The Burden of Proof

CAPSULE FIVE TIMES DAILY, IF NEEDED.

/hen the thought came to him, stem's face shot around o Fiona.

"Does Nate ake these pills?"

She shrugged. "I'd imagine. This is his medicine cabinet.

'What are they?"

"Acyclovir," answered Stern, pronouncing it just as Peter had when he explained that the drug was often successful in reducing the active period of the infection. The herpes iinfection. Dr. Nate had prescribed for himself.

She reached for the bottle, and Stern, without thinking, pulled it farther away. The prescription was dated two days before Clara's death He shook the container. Almost empty.

Wrenching off the cap, he spilled the contents onto a piece of tissue and counted six capsules remaining. Sev-enty-nine consumed. Stern contemplated'the numbers: Nate was taking these pills more than a week and a half after Clara's death. He stared down at the little yellow capsules 'with an unremitting intensity. The brand name of the drug was pnnted right on them.

Fiona spoke to him again, "Sandy, what is this for?" Oh yes, thought Stern. He had known this, had he not? It was all right here before him. Nate's lying, all his dodging and running-they were classic signs. There was clearly something Nate wanted neither discovered nor discussed. And it was here. Right here. Not simply what had ailed Clara." But the fact that Nate, who went on serenely consuming these capsules after she was laid to rest, had spread the disease. It had taken a real act of will, a high-minded deliberate obdurateness, not to recognize Nate's role.

After all, there had been obvious opportunities for initiation of this dalliance. 'Please remove your clothes and put on the smock. Doctor will be with you in a moment." A man aS. wrathfully henpecked as Nate would probably find Clara's quiet, inscrutable bearing irresistible.

Yes, and it still seemed, still-if he could claim he knew anything about this woman's nature-that anything of this character with Clara would have required time, exposure, trust, a gradual erosion. It was inevitably someone she knew well.

Oh, yes. Nate had visited Clara in the mornings, Fiona had said long ago.

"Sandy," said Fiona, "for Godsake. What are the pills' for?"

He continued to hold the bottle in his hand and he looked again at the label. The woman, he supposed, was entitled to know'.

"Herpes," he said.

"Her-pes," said Fiona. Her jaw flew open and she stepped six inches back. "Why, that son of a bitch." With a sudden snuffling sound, Fiona, as unpredictably as last time, began to cry.

"Let us sit down a moment." Stern swept up the pills. and replaced the bottle on a shelf within Nate's cabinet. Then Stern steered Fiona around the corner into the bedroom, and sat with her on the edge of the Cawleys' perfectly made bed. The milored spread was of a heavy mauve material, welted on the edges. Fiona was attempting to recover. She dabbed the backs of both hands at the heavy purple shadow over her eyes.

Stern extended an arm in comfort, and she laid her narrow body against him for a moment, bringing close the rosy odor of her various perfumes.

As soon as his hand was clapped across the thin cap of her shoulder, he had the first inkling. He had no notion from where the idea came. Some vicious instinct, he supposed, although it seemed that the plan had been present, unformed, for some time.

Fiona got up to find a tissue, but sat down again beside him on the bed.

"Herpes," she muttered to herself. Stern, from the corner of his eye, could see the barest trace of a smile as the clear thought crossed Fiona's mind: Served him right. Served the bastard right. Then she looked at Stern directly.

"Am I going to catch this?;' "I am afraid that it depends."

"On what?"

"Your contact."

"Contact?" Fiona did not get it and looked at him with irfitation.

Stern awaited the fight words. Oh dear, this was difficult.

Divorce lawyers must ask all the time. Probably, they were crude and direct. 'When was the last time you let him plug you, honey?"

"I do not mean to be indelicate-"

"Are you talking about our sex life, Sandy?"

"Just so."

"Not much."

"I see."

"It's not as if I don't like it, Sandy, I do," she added quickly, fearing, as always, the poor judgment of others.

"But you know how that can get. I haven't let him come near me since I saw that thing." She gestured toward the floor, the family room, the television set. "Not that he seemed to care."

"And when was that, Fiona?"

"March?" She dipped a shoulder. "I don't take notes, Sandy."

"No, of course not."

"Frankly, I think he'd given up trying by then. He gets like that." She smiled again, grimly.

Stern imagined that Nate had given up long before. He had his own predicament. Not that it was much excuse.

Nonetheless, here in Fiona's precise bedroom, Stern was overcome by the mystery` of anyone's marriage. It was like culture or prehistory-a billion unwritten understandings, Nate and Fiona. What an unlikely couple, he mild and casual, and she so severe. She was always pretty, however.

Her good looks must have mattered to Nate, been his pride.

His treasure was at home while he went tomcatting all over: the neighborhood, catching infections and fucking every.body's wife-Stern's wife, too. The recognition brought him to a kind of momentary delirium.

Always reluctant to consciously anger, he felt drilled by the urge for revenge, high and mighty, powerful as a prizefighter. The thought f fever. Was he really capable of this? Oh, yes. He felt excited, inspired, and nasty.

"So am I?" asked Fiona. "Going to catch this?"

"I see little chance of that, Fiona, given what you describe."

She pondered. "I suppose I should be grateful he left me alone."

Still seated beside her, Stern slowly said, "I should say he did a great injustice, Fiona."

Her head listed to a dubious angle, as if he had gone loony. Stern smiled bravely.

"A great injustice," he repeated and gradually lifted his hand. He grasped the top button of Fiona's knit dress and leaned over to kiss the brown area at the top of her chest.

She drew back at once. But she was smiling. "San-dy,'? she said..

His own look was intent; he meant serious business. He opened the button he had grasped and pulled the garment back slightly to caress her again.

"Oh, my," said Fiona, and laughed out loud. "I don't believe this."

