Scott Turow - The Burden of Proof

Rather than.joust in the noontime traffic, he had walked across the bridge, carrying his two large empty cases. He met Radczyk at a place called Wally's. It was hardly scenic. As with each establishment in Lower River, one entered from the rear. The windows at the back of the restaurant faced the river, which was otherwise inaccessible, looking out to the pilings and the iron underpinnings of the roads. Toward the top of the horizon, a line of daylight broke through and, depending on the angle of the sun, sometimes lit the slaty surface of the water brightly enough to show the floating silt and the industrial debris.

Radczyk was at a table smoking a cigarette and, for unknown reasons, studying his shirt when Stern approached.

"Ah, Sandy!" The copper's roddy country-boy 'face was radiant. This warmth, whose source Stern still could not recollect, continued to make him uneasy. Radczyk had phoned this morning, Saying he had some results. He suggested Wally's, a policemen's hangout, which suited Stern, who was always just as happy not to walk into the station house.

Here Stern was more impressed by the size of the man than he had been in his home; Radczyk barely fit into his chair, a hulking figure being slowly diminished by age. He wore a tweed sport coat and the bright red golfing shirt he had been examining when Stern arrived. He explained now that it was an Easter gift from his children. "You get the grandkids over and they tear the place apart, makes you glad you can send them home."

Stern smiled obligingly. It occurred to him that he, too, would soon be entitled to these fond complaints. The prospect today seemed considerably less consoling. The thought of John briefly scuffed at Stern's heart.

"So," said Stern. "You had success?" He sought to bring Radczyk to the subject. He was the kind who would chat about anything else.

The old cop reached to the inside pocket of his sport coat and came up with a single grayish page, a copy of something. He put on his reading glasses and considered the paper as if he had never seen it before. Then he removed his eyeglasses and pointed the temple at Stern.

"You give any thought to talkin with her doctors? That's what I'd do in your shoes."

Immediately, Stern felt the same vexation that had overcome him on his way from the U.S. Attorney's Office. Why had he bothered with this policeman? He was old, and probably never terrifically competent. Trust Radczyk to suggest a starting point where Stern had already been. He was not fully able to conceal his irritation.

"Lieutenant, I am afraid I have already attempted that COurse. ' ' "Mind if I ask what come of it?" asked Radczyk. "What came of it," said Stern, "was that Clara's personal doctor tells me he did not order this test, and I have been unable to determine which physician did."

"Huh." Radczyk looked back down to the sheet he held. "No name here," he said. "Suppose I coulda asked when I was out there." The notion that the name of the treating physician might have been relevant occurred to Radczyk remotely, a far-off idea, like the notion of life on the planets. Stern was finding it increasingly difficult to stifle himself.

"You were at Westlab?"

"Oh, sure, sure. Done just like I told you. Went out-there, got the administrator, you know, showed her my star. Nice gal. Liz something or other. Very professional, you know.

Looked to be a little 'Mexican or Italian gal. I said I was doin routine follow-up, what records did they have? She showed me the whole file right there in her office. Give me a copy of the results." Radczyk hoisted the paper in his hand, and Stern, without invitation, reached across the table and quietly took it.

The hangdog waitress came by with her green pad, saying only "Yours?" to each man. Stern ordered as he studied the copy. It was a half sheet on the letterhead of Westlab. The rest of it contained computer-printed figures. Numbers.

Codes. A meaningless scramble. In his frustration, Stern nearly groaned.

"Did they tell you, Lieutenant, what this test was for?"

"Sure," he said." 'Viral culture." "He took the paper back and with a dirty fingernail showed Stern a tiny box which had been x'd. "A virus?" Radczyk nodd.S. Attorney's Office. Why had he bothered with this policeman? He was old, and probably never terrifically competent. Trust Radczyk to suggest a starting point where Stern had already been. He was not fully able to conceal his irritation.

"Lieutenant, I am afraid I have already attempted that COurse. ' ' "Mind if I ask what come of it?" asked Radczyk. "What came of it," said Stern, "was that Clara's personal doctor tells me he did not order this test, and I have been unable to determine which physician did."

"Huh." Radczyk looked back down to the sheet he held. "No name here," he said. "Suppose I coulda asked when I was out there." The notion that the name of the treating physician might have been relevant occurred to Radczyk remotely, a far-off idea, like the notion of life on the planets. Stern was finding it increasingly difficult to stifle himself.

"You were at Westlab?"

"Oh, sure, sure. Done just like I told you. Went out-there, got the administrator, you know, showed her my star. Nice gal. Liz something or other. Very professional, you know.

Looked to be a little 'Mexican or Italian gal. I said I was doin routine follow-up, what records did they have? She showed me the whole file right there in her office. Give me a copy of the results." Radczyk hoisted the paper in his hand, and Stern, without invitation, reached across the table and quietly took it.

The hangdog waitress came by with her green pad, saying only "Yours?" to each man. Stern ordered as he studied the copy. It was a half sheet on the letterhead of Westlab. The rest of it contained computer-printed figures. Numbers.

Codes. A meaningless scramble. In his frustration, Stern nearly groaned.

"Did they tell you, Lieutenant, what this test was for?"

"Sure," he said." 'Viral culture." "He took the paper back and with a dirty fingernail showed Stern a tiny box which had been x'd. "A virus?" Radczyk nodded.

Stern took this in: Clara had seen the doctor for a virus.

So here was the outcome of nearly two months' pursuit. His wife had the sniffles. A persistent cough. No wonder she had bothered only Peter.

He smiled faintly. For all the pain, it had the quality of a burlesque.

"And they had no more to report?"

Radczyk seemed to have settled himself elsex,here. He considered Stern with his pleasant, rosy look and huddled closer.

"Still don't remember me, do you?"

Stern, who would ordinarily go to considerable lengths to avoid adrmtting something so unflattering, simply shrugged.

He had better sense than to try to fool an old policeman.

"Didn't think so." The cop edged forward. "Marv Ja-coby."

It hit Stern like lightning. "The brother," said Stern. The orphan, he thought. "That was some time ago."

Childishly pleased to be recalled, Radczyk sat there smiling. "Hadn't taken the tags off my sergeant's stripes yet."

So this was the orphan. Stern instantly recalled the entire tale.

Radczyk had been raised by his grandfather, who ran a paper stand, one of those metal shanties on a street comer; in the winter, they took heat from a fire in an oil dram.

One day two young neighborhood hoods, looking for nickels and dimes, tried to stick up the grandfather, and ended up shooting him dead. The beat cop was Harold Jacoby-Jews did not become lieutenants in those days-and he took the grandson home and raised him with his own. Harold had two natural sons, as Stern remembered, and all three became policemen. Ray was the eldest. Eddie eventually quit the force and went to California, where he'd done well in the security business. It was the youngest son, Marvin, who became Stern's client.