The Burden of Proof (14 page)

"And what is in it?"

Dixon made an equivocal sound. "Generally," said Stern.

"Personal," said Dixon. "Stuff."

Stern ran his tongue along his mouth. Dixon needed no education in being less chatty. At times, there was a peculiar fellowship between Stern and his brother-in-law.

Dixon was a clever man with a winning sense of humor; it was easy at moments to enjoy his company. He and Stern attended ball games together; engaged in such athletic competitions as Stern could manage.

Both men were lovers of gadgets, and there were two stores on East Charles which they visited only. together, one afternoon a year. And yet there had always been absolute boundaries, guarded by some rumbling unspeaking rivalry, disapproval, distrust. Stern was content to let Dixon leave him often in the dark. He did not want a rundown on Dixon's illicit rendezvous or his borderline business practices. Over the years, this relation of lawyer and client had proved more agreeable to both of them than some jovial effort to feign any kind of filial intimacy. Stern asked only what the law in its rigors and proprieties demanded, and Dixon listened carefully and answered narrowly, and as he liked.

"Are we speaking of truly personal materials, . Dixon?

Items which are yours alone and not the corporation's, which were prepared outside the corporation and to which you do not give corporate personnel access?"

"Right. Can they get that with a subpoena?"

Stern pondered. He never liked providing these kinds of saddleback opinions. The client was always holding on to some detail which changed everything.

"In general, you cannot be compelled to produce personal items, absent a grant of immunity. That is not likely to occur at this point in the investigation. A search warrant, of course, is another matter."

"A search warrant?"

"These investigations of brokerage houses are sometimes most unpleasant.

Depending on what the prosecutors are seeking, they may find it convenient to attempt to grab up all your records at once. If they start in the office and believe items are missing, your home would be next."

"I better move this stuff?. Is that what you're telling me?"

"Only if you're concerned about it falling into the government's hands.

If that thought troubles you for some reason, you might think about storing your safe somewhere less likely to be searched."

"Which is where?"

"How big is it?" Stern asked.

A foot quare, Dixon said.

"You could send it here, then. Federal prosecutors are more reluctant, even these days, to search attorneys' offices.

The warrant requires special approval from the Justice Department in Washington, and the conduct smacks of a violation of the right to counsel. It is very unfdy, from their perspective."

"And how do I get to the safe, if I need something?"

Stern declined to state the obvious. Dixon had already made it clear that he had no wish to share the contents.

"I shall give you a key to the office. Come and look as you like. Or better yet, what about another lawyer Who is not involved in this present matter? Wally Marmon's office would serve excellently." This was the large firm which represented Dixon on the routine business matters that Stern declined to handle, but Dixon grunted at the notion.

"He'll charge me rent," Dixon said, "by the hour. And he'd get too nervous. You know Wally."

On reflection, Dixon was probably correct about that. "If this arrangement makes you uncomfortable, then leave the safe where it is, Dixon. Or take it home. As your lawyer, I prefer to see it here."

It would be best to have Dixon's zone of privacy clearly bounded. Lord only knew where they'd end up if Dixon had continuing access to some black box into which he could stuff any document the government sought whose contents made him uncomfortable. Both the client and the lawyer, could come to substantial grief that way.

Dixon at last said that he would send the safe next week.

"Handle the arrangements yourself," said Stern. "If no one but you knows where the safe is, no one can tell the government where to search for it."

"What does that mean?" asked Dixon.

Stern waited again. He did not want to alarm him. On the other hand.

"'Dixon, I must tell you, I am convinced the government has an informant."

"An informant?"

"Someone close to you or the business. The government's information is too precise. The trades. Where you bank. Who your dataprocessing vender is. And there is an odd order to what they are willing to have known. I suspect they are interested in misleading you about their sources of :information."

"I think they're interested in showing how fucking clever they are," said Dixon.

"You must reflect on this matter, Dixon. The identity of this informant could be of great significance to us."

"Forget it, Stern. You don't have the picture.. Every jackal at the Kindle Exchange that's ever wanted to sink his fangs in my hindquarter is probably feeding stuff to those guys." Dixon's tone was bitter as he spoke of his critics and competitors. "And I'll have the last laugh.

You mark my words. Just wait," he said. "I'll keep my mouth shut now, because you say I've got to. But when this thing is done, I'll still be standing here. And there'll be some bills coming due."

Dixon was unaccustomed to being vulnerable--or restrained.

The need for both enraged him. He hung on the line a moment longer, with the heavy breath of a bull. His bold promises of triumph and revenge behind him, he seemed to have no more to say. Perhaps he recognized their futility. The government would go on, notwithstanding, demanding his records, scaring his clients, courting his enemies, prying into exery worldly connection he valued. Across the distance of two counfles, Dixon seemed to consider his world of dwindling secrets. That was what had always protected him--not his friendships or alliances; he had few--not even his wealth or the power of his personality.

Dixon was like Caliban or God--unknowable. The insult of his present circumstance was profound.

"Just wait," said Dixon once more before he put down the phone.

"DON'T do anything," the woman said at the other end of the line. "I'm bringing you dinner."

"Who is this?" asked Stern. "Helen?"

"Yes, of course, it's Helen. Will that be a bother?

I'll just drop it off and go. I have a meeting."

She must have been calling at fifteen-minute intervals, for he had been home only moments.

"You are most kind," said Stern, eyeing the unidenfi-fiable casserole dish already thawing on the counter. "Come ahead."

So, thought Stern, the female nation heard from, once again. Helen Dudak, of course, probably had no interest in being forward. The Dudaks and the Sterns had been exchanging favors for twenty years. As couples, they had been connected principally by their children. Kate, through most of her life, was the best friend of Helen's oldest, Maxine.

