had reached a point of termination. Within, in his own emotional theater, some final curtain had come splashing down. No doubt he had responsibilities here; he would suffer intensely when it came time to assess blame. But for now he knew that the years—the virtual half of an adult lifetime—of recriminations, of ambivalent efforts with Peter were past. He would greet his son always with absolute cordiality—he owed his mother’s memory that much—and he knew that they would forever regard one another with pain. But something essential was over; he was done, he saw, awaiting improvement, acceptance, or change.
He was ready to leave now, but he had learned in the law that the pronouncement of judgments mattered, perhaps more than anything else.
“Peter, I shall say this once. What you have done is unforgivable. It is wholly immoral. And, as important, you have risked unlimited misery for everyone in this family.”
Peter took this in quietly, but finally made a sound to himself and once or twice bobbed his head.
“That’s what Mom thought. She was terrified. It was the dumbest move of my life, telling her.” Peter looked up. “I’m sure it was the last straw.” His face was divided by a visible palsy, a tremor of contained emotion. It came to Stern then, a clear realization that, whatever the impact of the awful judgments which Peter applied to others, he afflicted them most severely on himself. He had bid his mother, the dearest soul in his life, farewell for eternity, with her parting expression one of withered hope and dashed beliefs. There was no denying biology. Stern found himself terribly moved by his son and his now interminable anguish.
He stepped toward the door.
“What are you going to do, Dad? What’s going to happen?”
Peter, like sons always, still wanted to believe that his father was a man of infinite resources, perfect solutions. Just now, however, Stern had no ideas at all.
47
MARTA RETURNED HOME sometime after ten. From his recliner in the solarium, Stern heard her enter, humming faintly, off-key. Alone among the Stern family, Marta had had a good day. She came back from the courthouse ebullient. ‘Even she couldn’t stand it,’ said Marta about Klonsky. She was thrilled to think she had converted a prosecutor. Back at the office, she had called George Mason with the news, then dictated their brief to Judge Winchell. Finished with that, Marta asked, offhandedly, if there were cases around the office on which she could lend a hand while she was looking for a job. Pay by the hour. Stern, after a moment’s reflection, decided his thought was too hopeful and referred her to Sondra.
By the afternoon Marta had set herself up in the one empty office and was examining the flood of files recently received in connection with the new government fraud case, writing longhand or chatting happily on the telephone whenever Stern wandered by. Marta seemed to live her life like an appliance. Plug her in anywhere and she operated on full current. His daughter amazed him, but his soul still soared at the thought of having her company. They would continue this way for some weeks. He would be himself, and hold his breath. And would this prospect even have been possible had Clara lived? No, he decided after an instant, not really. There were many reasons Marta suddenly found the tri-cities attractive, and not the least of them, in all likelihood, was the fact that her mother was gone. So, he thought, goes the heartsore arithmetic of human events. Loss and gain.
Now, in the solarium, he closed his eyes when he
heard her approach. “Are you asleep?” she whispered. He could feel her creep close, but did not stir. Tonight he was not prepared for any further commerce with his children, even Marta. He remained inert, listening as she trod the stairs. He had no thought of sleep, no inclination. Around one, he moved to the kitchen and sat under the green glass shade over the breakfast table, sipping sherry, as he had the night Clara was discovered. He was past judgments for the time being. Nor was he absorbed yet with the trigonometries of possible solutions. Instead, he sat, deliberating, taking stock, mourning again, up to his chin in the heavy glop of something like heartbreak, which held him fast as quicksand.
Near 5:30 a.m., he crept upstairs, showered, and dressed. He percolated coffee and warmed a roll from the freezer. Then he headed downtown, to the refuge of work and the office. He entered through the back door and stood still. There was, once more, some faint sign of disturbance.
Dixon was back.