Fiona, it seemed, found it hard to contain herself; this was screamingly funny. The choices here, he; knew, were entirely his own. She would not stop him. Fiona was a weak person. Her only resilience was in her brittleness of character, but she had no convictions. Taken by surprise, she would laugh her way along, not knowing what else to do.

And he? How did he feel now? Odd, very odd, my American friends. Oh, this was wild and improbable and absurd. But sexual dating was more exciting than flying. He quietly touched her breast and felt blessedly, remarkably, fantastically, that he was no longer himself.

He opened another button and pulled her brassiere down. Her breast, small and white, seemed as startling as a fish darting by in water, and he bent to kiss her on the small button of her nipple-Someone was looking at him!

On the bedside, Stern jolted. He actually found himself standing halfway, his arms raised defensively. The collie, cowed, had also jumped back, dragging its front paws, but did not utter a sound.

When he looked back, Fiona had risen and stood directly before him; her brassiere remained pushed down, so that her white breast looked like a package partly unwrapped. When he met her glance, something happened-perhaps his fear, even momentary, had dissuaded her, or, more simply, time had brought her back to herself. But he saw a point of contraction sharpening in her eyes, and then her hann moved. He knew what was coming but it seemed undignified to defend himself. There was a flash of pain as she struck him open-handed on the side of the face, and he felt instantly that one of his front teeth, which had knocked together, might have chipped.

"You're not any better than he is," said Fiona. "You son of a bitch."

Her back to him, she fiddled with her clothing. He felt obliged to respond, but for the time being was not capable.

He sat on the bedside again, suddenly melting in shame.

"Forgive me," he said. "Jesus," said Fiona.

He was going to tell her she was an attractive woman, but that sounded the wrong note.

"i was overcome," said Stern instead, one of his usual ambiguous formulations. "YOu were taking advantage." This thought, when ut-'tered, caused her, with as little warning as usual, to cry once more. She sat down in a white wicker chair by the window and crushed the ball of tissue to the center of her face. She'd found her drink, and she drained it for comfort, then stood, probably wanting another.

She gave Stern a fiery look--one more unspoken curse-but, without further words, departed. The collie loped along behind her as she disappeared down the hall.Listening to her clump down the stairs, he looked up at the Cawleys' bedroom ceiling. Cobwebs hung from the stylish fixture. Oh God, he was full of loathing and self-reproach.

He had that underwater feeling of being very drunk, so that he knew it would be even worse whenever the adrenaline passed and a feeling of normality returned:. What in the world could he have been thinking? Oh, he was going to despise himself. He did already.

He walked over to the chair Fiona had sat in. Through the mullioned window, he could see his own house. In the twenty years he had lived here, he had never viewed it from this angle, and he looked down for some time on the variegated slate roof of thebedroom wing, taken by the sight. When he recogfflzed the gable of his own room, he actually tried to imagine Nate and Clara enwrapped about each other there, but the image, mercifully, refused to flourish.

What about the money? he thought suddenly. What in God's name did Nate need with 850,000 bucks? But Fiona had given him the answer to that weeks ago: for years she had threatened Nate with financial ruin as the cost of a divorce. She would fight like a terrier for every penny, for the sheer sake of vengeance. But with Clara's fortune squir-reled away, Nate could afford Fiona's wrath. Did that mean there was a pact between them, Nate and Clara? Were they each to abandon their spouses? Did she mean to leave Stern lonesome, wandering-the way he was?

Downstairs, he heard the front door slam. Fiona was gone-perhaps to take a drunken drive about the city, rattling on to herself about the viciousness of men; or simply to give him a moment to slink off in shame. The collie, deserted by his mistress, trotted back into the room. The animal tilted its head, gazing with luminous greenish eyes.

Imagine the dog's life, always on the seeming verge of comprehension.

This time, with the new thought, Stern was unable to move.

This truly was Clara's legacy to him, instants of horror as he made out the hidden forms in the mess she left behind.

In his line of work, he was always attempting to puzzle out precisely what had occurred in the past. The participants, clients or government witnesses, rarely provided reliable accounts. They were knocked off course by winds of fear, blame-shifting, self-justification. But occasionally, as he worked over a case, Stern himself would recognize what had happened. A word, here or there, a piece of paper. The jigsawed pieces fit.

Weak and light-headed, he had the same sensation now. Poor Clara. Now he understood. She had bestowed her enormous gift as the groundwork of whatever plan she and Nate had laid and, only after that, had learned the nature of her new medical predicament. Perhaps it was the first Nate knew of the problem. But in the circumstance he would have had no choice but to admit his other interest-probably the young lady in the video downstairs. Infidelity among the unfaithful. Oh, yes. Stern saw it now. What a drama. It was as tragic as Madama Butterfly. Bilked.

Jilted. Diseased.

Shame and loss at every window, every door, the future an endless refraction of ugly events: a husband's wroth, a lover's departure, and the excruciating knowledge of a fortune squandered in order to buy her boyfriend the freedom he intended to spend in other pursuits. What humiliationS: L'fice a heroine of myth, Clara had lost everything through pride and desire. Sitting now on Fiona's expensive bedspread, Stern placed one hand over his heart; it felt rough and sore, pumping away within his chest.

He would have to call Cal. At once. What a story this would be to tell. Lawyer Hopkinson would drill another hole in his head. Stern wanted the papers drawn now. With the check, Nate was in a tricky position. His plan from the start must have been to hold it in order to hide the funds from Fiona and her divorce lawyer. But now, with Clara's death, with bankers and executors, with probate, he would have to move, fearing that someone might soon learn of the transaction and attempt to see it undone. The day Nate found the nerve to present his check, Stern would sue.

There would be smoke and fragments everywhere. He would grind Nate Cawley like a seed beneath a stone.

In this burst of vicious impulse, Stern was smitten suddenly, overpoweringly, with the sensation of how preposterous this was. None of this had occurred. He thought that clearly. Any second, groping for the switch, he would find the light and see where he really was. But, when he turned about, the collie was tm!y there, still watching, and the house he had lived in for twenty years was out the window, viewed at this angle from which he had never seen it before. His lip was beginning to thicken and welt from the impact of one of Fiona's rings.

