Scott Turow - The Burden of Proof

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?"

"Please, Dixon. When in the history of humankind did these events take place?"

"I don't know. It was right after Kate Went to college.

Clara was at the end of things. Very depressed. Swimming through all kinds of dark shit. You were on your big case in Kansas City. Busy, busy, busy."

"Is that your excuse, Dixon?"

Dixon eyed him as he removed another cigarette.

"I told you, I took advantage. She couldn't have cared less about anything. It was an act of despair," Dixon said.

"Fucking despair."

"Thank you, Dixon, for your important psychological insight."

"She was destroying her life. She was getting even with you."

"Again," said Stern.

For the first time, he felt, absurdly, that it was likely he might cry.

This was not what he wanted to hear, Dixon revealing to him Clara's hidden sides. Did Dixon really have it right? Close enough, probably.

Clara had taken her reprisals, hoping that in what was most forbidden some dark magic might be found. She would soil and abase herself, pray for release, and if worst came to worst, she at least would have cause for her misery, her contempt for herself.

"It was A night and A day. And it was a complete bust," said Dixon. "A zero. I'm not just saying that now. If she hadn't come up with that problem, you could have said nothing happened."

"If," said Stern.

"Obviously, I hadn't noticed," said Dixon. "I'll never forget. She handed me a note atsome family sh'mdig. I still remember it..One line, She neve wasted words,. Not ewn Dear Asshole, Just 'I am being treated for,..":, Dixon circled a hand to fill in the blank. "I had no idea And then when I told your sister she had to be examined, she prOmptlY tossed me out on my duff. And went to cry on Clara's shoulder. Talk about fucked up."

This drama, all of the play, had transpired entirely. out of his presence. He roamed offstage in Kansas City. In the arms of his own jealous mistress. Absorbed in the role he liked best, he had managed to miss the signal events of his lifetime.

He smoked his cigar for some time then. The night with-ofit sleep had taken its toll. His eyes felt raw and his limbs, after the rush of anger,. were now burning and weak. As for the cigar, he was shocked to find that its taste was no longer pleasing. He would finish it, of course. He had begun to smoke cigars in Henry Mittler's office when he could not really afford them, usually limiting himself to the ones Henry reluctantly supplied, and with a cigar in his hand he still experienced mixed sensations of absolute triumph and parched frugality. But he would have no difficulty, Stern thought, not picking up another. His life, after all, had changed.

"She came to my office," Dixon said. "Just showed Up.

"Clara?"

"No, the man in the moon." He had lain down 'completely on Stern's sofa.

"I knew why she had to be there.

She hadn't said more to me than 'Pass the beans' for years."

"And?"

"And she came in, she sat down, and she cried. Jesus, did she cry."

Dixon lay there a moment with the thought. "Not a dry eye in the house.

Anyway, I heard the whole fucking story. Peter. John. Doctors.

Treatment. What got me was the money. When she handed over the check, like she thought money-" Dixon lifted a hand, suddenly rheumy-eyed again, hurt once more to think Clara believed ' dollars. might persuade him. In his own mind, of course, Dixon had no price. "And what was her thought, Dixon? What did she want?"

"Want? What you'd think a mother would want.

She wanted her children to be safe. She wanted me to figure a way out.

That was the/eason for the check. She thought maybe I could repay everybody, MD, all the customers, and wash it all out."

"And what did you tell her?"..

"It was too frigging late for that. Peter had already started playing junior G-man."

"Did you understand that Peter's theory was that no' one would be charged?"

"Yeah, I understood. That was strictly nuts. I figured if I opened my mouth, John and he would end up drawn and quartered. I thought even those jerks in the U.S.

Attorney's Office could see through this. What's my motive, for Chrissake. I'm going to fuck around stealing nickels and dames?"