He was on the sofa in Stern’s office, upright this time, but asleep. His fancy loafers were off, carefully paired, not far from where the safe still remained, and he had slept with his legs crossed at the ankle. He wore a raw-silk sport coat—the air conditioning had apparently been left on high overnight and the room was chilled—and his arms were thrown out wide along the top of the nubby off-white fabric of the sofa cushions. His chin rested on the bold pattern of his tropical shirt.
Stern stood before the dark glass of his desk, silently lifting the stacks of papers from his attaché case.
“You must have thought that was pretty goddamn funny the other day.” Dixon spoke clearly, but he had not moved. “That bullshit with the safe? ‘You deceive me, Dixon.’” He opened his eyes. “Like you’re some fucking oracle.” Putting a hand to his neck, he craned his head about. “You must have been laughing your ass off. Since you’d already pawed through the thing.”
“Ah,” said Stern. Silvia. A breach of security.
“I got a bill from the guy who fixed the back door. You should have heard your sister. ‘Oh, that’s from Alejandro.’ La di da.” He had briefly adopted a falsetto. “Like, Oh, didn’t I mention that my brother hired a goon to kick the door in. Four hundred bucks, by the way. I expect you to pay.”
Dixon had his fearsome, lightless look and a haggard appearance. He was unshaven and visibly weary; his eyes seemed shrunken within the dark orbits. Reminded, he asked Stern to dial his home. Stern pressed a button on the speed dial and handed him the phone, while he left to put up coffee in the small kitchen down the hall. When he returned, Dixon was just bidding Silvia goodbye.
“Your sister says you and I have to stop meeting like this.” Dixon laughed. Silvia’s humor was awkward, but Dixon adored it. “I see you’re not in jail.”
Stern lifted both hands to show off his entire large form.
“I called Marta,” said Dixon. “She said your girlfriend there, what’s-her-name, saved your ass.”
“For the time being,” said Stern. “Festivities will resume next week. Will you come to visit me?”
“Visit you,” muttered Dixon. “What’s your game, Stern?”
“My game?” He revolved fully to consider his brother-in-law, a courtroom turn. “Have you found another lawyer, Dixon?”
“I don’t want another lawyer. I changed my mind.”
“You need another attorney, Dixon. A lawyer and client must have confidence in one another.”
“I have confidence in you.”
“But I, Dixon, have no confidence in you—in your character or your motives. You are a vain, disloyal, deceitful man. You are a terrible client and, if you care, a wretched friend.”
Dixon blinked a bit and rubbed his eyes.
“I’m not a friend,” said Dixon finally. He still had no idea what was going on, and he smiled weakly. “I’m a relation. You can’t get rid of me.”
“On the contrary. I am exhausted by the mysteries of your affairs. And your disdain for me.”
“Disdain?”
“Among the legion of resentments I bear you, Dixon, I believe that none is greater than this: there is no person in the world who has better insight into Clara’s death than you. And you have kept those details to yourself. Undoubtedly for your own good, to serve some misbegotten and bewildering personal agenda.”
“You’re jerked off because I didn’t mention that check she gave me.”
Stern did not answer.
“And there’s really a simple explanation.”
“Dixon, you are about to lie to me again.”
“No,” he said, with his frozen innocent look.
“Yes.”
“Stern,” he said.
“You owe me some regard, Dixon.”
“I have a lot of regard for you.”
“Dixon, I may be befuddled for the remainder of my lifetime about your motivations, but I have no doubts about Clara’s. I am one of those Jews who can do arithmetic. Almost $600,000 stolen by trading ahead and $250,000 plus lost in the deficit in the Wunderkind account equal somewhat more than $850,000, which is the amount of the check Clara wrote against her investment account at River National. My wife was paying the debts her son-in-law incurred in the brokerage account her daughter had opened. And I would be pleased if you would not affront me by denying what is obvious.”
“All right.” He nodded once and began to pace, his mind clearly racing. “She knew John and I were both involved. She thought maybe I’d be willing to take all the heat myself. And she offered to pay the costs.”