He found his way down, closed the dog in the kitchen, and then, feeling that something he could never recall was utterly lost, let himself out the door.

For him, the most evocative memories of their courtship were of the times he sat in the parlor of the Mittler home while Clara played the piano. Her soft reddish hair followed just behind the occasional downward movements of her head; her eyes were fast upon the keyboard, or closed, as she turned herself over to the music. Her high intelligence sang through the instrument. The first time she performed for him, he had no idea what to say. He had come to the door to collect her and she invited him to step inside a moment. Neither of her parents was home and apparently she felt free to show him about. "My piano," she said.

He asked her to play, and instead of demurring as he expected, she set herself free. He sat on the red plush divan in his scarf and overcoat, utterly ignorant of the music, but overcome by the conviction with which she struck the keys. He admired her intensely.

"Magnificent," he said.

She stood shyly beside the instrument, absorbing his praise.

They went then to the show. The movie-he still remembered-was the subject of some excitement. Marty. The story of this lonely, inept man, full of longing, stirred Stern.

That was him, him! Afterwards, walking to George Murray' s Chevy, parked far down the block,, he recognized that Clly, overpoweringly, with the sensation of how preposterous this was. None of this had occurred. He thought that clearly. Any second, groping for the switch, he would find the light and see where he really was. But, when he turned about, the collie was tm!y there, still watching, and the house he had lived in for twenty years was out the window, viewed at this angle from which he had never seen it before. His lip was beginning to thicken and welt from the impact of one of Fiona's rings. He found his way down, closed the dog in the kitchen, and then, feeling that something he could never recall was utterly lost, let himself out the door.

For him, the most evocative memories of their courtship were of the times he sat in the parlor of the Mittler home while Clara played the piano. Her soft reddish hair followed just behind the occasional downward movements of her head; her eyes were fast upon the keyboard, or closed, as she turned herself over to the music. Her high intelligence sang through the instrument. The first time she performed for him, he had no idea what to say. He had come to the door to collect her and she invited him to step inside a moment. Neither of her parents was home and apparently she felt free to show him about. "My piano," she said.

He asked her to play, and instead of demurring as he expected, she set herself free. He sat on the red plush divan in his scarf and overcoat, utterly ignorant of the music, but overcome by the conviction with which she struck the keys. He admired her intensely.

"Magnificent," he said.

She stood shyly beside the instrument, absorbing his praise.

They went then to the show. The movie-he still remembered-was the subject of some excitement. Marty. The story of this lonely, inept man, full of longing, stirred Stern.

That was him, him! Afterwards, walking to George Murray' s Chevy, parked far down the block,, he recognized that Clara, too, had been sadly moved. She clung to him firmly as they strolled, speaking of certain harrowing moments lived out on the screen.

When they reached the car, Stern could not help himself.

He cried out and doubled over for a moment.

"Oh, George," he said.

Whoever had sideswiped George Murray's car had left a number of victims.

The scratches began behind the door, growing in a broadening trail until the point of impact on the front fender. There the metal was cruelly withered and the ftlament of the front headlamp hung down from a single wire. The auto ahead was worse; the entire trunk was foMed up like a smashed carton.

"Oh, God," she said when she finally saw it. She grabbed his arm. "This isn't your car, is it?"

"Oh, no." The loss seemed incalculable. His mind fumbled ahead futilely for some way it all could be restored. "I'm so sorry."

He shrugged, staring at the wreckage.

"No telephone this month," he said.

He was required to call the police. They walked to a drugstore and the police were there by the time they had returned to the car. George Murray, thankfully, was not home. Somehow Stern felt he couM tolerate all this, except telling him. This girl and her sympathy seemed to give him courage. The cop was an amiable type, an 'older whitehaired man who had been put out to pasture. He asked Stern about his accent in an honest, inquisitive way and then lay in the boulevard hauling on the bumper in order to straighten it out so that Stern did not dirty his suit.

Stern sat behind the wheel, turning it as the policeman pulled on the dimpled sheet metal. i "Good enough to drive," the cop finally announced. "Save you a penny or two on the tow. Those fellas are pirates."

The policeman, Leary, tipped his hat when they drove away. Stern had no idea where they were going.

"Shall I take you home?" he asked her.

"Oh, not yet," she said, so emphatically that Stern was taken by surprise. The car had no radio, but there was a clock. It was five past midnight. "I have to be certain you're well. Are you?"

He made a sound. He was badly shaken. Yet it was amazing how buoyed he was by female attention. He reminded himself of the cartoons he saw in the theater of Popeye when he ate his spinach. With her, before he faced George and the months of bills, he felt almost invincible.

"Where shall we go, then?" he asked. "Are you hungry?"

"Really, no. I couldn't, not now. I lost whatever appetite I had. I don't take a drink very often, but I could use one now. You, too?"

He answered her again with a sound. "Under the circumstances, I could drink," he said.

"You know 'what might be nice? Why don't you stop at a package store and we can sit out by the river. There's a lovely spot. I'll show you."

So that is what they did. They bought a bottle of Southern Comfort and two cheap tumblers and drove a few blocks to a parking lot on a low bluff over the river. The river was wide here, black and wild with sound beneath them. The moon was up, high in the trees, filling the Kindle with racing light.

As she opened the bottle, he cautioned her..

"George," he said, "expects his car to be returned in mint condition."

She eyed him over the cap, unimpressed on this occasion by his mild humor.

"You're going to suffer terribly over this, aren't you?" He hesitated, then shook his head bravely,

"You wouldn't consider letting me pay for this, would you?" she asked.

He shook his head again.

"I could, you know. I have quite a bit of money. My mother's sister left a trust. It was available after I was twenty-five and it just sits there."

