Scott Turow - The Burden of Proof

"Now I'm going to beg and plead. I'll use everyihing-thirty years of service in this court, Mornroy's death, everything. And I don't want any back talk. Do you hear me?"

He nodded to her, smiling a bit, and marched down the street, shockingly free of apprehension or doubt.

The judge's staff knew what was transpiring and went quiet as soon as they entered. The secretary called in to the judge to announce their return, but the door to the chambers remained closed, and the foUr of them Stern and his daughter, Klonsky and the court repOrter-waited in the judge's anteroom. Sonny, if anything, appeared paler. She took the lone seat across from Stern, her lips drawn into her mouth, her jaw gripped firmly, while she stared into space. She was, Stern thought to himself, in a kind of remote observation, so terribly pretty. Then Bud Bailey, one of the deputy marshals, blundered through the door, a sweet bald headed oaf, with his gun and uniform and jangling keys. His arrival jarred Stern, like a note of music misplayed.

Bailey greeted both Stern and Klonsky by name, then looked at the judge's secretar7. "She rang?" Sonny had sat up tensely with Bailey's appearance.

The secretary sent Bailey in first. He would be getting instructions about taking Stern into custody. Stern had imagined all this and felt well girded. He would be escorted to the marshal's lockup, a mesh-fenced holding pen on the third floor which looked much like a birdcage for human beings. He would sit there for an hour or two. If the motion judge in the court of appeals did not role promptly, he would be transported by jail van to the federal correctional center. There he would be asked to disrobe completely, then searched from head to toe and made to bend over while the guard examined his anus with the beam of a flashlight, Afterwards, he would be given a blue jumpsuit.

He would not be inside long. They had drafted the petition for a stay last night; Marta had it with her and would go at once to the twelfth floor to file it. Marta and he had contacted George Mason, president of the county bar association, a figure of prominence, who promised to attempt to get his Board of Governors to file an amicus brief. In any event, Mason would organize dozens of lawyers who would join in a petition to the court of appeals. The court, most surely, would order Stern's release and set an expedited schedule for briefing and arguments. To proceed with the appeal, Marta had already insisted on deferring to Mason, a decision with which Stern agreed. The question, of course-the real question-was what he would do once the court of appeals ruled against him and he was required to respond in the grand jury or return to jail.

Klonsky suddenly spoke up in the silent office.

"You still want to write a brief for Judge Winchell?" she asked Marta.

"Sure." 'q think you should write a brief," said Sonny. "I think our discussions have persuaded me that there are serious issues."

Marta blinked once. "Sure," she said again.

Stern began to speak. What discussions, he was going to say, but his daughter dug her hand into his sleeve and spun about with a harsh look that bordered on violence. She mouthed the words distinctly: Shut Up.

Stern turned from her. "Sennett will fire you," he told Sonny….

"God damn it!" said Marta.

"This whole thing is sick," Sonny said. The remark was directed to no one in particular: a final conclusion. Stern had no idea who it was that she meant to condemn, but her judgment was firm. She focused on Stern. "You were right, you know. Do you understand meT'

He did not at first. Then it came to him: the informant.

That was what had upset her-seeing SenneWs duplicity, his mean, clever game.

The door to the judge's chambers opened then. Bud Bailey was standing behind Moira Winchell.

"Sandy," she said, even before the company was over the threshold, "Bud will go with you to the grand jury. When you're done, he'll keep you in custody in his office until the court of appeals rules on your petition for a stay.

That's the best I can do." Even Moira Winchell, firm and unfiappable, was somewhat undone. Her head moved about in the loose wobble of an old lady as she told him she could do no more.

Marta spoke up then. She and Klonsky, after discussion, had agreed there were serious issues. The government now would agree to a week's adjournment in order to allow Stern to file a brief.

"Oh, really?" said Judge Winchell. She turned to Klon-sky.

"Mr. Sennctt had seemed so intent.."

"lie may not agree with me," said Sonny. "If he doesn't, I won't be here next week." She smiled vague13 at her OWl irony,,

"Do you want to speak with him?" asked the judge. "He can't be reached," she saicL "I see," said the judge. Moira knew she was getting a message of some kind. "Off the record," she said. "What's the dealT'

Stern, his daughter, Sonny exchanged looks among them selves. No one answered the judge.

"Your brief Monday, response Wednesday, a reply if you wish when you appear Thursday morning, 10 A.M.," said the judge, pointing at Marta, Sonny, then Marta again. She looked once more at the three silent lawyers, ther shrugged at Bailey, (he marshal, "It's a secret," she sai amp;.

AS a child, Peter was a sleepwalker. These were horrifying occasions.

Because Clara tended to turn in arly, it was usually Stern who had to deal with the situatin. Once, Stern found him about to head out wearing his hat and mittens, although they were in the steamy depths of summer.

Another night, Peter came down and practiced the clarinet.

One other time, Stern heard the bathwater running. Assuming it was Clara, he only happened to peek in to find Peter lying in the tub in his pajamas. He remained fully asleep, the water a shining frame about his dark, serene face. The advice in those yearsmprobably still todaymwas not to rouse him. Stern pulled him from the water gently, stripped off his clothes, and dried the lean young body, then dressed his son again.

In these states, Peter responded to instruction like a magician's assistant in a trance. Walk.

Turn left. Turn right. He vas, however, incapable of speech. It was a disturbing sight. Like waking the dead.

The private theater of dream and sleep were not stage enough to relieve Peter's inner forces. They needed, literally, to be acted out. After the bathtub episode, Peter reported he had dreamed he was dirty.

It was the thought that Peter ought to be allowed to share. his burdens which had brought Stern, late Thursday afternoon, to the rehab'ed apartment building where his son lived. After his adventures in the grand jury, he found himself too distracted for work. He was concerned about Klon-sky, who, in her dismay over Sennett's high-handed tactics, might have placed a black mark on a promising career, while emotionally Stern felt some need to take advantage of his reprieve.

Eventually, his mind turned to Peter. Near three, he had called his son's office, where the staff reminded Stern that Peter had no hours on Thursdays. Next he tried him at home. He was there apparently-the line was busy-and after failing to get through on a number of tries, Stern decided to go ahead while his courage remained high. He wanted no confrontation. No fussing. His manifest assumption was to be that Peter was well-meaning and bound by professional obligations. But Stern had decided it was best to get this out in the open. He preferred to have no other distractions when he proceeded to the calamitous show. down that he was headed for sooner or later with John and Kate. That one, he feared, might blow the Stern family to smithereens; they would float through space like an asteroid belt, pieces of the same matter, within the same orbit, but no longer attached. Only Marta might see things her father's way in the end, and even she would be somewhat divided.