“A lie!” Stern slammed shut his case. Long-suffering, pusillanimous, he was suddenly on the rim of a smoking volcanic rage with Dixon. “Dixon, you may have convinced Margy long ago with that folderol about how you and John were secret conspirators and that you deserved all the blame, but I am well aware that you were never involved in this crime.”
“Margy?” Dixon stopped. “I thought she was high on your shit-list.”
“I have reevaluated.” Stern was tempted to add a further word in her defense, having spoken in error about her when he and Dixon last met, but he remained convinced that somewhere along she had agreed to follow Dixon’s bidding in what she told Stern. ‘Leave the kid out.’ He could hear Dixon saying it. “You may as well know, Dixon, that I have heard the entire tale: how you decided to spare your business and impose punishment yourself, and how you were informed against as a result.”
Dixon waited, stood still, then finally retreated to the sofa to assess this new development. He removed his sport coat and threw it down there and, after further reflection, sat down beside it himself.
“As you conceived of matters originally, Dixon, how long was John intended to remain in your purgatory?”
Dixon jiggled a hand, as if something were in it. He was still manifestly uncertain about telling the truth.
“No time limits,” he said at last. “As a matter of fact, I told him straight out that two or three years from now I’d probably go to the government and burn him, anyway.”
“Apparently, he believed you.”
“He should have,” said Dixon. He gave his brother-in-law another direct and lightless look, the smoke of the conflagration still darkening his expression until he broke it off in order to reach for a cigarette. He tamped the filter repeatedly on the glass of the desk. “Of course, the big jerk never told me his wife was pregnant.”
“Would that have made a difference?”
Dixon shifted his shoulders, not certain. “Probably. I might have thought a little more about the corner I was painting him into.”
“And Clara?” asked Stern. “I would like to hear about your last meeting with her. How long before she died did it occur?”
“Three days? Four?” Dixon looked at his cigarette. “There’s nothing special to tell. She showed up with that check. Like you say, she wanted to pay his debts. I told her not to bother. I wasn’t having any. I wanted his ass, not a check. That’s all. She insisted on leaving it. So I threw it in the safe. That’s the whole story.
”
“That’s hardly the whole story, Dixon.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No, Dixon. You were tempted to surrender John to the prosecutors. And not only lost your nerve but stood mute while his freedom was traded for yours. A remarkable transition.”
Dixon Hartnell had come of age in the regions where the pressure of the earth had transformed organic wastes into something black and shining and nearly hard as stone. He had taken that lesson to heart—he had his look in place now, as dark and adamantine as if he derived his power to persist from the center of the earth. Transported from the coal lands to the heart of the markets, he had learned that his will was vast, and it was all imposed now. He had no more to say.
“Tell me about your hearing this morning. You really going to the pokey for my sake?”
“If need be. There are enough members of my family bearing witness against you.” Dixon absorbed the remark with the same unyielding expression. “Do I take it correctly that Clara informed you of Peter’s role in all this?”
Dixon smoked his cigarette without comment.
“Another lawyer, Dixon, might help you mount an excellent motion directed against the grand jury proceedings and the government’s conduct vis à vis Peter. You would not even have to comment on the veracity of the information he’s given them.”
A flare of some interest arose in Dixon’s face.
“Would I win?”
“In my judgment? No. You would be granted a hearing to determine that there had been no infringement of your right to counsel. Certainly, you could delay Mr. Sennett’s steamroller. But I doubt a court would find outrageous governmental conduct or a violation of your rights. The government is more or less constrained to take its witnesses and informants where it finds them. It simply found this one in a rather inconvenient locale.”
Dixon shrugged. He was not surprised. Stern again urged him to seek another lawyer’s opinion, but Dixon waved a hand.
“I’ll take your word for it.” He stood then and roamed to the English cabinets. On one shelf, there were pictures, photographs of the family. Clara. The children. If the truth were told—and today once again the truth was required—Stern seldom examined these portraits. They were obligatory items, appropriate decoration. But Dixon paused to consider each photograph, holding them up, one by one, by their frames. Stern gave him the moment, until he was ready himself.
