The Burden of Proof by Scott Turow Read Free Book Online Page A

agent of the FBI.
    Dixon was still carrying on. Stern by now had seized the paper from his hand and bulled Dixon a few steps farther back into the foyer. Then he briefly examined the grand jury subpoena. All as usual: a printed form embossed with the court seal. It was directed to Dixon Hartnell, Chairman MD Holdings, and commanded his appearance before a United States grand jury here, four days from now, at 2 P. M.
    Investigation 89-86. Attached was a long list of documents Dixon was to have in hand. The initials of Sonia Klonsky, the Assistant United States Attorney, appeared at the bottom of the page.
    "I refuse to allow this to take place," said Stern. Half a foot shorter than the agents, he maintained, in rage, the erect bearing of a martinet. "If you call my office next week, I shall accept service there. But not at this time." I require you to leave. Immediately. You may tell Assistant United States Attorney Klonsky that I deplore these tactics and shall not abide them." Stern opened the front door.
    Horn was past forty. He looked like all the other FBI agents, with a cheap sport coat and a carefully trimmed haircut, but there was a weathered, leathery look to the skin about his eyes: too much sun, or alcohol: He had a bad reputation, the wrong type of agent, a petty tyrant full of resentments.
    "No, sir," he said, He gestured toward the subpoena, which Stern had returned to its envelope and was now extending toward him. "That sucker is served."
    "If you file a return of service with the court, I shall move to have you both held in contempt." It occurred to Stern vaguely that this threat was ludicrous, but he gave no ground. "Have you no idea of the nature of this occasion?"
    Horn made no move. For a moment, none of the four men moved. Marta had crept to the edge of the living room and watched in grim amazement."
    "We are preparing to depart for a funeral," Stern said at last. He pointed out the front windows to the mortuary limousine and the driver in his dead-black suit. "Of Mr. Hartnell's sister-in-law," said Stern.
    "My wife."
    The second agent, a younger man with blond hair, straightened up.
    "I didn't know that," he said, then turned to Horn. "Did you know that?"
    Horn stared at Stern.
    "I know I can't seem to get a call back from Dixon Harmell.
    That's what I know," Horn said. "I know I come by the front door and he's gone out the back."
    "I'm .sorry," the younger agent said. He touched his chest.
    "All I knew was they said this was where we could find him." The agents, thwarted, had undoubtedly employed their usual techniques. A pretext call, as they referred to it."This is the Bank of Boston. We have a problem with a million-dollar wire transfer for Mr. Hartnell. Where can we find him?" The courts for decades had allowed the use of this kind of adolescent cunning.
    "Hey," said Horn to his colleague, "shit happens." He took the subpoena without looking at Stern. Then Horn tapped the envelope. "-This guy'll be in your office Monday morning, nine sharp."
    Stern applied both hands to the front door to close it behind the agents. Peter had drawn Marta away, but Dixon remained in the foyer. He had lit a cigarette and was grinning. "Got you fired up, didn't they?"
    "How long have they been trying to serve you, Dixon?"
    Dixon meditatively watched a plume of smoke drift away. He was always disturbed when Stern saw through him.
    "Elise says men have been calling for a week or two. I didn't know what it was about," said Dixon. "Honestly., His mouth shifted as Stern looked at him. "I really wasn't sure. That's one of the things I've been meaning to talk with you about."
    "Ah, Dixon," said Stern. It was unbelievable. A man who earned $2 million last year, who called himself a business leader, creeping down the back halls and thinking he could hide from the FBI. Stern put one foot on the stairwell, trying to focus on the enormous task at hand. He needed his coat. It was time, he told himself. Time. He was dizzy and faint at