The Burden of Proof (36 page)

He would look like a tamed ruffian beside the lawyers as they spoke a language he could not understand.

His coat hung on him with an evident foreignness; his broad tie formed a hue knot and elevated the ,collar points on Remo's polyester shirt.

Remo's head would list slightly throughout, and his large rough hands would Cling to his sides pathetically, as if, like awkward sensors, they could feel the cold weight of the bars. Stern had seen Remo perform this routine before, and standing beside Sandy, he would break even the hardest heart.

Today he would get the chance. Moira Winchell had started out as a federal prosecutor, and went on to spend a number of years as a big-firm litigator, one of those lawyers who attended to complex civil lawsuits, trading Himalayan masses of documents and seldom bringing cases to trial. Ten years ago, she had been the first woman named a federal judge in this district; by now, she had been elevated by her colleagues to chief. Moira was rightfully celebrated as the triumphal conqueror of generations of discrimination.

But, alas, there was a reason Moira had succeeded when others had not.

She was a tough cookie. And the bench had made her tougher. Facing the manifold burdens of life as a federal judge--crowded dockets, churlish lawyers, middling pay, and almost unlimited power--some people did not respond well. They came to the bench thrilled by the acclaim of their peers and became, in a short period of time, as temperamental as Caligula. Moira Winchell was one of them --snappish, sarcastic, even, at moments, downright mean. Stern had tried cases against Moira years ago, during the time she was a prosecutor, and forged with her a relationship of mutual regard. More recently, the judge and her husband, Jason, a-law school professor, had passed occasional intermissions with Stern and Clara at the symphony. There, soothed by the music, Moira was amiable, if a little haughty. But in her courtroom she was harder than granite.

"Mr. Stern, where are we going with this matter?" From the substantial height of the dark bench, Judge Winchell addressed him as soon as the clerk called the case for status. She gave no apparent attention to Moses Appleton, the Assistant United States Attorney who Stood beside Stern on the shoulder opposite Remo. Moses, a young black man, was a crackerjack lawyer--he figured for great things--but the prosecutors, all of them, were like cigar store Indians to many of the judges: fungible young functionaries routinely clamoring for vengeance.

Stern promptly complained about the prosecution, claiming that they had not provided enough information on the case for him to determine whether it should be "resolved without trial," an oblique reference to a guilty plea.

Judge Winchell, who had heard it all before, motioned him silent. -In the large old courtroom, lawyers, each awaiting his or her turn at the podium, sat by the dozens on the dark-lacquered benches, attending to the judge like a reverent congregation and all the while registering legal fees in six-minute increments.

"Two weeks for the government to file a Rule 801 statement, supported by 302s and grand jury testimony. We'll set the trial for two weeks thereafter. No continuances. Give them a date," said Judge Winchell to her minute clerk, who sat almost at ground level, four feet below. The clerk, Wilbur, who took his cues from the judge, called out a date next month like anannouncement of doom.

Remo, beside Stern, spoke up for the first time. "So soon?" he whispered. "Hush," said Stern.

On the bench, Judge Winchell whipped her straight dark hair back over her shoulder.

"Mr. Stern, might I have a word with you?" She started down the stairway beside the bench and, as Stern approached, waved Appleton away.

He was unnerved. Stern knew what was coming.

"Sandy," said Moira Winchell, suddenly beside him at his height, "I was terribly sorry to hear about Clara. We all think of you." She placed her long hand on Stern's shoulder and gave him a level look of real sadness. He found himself oddly moved by the judge's sincerity. Here in the strong light of the courtroom, where Moira did not bother with makeup, Stern was impressed by the toll reflected in her features. Her pretty Irish face was deeply lined now; her eyes held no amusement. One tended to forget the earnestness that underlay all her efforts. The world watched her, she knew, waiting for a serious mistake.

"Your Honor is most kind."

"Call," she said. "We'll have lunch."

Then she drew her black robe around her 'again as she ascended to her superior place. Her face was already wrinkled with its familiar look of irritation. More lawyers. More disputes. More decisions. Onward.

Both Appleton and Remo had waited a few feet away. "Moses," said Stern in the corridor, "I shall speak with you." Then he led Remo into the attorneys' room, a serene chamber with ancient oak desks and black-and-white photos of various judges of the court of decades past, all floured with dust and askew on the wall. Stern quickly summarized what had occurred. The judge would soon demand a final decision about whether Remo would plead guilty. Stern, again, urged him to proceed to trial, but Remo was clearly indifferent to this advice.

"This here thing," Remo said, "is Friday time. You know what I mean?"

Stern did not. He shook his head.

"What's your religion?" asked Remo. "Catholic, right?"

Stern shook his head once more. With his Latin accent, he had long found that Remo's mistake was often made. After all these years, he was certain that it would shock poor Remo to learn the truth. But Remo made no further inquiry.

He was caught up with what he was saying.

"See, in the Roman Catholic religion, for all the time I was growin up, the priests say, No meat on Friday, don't eat meat on Friday. You know?

Fish, that's okay. Jell-O mold, that's okay. But no meat. See, but guys done it.

Lotsa guys. Sometimes you'd slipup or somethin, you know.

You'd be eatin a steak, then you'd think like, Jesus, what day is this? Sometimes it'd be on purpose. I remember, when I was at St. Viator's, there's a group a us, we'd go for burgers just on Fridays. We'd sit in a booth in the window and wave to the Sisters when they went walkin by.

I'm not kiddin." Remo laughed to himself, and wobbled his large dark face. "Oh, we was bad.

"Then all the sudden the priests change their minds. See? it's okay now. Have whatever you like, no problem. But what happened to all the guys who's down bumin in hell for eatin meat 'on Fridays, huh? You think they let them out? I asked the Father, you know, cause I'm wonderin. I asked, Those guys get out or what? Oh no, he says.

