Scott Turow - The Burden of Proof

"Years, in theory."

"Jesus. And they can just go on sending out one subpoena after another?

Even to me?"

"If there is any legitimate investigative purpose, yes."

Across the phone lines, Stern heard the little metal click of Dixon's lighter. "Do I take it you have a particular concern, Dixon?"

"It's nothing," he said. He emitted a heavy breath.

"Can they get anything with a subpoena?"

"I am not following, Dixon."

"Suppose I have some personal stuff. Can they subpoena that?"

Stern waited. What was Dixon telling him?

"Where are these private items housed, Dixon?"

Stern could hear his brother-in-law drawing on his cigarette, weighing how much to admit.

"My office. You know. There's a small safe. It fits in the bottom of my credenza."

"And what is in it?"

Dixon made an equivocal sound. "Generally," said Stern.

"Personal," said Dixon. "Stuff."

Stern ran his tongue along his mouth. Dixon needed no education in being less chatty. At times, there was a peculiar fellowship between Stern and his brother-in-law.

Dixon was a clever man with a winning sense of humor; it was easy at moments to enjoy his company. He and Stern attended ball games together; engaged in such athletic competitions as Stern could manage.

Both men were lovers of gadgets, and there were two stores on East Charles which they visited only. together, one afternoon a year. And yet there had always been absolute boundaries, guarded by some rumbling unspeaking rivalry, disapproval, distrust. Stern was content to let Dixon leave him often in the dark. He did not want a rundown on Dixon's illicit rendezvous or his borderline business practices. Over the years, this relation of lawyer and client had proved more agreeable to both of them than some jovial effort to feign any kind of filial intimacy. Stern asked only what the law in its rigors and proprieties demanded, and Dixon listened carefully and answered narrowly, and as he liked.

"Are we speaking of truly personal materials,. Dixon?

Items which are yours alone and not the corporation's, which were prepared outside the corporation and to which you do not give corporate personnel access?"

"Right. Can they get that with a subpoena?"

Stern pondered. He never liked providing these kinds of saddleback opinions. The client was always holding on to some detail which changed everything.

"In general, you cannot be compelled to produce personal items, absent a grant of immunity. That is not likely to occur at this point in the investigation. A search warrant, of course, is another matter."

"A search warrant?"

"These investigations of brokerage houses are sometimes most unpleasant.

Depending on what the prosecutors are seeking, they may find it convenient to attempt to grab up all your records at once. If they start in the office and believe items are missing, your home would be next."

"I better move this stuff?. Is that what you're telling me?"

"Only if you're concerned about it falling into the government's hands.

If that thought troubles you for some reason, you might think about storing your safe somewhere less likely to be searched."

"Which is where?"

"How big is it?" Stern asked.

A foot quare, Dixon said.

"You could send it here, then. Federal prosecutors are more reluctant, even these days, to search attorneys' offices.

The warrant requires special approval from the Justice Department in Washington, and the conduct smacks of a violation of the right to counsel. It is very unfdy, from their perspective."

"And how do I get to the safe, if I need something?"

Stern declined to state the obvious. Dixon had already made it clear that he had no wish to share the contents.

"I shall give you a key to the office. Come and look as you like. Or better yet, what about another lawyer Who is not involved in this present matter? Wally Marmon's office would serve excellently." This was the large firm which represented Dixon on the routine business matters that Stern declined to handle, but Dixon grunted at the notion.

"He'll charge me rent," Dixon said, "by the hour. And he'd get too nervous. You know Wally."

On reflection, Dixon was probably correct about that. "If this arrangement makes you uncomfortable, then leave the safe where it is, Dixon. Or take it home. As your lawyer, I prefer to see it here."

It would be best to have Dixon's zone of privacy clearly bounded. Lord only knew where they'd end up if Dixon had continuing access to some black box into which he could stuff any document the government sought whose contents made him uncomfortable. Both the client and the lawyer, could come to substantial grief that way.

Dixon at last said that he would send the safe next week.

"Handle the arrangements yourself," said Stern. "If no one but you knows where the safe is, no one can tell the government where to search for it."

"What does that mean?" asked Dixon.

Stern waited again. He did not want to alarm him. On the other hand.

"'Dixon, I must tell you, I am convinced the government has an informant."

"An informant?"

"Someone close to you or the business. The government's information is too precise. The trades. Where you bank. Who your dataprocessing vender is. And there is an odd order to what they are willing to have known. I suspect they are interested in misleading you about their sources of:information."

"I think they're interested in showing how fucking clever they are," said Dixon.

"You must reflect on this matter, Dixon. The identity of this informant could be of great significance to us."

"Forget it, Stern. You don't have the picture.. Every jackal at the Kindle Exchange that's ever wanted to sink his fangs in my hindquarter is probably feeding stuff to those guys." Dixon's tone was bitter as he spoke of his critics and competitors. "And I'll have the last laugh.

You mark my words. Just wait," he said. "I'll keep my mouth shut now, because you say I've got to. But when this thing is done, I'll still be standing here. And there'll be some bills coming due."

Dixon was unaccustomed to being vulnerable-or restrained.

The need for both enraged him. He hung on the line a moment longer, with the heavy breath of a bull. His bold promises of triumph and revenge behind him, he seemed to have no more to say. Perhaps he recognized their futility. The government would go on, notwithstanding, demanding his records, scaring his clients, courting his enemies, prying into exery worldly connection he valued. Across the distance of two counfles, Dixon seemed to consider his world of dwindling secrets. That was what had always protected him-not his friendships or alliances; he had few-not even his wealth or the power of his personality.

Dixon was like Caliban or God-unknowable. The insult of his present circumstance was profound.

"Just wait," said Dixon once more before he put down the phone.

"DON'T do anything," the woman said at the other end of the line. "I'm bringing you dinner."

"Who is this?" asked Stern. "Helen?"

"Yes, of course, it's Helen. Will that be a bother?

I'll just drop it off and go. I have a meeting."

She must have been calling at fifteen-minute intervals, for he had been home only moments.

"You are most kind," said Stern, eyeing the unidenfi-fiable casserole dish already thawing on the counter. "Come ahead."

So, thought Stern, the female nation heard from, once again. Helen Dudak, of course, probably had no interest in being forward. The Dudaks and the Sterns had been exchanging favors for twenty years. As couples, they had been connected principally by their children. Kate, through most of her life, was the best friend of Helen's oldest, Maxine.

The two families had the same ideas about things that seemed to matter substantially when you were rearing a family: about asking to be excused before leaving the table; the number of sweets allowed in a day; the right age to drive alone or to go out for the evening with a boy. The Dudaks were fine people, principled, with reasonable values, and concern for their children. So the relationship had stood on this solid, if narrow, footing. His knowledge of Helen's inner realm was nodding, at best. Clara had never seemed to regard Miles and Helen as an interesting couple, and in the last few years, in the face of many changes, relations had drifted a bit. Maxine had gone to business school, married, and worked in St. Louis; and Helen had been divorced from Miles Dudak for three years now. She had a wised-up, funny, independent air, resolved to exceed the bathes and humiliation of the sad circumstance in which her husband of twenty-odd years, the wealthy owner of a box-manufacturing concern, had moved out and, only a few months later, married his thirty-year-old secretary.