The Burden of Proof (61 page)

At moments during the week, he actually indulged the thought that Dixon might not be involved. He had been in New York late that night, Dixon insisted. He had gone to his meeting. How could he have swiped a safe?

What about the maintenance people, he asked, the late-night cleaneruppers? They all had keys. Maybe one of them had noticed the safe after it was moved and decided to carry the thing off, hoping it contained real valuables. The notion, although preposterous, was urged by Dixon relentlessly.

Trying to resolve every last doubt, Stern, despite his warnings to himself, offhandedly mentioned the safe to Silvia, in the midst of their daily conversation on Wednesday.

"Oh, that," she said with sudden exasperation. "You would never believe what went on here." She proceeded to describe a scene last week involving Dixon and Rory, theft driver.

Silvia, recovering from jet lag, had apparently been roused from a sound sleep by the two figures who stood at the closet arguing. The driver, with a heavy German accent, had spoken to Dixon severely, warning him that he was out of breath and should leave the lifting to him, while Silvia sat up in bed, clutching the sheet to her chest, addressing both men, who, she said, ignored her. Dixon was swearing, fuming, carrying on in a violent temper about Stern. He had gone off to the airport to rent a private jet. "Sender, whatever is going on between you two?" Stern, who always had an easy time putting Silvia off, did so again. A business disagreement, he told her. Upon reflection, he said it would be best if she made no mention to Dixon of his call. His sister hung on the line, troubled and confounded, caught between the North Pole and the South, the two men who dominated her life. Resting the phone, Stern again regretted havingacted impulsively. For one thing, he recognized only now that his conversation with his sister was probably not privileged. He sat scolding himself, while he contemplated the law's obliviousness to family affection. In the worst case, Stern would face ugly choices when he was called before the grand jury: implicating Dixon and abusing Silvia's confidence or, on the other hand, disregarding the oath.

What a trial Dixon could have, Stern thought suddenly.

First, his daughter's husband would incriminate Dixon; then the government would call Stern himself. Under the compulsion of a court order to respond, he would describe Dixon's ape-walk with the safe and its disappearance shortly after. Then, for the coup de grace, the prosecutors would try to find an exception to the marital privilege in order to force Silvia to testify about the safe, too. How Stan Sennett would enjoy it. The entire Stern family versus Dixon Hart-nell. Looking down at the phone, Stern shuddered. It would breach the faith of a lifetime to testify against a eliera, any client, let alone Dixon, whatever he was.

Stern had come of age in the state courts. There in the dim hallways lit with schoolhouse fixtures, with the old wainscoring beating the intaglio of hundreds of teenagers' inirials, with the crotchety political retainers, who displayed an almost pathetic craving for any form of gratuity, he felt at ease. That was a scene of royal characters: Zeb Mayal, the bail bondsman and ward committeeman who, late into the 1960s, still sat in open view at a desk in one branch courtroom issuing instructions to everyone present, including many of the judges called to preside; Wally McTavish, the deputy p.a. who would crossexamine the defendants in death-penalty cases by sneaking close to them and whispering, "Bzzz" and of course the rogues, the thieves--Louie De Vivo, for one, who planted a time bomb in his own car in an effort to distract the judge at his sentencing. Oh God, he loved them, loved them. A staid man, a man of little courage when it came to his own behavior, Stern felt an aesthete's appreciation for the knavishness, the guile, the selfish cleverness of so many of these people who made it possible to embrace human misbehavior for its own miserable creativity.

The federal courts, whi6h were now in a fashion his home, were a more solemn place. This was the foram preferred by the lawyers with fancy law school degrees and prominent clients, and admittedly, it was a more ideal place to practice law. The judges had the time and the inclination to consider the briefs filed before them. Here, unlike the state courts, it was a rarity for lawyers to engage in fistfights in the halls. The clerks and marshals were genial and, in proud contradistinction to their colleagues in the county courthouse, incorruptible. But Stern never left behind the feeling that he was an intruder. He had won his place of prominence across town, watching his backside, avoiding, whenever possible, the questionable dealings in the corridors, proving over time that skill and cleverness could prevail, even in that brass-knuckles arena, and he still felt that he belonged there, where the real lawyers of his definition were--in the Kindle County Courthouse, with its grimy corridors. and pathetic rococo columns.