"And what would your father think of that?" … I don't care what my father thinks."

Stern again made his sound. He thought of her as he first saw her, on Henry's footstool.

"Do you care?" she asked. "About him?"

"I am afraid to say I do."

"I do, too," she said, after a moment. ' Td rather say I don't, but I do. I think most girls care more about their mothers, but my mother worships him. Is your family like that?"

Stern laughed, thinking of his father as he came to know him toward the end, an agitated, feckless human being on the verge of one breakdown or another.

"No," he said.

"Do you like my father?"

Stern contemplated the question. The engine was running, a throaty rumble, so they could have heat.

"I believe I am too afraid of him to know the answer." She laughed out loud "Do you know what I like about you, Sandy? You don't remind me of anyone."

He was tempted to remark about making virtues out of faults. But he realized that this pleased him. He was who he was. The car, the disaster, had allowed a remarkable candor between them. Moreover, as was usually true on the rare occasions when anyone could inspire him to straightforward response, he learned a good deal about himself.

"And how do you feel about your father?"

"The same as you," she said. ' `i admire him. When I was a girl, I wanted to be just like him. Before I realized that he wouldn't let me.

I resent him, I suppose. It's hard to know. My parents have been quite angry with me for some time."

Stern sat back against the door to look at her. The liquor had begun to make him warm and somewhat drunk.

"What is the story you seem to have to tell? I sense great unhappiness."

"Do you?"

"You must forgive me. I suppose that was rather blunt."

"Rather," she said. In the dark, fear reached up to seize him. He had gone too far. He was on a cliff with this girl.

At any moment this atmosphere of intimacy could fade and she could revert to being the daughter of a wealthy man, well beyond him. He knew that was what she meant before-that she did not know how to regard him.

Like any person born to great wealth, she was proficient with an offhanded officiousnessmshe could instantly push him off to a million-mile distance, if she wanted to.

'`i don't think of myself as a happy person," she said. I'm very shy.

Except around you." She smiled. "Are you happy?"

"I enjoy my work. I care for my sister. But no, I do not consider myself a cheerful person by disposition."

"I didn't think so," she said. They were both quiet. ''I'm going to tell you everything," Clara Mittler said presently.

He waited a moment in the dark before he said, "All right."

"MEL? Sandy Stern," he said into the telephone.

"San-dy!" cried Mel in return, the usual trumpet blast: hail fellow well met. Face for, ward, TooIcy had a single expression, a beaming countenance of unlimited goodwill. Turn your back, however, and the knives came out, the mischief started. An insidious fellow. TooIcy claimed to be Irish-it was in this city, like many others, a political advantage, particularly at the bar-but he had the swarthy look of a more Southerly heritage. Mel wore a wig-profuse, dark, and curly as the coat of a poodlea trait which Stern, in spite of his efforts at tolerance, found shabby and insincere. The man was always sweating and, in consequence, bathed in cologne. And he was overweight-not that Stern was the kind to criticize this fault; but Mel, cut to the dimensions of certain cattle, still favored double-breasted suits and flashy pocket hankies, and refused to accept biology as fate. He squeezed himself into tapered shirts and sat with his dark hairy gut bulging between the buttons, his oily smile suggesting an unambiguous belief that he was suave.

Stern had dealt with Mel for years when Tooley was a prosecutor, a prickly relation marked by many bitter struggles. Mel, in a word, was underhanded, an exception in an office in which most of the lawyers were overly aggressive but generally respectful of rules and rights.

Stern's most serious ran-in with Mel had occurred five years ago, when Stern represented a contractor whom Tooley desperately wanted to testify against two gentlemen whose names ended in vowels. The contractor had been granted immunity, but he persisted in a version of events which even Stern, privately, regarded as improbable. When he and his client showed up for his grand jury appearance, the contractor, a hard-boiled, tight-lipped kind, suddenly paled; the sweat on his scalp looked like rain. He was a Knights of Columbus man, the father of nine, and Tooley had the contractor's former mistress seated primly on the sofa outside the grand jury room. For the sake of his client, Stern, always reluctant to publicly criticize any attorney, had to file a disciplinary complaint with the District Court Executive Committee. The judges had clucked their tongues and chastised Mel, but in the end the contractor testified, and just as Mel liked. Tooley had the last laugh. Face to face, he claimed to bear no grudges and was quick to praise Stern's ability. But in a world where ego mattered so, one knew better than to believe that. Stern wondered again how it was John had wandered into Tooley's hands.

Tooley, now, said he had been about to call, a remark which Stern took as being within striking distance of the truth.

Tooley naturally was interested in making arrangements for MD to pay his fee. He wanted a $15,000 retainer-on the high side for a fellow of Tooley's age, but what Stern might have expected. They chatted as best they could about the case. Stern said nothing to Tooley about the house error account; he had to assume that every word would go back to the prosecutors, to be used however Too-ley saw fit, for John's advantage or simply as some way to curry favor for the future. Stern described the customer orders that the government was tracing, said the prosecutors seemed to think that Dixon had made some sort of improper profit;

"I take it that they believe the orders were placed witl John," said Stern.

"Were they?" inquired Tooley, as if he did not have a client to ask. "I mean, I don't have any documents to look at. I wouldn't mind seeing whatever you've turned over." Stern made a note and said that he would send them, "Well, of course," said Stern,

"he may have received' these orders but might be unable to recall them, given the crash of daily business. I have no idea whether or not that is a possibility, but a reasonable person might understand that." Tooley was very quick-he would not miss the hint-but he did not answer, which Stern regarded as unpromising.

Stern went on: "What exactly is it that Klonsky tells you she wants with him?"

"Actually," said Tooley, "I haven't dealt with Sonny I've talked just a little bit to Stan." Sennett again. Stern: shook his head. "He's got his hand on the throttle on this one. Did you know that?" asked Tooley.

