Scott Turow - The Burden of Proof

Stern, in his office behind his glass desk, drummed his fingers. Dixon, apparently, did not have time to be in trouble.

"I spent the day with Margy and Ms. Klonsky."

"I heard that was happening."

"Yes," said Stern. Of course, Dixon had heard. That was the point.

Stern felt at a terrible disadvantage over the phone."There were a number of disturbing developments."

"Such as?"

"The prosecutors seem to know about your safe, for one. I believe they will be looking for it shortly, if they are not right now."

On the other end of the line, Dixon did not stir. "Where the fuck do they find out about that?"

Where, indeed? Stern had not needed Dixon for that question. There was a certain obvious, if disquieting logic: Margy goes into the grand jury and the records are missing; Margy comes out and the government mentions the safe. In her anger, Margy could have disclosed anything.

Perhaps Dixon had been prudent enough never to mention the safe or its movements to her, but that was doubtful. In his present mood of dark suspicion it had even struck Stern that Margy might have been the govemment's source of information all along. A ridiculous thought, really, but one that continued to teemerge. In that scenario, everything today and for many -days-and nights-before had been no more than wellacted melodrama. Highly unlikely, of course. But such chacades had occurred in the past. There were cases where the government had indicted their informants to maintain their cover. Stern at this point ruled out nothing.

"I was hoping, Dixon, you could shed some light."

"Hardly," said Dixon. "Would John-"

"John? John's still lookin for the men's room, Stern. Come on."

Both men breathed into the phone.

"There are also some records, Dixon, that seem to have disappeared."

"Records?" asked Dixon, far less impulsively.

"Concerning the Wunderkind account. Are you aware of that?" 'SAware of what?"

"The account. The documents. Their disappearance?"

"I'm not sure I'm following you. We'll have to talk about this next week."

"Dixon, it is quite clearly the disappearafice of these records that is inspffing the government's interest in the safe."

"So?"

"If the records could be located-"

"No chance," Dixon said harshly. For an instant again, both men were silent, equally set back, it seemed, by the many implications of this remark and its tone. Theft Dixon went on, making a token effort to be more ambiguous. "I don't think there's much hope that'll happen."

"Dixon, this will go very badly for you. Very badly. I have told you before, it is the absolute zenith of stupidity."

With Dixon's lapse, Stern found himself able to be more direct; he imagined a certain air of affront on the other end, but he continued.

"In the current atmosphere, Dixon, if this safe is accurately traced, it will provoke many difficulties. Not to mention that it would be sorely embarrassing to me."

"Embarrassing?"

"Damaging to my Credibility. You understand. And the blame will be laid to you, nevertheless. The prosecutors will know the safe did not fall to its present location from the sky." On the phone, Sterh felt obliged to exercise some circumspection. Even with a wiretap, the government was prohibited from overhearing this kind of conversation between an attorney and his client. But you could never tell, particularly in a house as large as Dixon's, who might inadvertenfly pick up an extension.

"You mean, after telling me to hand the thing over, you want to give it back?"

"Not at ail. I am telling you that you are exercising poor judgment and creating a perilous circumstance."

"I'll take it. Send it back."

"Dixon,."

"Listen, I have to put on my flicking tuxedo. I'll be back on the sixth,"

"Dixon, this is not an opportune time for a vacation. I must ask you to return as soon as your business is concluded in New York."

"Come on. To me it sounds like a great time to get away.

It's a few days. This'll hold. Law things always do."

"Dixon, I have many questions and I expect plain an-swers.

' ' "Sure," said Dixon. "Right. Coming," he yelled, as if Silvia was calling, though Stern heard not the faintest echo of his sister's voice.

ARRIVING home late Friday night, Stern stood in the foyer of his empty home. Helen was' out of town, i. jetted off to someplace in Texas to inspect a con,a,.I, vention site; she would not be back until Sunday.

With a certain resolve, Stern prepared to undergo the weekend by himself. While a leftover chop warmed, he wandered about the house, read the mail, and hung in the eddies of various dissatisfactions. A trying week.

Before the huge windows of the solarium, he paused. By grace of prior work and fortuitous rain, Clara's garden had flourished. The bulbs that had gone into the ground last fall now rose in glorymround peonies, lilies expressly6 as hands. Stern, utterly oblivious all these months, was suddenly struck by the perfect rows and stepped out into the mild evening air. Then in the fading light and rainsweet breeze, he froze, lurching a bit as he came to a complete halt. Across the hedgerow, he caught sight of Fiona Cawley stooping in her yard.

To say that he had avoided Fiona was not correct. He had hidden from her; he sneaked in and out of his own home like a commando. To his present mind, that incident had absolutely not occurred. Only with the prospect of confrontafion did it recur to him with a harrowing pang.

What had he done? What grand figure of macho revenge had he thought to imitate? Now, a week later, he was unwilling to accept the image of Alejandro Stern as a reprobate, a bounder making unwelcome passes at the neighborhood wives.

Other men might have been more casual with their honor, but since a few hoUrs afterwards, everything surrounding the episode seemed to have been smashed into storage. He had never phoned Cal. He had stopped searching for Nate, and even felt somewhat relieved of his urge, so great a week ago, to grind Dr. Cawley like pumice. No doubt, he'd have it out with Nate sooner or later. But only when Stern had accepted his own conduct, when he was ready to chat, one cad to another; only, frankly, when he had a better grip on himself and the mysterious world of his intentions.

Now he stood stock-still, like some creature in the wild, but something, the scent of fear perhaps, gave him away.

Fiona reared her head, saw him, and with the creel curl of a powerful unpleasant expression advanced on the horny row of privet that marked the property line between the Cawleys' and the Sterns'. She had huge rusty garden shears in hand and was dressed in what she took to be gardening clothes, a monochrome outfit that was the green of an avocado, slacks and a clingy top. Her hair, usually smooth as a helmet, was windblown and hung in clumps, holding a few small brown leaves and twigs. She leaned across the privet, gesturing, hissing actually: Come here.

"Sandy, I need to talk to you." She advanced along the row.

"I don't want you avoiding me."

Stern at last stood his ground. He had no idea who he was, but the person inhabiting the skin of Sandy Stern was going to get it. His smile was appeasing. Fiona, in. the meantime, seemed wordstruck. She had him where she wanted, and now had no idea what to say "I need to talk to you," she repeated.

Determined to make it easy for her, Stern said, "Of course."

At that moment, behind her, Stern caught sight of Nate. He appeared to have just arrived home; his tie was wrung down from his collar and he was still carrying his case. He peeked about the shingled corner of his house and stared with a wide look on his pale narrow face. Fiona, following Stern's eye, turned. As soon as she recognized her husband, her face shot about again with a grieving, stricken expression.