These thoughts of one more fugitive border crossed came to Stern in the idle moments before the commencement of the afternoon session in Moira Winchell's courtroom. Remo Cavarelli, cowed and silent, sat beside Stern, biting anxiously at his sloppy mustache and upper lip, Notwithstanding Remo's agitation, the indulgent somnolescent air of the early afternoon had fallen over the courtroom. Judge Win-cheil, like her colleagues, allowed an hour and a half for lunch--time enough for wine with the meal, a screw on the sneak, a run for the athletic. Then, without warning, a door flew open and Judge Winchell stalked from her chambers and assumed the bench, as Stern and Appleton and Remo and the few elderly spectators came to their feet.

Wilbur, the sad-faced clerk, called Reino's case for trial.

In spite of Stern's frequent reassurances that nothing would actually transpire today, Stern could feel Remo quaking at his side. Wilbur already knew there would be a motion for a continuance, and no jury had been summoned.

"Defendant is ready for trial," said Stern, for the sake of the record, as soon as he reached the podium.

Appleton, Stern knew, was not. He was trying a two-pound buy-bust cocaine case before Judge Horka and would need another week or so before he was ready to go on to this case. With an Assistant less cordial than Moses, Stern might have fussed--there were, after all, .fifty other prosecutors down the street who could try this matter--but he listened in silence to Appleton's request, adding merely, "I object," at the conclusion of Moses's presentation, a remark which Judge Winchell ignored with the studied indifference she would have applied to a stray sound from the hall.

"How's next Thursday?" asked the judge. "I have a grand jury matter that may require some attention, but that's all." The judge, marking in her docket book, let her dark eyes find Stern. "Mr. Stern," she said with practiced discretion, "as I recall, you have some involvement with that matter. Have the parties resolved their impasse?"

"Not as yet, Your Honor."

"Oh," said the judge, "how disappointing." The arch mannerisms did not conceal the predictable: Moira was displeased.

Klonsky had called Stern first thing that morning. 'I don't have your daughter's number in New York. I thought we better talk. You're in the grand jury next Thursday." It was Friday today.

Her voice still stimulated wild feelings. How goes it with your husband? he wanted to ask. How do you feel? He read out Marta's number from his book.

'Has the government reconsidered, perhaps?"

'We'll compromise,' said Sonny. 'You deliver the safe and an affidavit that says that it's in the same condition as when you received it, and you won't have to appear before the grand jury." .

'I see." The government, as usual, would get everything it wanted, but their moderated stance would please the judge.

'I think this is fair, Sandy,' said Sonny. 'I really do.

The fact that you have the safe just isn't privileged. All we want is the safe and to know that we have everything that was in it. We'd be entitled to get the thing if he'd left it at MD, where it belonged. We can't allow someone to avoid a subpoena duces tecum by conveying what we want to his lawyer."

Even if he had the safe, Stern might not have agreed, but there was no point in quarreling now. Speaking with Sonny, in fact, made him unbearably sad. The whole situation--all aspects--was impossible.

Stern called Marta to pass on this news, and then at her suggestion drafted a motion to withdraw as Dixon's counsel.

It was a simple paper, stating that there were irreconcilable differences between lawyer and client. He sent it to Dixon by messenger just before he left-to meet Remo, along with a note saying that he would file the motion next Tuesday, Unless the point of difference between them was immediately resolved. The motion was not actually required in a grand jury proceeding, but Dixon would not realize that, and Marta believed it would be an appropriate prelude with Judge Winchell.

Considering the judge now, as Appleton went on begging for more time, it was clear that some groundwork was in order.