He would have' been delighted to one-up Stern with the news.

"I have gotten that drift. I imagine he has his own agendad "He always does," said Tooley, joining in brotherly fashion in the familiar complaints defense lawyers had with the present United States Attorney. From Tooley, this was mostly show. He had worked for Sennett for more than a year before entering private practice, and in that time Stan had promoted Tooley to chief of the office's Special In-. vestigations Division. Stan had made Mel a big macher.

There was a reason Tooley had chosen him as his point of contact. "So, how you like dealing with Funny Sonny?" Mel asked, obviously skirting.

"She's a piece of work, isn't she?"

"Ms. Klonsky?" asked Stern. "I hadn't heard that name,"

"That's what I call her," said Mel. "Everybody calls her something.

She's my fault, you know. I hired her, right before I left the office.

I mean, Stan did. But I interviewed her. I thought she had some balls.

You know?"

"Yes," said Stern simply. He understood the point. "But I don't think she's a real star there yet. What's the word?

Ambivalent. They can't get her to decide anything. She's always wringing her hands. You know. Tries a good case, though. Nice-looking woman has got a hell of an advantage in front of a jury, don't you think?"

Stern uttered a sound. Perhaps. Mel went on. Clearly, he had little interest in speaking about John.

"Y'know, I should blame you for hiring her. I say she's my fault, but she's really yours."

"Mine?" asked Stern. "Klonsky?"

"I just remembered this. I asked her why she wanted to be a trial lawyer and she told me this story about when she was in her first year of law school, how she saw every day of the Sabich trial. She loved watching you work. I forgot how she described you. 'Sleight of hand,'

I think. I thought it was a cute way to put it."

Indeed, thought Stern. Tooley must have held his sides.

"So you see, you're her idol, Sandy. I bet she gets hot flashes whenever you call."

"There is hardly any sign of that."

"Who knows with her? Very emotional person. She been telling you yet about her goofy husband?"

"Not really," said Stern. He felt, more acutely now, some alliance with Klonsky. Mel was improving his opinion of her the longer he went on.

"She will," said Mel. "She tells everybody. You know about this guy?

He's a mailman I'm not kidding. He writes poetry and delivers mail. The guy thinks he's Omar Khayyam or something. Apparently he's nuttier than she is. Every second day while I was there she was in the head bawling her eyes out, saying she was going to divorce this guy. And now she's p.g. because her biological clock is going dingdong. Oh, well," said Mel, finally tired of the subject.

"Be kind to her, Sandy."

"More the reverse," said Stern, trying in the mildest way to say something in Klonsky's behalf,

"I'm sure Sennett's watching her like a hawk."

"So it seems," said Stern. "Might I ask what he ells you?"

"Not clear," said Mel. "Not clear. I believe they're looking for immunity. I'm not certain for what."

Stern hung there, feeling for all the-world like a small insect humming its wings in a formidable breeze. There was little more that he could ask. Given pride, and fear of what might go back to the government, he was reluctant to discuss the blank spots in his knowledge of the investigation. And there were few other avenues of inquiry, What John had told Mel, if anything, was out of bounds in this kind of situation.

Many defense lawyers blurted out their client's confidences like bits of witless news posted on some local bulletin board, but Stern had never shared that inclination.. In a situation of potential adversity, he neither asked for nor shared his client's private words, his rigidity on this: point of ethics accepted as one more part of Sandy Stern and his formal foreign manner, like the hedgerow and iron fence about certain older homes.

"I'm just getting into this thing," Tooley said. "Maybe I can give you a call next week when I get my bearings."

"Yes, of course," said Stern. He would never hear from Tooley, not until a day or two before the indictment was returned, when Mel would describe vaguely the factors that required John to ax Dixon. Stern had faced similar dilemmas himself when he represented witnesses. But he tried to give his colleagues what little help he could along the way.

Stern prepared to conclude the call, going over the list of things that Tooley wanted from him. Mel, slyly, had put the shoe on the other foot and was the one receiving all the information.

"He's a nice kid," Tooley said in conclusion. "Maybe not a rocket scientist, but he should come out okay."

"One hopes," said Stern, nettled nonetheless by the feel ing that Tooley had gone out of his way to provide this dim. assessment of his son-in-law.

"It's crazy how he came to me. You gave him a couple names, I take it."

"A few," said Stern. Neither he nor Tooley harbored' illusions about whether Mel would have been included.

"He called those guys, but nobody was in. Apparently you put the fear of God in him. Felt he just had to get a lawyer lickity-split. So he called everybody he knew and ended up getting my name from your son."

"From Peter?"

"My brother Alan and Peter were like this in high school.

Remember Alan? I have to give Pete a call and thank him."

Alan was a handsome, wholesome, genial kid. It seemed impossible that the same home could have produced something as viperous as Mel TooIcy.

Stern held his head while he absorbed the latest news. Peter again! It was as inevitable as the seasons, however, that he would have mixed in if asked. Ignorant or not, his son considered any family problem part of his domain. Meanwhile, Stern imagined Mel across town, in his flashy office, smirking. He had Stern's client paying his fee while John considered laying Dixon low, and Stern's own son was the source of his employment Quite a tickle Chalk up one more for the government, thought Stern, as he put down the phone. There were lawyers friendly to the target or his counsel, or naturally disinclined to help the prosecution, who would go over the situation with John two or three times and remind him of how large the gaps were in his memory, how unrewarding testimony for the government might be. But that clearly was not Mel's plan. He would offer John up freely to the prosecutors, encour-. aging him to be forthcoming with the vaguest hunch or suspicion. And John-if Stern could correctly read Tooley's silence and the signs in his own conversations with his son-in-law-apparently had much to tell.

