The Burden of Proof (2 page)

American optimism, on the other hand, he had never absorbed. He could not leave aside the gloomy lessons of foreign experience, of his parents' lives--emigrants, exiles, souls fleeing despots, never at rest.

Certain simple propositions he took as articles of faith: things would often turn out badly. Seated in the living room in an overstuffed chair, amid Clara's raiku vases and Chinese tapestries, he accepted this like the coming true of an evil spell. He had the inkling of various tasks that were somehow imperative, but for the time being he had no thought to move; his limbs were weak from shock, and his heart seemed to labor.

Peter arrived not long after the paramedics. They had already rolled their White-sheeted cart into the garage to remove the body Wiry and always intense, Peter had burst into the house, disregarding the policemen at the front door. Why was it, Stern wondered, that he was so appalled by his son's hysteria, this hyperthyroid look of uncontrollable panic? Peter?was immaculately kempt, a bonethin young man with a highly fashionable hairdo. He wore a blousy French shirt with broad turquoise stripes; his pants were olive, but of a style never worn in any army, ballooning widely near the knee. Stern, even now, could not restrict a critical impulse. It was remarkable, really, that this man whose face was rigid with distress had taken the time to dress.

Rising finally, he encountered his son in the hallway leading from the foyer to the kitchen.

"I just can't believe this." Peter, like Stern, seemed to have no idea how to behave; he moved a single step toward his father, but neither man reached out. "My God," he said, "look at it. It's a carnival outside.

Half the neighborhood's there."

"Do they know what happened?"

"I told Fiona CawIcy." The Cawleys had lived next door to the Sterns for nineteen years. "She more or less demanded it. You know how she is."

"Ah," Stern said. He battled himself, but he found that a selfish shame, juvenile in its intensity, struck at him.

This terrible fact was out now, news now, known. Stern could see the canny deliberations taking place behind Fiona Cawley's deadly yellow eyes.

"Where is she'?." Peter demanded. "Is she still here?"

As soon as Peter had gone off to the garage, Stern recalled that he had meant to speak with him about calling his sisters.

"Mr. Stern?" The policeman ho had gone into the garage was standing there. "Couple of fellas wanted a word, if you don't mind."

They were in Stern's first-floor den, a tiny room that he kept largely to himself. Clara had painted the walls hunter green and the room was crowded with furniture, including a large desk on which certain household papers were carefully laid. It disturbed Stern to see the police stationing themselves in this room which had always been his most private place. Two policemen in uniform, man and a woman, stood, while a plainclothes officer occupied the sofa. This third one, a detective apparently, rose disorderly to offer his hand.

"Nogalski," he said. He gripped Stern's hand tepidly and did not bother to look at him. He was a thick man, wearing a tweed sport coat. A hard type. They all were. The detective motioned to a facing easy chair.

Behind Stern, the female officer mumbled something into her radio: We're talkin' to him now.

"You up to a few questions, Sandy?"

"Of what nature?"

"The usual. You know. We got a report to make. Lieutenant's on the way. Gotta fill him in. This come as a big surprise to you?" the cop asked.

. Stern waited.

"Very much," he said.

"She the type to get all depressed and unhappy, the missus?"

This survey of Clara's character, to be attempted in a few sentences, was for the moment well beyond him.

"She was a serious person, Detective. You would not describe her as a blithe personality."

"But was she seeing shrinks, you know, anything like that?"

"Not to my knowledge. My wife was not of a complaining nature, Detective. She was very private. '' "She wasn't threatening to do this?"

"No."

The detective; mostly bald, looked directly at Stern for the first time. It was evident he did not believe him. "We haven't found a note yet, you know."

Stern stirred a hand weakly. He could not explain.

"And where have you been?" one of the Cops behind Stern asked.

"Chicago."

"For?"

"Legal business. I met with a number of lawyers." The fact that Dixon might be in very serious difficulties, so sorely troubling only an hour ago, recurred to Stern now with a disconcerting novelty. The urgency of that situation waved to him like a hand disappearing in the deep, out of reach for the time being.

"How long you gone?" Nogalski asked. "I left very early yesterday."

"You talk to her?"

"I tried last night, but there was no answer. We have a symphony series. I assumed she had gone for coffee afterwards with friends."

"Who spoke to her last, so far as you know?"

Stern deliberated. Peter's shrill manner would quickly antagonize the police.

"My son might have."

"He out there?"

"He is quite emotional at the moment."

Nogalski, for whatever reason, allowed himself a brief, disparaging smile.

"You do that often?" one of the cops behind him asked.

"What is that, Officer?"

"Travel. Out of town?"

"Occasionally it is necessary."

"where'd you stay?" the woman asked. Stern tried not to react to the drift of the questions. The officers, of course, knew by now who he was and reacted accordingly-they despised most criminal defense lawyers, who hindered the police at every turn and were often richly rewarded for their efforts. To the police, this was a natural opportunity chance to pester an adversary and to indulge their customary nasty fancies about foul play and motives.

Maybe the spick was humping his girlfriend in Chi while somebody for hire set this up. You never know unless you ask.

"On this occasion, I was at the Ritz." Stern stood.

"May I go? My son and I have yet to speak with his sisters."

Nogalski was watching him.

"This doesn't make much sense,It was evident he did not believe him. "We haven't found a note yet, you know."

Stern stirred a hand weakly. He could not explain.

"And where have you been?" one of the Cops behind Stern asked.

"Chicago."

