Scott Turow - The Burden of Proof

Weak and light-headed, he had the same sensation now. Poor Clara. Now he understood. She had bestowed her enormous gift as the groundwork of whatever plan she and Nate had laid and, only after that, had learned the nature of her new medical predicament. Perhaps it was the first Nate knew of the problem. But in the circumstance he would have had no choice but to admit his other interest-probably the young lady in the video downstairs. Infidelity among the unfaithful. Oh, yes. Stern saw it now. What a drama. It was as tragic as Madama Butterfly. Bilked.

Jilted. Diseased.

Shame and loss at every window, every door, the future an endless refraction of ugly events: a husband's wroth, a lover's departure, and the excruciating knowledge of a fortune squandered in order to buy her boyfriend the freedom he intended to spend in other pursuits. What humiliationS: L'fice a heroine of myth, Clara had lost everything through pride and desire. Sitting now on Fiona's expensive bedspread, Stern placed one hand over his heart; it felt rough and sore, pumping away within his chest.

He would have to call Cal. At once. What a story this would be to tell. Lawyer Hopkinson would drill another hole in his head. Stern wanted the papers drawn now. With the check, Nate was in a tricky position. His plan from the start must have been to hold it in order to hide the funds from Fiona and her divorce lawyer. But now, with Clara's death, with bankers and executors, with probate, he would have to move, fearing that someone might soon learn of the transaction and attempt to see it undone. The day Nate found the nerve to present his check, Stern would sue.

There would be smoke and fragments everywhere. He would grind Nate Cawley like a seed beneath a stone.

In this burst of vicious impulse, Stern was smitten suddenly, overpoweringly, with the sensation of how preposterous this was. None of this had occurred. He thought that clearly. Any second, groping for the switch, he would find the light and see where he really was. But, when he turned about, the collie was tm!y there, still watching, and the house he had lived in for twenty years was out the window, viewed at this angle from which he had never seen it before. His lip was beginning to thicken and welt from the impact of one of Fiona's rings.

He found his way down, closed the dog in the kitchen, and then, feeling that something he could never recall was utterly lost, let himself out the door.

For him, the most evocative memories of their courtship were of the times he sat in the parlor of the Mittler home while Clara played the piano. Her soft reddish hair followed just behind the occasional downward movements of her head; her eyes were fast upon the keyboard, or closed, as she turned herself over to the music. Her high intelligence sang through the instrument. The first time she performed for him, he had no idea what to say. He had come to the door to collect her and she invited him to step inside a moment. Neither of her parents was home and apparently she felt free to show him about. "My piano," she said.

He asked her to play, and instead of demurring as he expected, she set herself free. He sat on the red plush divan in his scarf and overcoat, utterly ignorant of the music, but overcome by the conviction with which she struck the keys. He admired her intensely.

"Magnificent," he said.

She stood shyly beside the instrument, absorbing his praise.

They went then to the show. The movie-he still remembered-was the subject of some excitement. Marty. The story of this lonely, inept man, full of longing, stirred Stern.

That was him, him! Afterwards, walking to George Murray' s Chevy, parked far down the block,, he recognized that Clly, overpoweringly, with the sensation of how preposterous this was. None of this had occurred. He thought that clearly. Any second, groping for the switch, he would find the light and see where he really was. But, when he turned about, the collie was tm!y there, still watching, and the house he had lived in for twenty years was out the window, viewed at this angle from which he had never seen it before. His lip was beginning to thicken and welt from the impact of one of Fiona's rings. He found his way down, closed the dog in the kitchen, and then, feeling that something he could never recall was utterly lost, let himself out the door.

For him, the most evocative memories of their courtship were of the times he sat in the parlor of the Mittler home while Clara played the piano. Her soft reddish hair followed just behind the occasional downward movements of her head; her eyes were fast upon the keyboard, or closed, as she turned herself over to the music. Her high intelligence sang through the instrument. The first time she performed for him, he had no idea what to say. He had come to the door to collect her and she invited him to step inside a moment. Neither of her parents was home and apparently she felt free to show him about. "My piano," she said.

He asked her to play, and instead of demurring as he expected, she set herself free. He sat on the red plush divan in his scarf and overcoat, utterly ignorant of the music, but overcome by the conviction with which she struck the keys. He admired her intensely.

"Magnificent," he said.

She stood shyly beside the instrument, absorbing his praise.

They went then to the show. The movie-he still remembered-was the subject of some excitement. Marty. The story of this lonely, inept man, full of longing, stirred Stern.

That was him, him! Afterwards, walking to George Murray' s Chevy, parked far down the block,, he recognized that Clara, too, had been sadly moved. She clung to him firmly as they strolled, speaking of certain harrowing moments lived out on the screen.

When they reached the car, Stern could not help himself.

He cried out and doubled over for a moment.

"Oh, George," he said.

Whoever had sideswiped George Murray's car had left a number of victims.

The scratches began behind the door, growing in a broadening trail until the point of impact on the front fender. There the metal was cruelly withered and the ftlament of the front headlamp hung down from a single wire. The auto ahead was worse; the entire trunk was foMed up like a smashed carton.

"Oh, God," she said when she finally saw it. She grabbed his arm. "This isn't your car, is it?"

"Oh, no." The loss seemed incalculable. His mind fumbled ahead futilely for some way it all could be restored. "I'm so sorry."

He shrugged, staring at the wreckage.

"No telephone this month," he said.

He was required to call the police. They walked to a drugstore and the police were there by the time they had returned to the car. George Murray, thankfully, was not home. Somehow Stern felt he couM tolerate all this, except telling him. This girl and her sympathy seemed to give him courage. The cop was an amiable type, an 'older whitehaired man who had been put out to pasture. He asked Stern about his accent in an honest, inquisitive way and then lay in the boulevard hauling on the bumper in order to straighten it out so that Stern did not dirty his suit.

Stern sat behind the wheel, turning it as the policeman pulled on the dimpled sheet metal. i "Good enough to drive," the cop finally announced. "Save you a penny or two on the tow. Those fellas are pirates."

The policeman, Leary, tipped his hat when they drove away. Stern had no idea where they were going.

"Shall I take you home?" he asked her.

"Oh, not yet," she said, so emphatically that Stern was taken by surprise. The car had no radio, but there was a clock. It was five past midnight. "I have to be certain you're well. Are you?"

He made a sound. He was badly shaken. Yet it was amazing how buoyed he was by female attention. He reminded himself of the cartoons he saw in the theater of Popeye when he ate his spinach. With her, before he faced George and the months of bills, he felt almost invincible.