Idly, he contemplated how it must have gone between John and Dixon. It was not likely that Dixon had announced what he was up to; he was too secretive for that. He issued commands, which John was afraid to countermand. But a certain furtiveness must have accompanied this scheme. Just between me and you. Don't tell. As Clara always said, John was not dumb. Sooner or later, he must have known that these trades were being handled differently from others. So they went on in the usual murky world of collaboration and deceit, each with some unspoken ground of disrespect for the other: You are weak. You are dishonest. His son-in-law was the classic stuff of the government witness, an unquestioning lower-down with the convictions of a noodle.

As soon as TooIcy explained the facts of life to him-that his commodities registration and his right to do business on the financial markets in the future hung in the balance-he would reduce his level of actual suspicions to none at all.

By the time he got to the witness stand, he would be one more wanton soul testifying that he had merely followed orders, without a minute for reflection. With his look of childish innocence, and his relative inexperience, John would carry this act off better than most.

Thinking of all this and the way the situation was gradually spinning out of control, Stern felt queasy. For just an instant, he fell beneath a quirky vision of his entire family down at the federal courthouse, testifying, pointing fingers, hopelessly involved. In that scene, he somehow was the victim, not the man accused but the one left out in the cold. Everybody knew more than he did. He shook the notion off, but looked down to the phone, full again of that sense of coming injury which could not be prevented.

MARGY seemed to have done something with her hair. Near her shoulder it sprayed up in a froth of curls, and its blondish tint seemed brighter when she came into the light.

She looked bigger than Stern recalled-a hale, large person full of life. He refused at once to allow recollection or imagination to take him any further.

"Fine," she answered when he inquired atain furtiveness must have accompanied this scheme. Just between me and you. Don't tell. As Clara always said, John was not dumb. Sooner or later, he must have known that these trades were being handled differently from others. So they went on in the usual murky world of collaboration and deceit, each with some unspoken ground of disrespect for the other: You are weak. You are dishonest. His son-in-law was the classic stuff of the government witness, an unquestioning lower-down with the convictions of a noodle.

As soon as TooIcy explained the facts of life to him-that his commodities registration and his right to do business on the financial markets in the future hung in the balance-he would reduce his level of actual suspicions to none at all.

By the time he got to the witness stand, he would be one more wanton soul testifying that he had merely followed orders, without a minute for reflection. With his look of childish innocence, and his relative inexperience, John would carry this act off better than most.

Thinking of all this and the way the situation was gradually spinning out of control, Stern felt queasy. For just an instant, he fell beneath a quirky vision of his entire family down at the federal courthouse, testifying, pointing fingers, hopelessly involved. In that scene, he somehow was the victim, not the man accused but the one left out in the cold. Everybody knew more than he did. He shook the notion off, but looked down to the phone, full again of that sense of coming injury which could not be prevented.

MARGY seemed to have done something with her hair. Near her shoulder it sprayed up in a froth of curls, and its blondish tint seemed brighter when she came into the light.

She looked bigger than Stern recalled-a hale, large person full of life. He refused at once to allow recollection or imagination to take him any further.

"Fine," she answered when he inquired about her flight, "Nice hotel," she added. "Slept good." A simple declaration utterance ripe in implication: all was forgotten, forgiven, swept aside. Margy was good at this, pretending that nothing had ever occurred; she had done it, Stern sensed, dozens of times. Whatever the writhing inside, the internal. outcry, the reverberations would never touch the surface. She sat there all dolled up, wearing a raw-silk suit and an orange blouse with a huge bow. She had come into Stern's office carrying a large briefcase and.a garment bag slung from her Shoulder, and had been savvy enough to extend her hand, with its long red nails, while his secretary was still present so that neither of them would be discomfited: by the opportunity for some more intimate hello. The Oklahoma businesswomen, determined and composed. Hi y'all.

Behind his smoky glass desk, Stern spent a moment describing the day's agenda. He and Margy each drank coffee.

Together, they would scrutinize the documents the government had subpoenaed and attempt to anticipate Ms. Klon-sky's questions. Then they would proceed to the U.S. Attorney's Office, where Klonsky would interrogate Margy in preparation for her appearance before the grand jury, which would immediately follow.

"Do I gotta do that," Margy asked, "siddown and have this chat with her?"

"No, but it is routine. It suits both sides. I am not allowed inside the grand jury room, so by submitting to an interview, we learn in advance what the prosecutor has in mind and I will have the chance to help in any troublesome areas. Ms. Klonsky, in turn, finds which questions she would rather not ask you on the record."

"I get it." Margy was satisfied. She asked where he wanted to start, and he pointed to the briefcase.

"The hard part," said Margy with a smile. Hard port. "A problem?" asked Stern. He did not care for the sound of this. He put down the coffee cup and removed the subpoena from the file. Margy unloaded first the checks the government had demanded--,all those written in the first four months of the year for amounts exceeding $250. She had them literally tied up in string, nine stacks, each the size of a brick, with the severed perforations lending, from the side, a striated look, like certain fish.

"What-all they gonna do with these?"

"They are looking, I assume, for funds being transferred to Dixon. Is there any evidence of that?"

"Shore," she said. "Lots of it. Salary. Bonus."

"Anything else?"

" Nada."

"Did any companies or accounts you know him to control receive money?"

"Nothin," said Margy.

Good, he thought. He flipped through the stacks, more to get the feel of the checks than anything else. She had made two copies, a set for Stern and a set for herself, and had a clerk stamp an identification number on each. You did not need to teach Margy anything twice.