The two families had the same ideas about things that seemed to matter substantially when you were rearing a family: about asking to be excused before leaving the table; the number of sweets allowed in a day; the right age to drive alone or to go out for the evening with a boy. The Dudaks were fine people, principled, with reasonable values, and concern for their children. So the relationship had stood on this solid, if narrow, footing. His knowledge of Helen's inner realm was nodding, at best. Clara had never seemed to regard Miles and Helen as an interesting couple, and in the last few years, in the face of many changes, relations had drifted a bit. Maxine had gone to business school, married, and worked in St. Louis; and Helen had been divorced from Miles Dudak for three years now. She had a wised-up, funny, independent air, resolved to exceed the bathes and humiliation of the sad circumstance in which her husband of twenty-odd years, the wealthy owner of a box-manufacturing concern, had moved out and, only a few months later, married his thirty-year-old secretary.

From the kitchen window, Stern observed her arriving with a large purse and an armory of aluminum-foil containers. Buy bauxite, Stern thought as he watched her under flag, proceeding to' the front door with the trays pyramided beneath her chin.

"Helen, my Lord, I am one person." Stern unburdened her and showed her to the kitchen. "There's enough here for six.

Sixteen." Peeling the foil wrapper back from a tray of chicken, he was braced by the aroma. Garlic and thyme. Had he been required to wager, he would have bet that Helen Dudak was a good cook. It was part of her image of substance. "You must join me. It would be a pity to see all of this consumed from the freezer. Do you have time for dinner before your meeting? Please stay. I would welcome your company."

Helen faltered, but eventually was persuaded to surrender her coat. Had this been planned? Stern doubted' it. Helen was not a schemer, although she was clearly pleased to be asked. He took her raincoat to the closet, a fawn-toned garment with a famous label--Miles had not bought his freedom cheaply. She'd already found plates and flatware and was setting the kitchen table when Stern returned. He admired Helen's good sense in not promoting this into a more auspicious encounter in the dining room, but, notwithstanding, there was a certain animated excitement as Helen traveled from the cabinets to the table. Here. they were, people in their middle years. His wife was five weeks dead. But he was single, she was unattached, and because of that, they both seemed strangely, almost painfully enlivened.

And he was interested; there was no concealing that from himself. Since his evening at Fiona's, he was aroused in some measure by every woman he saw. For Stern, it was a disconcerting fixation. As he put it to himself, he had not recently tuned in this channel. Oh, he thought, of course.

He admired a hundred women in a day, just moving about downtown. But he had practiced such deliberate oblivion. He was one of those men glad for middle years, the settled portion of life, when sexual preoccupation could comfortably be left behind without some slur on masculinity. Now he received, almost in spite of himself, an eager, exhilamnt message from his own systems. He could not truly envision himself as the companion of another womanwit was much too soon--but he nonetheless cast a somewhat naughty eye on Helen when he went down the corridor to draw a bottle from the wine, closet.

She was, all in all, a handsome person--her midriff had given way somewhat, but Stern could hardly be critical on that score--and even if she looked a little rougher/ed by experience, there was something in that which was admittedly attractive. Her hair was reddish, the color of a fox, enhanced somewhat by a coloring agent these days, but drying with age and verging therefore on a kind of unmanageableness. Her legs were well turned; she had no bottom to speak of; her face was large-pored, heavily made up, but in its own way comely. Helen had her well-worn look--humor, anguish, and dignity. Stern's impression was that she had been utterly lost when Miles departed, but she was a strong person, perhaps not an intellect, but well grounded. She had carried on bravely, rightly convinced that she was not deserving of abuse.

"Well, this is an unanticipated pleasure," he said when the meat was set out before them both. "What did you do to these potatoes, Helen?

Really. They are quite remarkable."

Helen described the process. Stern listened carefully. He was fond of potatoes.

She told him about her business. She had been trained. as a travel agent along the way, but longed for something less mundane and had become a convention planner. Large organizations .hired her to arrange sites, hotels, presentations. She worked out of her home, with a fax machine and a telephone console. A rocky start, but now she was well under way. She delivered the tale with good humor,. an entertaining talker and willing to take the lead in maintaining this fragile, convivial air.

The doorbell rang. Glancing through the panes beside the front door, he saw Nate Cawley. Stern seemed to have caught him in a moment of reflection. On the slate stoop, he had turned to look into the wind. He was a smallish man, narrow. His hair was gray and most of it was gone; a few longer hairs stood up straight now in the breeze. Rain was in the offing; late April here was always wet. Nate had mn out without a coat and he jiggled a bit to keep himself warm. He wore a golf cardigan and a pair of blue pd by experience, there was something in that which was admittedly attractive. Her hair was reddish, the color of a fox, enhanced somewhat by a coloring agent these days, but drying with age and verging therefore on a kind of unmanageableness. Her legs were well turned; she had no bottom to speak of; her face was large-pored, heavily made up, but in its own way comely. Helen had her well-worn look--humor, anguish, and dignity. Stern's impression was that she had been utterly lost when Miles departed, but she was a strong person, perhaps not an intellect, but well grounded. She had carried on bravely, rightly convinced that she was not deserving of abuse.

"Well, this is an unanticipated pleasure," he said when the meat was set out before them both. "What did you do to these potatoes, Helen?

Really. They are quite remarkable."

Helen described the process. Stern listened carefully. He was fond of potatoes.

She told him about her business. She had been trained. as a travel agent along the way, but longed for something less mundane and had become a convention planner. Large organizations .hired her to arrange sites, hotels, presentations. She worked out of her home, with a fax machine and a telephone console. A rocky start, but now she was well under way. She delivered the tale with good humor,. an entertaining talker and willing to take the lead in maintaining this fragile, convivial air.