The Burden of Proof kc-2

by Scott Turow

  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.

  MARTA returned home sometime after ten. From his recliner in the solarium, Stern heard her enter, humming faintly, off-key. Alone among the.,. ',I. 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 w.as 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 rawsilk sport coat-the air conditioning had apparently been left on high overnight and the room was ch'dled-and his arms were thrown out wide along the top of the nubby offwhite fabric of the sofa cushions.

  His chin rested on the bold paRera of his tropical shin.

  Stern stood' before the dark glass of his desk, silently lifting the stacks of papers from his attache 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 say 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 tune 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-inlaw, 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 or 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, pusilanimous, 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 "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 ha
d 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 t'o bother. I wasn't having any. I wanted his ass, not a check. That's all. She insisted on leaving it. onvinced 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 t'o 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 thesafe. 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 Harmell 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?"

  "ff need be. There are enough mmbers of my family beaing 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, D'Lxon, might help you mount an excellent motion directed against the grand jury proceedings and the govemment's conduct sis ci sis 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 wer6 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.

  "And now, Dixon, if you please, I should like to know what happened when you met last with Clara. You may be brief. I shall settle for the high points. There is no need," said Stern, with sudden glottal thickness,"for you to dwell on that which you least wish to tell or which I frankly least wish to know."

  Dixon wheeled about, maintaining considerable poise, to his credit, but Stern could see that he was wide-awake now. His eyes were larger, his posture almost militarily correct. If Dixon were to accept these rules, this terrain would always remain unexplored between them. After great reflection, Stern had decided he preferred that accord. But Dix0n, alas, was who he was, a guts player to the end. He blinked and looked at Stern straight on.

  "Whatta you mean?" he asked.

  "What do I mean?" Stern teetered an instant, and then toppled down into the smoking heart of his rage. He picked up his attach6 case and Slammed it back down on the desktop. "Shall I draw you pictures, Dixon!

  Shall we engage in a dispassionate colloquy about the mortal hazards of sexually transmitted disease? I refer, Dixon, to your relations with my wife,"

  Dixon's grayish eyes did not move. When Stern glanced to the desktop, he saw that it had cracked, a bullet-like impression at the point of impact and a single silver line that skaWxl from there all the way across the smoky surface to the green beveled edge. The desk, of course, had never been his taste.

  "Do you expect me to explain?" Dixon asked. He had.moved behind his brother-in-law, and Stern chose not to face him.

  "No."

  "Because I can't. I really am a no-good son of a bitch."

  "Are you trying to charm me, Dixon?"

  "No," he said. "It was a long time ago, Stern."

  "I am aware."

  "It was an accident."

  "Oh, please!"

  "Wrong word." He heard Dixon's fingers snap. "Unintended."

  When Stern pivoted, Dixon had come close and with an eager, servile look had the humidor extended. "Cigar?"

  Stern grabbed the whole box
from him at once.

  "Keep your hands off, Dixon!" The humidor ended caught up in his arms.

  Stern removed a cigar and!it it, then snapped down the lid with a round clap somewhat deadened by the felt liner. He glowered at his brother-in-law while Dixon retreated to the sofa, where he brought his lighter to another cigarette.

  "It was all my fault, you know," he said. "You don't need me to tell you that. I pestered her for years," he said.

  "Years." Some image offered itself, of Dixon at a family gathering emerging from shadows in the kitchen or the hall and placing his hands suggestively on Clara's hips. Repalled. Rebuked. Something clear and uncompromising, so that he would have feared disclosure. But with her silence, Dixon, being himself, would have been emboldened. He knew there was some small shining point of interest he had ignited. Step by step, gesture, nod, and touch, year by year, he had kindled the firepoint, knowing that this possibility of passion was one more treasure to Clara, one more secret. Stern, inclined to imagine more, ca!led a halt. Enough, he told himself. Enough. "I admired her," said Dixon. For the first time, he dared to look at Stern.

  "She was a woman to admire."

  "Dixon. You have no conscience."

  "No." He shook his head. "I'm curious. I've always wanted to do what other people wouldn't."

  "I believe that is called evil, Dixon."

  Dixon put out his cigarette. His mouth seemed to quiver like the muzzle of a dog. Dixon Hartnell was going to cry.

  His face was flushed near the eyes and he peered downward.

  "I really never connected any of it with you."

  "I find that hard to credit."

  "I mean it."

  "You are pathological, Dixon."

  "Okay, then that's what I am." He was finally growing impatient with Stern. Self-criticism was not in Dixon's repertoire. He went forward in life, seldom looking back. "May I ask, Dixon, when this interlade occurred?"

  Dixon's face reared up; he was baffled. "What time of day?"