Stern referred again to the subpoena. Because many of the records were already here, Stern last week had taken responsibility for assembling the trading records which the prosecutors had asked for. The remaining documents had been delivered to Stern's office, and in preparation for today he had carefully gone into each pile and replaced, just where he had found them, the order tickets the government was surely seeking-the four or five dozen which John had written. The bundle of documents, copied and numbered like the checks, waited mow in a white transfer case. He showed them to Margy, then had Claudia summon one of the young men in the.office, who would deliver the records to the grand jury room prior to their arrival Stern read aloud the government's last request for records of the Wunderkind Associates account,

"The strange port." Margy had her briefcase on her lap and removed a manila folder. Maison Dixon, like many houses, used what was called a consolidated statement, in which purchases and sales, confirmations, margin requirements, and positions were all reported together. The computer spat out a single form, which was mailed to the customer any time there was account activity. The second leaf of that computer form remained at MD and was mi-crofilmed. Opening the folder, Stern was surprised to find the original statements which should have gone to Wun-derkine[ "It's strange," she said. "See the address."

The documents said "Wunderkind Associates" at the top, and "[H6LD]." He asked what the notation meant.

"Hold,." she said. "You know. Like 'Don't mail it, I'll pick it up."

"Does that occur often?"

"Sometimes. Fella's gettin a divorce and don't want his wife countin up everything he owns on her fingers or toes.

Or he thinks the IRS is openin his mail. Or he don't think much of the mailman in his neighborhood. Lotsa reasons."

Stern nodded. "And these were never picked up?"

"They were sittin right in the file;"

"Chicago account?"

"Kindle," she said. "05." She lifted her bottom from one of the cream-colored chairs to point to the account number. "Greco found them."

"Peculiar," said Stern.

"Oh, that ain't what's strange."

"No?"

"Look through 'em."

He did, and as usual noticed nothing.

"Look at the activity. Look at the balance. Remember? This is where he's puttin all that money he makes tradin ahead.

I thought for sure he'd be cashin out these positions he's transferrin in, havin us cut him one check after another.

You know: take the money and run."

Clearly, however, that was not what had occurred. The statements portrayed frequent trading, two or three movements a day. There was no unusual concentration of positions. T-bonds. Silver. Beans. Sugar.

Yen. Those were the favorites, but all were frequently traded, often with multiple moves each day. Stern read to the end in Febmary of that year.

"He lost money?" asked Stern.

"Not just money," said Margy. "Everything. There ain't a red centavo that got stole that didn't end up goin right back into the market. Hell, he didn't just lose all that.

He lost more. Look at the last statement."

Stern turned the pages again. On the final statement, in boldface, there was a deficit balance reflected of slightly more than $250,000.

Trading on marg'm-borrowing money from the house to put on positions worth more than what you had invested in the account-it was always possible to lose large amounts quickly, and it had happened here to a farethee-well. Everything had been sunk into sugar contracts, which had come to ruin over several days in February when the market ran wild. By the time Mr. Wunderkind had extricated himself, the loss was enormous, a quarter of a million dollars more than the equity he'd had in the account to start with.

"The debit balance was paid off?." he asked.

"That's what the statement says. All 250,000 bucks. I never heard nothin about it."

"Should you have?"

"You betchum," said Margy. She sat uP a little straighter.

"Deficit balance over a hundred grand? Either I hear about it or it goes straight down to Dixon from accounting,"

"Ah," said Stern. He wndered. Dixon could have probably written off a debt to the house like this with a single stroke of the pen, But the statement showed funds received-Wunderkind had paid off the money he owed MD.

Stern stared at the papers and, with the familiar frozen precision of his most single-minded attempts to understand, went over it all aloud.

Margy nodded each step of the way.

The man had self-consciously placed orders ahead of customers, a major infraction. In order to hide that, erroneous account numbers were used and the transactions, taken for mistakes, were moved to the house error account,. where substantial profits of tens of thousands of dollars on every pair of trades accumulated. Then, in order to gain control of these illegal profits, the man had placed additional orders, once again making deliberate errars in the account information. The result was that the error account paid for the trade. Then the new position was moved by various accounting entries to this new account.

"Wunderkind Associates," said Margy. "Wunderkind Associates," said Stern. "And then, instead of simply closing his positions and making off with all these ill-gotten gains, he traded on them. Repeatedly.

And badly."

"Right."

"So that, at the end, the net result of dozens of unlawful' tranSaCtions, all of them wickedly clever, is that they have cost him approximately a quarter of a million dollars."

"That's what the paper says."

"Not right," said Stern resolutely. He knew, with a conviction durable as steel, there was more to it than this.

These shenanigans in the Wunderkind account were one more interim link in the long, twisted chain. Stealing this money had turned into a sport for Dixon, his version of the steeplechase. How many hurdles could he take at a canter?

Stern decided at once that the losses had to be phony.

There was ample precedent for that. From what Stern understood, at the end of every year there were dozens of such transactions on the Exchanges, designed to fool the IRS. In violation of every rule, trades were arranged off the floor and then carried out in the pit as a kind of second-rate pantomime, so that a loss was recorded for tax purposes, while the position, through one device or another, eventually returned to its original owner. No doubt, something like that was involved here.

Perhaps there was some record Dixon meant to set: most laws broken in a single theft. Stern sat there shaking his head, convinced he could never work through the final intricacies of this scheme. On the other hand, it was possible the prosecutors would not manage that either.

"I am not certain, Margy," said Stern at last, "that I see this as the problem you do."

"Oh," she said, "this ain't the bad port. This is the strange port."

"Ah," said Stern, and felt his internal elevator descend another floor or two, not as far or as steeply as he might have expected. He was growing accustomed to this. "And what, Margy, is the bad news?"

"This thing"-she hied half out of her seat to indicate the subpoena-"asks for all the account information. You know, the account application, risk disclosure statement, signature documents."

"Yes. They want to prove whose account this is."

"See, that's why we got a little problem here, Buster Brown.

Cause I can't find even an itty-bitty scrap of paper to show who these Wunderkinds are."

"No," said Stern simply.

"I'm tellin you," she said. "It's all gone. All those forms go on microfiche. Fiche for the month that account opened last year ain't to be found. Three copies.-Then we got a little computer screen on every customer. You know: name, address, social security. Somebody's gone in on the system and zapped it out. You put in that account number, you get notbin but a blinkin light. And a' course, the hard copy on all the forms-they been swiped right out of the file."

