Scott Turow - The Burden of Proof

They asked, conventionallY, about one another's health, then lapsed into silence. Stern had never been here and that fact seemed to underscore the unusual nature of their meeting-right faces, wrong setting. The atmosphere grew tenebrous. The consultation room was far more ample than Peter's, furnished, like the Cawley home, out of Ethan Allen, with an imposing wallpaper of green vertical stripes and a heavy paddle-shaped clock on one wall. Nate sat in his long white coat behind a substantial walnut desk, his certificates arrayed about him, rocking a bit in his tall leather chair. Eventually, he eased forward and came to the point.

"I want you to know, Sandy, that I'm going to ask Fiona for a divorce."

Stern was dumbstruck, not by the news, of course, but by the notion that this was Nate's revelation.

"Are you asking my advice, Nate?"

Not really. If you have some, I'll take it."

"No," said Stern, then added wickedly, "It may be expensive." Nate let the back of his hand drift out in space: no matter. He could afford it.

Stern found his jaw setting harshly, as if them had been a graft of iron. "Have you told Fiona?"

"Not exactly. I wanted you to know first."

"Me to know?"

"You," said Nate. He fiddled with the little ornaments on his desktop, an onyx-bladed letter opener, a matching paperweight; then, eventually, he folded his hands. "Sandy, I don't care," he said. "About what happened between you and Fiona."

"I see," said Stern.

"She told me."

"Apparently." He had his feet on the floor and his hands in his lap. So far, he was holding on better than he might have expected.

"I found a piece of your mail in the john off our bedroom a couple weeks ago. We ended up having it out then."

"My mail?" asked Stern, but he realized then what Nate meant: Marta's note, the one Stern had carried out of the house that night. He had been looking for the letter just the other day, having been unable to reach Marta by phone and wondering when she was due to arrive.

"As I said," said Nate. "I don't care. I really don't. It sounds a little b'tzarre to say I don't care, but I don't."

"Very well."

"You slept with Fiona, so you slept with her." Nate threw up his hands magnanimously.

Stern found that he had hold of both arms of the chair, his fingers gripped down to the studs; perhaps he feared that the furniture was going to fly. Slept with his wife! What had she done? Fiona's killer instinct, he saw, had taken her far from the facts. Did she think that, by setting them even, she could get a new start with Nate? No, Stern decided, probably not. Fiona had just hunkered down, abandoned all caution, and taken her greatest pleasure-retribution: I want to see the look on the dirty bastard's face.

"Am I to respond?". he asked eventually.

"You don't have to."

"Because, to say the least, Nate, you have not received an accurate portrayal." Stern stopped then, recognizing his dilemma. What were his lines? 'It is not true, Nate, that I fucked your wife. I only attempted to do so." That would not be an especially stirring defense.

Nor, for that matter, did Nate seem to believe him.

"Listen, Sandy, that's not the point of this."

What was the point? Stern studied Nate, who did not quite have the fortitude to look back. He had always taken Nate as a person of little malice-a healer, a caring type, with that easy, quiet manner that many women took for masculine gentleness. All in all, in spite of Stern's moments of dizzy rage, those judgments held. Nate had no real will to do injury. Instead, he muddled about, full-of warm feelings and covert impulse, inadvertently knocking over lives like plates in a china closet. He had grown up in Wyoming and had come to the big city as a medical student. At times, he still liked to play the befuddled cowboy.

Over the years, Stern had decided that pose concealed laziness, sloth, a weakness of spirit. That was why'he so easily surrendered to female temptation or, more pertinently, maintained his unsatisfying life with Fiona. The same remained true now.

He clearly savored the sheer ease of the solution Fiona's supposed confession presented: You've screwed my wife, and I don't care. Now take her off my hands and let us go on in peace. The matter of Clara was far from his mind-a secret he took to be entombed and thus forgotten. He dealt merely with the present. Fiona could be dismissed and cared for in a single stroke, and at a cheaper price. He would dust off his hands and move on.

Assessing all of this, Stern, amazingly, felt at considerable advantage.

Not so much with the facts. That Fiona was lying was almost beside the point, She'd said what she'd said. Go disprove it. But he was much better equipped than Nate to deal with a circumstance of this sort. He saw suddenly, decisively, how this would play out, and knew that Nate, whatever his plans, was about to be badly outflanked. He told him so directly.

"I believe, Nate, you have miscalculated."

Nate pulled a face. He was going to deny any cunning, but thought twice of that and Said nothing at all.

"Were I you, Nate, I would proceed to divorce court with caution."

Nate stiffened. Clearly, he had more here than he had bargained for. He flipped hand again, as he had before.

"Sandy, I- Listen, this isn't a holdup. Or whatever. you think. Don't take it that way."

"No, of course not," said Stern. "I know you would not mean to threaten me. Nor I you."

"You?" asked Nate.

"I," said Stern. "But let me offer a word of warning, nonetheless. Do not, Nate, attempt to involve me in your bloodbath with Fiona. Do not dare. After all, we both know, I am not a witness to your good character or your veracity." Nate wound his head about as if he'd been kicked. "Jesus," he said.

"If I am placed under oath, Nate, I shall speak truthfully about all matters. Including those most painful to me. Do not think that pride will prevent me from disclosing the manner in which you and Clara deceived me."

Nate for an instant was absolutely still, his mouth open in a small dark o. Then he took his hand and covered his eyes.

He heaved a bit.

"Look." Nate eyed his desktop, considered his thumb.

"Look," he said again.

"Yes?" said Stern. He had known, instinctively, that Nate would be "As as chosen to speak plainly, Nate, let me do the same: there is a large check which I believe you owe Clara's estate." Nothing-no scruple, no sense of taste, not even the recollection of his own discomfort-could dull Stern's delight in this moment. With a whetted look of absolute malice, he considered Nate, who sat back in his tall chair, his sparse hair in disarray from the sudden pulling at his face and scalp, looking overwhelmed, sorely confounded, scared.

"I was afraid you were going to say that," said Nate. "I have a lawyer looking into this matter."

"I was afraid of that, too."

Stern nodded. He finally understood Nate's plan. He'd held the check, not merely to hide it from Fiona's future attorney, but from Cal now. He wanted to see if the coast was clear or if he'd been discovered.

"I would suggest you do the same, and have the attorneys make contact," said Stern.

Nate absorbed that in silence, but finally looked at Stern.

"I knew you'd find out eventually," said Nate. "I've eaten myself up alive about this whole thing. You may not believe that, but I have.

Really. It's on my mind every day. I know you probably think I'm responsible for what she did. At the end."' "I do not blame you solely, Nate. I offer you that solace.

I am sure that the ultimate denouement was a shock to you as well. But I bear you heavy resentment, notwithstanding.

Clara's choice to take a lover was, of course, her own. But as a doctor, Nate, particularly one experienced with this sort of' '-Stern waited, then fastened something down in himself and pushed on-"this sort of sexually transmitted disease and its course, I would certainly have expected you to have exercised greater care. And I take it from what I see that you were eutirely indifferent to Clara's needs at the end."