Scott Turow - The Burden of Proof

Who ever knew exactly what Dixon thought? But certainly he would not believe that Stern had simply not noticed that Dixon had never been circumcised.

On a knotty-pine bench by the door-the entire restaurant motif was of a basement tee room-Stern's daughters waited for him, drinking club soda, engrossed in one another.

Stern took Kate in his arms.

As they were seated, Marta offered Peter's apologies. He had been unable to reschedule his late rounds.

"And where is John?"

Kate's dark eyes skated quickly toward her sister. They had struck some agreement.

"He's with his lawyer," said Kate. "You know where. They have him looking at papers all night." Marta, obviously, had encouraged Kate to be plain, but the subject made her quiet and glum.

"This is a hell of a situation," said Marta in a tone that was largely devoid of blame. She had had many of the details from Stern, but clearly had learned more from Kate during the day.

"If there is not a complete resolution shortly, then I shall be stepping out of the case," said Stern. Marta knew this, but he repeated it for Kate's benefit. Seeing her made him more resolute. He took the hand that Kate had laid on the table beside him. Her eyes smarting, she suddenly hugged her father and brought her face to his shoulder in the small booth.

After debating whether Stern or Kate should be the one to take Marta to the airport, they agreed to go down together in Stern's Cadillac. They left Marta at the metal detectors, then Stern swung back to drop Kate at her car.

The parking lot for the Bygone was on the restaurant's roof, and the location offered impressive vistas of the airport, the highways, the hills, and the violet sky being pinched of the last light. Kate kissed her father quickly and was gone, but Stern, sensing he had not said all he meant to, threw open his door and called after her. He trotted a few steps to catch up and took her hand.

"This business with your uncle, Kate-the blame for it does not fall on John. If it is any consolation, you must tell him I said so."

Kate did not answer. She looked all around, in every direction, and for no apparent reason began tapping her foot. Stern's impression was that she was about to cry. She rooted in her purse. It Was not until the flame rose in the dark that he realized what she was doing.

"Katy! You smoke?"

"Oh, Daddy." She looked bout again, all ways, as she had just done.

"How long is this?"

"Always, Daddy. Just a few puffs. Since college. Exams. You know: heavy stressrt;s terrible for the baby. I have to cut it out," she said, but then inhaled deeply and turned her face up into the aura of smoke she released.

"Kate, I realize this has been difficult."

She made a Sound, almost laughter, a bit derisive. "Daddy, I wish it weren't so easy for me to shock you." She spoke almost harshly and stopped herself. They were silent. Then she took a last drag; in the dark he saw the cigarette fall,peated it for Kate's benefit. Seeing her made him more resolute. He took the hand that Kate had laid on the table beside him. Her eyes smarting, she suddenly hugged her father and brought her face to his shoulder in the small booth.

After debating whether Stern or Kate should be the one to take Marta to the airport, they agreed to go down together in Stern's Cadillac. They left Marta at the metal detectors, then Stern swung back to drop Kate at her car.

The parking lot for the Bygone was on the restaurant's roof, and the location offered impressive vistas of the airport, the highways, the hills, and the violet sky being pinched of the last light. Kate kissed her father quickly and was gone, but Stern, sensing he had not said all he meant to, threw open his door and called after her. He trotted a few steps to catch up and took her hand.

"This business with your uncle, Kate-the blame for it does not fall on John. If it is any consolation, you must tell him I said so."

Kate did not answer. She looked all around, in every direction, and for no apparent reason began tapping her foot. Stern's impression was that she was about to cry. She rooted in her purse. It Was not until the flame rose in the dark that he realized what she was doing.

"Katy! You smoke?"

"Oh, Daddy." She looked bout again, all ways, as she had just done.

"How long is this?"

"Always, Daddy. Just a few puffs. Since college. Exams. You know: heavy stressrt;s terrible for the baby. I have to cut it out," she said, but then inhaled deeply and turned her face up into the aura of smoke she released.

"Kate, I realize this has been difficult."

She made a Sound, almost laughter, a bit derisive. "Daddy, I wish it weren't so easy for me to shock you." She spoke almost harshly and stopped herself. They were silent. Then she took a last drag; in the dark he saw the cigarette fall, the lighted bit tumbling end over end and splitting in three on the pavement. She made a long business of crushing out the embers, twisting them repeatedly under her foot.

"Look, Daddy, we'll get through this. We have Inches taller than he, she brought her soft cheek against his, then hiked off toward her car her high heels clacking, her keys jingling in her hand. He stood in the parking lot, poorly lit, watching as she backed her car out quickly, then gunned the Chevy into a turn, leaving behind a ghost of dark smoke.

Who was that, he wondered, that woman? Of all things, the image that remained with him was of the way she had crushed out that cigarette, with her toe pivoting so' harshly on the asphalt. There was a certain fierce purpose in that which he had never been certain existed in her.

He thought of her tonight and as he had seen her at the ballpark and suddenly had the clearest intimation of how it was with Kate. Her whispering. Her murmurs with John. She was a person with secrets, with a secret life. And the greatest secret of all, perhaps, was that she was someone else-someone different from the beautiful innocent thing her parents wished her or allowed her to be. Stern's deepest impression, that she was a person very much like her aunt, like Silvia -lovely, capable, kind, but limited by choice-was merely the impression she had found it easiest to leave, so that she could otherwise elude them, with no trace. Who was she? he thought again. Really? He stood in the mild summer night and turned back to where she had been, but even the smoky cloud of exhaust had cleared away.

Stern slowly drove home. Approaching the dark house, he was tense. If he had anywhere else to go, he might not have gone in. The weeks, months really, he had spent overcome by various women and the ether of sexuality were, if not at an end, at least in abeyance for the night.

Without that, he felt in some ways more familiarly himself-round, solitary, solid like a stone. As he knew it would be, the large house was as wholly empty as it had been full the night before with that spirit of visitation. Now he was alone. The silence loomed about him with the power of some wayward force; he felt his own figure somehow dwindling in the unoccupied space. He stood in the slate foyer, where he inevitably seemed to tune in on his own soul, and thought quite distinctly that his life had gone on without Clara.

It was an absurd notion; what he meant was well beyond expression. The fact, such as it was, had been clear at one level from the instant he stood here months ago, white with panic, yet still able to draw breath.

But it seemed that it was not until this very moment that he actually had believed it. Yet he felt it now, his own life, that particular strand drawn out of the intricate tangle of mutual things he and his wife had created and shared. It was like electrical work, finding the line that drew power-he could feel the hum of his peculiar, isolated existence, which had continued with the persistent unmusical rhythm of a beating heart-his own heart, lugging on. He was by himself, neither pleased nor embittered, but aware o1 the fact. His mind lit somehow on Helen.then, and he closed his eyes and worried his head a bit, full of regrets.