"For?"

"Legal business. I met with a number of lawyers." The fact that Dixon might be in very serious difficulties, so sorely troubling only an hour ago, recurred to Stern now with a disconcerting novelty. The urgency of that situation waved to him like a hand disappearing in the deep, out of reach for the time being.

"How long you gone?" Nogalski asked. "I left very early yesterday."

"You talk to her?"

"I tried last night, but there was no answer. We have a symphony series. I assumed she had gone for coffee afterwards with friends."

"Who spoke to her last, so far as you know?"

Stern deliberated. Peter's shrill manner would quickly antagonize the police.

"My son might have."

"He out there?"

"He is quite emotional at the moment."

Nogalski, for whatever reason, allowed himself a brief, disparaging smile.

"You do that often?" one of the cops behind him asked.

"What is that, Officer?"

"Travel. Out of town?"

"Occasionally it is necessary."

"where'd you stay?" the woman asked. Stern tried not to react to the drift of the questions. The officers, of course, knew by now who he was and reacted accordingly-they despised most criminal defense lawyers, who hindered the police at every turn and were often richly rewarded for their efforts. To the police, this was a natural opportunity chance to pester an adversary and to indulge their customary nasty fancies about foul play and motives.

Maybe the spick was humping his girlfriend in Chi while somebody for hire set this up. You never know unless you ask.

"On this occasion, I was at the Ritz." Stern stood.

"May I go? My son and I have yet to speak with his sisters."

Nogalski was watching him.

"This doesn't make much sense," said the detective. It made no sense, the man said. This was his professional opinion.

Stern looked intently at Nogalski. It was one of the hazards of Stern's calling that he seldom felt grateful to the police.

Coming back down the hall, Stern could hear Peter's voice.

He was carrying on about something. The same ruddy-faced cop who had shown Stern into the garage was listening impassively. Stern took his son by the elbow to draw him away. This was intolerable. Intolerable!

Some tough element of resistance within him was wearing away.

"My God, they're going to do an autopsy--did you know that?" asked Peter as soon as they were alone in the corridor. Peter was an M. D. and today apparently he was haunted by his past, the pathological exams he had practiced on the bums turned up in gutters, the gruesome med school humor as six or seven students studied the innards of the deceased.

Peter suffered with the thought of his mother as another mound of lifeless anatomy awaiting the coroner's saw. "You're not going to allow that, are you?"

A good deal shorter than his son, Stern observed Peter. Was it only with his father that this craven hysteria occurred?

Stern wondered. The climate of their relations did not seem to have changed for years. Always there was this lamenting hortatory quality, too insistent to be passed off as mere whining. Stern had wondered for so long what it was his son expected him to do.

"It is routine, Peter. The coroner must determine the cause of death."

"'The cause of death'? Do they think it was an accident?

Are they going to do a brain scan and figure out what she was thinking?

For God sake, we won't have a body left to bury. It's obvious. She killed herself." No one yet had said that aloud. Stern registered Peter's directness as a kind of discourtesy--too coarse, too blunt. But no part of him riled up in shock.

This was not, he said, the moment to cross swords with the police. They were, as usual, being idiotic, conducting some kind of homicide investigation. They might wish to speak next to him.

"Me? About what?"

"Your last conversations with your mother, I assume. I told them you were too distressed at the moment."

In his great misery, Peter broke forth with a brief, childish smile.

"Good," he said. Such a remarkably strange man. A peculiar moment passed between Stern and his son, a legion of things not understood.

Then he reminded Peter that they needed to call his sisters.

"Right," said Peter. A more sober cast came into his eye.

Whatever his differences with his father, he was.a faithful older brother.

Down the hall, Stern heard someone say, "The lieutenant's here." A large man ducked into the corridor, peering toward them. He was somewhere near Stern's age, but time seemed to have had a different effect on him.

He was large and broad, and like a farmer or someone who worked outdoors, he appeared to have maintained most of the physical strength of youth. He wore a light brown suit, a rumpled, synthetic garment, and a rayon shirt that hung loosely; when he turned around for a second, Stern could see an edge of shirttail trailing out beneath his jacket. He had a large rosy face and very little hair, a few thick gray clumps drawn across his scalp.

He dropped his chin toward Stern in a knowing fashion.

"Sandy," he said.

"Lieutenant," Stern answered. He had no memory of this man, except having seen him before. Some case. Some time. He was not thinking well at the moment.

"When you get a chance," the lieutenant said. Some confusion rose up between Stern and his son..

"You talk to him. I'll call," said Peter. "You know, Marta and Kate.

It's better from me."

With a sudden lucid turn, the kind of epiphanal instant he might have expected at a time of high distress, Stern recognized a traditional family drama taking place. As his children had marched toward adulthood, Peter had assumed a peculiar leadership in the family--he was the one to whom his sisters and mother often turned. He had forged intensive, secret bonds with each of them--Stern did not know how, because the same alliances were never formed with him.

This terrible duty, Stern realized, should be has, but the paths of weakness were well worn.

"Please say I shall speak to them soon."

"Sure." A certain reflective light had come over Peter; he leaned against the wall for an instant, absorbing it all, worn out by his own high emotions. "Life," he observed, "is full of surprises."

In Stern's den, the lieutenant was receiving a report from his officers.

Nogalski had come strolling up as Stern emerged from the hallway. The lieutenant wanted to know what the policemen had been doing. Nogalski spoke. The others knew they had no place to answer.