When Stern rejected the prosecutors' compromise, offered none of his own, and simply refused to produce the safe-his latest plan--Moira's reaction would be severe. Standing here, Stern saw admirable prescience in Marta's prediction of jail.

The judge made Moses plead miserably, but ultimately set Remo's case down for trial the first week in August.

"And work on that other matter, won't you, Mr. Stern?" she said as she rose from the bench. There, from that considerable height, she smiled in her icy, domineering way, a person accustomed to being obeyed.

In the corridor, Remo again began to quarrel with Stern as soon as they were alone. He was still dead-set against a "How much more is she gonna give me if I take a trial?"

Remo asked. "With this babe," he said, "I could catch a real whack."

Stern again played Remo the music: If he was convicted, he was going to the penitentiary for a lengthy period, in any event, guilty plea or not': The evidence, all factors considered, warranted proceeding to trial.

"Yeahi but what's it cost?" asked Remo. "You don't work for nothin, right?"

That, Stern allowed, was true.

"Sure," said Remo. "Right. No one works for notbin." So what I gotta give you? Five, maybe?" When Stern hesitated, Remo's dark eyes widened.

"More? See. Iain' been doin much as it is. You know, few months now, there ain' much." Stern had no idea whether Remo was referring to legitimate endeavors or not, and by long habit was disinclined to ask.

From other remarks, he took it that Remo's routine at present was confined to visiting the neighborhood social clubs, drinking aperitifs from eleven in the morning on, and playing backroom card games, throwing down money with great show and cursing in Italian. "What's the odds in that? I go way," said Remo, "there ain't notbin as there is for the old lady and the kid. And I give you five?" Remo had settled the matter of fee with himself. "I don't see it. Neh," he said, then furtively smiled. He stepped closer to Stern and whispered, the trace of Frangelico or something else still on his breath from his idle morning.

"Course," he said with a lively look of amusement, "if you had a job or somethin, we could maybe work it out. You know."

Stern peered at Remo.

"You know: Do me, I'll do you. You know. No offense or nothin. You probably ain't that kind of guy." Remo was not at all certain what he had otten himself into or how to read Stern's expression of almost brutal concentration. "No offense," said Remo again. "Right?"

ON Saturday night, Stern returned home prepared for another desolate evening. He was beginning to give in to old habits and was once more spending the weekends in the office, trying to swim through the ocean of items neglected for months. He had spoken with Silvia this morning and with spurious innocence asked what their weekend held in store.

As he had predicted to Remo, she and Dixon would spend both days at the country club. He refused the invitation to join them; legal work called. With whatever honor he retained, he declined to be more specific about his plans. Besides, he was still not certain he really had the nerve to carry through.

Alone now, facing his empty house, he thought with considerable regret of the invitations he had spurned in April and May. Many people now believed Helen had first call on his time. He would have to send up smoke signals or whatever signs were used by a widower willing to sit at dinner beside the aging malden cousin. Disheartening, he thought, but better than lonely solitude. He opened the car door and recalled in a dizzying rash that two weeks ago he had believed he was in love.

With a foot in the drive, he stopped. Nate Cawley was across the smooth of expanse of lawn between the two homes, tending to his garden.

Shirtless in the balmy evening. Nate drove a shovel energetically in the beds of his evergreens.

Stern, taken aback, wondered if he truly had the will to deal with this, too. But the moment for decision passed quickly. Nate became aware of his gaze and Stern rose from the auto and the two men faced each other across the short distance. They met a step or two onto the Cawley property.

"Thought maybe I could get you to make me a drink," said Nate.

Involuntarily perhaps, he glanced over his shoulder in the direction of his house and, presumably, Fona. He was glazed with sweat:Grass clippings and specks of dirt clung to the patchy gray hair on his upper body; both hands were caked with dried soil. He briefly developed the courage to look at Stern directly. "Fiona and I had quite a conversation a few nights ago. We probably oughta talk."