Scott Turow - The Burden of Proof

Stern described their activities. "He is a splendid young fellow.

Bright as a firecracker."

"His father's son."

"No doubt."

"I don't think much of'Rebecca, his mother. But she's done great things with Sam. I don't quite understand it. It seems like you can't predict who the good parents will be: It frightens me."

"You will fare well, Sonny. I am sure of it." Gradually, she had approached. She was now a few feet from the tub and took the last few steps at once. She stooped a bit and her hand lingered in the dark water.

"God, it's nice. Sam helped you figure it out?"

"He was quite insistent on getting in here,"

"We do everything to encourage him. He doesn't seem to recognize yet that it's the same water that's in the bathtub."

"It was only after I had finally agreed to let him do this that he informed me that I was required to join him. But I must say, it is most pleasant. After he was in bed, I could not let the opportunity pass.

Here I am on a Saturday night in the woods. The sky is clear, the moon is full. The solitude is magnificent."

She inclined her head to look, as Stern'had, at the stars.

She was quiet a second.

"Will you die if I come in there?"

The shock of cold emotion, terror really, went through him like a bolt of iron. He shook his head before he spoke.

"No, no," he said.

"Because, look. I mean, people have different attitudes.

You can just say it's too embarrassing."

"No, no," Stern said again. He was not sure he was capable of more.

When she began to slide off her shirt, Stern looked away, studying the tremorous movement of certain dark branches in the wind. But even this effort at discretion was not a full success. In the extended half of the cabin's casement window, he noticed a clear reflection and, turning back, caught, even against his will, just the slightest glimpse of her form, licked in the moon's bluish cast. It was no more than her upper torso as she eased into the bath, the smooth swell of the other life, and the lopsided proportions of her chest, where the fine blue light clung to the smoothness of her scarred left side, the visible ribs looking a bit like piano keys; like all things human, the sight was far more' bearable than he had imagined. She settled in the bath and shook her hair free.

"Ah, this is great."

"I feared you had heat stroke."

"Just tired."

She reached over and laid her hand very briefly on his forearm. "It was nice out there."

"Yes."

"I'm glad we've become friends."

"As well."

These things came out of Sonny trippingly; she spoke from the heart as a regular matter. For him, it was all a muddle. He felt, as so often in his life, the importam moment, the one of high emotion, deep feeling, sliding beyond him, not merely beyond control but wholly out of reach.

He would never stop being himself.

"Can I tell you a story that will embarrass you?" she asked.

"If you believe I can stand it."

"I think you can." She looked off in the darkness. "When I was in law school, I went down to watch you in court. When you were defending Judge sabich. I was there every day. It was like close-up magic. You know-how it doesn't really matter whether the balls are disappearing, because it truly is magic that human skill can make it look that way?

That's how I felt. I didn't care whether he was guilty or innocent. I just wanted to be able to do what you did. What do you think of that?"

"I think you are most kind to tell me." She peered over; he could see she did not understand, and he inched somewhat lower in the tub. "I find it difficult, of late, to think of my professional life as an example to anyone. Given its costs. ' ' "Are you talking about your wife?"

He made a sound.

"Huh," Sonny said. She was quiet. "Is there something you could have done?"

"Paid greater attention."

She did not seem inclined to respond, and he was quickly seized by a fear that she found this morose or, worse, self-pitying. For a second she disappeared, plunging beneath the surface of the water and came up glistening, shedding water and light, bubbling her lips and smoothing her hair. "You know what I think?" she asked.. "What is that?"

"I think you can only be yourself." She wrong out her hair.

Was this the thought for the night? Stern wondered. "I tell myself that a thousand times a day. Everybody's screwed up.

And things happen that screw you up worse. You get cancer.

Or somebody dies. But you do your best. I would give anything to be a lawyer as good as you are, to think I did something important that well.

I mean, look at what you've done."

"I look," he said, "and feel that I could have done better."

"Then do better next time."

"With the next life?"

"With the next part of this one."

That was, he realized, the only answer, the sole sane response. This, too, seemed to be a repetitive theme.

"And remember," she said, "that you're an example to people like me."

"You flatter me."

"I mean it."

He looked over to Sonny. She had laid her arm on the back of the tub and he touched her most briefly, as she had touched him. Then he went on.

"Apparently, I was not example enough, in as much as you chose the wrong side."

She drew back, as he expected. "Is this humor?"

"Of course."

"Oh." She smiled, shirking off the sense of injury. "I always thought I'd become a defense lawyer. But prosecutors have so much power. To do good things, you know-not just bad"

"Of course," he said again. "I admire the rectitude for which prosecutors stand."

"But you wouldn't think-of doing it?"

"I have thoughts. But my view-purely an idiosyncratic one, I stress-is that I would only be doing further damage to what is already smashed and broken. Understand, I truly believe yours is a job that must be done-but better not by me."

"Is the story true, then?"

"What story is that?"

"That you turned down the offer to be U.S. Attorney before they gave the job to Stan?"

He waited, reflecting. "Is that worn-oUt rumor circulating again?"

She knew she was being put off.

"I'm not asking so I can tell someone else." With all her terrible pride, she was, he saw, somewhat offended. "I have a reason for wanting to know."

He described his meeting with the senator's aide in a few sentences. "I was never told that I was the first choice. I have no idea who would have been selected, even had I been disposed."

"You know it would have been you," she said, "and so does Stun.! think that bothers him. A lot," she added.

Stern privately had long harbored the same view. She was pensive, and then dipped again beneath the water.

"I'm getting out," she said when she emerged. "The o.b. doesn't like me in here for more than ten minutes."

Stern turned away to stare at the moon and the darkness.

"When you're ready," she said behind him, "we can have that talk." He heard her pad off and, after telling himself not to, turned to watch her go, with her bundled clothes clutched to her chest, her hair dripping, the broadened lower proportions of her form still a becoming sight, wet and shining, as she retreated.

In a minute, he rose. He was on the edge of the tub, in his full naked glory, when Sonny leaned out the window with another towel. "You should see the look on your face," she said, and hung the towel on the window frame. He could hear her laughing inside as she walked away.

When he came in, she was in a white terry-cloth robe, combing out her hair at the cable-spool table. Un-made-up, undone, she remained herself, strong and. pretty, confident of her own appeal. She went to the bed to move Sam to the smaller room, but Stern insisted on carrying him and, with Sonny directing, bore the warm, small form to the cot in the adjacent room. Sam remained miles off in the profound grasp of a child's sleep.