Scott Turow - The Burden of Proof

Stern stood in the lobby's dim light, attempting to correlate the name with a button. "4B P. Stern." There. In Stern's opinion, this was a desolate part of town, south along the river. It had been formerly the habitat of skidrow bums and mission houses, until the developers had arrived here in force about five years ago. The old churches, the printing plants, even the unused former train station were turned into loft apartments, but the area did not quite catch on. The streets were empty; there was little planting, no children. A few of the reprobate bums would get soused and return here out of habit or confusion and lie in the sandblasted doorways, their grimy heads against the shining brass kickplates of the refinished doors. Apparently, the denizens here were all like Peter, young and childless, happy to trade the convenience of a location adjoining the Center City for other amenities.

A pretty young woman came into the lobby. She carried her cleaning and was dressed in full urban regalia-a blue suit, aerobic shoes for the walk from the office, and yellow headphones. The inner lobby door was activated by some electronic-card pass which she drew out of her handbag. Stern pressed the button for Peter's apartment and, as the young woman held the door, entered. Climbing the stairs -none of these buildings had elevators-he once more prepared himself. No sCenes, he promised himself. He knocked on his son's door; After a moment, Peter's face appeared in the seam allowed by the chain lock between the frame and the paneled door.

"Dad." All the usual emotions swam across Peter's face: discomfiture, surprise. Oh God, this-this eternal nuisance. "May I come in?"

Peter did not answer. Instead, he closed the door to sweep aside the chain. Was there the sound of movement inside?

There was no one else when Peter threw the door wide. The young man himself was dressed in a spandex cycling outfit-a garish top and black knickers, with li. me blocks of reflective material running down his flanks, and little low shoes. Peter's-blondish hair was rumpled after his ride.

His bike, with the black headgear strung along the handlebars, was propped near the doorway, as much a part of the furnishings as anything else.

"Jesus, Dad, why didn't you call?"

He explained that he could not get through. "There are matters," said- Stern, "that I wish to discuss."

"Matters?" asked Peter. They were still standing near the doorway and Stern looked into the apartment hopefully and actually took a step farther inside. It was only a little better than a studio. The kitchen and dining room and living area were merged, with a single bedroom and bath behind the corpanon wall. The decoration was modest-opera posters and bright furniture filled with polyfoam, inexpensive modem stuff.

Peter still did not invite him to sit.

"What kind of matters?"

"Concerning your mother," said Stern. "I am hoping to have a candid discussion with you."

Peter virtually winced. Perhaps it was the subject-or more likely the notion of an open exchange with his father.

Ignoring his son's lack of hospitality, Stern wandered farther into the living room, looking about. "Very nice," he said. He had been here only once, after the closing, When the place was empty and entirely white.

"Look, Dad," said Peter, "I'm kind of into something right now."

"I do not anticipate a lengthy discussion, Peter. I suspect I shall have rather more'to say than you, and that is not very much '"

"What aboutT'

Stern, at last, helped himself to a seat on the foam sofa.

"Peter, I have long suspected that you were concerned for more than your own emotional well-being when you urged me not to allow an autopsy of your mother."

Peter stared straight at him, his blue eyes and gaunt face still.

"Frankly, I was thrown off when I visited you at your office," said Stern. "You seemed so easily convinced that I had come there because a new partner of mine had this problem. I realize now that your theory was that I had been infected before, subclinically, and was the one who had actually passed this on to my new acquaintance. That was why you insisted on such a rigorous course of testing. '

Watching with a frantic, disbelieving look, Peter suddenly held up both hands.

"Dad, not now."

"I am not here to criticize you. On the contrary, I believe-"

Peter leaned down to his father and spoke with a determined clarity.

"Dad, there's somebody here. I have a guest."

With that, on cue, a distinct cough was emitted from the bedroom. There was no mistaking the sound, either.

It was a man.

"I see," said Stern: He stood up at once. As resolved as he was to resist this, a response of dizziness, sickness gripped him. This lifestyle, choice-whatever it was called-remained beyond him. Not the acts, but the very philosophy. Stern, in truth, did not care much for men.

They were rough, sometimes vicious, and generally unreliable. Women were far better, except, of course, they frightened him. "Well, we must speak soon," said Stern. He attempted to look at his son, but failed by a fair margin and instead let his eyes fall to the toe of his shoe.

There he saw a briefcase, the visitor's no doubt, resting against the block of laminate that passed for the coffee table. The case was zippered, blue vinyl, with a large brass tag hanging from it. Stern had seen the case before. With that realization, he felt an outbreak of something else-panic, riot, emotion out of control: the man was someone he knew. "Look, we'll have dinner," said Peter. "This evening?"

"Not tonight. But I'll call." Peter rested a hand.on his elbow.

It was, of course, weak and sick. There were secrets he could live without.knowing, were there not? Life's compulsions were hopeless.

Obliquely, Stern glanced back at the briefcase. The tag was an enlargement of the man's business card-Stern had seen these items beforesbut it was not visible from here. He let Peter lead him two steps to the door.

"Sometime this week," said Stern. "Soon after, I may be in jail."

"Jail?"

"An interesfmg story."

Peter at once waved a hand. He did not want to know-or to have his visitor hear it. With that, that clue, there was a sudden pulse of alarm. Stern let his eyes shift to the case again. With the gif of farsightedness, the tag might be legible.

And it was. Not the name, actually. He recognized the crest. When he did, Stern pulled his ann free from Peter's grasp and bent to be sure he had made no mistake. "Oh, shit," said Peter behind him.

Stern stood up and covertly pulled on the hem to straighten his jacket? a courtroom gesture that he used before confronting a difficult witness.

"Agent Horn," said Stern loudly. "Show yourself."

"Oh, shit," Peter said again, more despairingly:

Stern did not bother to look back at his son. He was watching the bedroom door.

"How do you say it, Agent? 'Don't make me come in there to get you'?"

Kyle Horn, in his sport coat and white shoes, stepped into the living room. He was chewing gum, trying to smile.

"Hey, Sandy," he said.

When Stern finally glanced about, Peter had taken a seat on his sofa and was looking out the window toward the far distance, where he no doubt he wished to be. Horn, shameless, had continued smiling. Stern was erect as a soldier.

"Please tell the distinguished United States Attorney for me that it will be a most interesting set of motions." Horn at once shook his heM.

"We didn't do anything wrong. Nobody's rights got violated.

You can just cool it." "I shall not 'cool it." Any person of decent sensibility will be deeply offended. To use counsel's son-the target's nephew-as an informant?"

"It was all done right," said Horn. He approached Stern briefly and snatched his case from near Stern's shoes.