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

heart.
    Family, he thought, with despair.
    FOUR days after the funeral, Stern returned to the office.
    He wore no tie, a means to signify that he was not formally present. He would look at the mall, answer questions. What was the term? Touch base. He had occupied this space for nearly a decade and had cultivated it with almost the same attention as his home. Small as it might be, this was Stern's empire, and there was inevitably some tonic effect in the electronic chatter of the telephones and business machines, the energetic movements of the dozen people he employed. Not, of course, today. The office, like everything else, seemed flattened, depleted, less color, less music. Entering through the back door, he stood by the desk of Claudia, his secretary, as he considered his lost universe. He looked for something hopeful in the mail.
    "Mr. Hartnell is here."
    The agents-, as promised, had arrived with the subpoena yesterday. Over the phone, Stern had dictated a letter to prosecutor Klonsky, stating that he represented Dixon and his company, and directing the government to contact Stern if it wanted to speak with anyone who worked for MD--a request the government would inevitably not follow. Then Stern had summoned Dixon for this meeting. His brother-inlaw waited in Stern's office, his feet on the sofa, the Tribune open before him, while he smoked one of Stern's cigars. His sport coat--double-breasted, with its many glittering buttons--had been tossed aside, and his thick forearms, still dark from an island vacation, were revealed. He rose and welcomed Stern to his own office.
    "I made myself at home."
    "Of course." Stern apologized for being late, then, removing his sport coat, surveyed. Given his trip to Chicago, it had been more than a week' since he had been here, but it all looked the same. He was not sure if he was comforted or horrified by the constancy. Stern's office was decorated in cream-colored tones. Clara had insisted on hiring someone's favorite interior decorator, and the result, Stern often thought, would have been more appropriate to the bedroom of some sophisticated adolescent. There was a sofa with plush pillows, pull-up chairs in the same nubby .beige material, and drapes to match. Behind his desk was an English cabinet of dark walnut--a recent addition and more Stern's taste but his desk was not a desk at all, rather four chromed standards topped by an inch-thick slab of smoky glass. Stern, years later, was still not accustomed to looking down and seeing the soft expanse of his lap. Now he was at liberty to refurnish. The thought came to him plainly. and he closed his eyes and made a small sound. He reached for a pad.
    "What is this about, Dixon? Have you any idea?" Dixon shook his large head. "I'm really not sure." Dixon did not say he did not know. Only that he was not certain. Using the intercom, Stern asked Claudia to get Assistant United States Attorney Klonsky on the phone. She had left a number of phone messages, and Stern wanted to arrange an extension of the date when they would have to comply with her subpoena.
    "We must answer certain questions at the threshold, Dixon.
    What are they investigating? Who is it they seek to prosecute? Is it, in particular, you?"
    "Do you think this thing's about me?"
    "Probably," said Stern evenly.
    Dixon did not flinch, but he took his cigar from his mouth and very carefully removed the ash. He finally made a sound, quiet and mininative.
    "This is a subpoena duces tecum, Dixon--a request for records.
    Ordinarily, the government would not send two agents to serve it. The prosecutors were attempting to deliver a message."
    "They want to scare the shit out of me."
    "As you would have it." Stern nodded. "I imagine they felt you would soon hear of the investigation. No doubt, had I not intervened, the agents would have sought to interrogate you while you were carrying on."
    Dixon mulled. He was so full of himself that one seldom gave full credit to Dixon's subtlety. He