Scott Turow - The Burden of Proof

Wagoner had obviously spoken to his lawyer and was answering only as questions were asked. He now presented a white slip by which Clara had requested certification; she had wanted to reassure someone that her check would be good. Stern recognized her signature on the form, but the amount, a little over $850,000, was written in another hand.

"Whose writing?" he asked, pointing.

"Betty's."

"And to whom," asked Stern, "was' this check made payable?"

"We looked for the canceled check." He pushed a button on his telephone console and asked that Ms. Fiofi be summoned.

She appeared at once, another person in a dark blue suit.

She recited the steps she had taken to find the wayward check. Their own check-reconciliation department had searched; their bank; the Fed.

The trust officers, who normally received the canceled checks and statements on this account, had looked high and low. It was this tracing process, clearly, which had gone on while the bank had been holding Cal at bay.

"I'm positive it hasn't cleared," Ms. Fiofi said. "Can we stop it?" asked Cal.

"Stop?" asked Wagoner. "It's a certified check. We've guaranteed payment."

"It hasn't been presented."

"How could we stop it?" asked Wagoner.

"It's stale, isn't it?"

Stern spoke up. The question he had asked before had not yet been answered.

"To whom was this check made payable?"

Ms. Fiofi looked to Wagoner.

"We don't ordinarily make a record of that," he said. "We have no reason to."

"You do not know?" Stern spoke to Ms. Fiofi. Wagoner might never answer directly.

"We don't know," she said. "Usually, you have the returned check.

Sometimes we'll put a note on the requisition. It wasn't made payable to Mrs. Stern, if it helps. I remember that."

"You do?" asked Stern. "Yes."

"Clearly?"

He was in the mode of cross-examination now. Familiar ground.

Something, he suspected, had made an impression on her.

"There is a particular reason you recall?" She shrugged.

"Not really."

"You remember the name?"

"I don't, Mr. Stern. I've racked my brain."

"But it was not an entity? A corporation? Partnership?"

"No, I'm sure of that."

"Not a charity or a foundation?"

"No."

"An individual?"

"I believe so."

"I see," said Stern. He knew the rest. It was obvious now why she remembered. "A man's name," said Stern finally.

Ms. Fiori, involuntarily, allowed her teeth to close a bit against her upper lip.

"Yes," she said.

Yes, thought Stern. Of course.

For a moment no one in the room spoke.

"So some fellow is walking around with my wife's check for $850,000 in his pocket?"

It was absurd, of course, but the humiliation was unbearable. It raced through him, like acrid fumes, and seemed to rome its way to his eyes. He knew he was flushed. Cal at last said something.

"Jack, there has to be a way to stop that check."

"Cal, it's certified. We'd be buying ourselves a lawsuit for wrongful dishonor. We don't know what kind of transaction was involved here."

Wagoner, provoked by Cal, glanced as an afterthought at Stern. He had been indelicate. "I promise you this much. We'll let you know when the check is presented. If you want to get an injunction at that point, God bless you."

Stern was already on his feet. He spoke to Wagoner and Ms. Fiori, thanking them for their assistance, told Cal he would be in touch, then left the office. He was-againm reeling.

Outside the bank's revolving doors, he placed Marta's skimmer on his head and watched as the wind took the hat away and bounced it down the pavement, weaving among the pedestrians. When he turned, Cal was beside him, watching it go.

'TI1 chase it," Cal said, but did not move.

Stern gestured that he ought not bother. They walked in the direedon of the hat without speaking.

'TII bet," said Cal at last, "when everything is said and done, we'll still have a chance to unwind that transaction.

She couldn't have had the slightest idea of the tax implications of what she was doing."

Stern barely contained himself. What a numskull Cal was, always congratulating himself at length because he was not even dumber. Who gave a damn about the money? Here at last, three decades along, Clara had found the way to curtail his interest in her wealth. When he turned back, Stern found his eyes fastening on the dark spot behind Cal's ear.

"I am not concerned, Cal. Whatever it was, shah be." He caught sight of the banner on his hat; it was resting against a mesh trash bin a hundred yards away.

He took a step in that direction, and then stood still while that ugly interrogatory suddenly burned through him: Who? Oh yes, it was time for that again. Who was it? In the first few days, Stern with considerable discipline, and an aversion to pain, had refused to lower himself to this debased parlor game. But eventually the outrage boiled up in him and he could not suppress his dismal curiosity. It would have been more noble to be able to claim that it was vengeance for Clara's sake he was after-to find and punish the heartless scoundrel who'd inflicted what became a mortal disease. But his needs were more basic, and entirely his own. Whether or not it was a lurid interest, he simply had to fill in the picture.

In these moods, he suspected virtually every man who came into his view.

Was it the mailman or, as in some filthy story, a salesman trayeYing door-to-door? Today he'd learned that it was someone who needed money-perhaps an impoverished student of hers whom she had fallen for and sought to mother; or a straggling musician in a garret who wanted a permanent endowment? Perhaps a young man starting out in business. Or an older, married fellow who needed cash to finance his divorce?

Once or twice, at home, he'd picked up Clara's leathercovered address book and had gone through it page by page, weighing prospects with every male's name, no matter how anlikely. Any man would do. How about Cal?

Perhaps his surprise at the money's disappearance was only an elaborate act. With a lover's gratitude, Clara had made a gift of what Cal had long superintended. But Ms. Fiori surely could not have failed to recall Cai's name with him seated right there. Perhaps it was Dixon. Of course, Clara's distaste for him seemed so sincere, and Dixon with his plasticcoated penis was, by Peter's evidence, not likely to be spreading--or contracting any such disease. Nor had Dixon the need for anybody else's money. How about Nate CawIcy?

He had the sex life of a chimpanzee. Perhaps all hisslmlking about was a reflection of guilt. Or the pompous rabbi at the temple? He certainly was an object of Clara's esteem and generosity.

Abjectly, unwillingly, Stern on the street corner placed his hand across his heart. Cal was down the avenue waving Stern's hat to show it had been safely recovered. Stern studied the throng of suited men striding the street. Who? he thought, seething with hatred, weakened by shame. Who?

In MD's offices in the Kindle County Futures Exchange, Stern asked the receptionist for John Oranurn and took a seat. Dixon had a showpiece office a few blocks south of here, a place with exposed brick walls and banners and baffles used for sound deadening that was often pictured in architectural magazines; that was the site of MD's local trading room and central executive offices. But the order desk and back office remained here in a bright, functionallooking space in the KCFE.

After a few moments AI Oreco, Dixon's number-two person in Kindle, affable, half bald, too fat, greeted him. Dreading this 'meeting, Stern had put it off much longer than he should have. Finally, this morning he had left a message that he was coming, but John apparently had been needed on the floor. They would have to go get him. From his desk drawer, AI grabbed his red plastic trading badge, engraved with his initials and MD's clearing number, and pulled his navy-blue ttoor jacket off a hook. Downstairs, at a security desk, Stern was signed onto the floor for fifteen minutes. Two years ago, a fellow in a wig had placed dozens of trades and disappeared without settling the losing transactions. Now, if Stern exceeded his granted time by more than a minute, a cadre of security officers would spill across the floor and pull him out as unceremoniously as a spy.