Scott Turow - The Burden of Proof

TWICE in the last week, Stern had gone home in the morning to change for work and to look over the mail from the day before, having spent the night at Helen's. They had been out three times since their evening at the symphony-dinner, the theater-and she demonstrated on each occasion her ability to make him sweep aside the vexing detritus of his wrecked life. With Helen, he tended to hear only her beguiling musical laughter, her clear firm voice, and to feel, of course, the urgent throb of his reinvigorated romantic life. Dear, sweet Helen-she remained intent on improving him.

In yesterday's mail, Stern this morning found another copy of Westlab's bill, a pink form this time, bearing a red block-letter stamp which said OVerDUE. Yes, indeed, he thought at once. His most recent speculation was that, given the nature of the problem, Clara had consulted a female physician; he had gone paging through her phone book once again, looking for a name, even while he felt it would be fruitless. What could this doctor tell him? What could she change? But his curiosity was not all a matter of reason.

He took this overdue notice as a direction from fate, and with Westlab's bill and his checkbook in hand he set out, as soon as he was dressed, to find the place where, in the middle days of February, a specimen from Clara Stern was cultured, examined, and, with clinical exactness, named.

What if it was a mistake? he thought suddenly as he was driving, and then realized, as he had a hundred times before, that diagnosis was not the final issue. Clara had had a reason to suspect a problem. Only in the Bible and the tales of King Arthur did the virtuous have relations in their sleep.

Stern had never recognized the lab's address, but his street guide placed it on a small court tucked between two prominent commercial avenues, no more than five or six blocks from the Sterns' home in the Riverside neighborhood.

And there it was, a low, flat-roofed brick building with casement windows, a construction style of the 1950s. He had been driving by Westlab for twenty years and never noticed.

Within the building's glass doors there was little public space, a small waiting area with four plastic bucket seats bolted to a bar of steel, and a glass partition. At this window, ' he asked for Liz. She was beckoned and came forth, just as Radczyk had described her, dark and small, with short black hair cut into a fringe around her face.

She wore gray slacks and heavy makeup; liner was glopped below her bottom lashes as well. She smiled attractively, accustomed, you could tell, to dealing with the public.

"I am Mr. Stern," he said. "This bill was sent to my wife before she passed away in late March. In the confusion of events, I am afraid I neglected it."

"Oh, that's all right," said Liz emphatically. A hand proffefing absolution, casual but complete, passed vaguely by her nose.

He waited just an instant.

"There was probably a doctor's bill as well. Either we never received it or it was misplaced. I would like to contact the doctor to be sure the bill has not been overlooked, but I am not certain who that was.

Could you give me the name of the physician who ordered the test? I am the executor of my wife's estate, if there is any concern."

"Oh, no." Liz waved a hand the same way and, with Stern's copy of Westlab's statement was gone at once, receding into the visible office space, illuminated as in most buildings of that era by too much glaring fluorescence. From somewhere farther back came a vague antiseptic smell. Banging through the file drawers, Liz called out to another woman about something else, then returned, paging through a folder.

She had not quite arrived at the window when she spoke.

'Calling,' he thought she had said. "Pardon?"

"Do you know hun? Dr. Nathaniel Cawicy?His office is over on Grove.

About three blocks. Here's the address." By now she had laid the folder down before Stern and showed him the test requisition, a long form of small type and boxes which had been filled out in the usual indecipherable doctorly hand. Nate's name and office address were stamped at the top of the form, but there was no question he had been the one to give the orders: he had signed, in a scribble, and had written "Viral culture for HSV-2" in a block for comments at the bottom of the page.

Weak and suddenly chill, Stern glanced up to find Liz looking at him oddly. Perhaps she was reacting to his dumb response or had recollected Radczyk, or had finally noticed what the test was for. His first impulse, however, was that he must continue to pretend, and he removed the gold pen from his inside suit pocket to write down Nate's address.

There was no paper around, however, and instead, without' speaking, he turned away.

"Did you want to pay this?" Liz was holding the bill.

He wrote out the check falteringly. He could not get the numbers right and had to tear up his first effort.

Nate! Outside, Stern fell heavily onto the cherry-colored leather of the front seat of the Cadillac. There was undoubtedly a way to explain.

Drinking too' much, or overcome by the involvements of his personal life, Nate had allowed this to skip his mind. Nonetheless, Stern was badly shaken.

Nate was fuddled at times but steady. It alarmed him for incomprehensible reasons to think of a doctor as unreliable or inexact.

He reached for the car phone; this model had come equipped with one.

Stern had no use for it-his daily drive to the office was no more than ten minutes, and he could walk to both courthouses-but out of his love for gizmos and toys, he had let Claudia get him a number and he used the phone on any occasion. Now he flipped on the ignition, dialed information and then Nate's office.

"He's not in. Can I help you, Mr. Stern?"

"I must speak with him." He had shown Nate courtesy enough; he felt entitled to an immediate response. "It's something of an emergency."

The nurse paused. You could tell what she was thinking:

Patients--everything was a eftsis.

"He's at the hospital." She repeatet the number. "Try to page him. He's in the middle of rounds, though. I'm not sure you'll get him."

He left his numbers-office, car, homemthen dialed University Hospital.

When he reached the page operator, he described the call as urgent.

Behind him, near the doors of Westlab, a mother was dragging a screaming child up the walk toward the building. Stern turned about fully to watch this scene. The little boy apparently knew what was coming, for he was carrying on fiercely, almost lying on the ground. The mother herself was overcome; eventually Stern noticed that she was crying, too. "This is Dr. CawIcy."

"Nate, Sandy Stern."

"Sandy?" In his voice, there was a catch of something, frustration or disbelief.

"I shall be only a moment. It was important that I speak to youabout Clara."

"Clara? Jesus, Sandy, I'm in the middle of grand rounds."

Nate took a second to contain himself. "Sandy, can I talk to you about this later?"

"Look, Sandy, is it on this Westlab thing? Is that why you're calling?

I've gotten your messages."

Nate, as he'd anticipated, was going to explain. In a prescient moment, Stern Saw how compulsive and foolish he would look.

"I know it is a silly obsession, Nate, but-"

In a rush, Nate interrupted again.

"No, no, Sandy, it's my fault. I'm sorry I've made you chase me around, but I did look into. it. Okay? I checked my files, I called Westlab, nobody knows what it's about.

They have no records of any kind over there, and I don't either, so I don't know what to tell you. It's just a mistake; I'm sure. Okay?

We've all checked thoroughly. Just let it go. All right?"

Stern found himself looking down at one palm, pink and completely empty.

What is it? he thought. What now? But there was already something moving through him in a subdued rumble, so that it was only another instant before he finally made the connection: Nate was lying. He had been lying all along. For just the faintest second, Stern needed to remind himself to breathe as he listened to Nate's words go stumbling on. What more was he missing? he wondered. And then, as 'so often of late, he decided that he had no wish to know.