God's ,rules is God's rules. You don't fuck with them. You know. I mean, he don't say you don't fuck with them, but you get what I'm sayin.

"So that's this here thing--it's Friday time. It's bullshit. I didn't do notbin. Honest to God, I cross my heart, it wasn't my job. You know, I heard about this thing, so I shown up and all, I figured could be I'd get a piece.

"But maybe these guys and I, maybe we done some things before. See? So that's how it works out. It's Friday time, on account of what we done before. So what can you do?"

Remo shifted his large shoulders and raised his hands. He did not control God's universe; he merely understood a few of its rules. In his mild brown eyes the look of conviction was deep. Stern, inclined to quarrel, stifled himself.

Behind Remo he saw Sonia Klonsky, burdened with numerous case files, drifting by. He called after her and quickly shook hands with his client, leaving behind the one man in the courthouse who had no doubts about justice.

"I must have a word with you about Margy Allison," he said, coming abreast of her. Klonsky had apparently spent a typical morning for a trial Assistant: shifting between courtrooms, leaving messages with the clerks and other 'young prosecutors so that her cases, up for status or motions, could be passed while she ran between court calls.

Stern attempted to complain about the govemment's conduct in not serving him with Margy's subPena,-but she showed no remorse.

"You knew what our position was." Klonsky strolled ahead, intent on her next court appearance. "Who's going to be her lawyer?"

"Is she a subject?"

"Not at present."

"Then I intend to represent her."

Klonsky was prepared for this, too. "Stan thinks there's a risk of conflict."

"Can you explain that?"

"No."

"Then you may thank the United States Attorney for his ethical vigilance on my behalf and inform him that I shall be Ms. Allison's lawyer." His smile was personable; he meant to be firm, not snippy. "May I ask, as Margy's counsel, a few questions?"

"If you insist."

"What do you wish from her?"

"Some documents." Klonsky smiled but did not slow her pace.

"Some questions. I have to go to Pivin." She Pointed to the courtroom of Judge Albert Pivin, seventy-eight years old and still presiding over an active calendar. Stern followed her inside, but the clerk saw her and called her case immediately and Stern went outside to wait across the hall from the courtroom doors. Emerging a few minutes later, she greeted him with a somewhat rankled look. Apparently, she had thought she was free of him.

"Sandy, look. Personally, I don't care what I tell you. But you know how Stan gets. He's running a tight ship."

Stern followed her to the cloakroom, where she retrieved a light raincoat, then proceeded down the central alabaster stairCase of the courthouse. Her business here was apparently concluded.

"Whaustice.

"I must have a word with you about Margy Allison," he said, coming abreast of her. Klonsky had apparently spent a typical morning for a trial Assistant: shifting between courtrooms, leaving messages with the clerks and other 'young prosecutors so that her cases, up for status or motions, could be passed while she ran between court calls.

Stern attempted to complain about the govemment's conduct in not serving him with Margy's subPena,-but she showed no remorse.

"You knew what our position was." Klonsky strolled ahead, intent on her next court appearance. "Who's going to be her lawyer?"

"Is she a subject?"

"Not at present."

"Then I intend to represent her."

Klonsky was prepared for this, too. "Stan thinks there's a risk of conflict."

"Can you explain that?"

"No."

"Then you may thank the United States Attorney for his ethical vigilance on my behalf and inform him that I shall be Ms. Allison's lawyer." His smile was personable; he meant to be firm, not snippy. "May I ask, as Margy's counsel, a few questions?"

"If you insist."

"What do you wish from her?"

"Some documents." Klonsky smiled but did not slow her pace.

"Some questions. I have to go to Pivin." She Pointed to the courtroom of Judge Albert Pivin, seventy-eight years old and still presiding over an active calendar. Stern followed her inside, but the clerk saw her and called her case immediately and Stern went outside to wait across the hall from the courtroom doors. Emerging a few minutes later, she greeted him with a somewhat rankled look. Apparently, she had thought she was free of him.

"Sandy, look. Personally, I don't care what I tell you. But you know how Stan gets. He's running a tight ship."

Stern followed her to the cloakroom, where she retrieved a light raincoat, then proceeded down the central alabaster stairCase of the courthouse. Her business here was apparently concluded.

"What exactly is it Stan Sennett has told you about me?"

"Oh, don't be like that. He has a great deal of respect for you.

Everybody there does. You know that. Frankly, he looked very concerned the first time I told him you were involved in this case. I'm'not supposed to admit that, am I?"

"Oh, Mr. Sennett has no fear of me," said Stern. "Old prosecutors merely love to praise their opponents. It adds immeasurably to the thrill of victory." This gallantry, of course, was intended for the U. S.

Attorney's consumption.

Like all men lacking self-confidence, Sennett was easily flattered and the South American in Stern was always alert to appease those in power.

Klonsky was laughing out loud.

"Come on," she said. "We're just taking you as seriously as we should."

She pushed out the doors of the courthouse.

Spring was in its finale, the winds still sweet and the air light, just before it took on the burdens of summer.

"What you are doing," said Stern, "is limiting the information I receive, in order to protect your informant."

From her look, he could tell she felt he was trying to bait her. She did not answer.

"Please," said Stern. He took her by the arm momentarily.

"I must ask you one or two more questions about Margy.

Allow me to buy you coffee. I did not eat breakfast." He pointed to a little restaurant on the corner called Duke's,' and to his surprise she came along without complaint. He meant what he said--he was hungry--and he found Ms. Klonsky, in spite of himself, pleasant and challenging company. Primarily, of course, he hoped that in a more amiable atmosphere she might be less resolute about guarding America's secrets.