Scott Turow - The Burden of Proof

"This here thing," Remo said, "is Friday time. You know what I mean?"

Stern did not. He shook his head.

"What's your religion?" asked Remo. "Catholic, right?"

Stern shook his head once more. With his Latin accent, he had long found that Remo's mistake was often made. After all these years, he was certain that it would shock poor Remo to learn the truth. But Remo made no further inquiry.

He was caught up with what he was saying.

"See, in the Roman Catholic religion, for all the time I was growin up, the priests say, No meat on Friday, don't eat meat on Friday. You know?

Fish, that's okay. Jell-O mold, that's okay. But no meat. See, but guys done it.

Lotsa guys. Sometimes you'd slipup or somethin, you know.

You'd be eatin a steak, then you'd think like, Jesus, what day is this? Sometimes it'd be on purpose. I remember, when I was at St. Viator's, there's a group a us, we'd go for burgers just on Fridays. We'd sit in a booth in the window and wave to the Sisters when they went walkin by.

I'm not kiddin." Remo laughed to himself, and wobbled his large dark face. "Oh, we was bad.

"Then all the sudden the priests change their minds. See? it's okay now. Have whatever you like, no problem. But what happened to all the guys who's down bumin in hell for eatin meat 'on Fridays, huh? You think they let them out? I asked the Father, you know, cause I'm wonderin. I asked, Those guys get out or what? Oh no, he says.

God's,rules is God's rules. You don't fuck with them. You know. I mean, he don't say you don't fuck with them, but you get what I'm sayin.

"So that's this here thing-it's Friday time. It's bullshit. I didn't do notbin. Honest to God, I cross my heart, it wasn't my job. You know, I heard about this thing, so I shown up and all, I figured could be I'd get a piece.

"But maybe these guys and I, maybe we done some things before. See? So that's how it works out. It's Friday time, on account of what we done before. So what can you do?"

Remo shifted his large shoulders and raised his hands. He did not control God's universe; he merely understood a few of its rules. In his mild brown eyes the look of conviction was deep. Stern, inclined to quarrel, stifled himself.

Behind Remo he saw Sonia Klonsky, burdened with numerous case files, drifting by. He called after her and quickly shook hands with his client, leaving behind the one man in the courthouse who had no doubts about justice.

"I must have a word with you about Margy Allison," he said, coming abreast of her. Klonsky had apparently spent a typical morning for a trial Assistant: shifting between courtrooms, leaving messages with the clerks and other 'young prosecutors so that her cases, up for status or motions, could be passed while she ran between court calls.

Stern attempted to complain about the govemment's conduct in not serving him with Margy's subPena,-but she showed no remorse.

"You knew what our position was." Klonsky strolled ahead, intent on her next court appearance. "Who's going to be her lawyer?"

"Is she a subject?"

"Not at present."

"Then I intend to represent her."

Klonsky was prepared for this, too. "Stan thinks there's a risk of conflict."

"Can you explain that?"

"No."

"Then you may thank the United States Attorney for his ethical vigilance on my behalf and inform him that I shall be Ms. Allison's lawyer." His smile was personable; he meant to be firm, not snippy. "May I ask, as Margy's counsel, a few questions?"

"If you insist."

"What do you wish from her?"

"Some documents." Klonsky smiled but did not slow her pace.

"Some questions. I have to go to Pivin." She Pointed to the courtroom of Judge Albert Pivin, seventy-eight years old and still presiding over an active calendar. Stern followed her inside, but the clerk saw her and called her case immediately and Stern went outside to wait across the hall from the courtroom doors. Emerging a few minutes later, she greeted him with a somewhat rankled look. Apparently, she had thought she was free of him.

"Sandy, look. Personally, I don't care what I tell you. But you know how Stan gets. He's running a tight ship."

Stern followed her to the cloakroom, where she retrieved a light raincoat, then proceeded down the central alabaster stairCase of the courthouse. Her business here was apparently concluded.

"Whaustice.

"I must have a word with you about Margy Allison," he said, coming abreast of her. Klonsky had apparently spent a typical morning for a trial Assistant: shifting between courtrooms, leaving messages with the clerks and other 'young prosecutors so that her cases, up for status or motions, could be passed while she ran between court calls.

Stern attempted to complain about the govemment's conduct in not serving him with Margy's subPena,-but she showed no remorse.

"You knew what our position was." Klonsky strolled ahead, intent on her next court appearance. "Who's going to be her lawyer?"

"Is she a subject?"

"Not at present."

"Then I intend to represent her."

Klonsky was prepared for this, too. "Stan thinks there's a risk of conflict."

"Can you explain that?"

"No."

"Then you may thank the United States Attorney for his ethical vigilance on my behalf and inform him that I shall be Ms. Allison's lawyer." His smile was personable; he meant to be firm, not snippy. "May I ask, as Margy's counsel, a few questions?"

"If you insist."

"What do you wish from her?"

"Some documents." Klonsky smiled but did not slow her pace.

"Some questions. I have to go to Pivin." She Pointed to the courtroom of Judge Albert Pivin, seventy-eight years old and still presiding over an active calendar. Stern followed her inside, but the clerk saw her and called her case immediately and Stern went outside to wait across the hall from the courtroom doors. Emerging a few minutes later, she greeted him with a somewhat rankled look. Apparently, she had thought she was free of him.

"Sandy, look. Personally, I don't care what I tell you. But you know how Stan gets. He's running a tight ship."

Stern followed her to the cloakroom, where she retrieved a light raincoat, then proceeded down the central alabaster stairCase of the courthouse. Her business here was apparently concluded.

"What exactly is it Stan Sennett has told you about me?"

"Oh, don't be like that. He has a great deal of respect for you.

Everybody there does. You know that. Frankly, he looked very concerned the first time I told him you were involved in this case. I'm'not supposed to admit that, am I?"

"Oh, Mr. Sennett has no fear of me," said Stern. "Old prosecutors merely love to praise their opponents. It adds immeasurably to the thrill of victory." This gallantry, of course, was intended for the U.S.

Attorney's consumption.

Like all men lacking self-confidence, Sennett was easily flattered and the South American in Stern was always alert to appease those in power.

Klonsky was laughing out loud.

"Come on," she said. "We're just taking you as seriously as we should."

She pushed out the doors of the courthouse.

Spring was in its finale, the winds still sweet and the air light, just before it took on the burdens of summer.

"What you are doing," said Stern, "is limiting the information I receive, in order to protect your informant."

From her look, he could tell she felt he was trying to bait her. She did not answer.

"Please," said Stern. He took her by the arm momentarily.

"I must ask you one or two more questions about Margy.

Allow me to buy you coffee. I did not eat breakfast." He pointed to a little restaurant on the corner called Duke's,' and to his surprise she came along without complaint. He meant what he said-he was hungry-and he found Ms. Klonsky, in spite of himself, pleasant and challenging company. Primarily, of course, he hoped that in a more amiable atmosphere she might be less resolute about guarding America's secrets.