"And where were those records kept?"

"Depends." Central microfiche is in Chicago, but we got a backup here.

Hard copy for this account'd be here. Computer you can get on anywhere.

If you know what you're doin."

"And would Dixon have access to these records?" The question, even to Stern's own ear, sounded weak. The answer was obvious. Margy put it her own way.

"Honey, there ain't nothin in three cities that Dixon don't have access to from the receptionist's be-hind to the drawer where I keep my Maalox.

It's Maison Dixon. You askin me if somebody saw him piddlin around in a file cabinet they'd say, Hey there, watcha doin? No chance. I told you.

They're all scared a' him."

"You searched thoroughly, Margy?"

"I went through the files here myself last night."

"I see." He flipped up the humidor and looked at the cigars, snug in their brown jackets like military men at ease. Last week, he'd had Claudia fill the box, but he had not yet lit or even pressed his teeth into a cigar. "Of course," said Stern, "there have been times that records have been lost in the process of copying for microfiche, correct?"

"Shore,"

"And accidentaI erasures of computer information probably occur daily?"

"Maybe," said Margy "And if you have no microfiche in either city, perhaps you never had one in the first place?"

Margy.looked at Stern with outthrust chin and gimlet eye, as he made these efforts in the mode of piercing crossexamination. Her expression was easy to read: No sale.

Stern took a long swallow of his coffee and turned to the window. From here on the thirty-eighth floor of Morgan Towers, the fiver held a liquid gleam. Some days it was leaden and murky. In high winds, the current increased and the water spit and lashed at the brown standards used to moor barges and other slbw-mOving hauling craft that sometimes made their way upstream. Over time he'd come to know the meaning of its changing tones. Stern could tell from the density of color if the barometer was dropping, if the cloud cover was heavy or likely soon to lift. That was the value of experience, he supposed, to be able to read the meaning of signs, to know the large impact signaled by small things.

This would go badly with the government. Quite badly. He had been warning Dixon against this for months now, to no apparent avail. Dixon was shrewd enough to recognize that even if the prosecutors could not figure out what he had done with the money, they would have a case if they could prove he had stolen it-and proof that he controlled this Wunderkind account would suffice. But it was a desperate response to destroy the documents. The government could barely avoid proving Dixon was responsible. As Margy said, there was probably no other person in the company who could have gone into the files in two cities with the same impunity. As the government showed Dixon's access to each missing record, the circumstantial web would. take on a taut, sinister look.

And for that kind of action there was never an innocent explanation.

Stern was good. He could refer to error accounts and margin calls and limit drops and make a jury dizzy. But when the prosecutors wheeled the MD shredder into the courtroom, there would be no way to cross-examine the machine. Dixon might as well have jumped inside. You could never save clients from themselves, Stern thought. Never.

So begins the last act in the tableau of Dixon Hartnell, small-town boy made good, gone bad. For Stern, in every case which came to grief there was a moment when his knowledge of a gruesome future fact became firm and thoroughly delineated. Occasionally, it was not until the jury spoke; but more often there was some telling instant along the way when Stern, as the saying went, could see beyond the curve. In the matter of Don Hartnell, husband to his sister, client, compatriot, sporting and military companion, today was the day. Too much was accumulating here-knowledge, motive, opportunity; the error account, John's recollections, the documents gone. Today he knew the end of the story.

Dixon was going to the penitentiary.

He took a few minutes to coach Margy on the basics of dealing with Klonsky: Listen to the question. Answer it narrowly and precisely.

Volunteer nothing. Never say no when asked if particular events occurred; answer, rather, I do not recollect, Name, rank, serial number.

Hard facts. No opinions. If asked to speculate, decline to. And in the grand jury, remember that Stern literally would be at the door. She had an absolute right to consult with counsel at any time and should ask to speak to her lawyer if there was any question, no matter how trivial, for which she felt remotely unprepared.

He helped her pack the documents back into her briefcase and slipped into his suit coat by the door. He picked up her bag and asked if she was ready. Margy lingered in the chair.

"I was pretty tough on you," she said quietly. She looked at her coffee cup, against which she rested one bright nail.

"When we were talkin a few weeks ago?"

"Not without warrant."

"You know, Sandy, I got lots of callusess" She looked up briefly and smiled almost shyly. "The only thing a gal wants is for you to pretend a little bit."

Stern moved a step or two closer. As usual with Marg, the thought of bet boss was not far away. Dixon was probably very good at pretending, resorting to every corny gesture; he would throw his coat down in a puddle if need be, or croon outside the window. And here was Margy telling him that women liked that sort of thing. Stern waited, sum, moning himself. The best he could manage was diplomacy.

"Margy, this has been a time of extraordinary turmoik Many unexpected developments,"

"Shore." Margy smiled stiffly and tilted the cup, garishly rimmed with her lipstick, gazing down with great interest at her cold coffee.

"Shore," she said again,

Well, thought Stern, here one could begin to understand her dilemma.

Margy wanted her gentlemen friends to. pretend-so that she could tell them coldly that she did not believe them. Stern Was certain that he had now arrived at an essential vision. He had heard the pitch, found the hat: monics of a perfect composition in the scale of personal pain.

Margy's creation was as clever as Chinese handcuffs.

Constrained, however you moved. His heart, as usual, went out to her:

And so, out of some impulse 'of tenderness, he told her what he took to be the truth. "I have lately been seeing a good deal of a woman who was a friend of ours for many years." Very brief. To the point. He was not quite certain. what he meant to accomplish by this eruption of candor; except the virtue of honesty itself. Indeed, after his bizarre interlude with Fiona, in which Helen had not been so much as a momentary thought, he had no idea whether this fact was any better than convention. But clarification was called for, and Margy, whatever his admiration, was not his destiny. The news had the predictable effect. Her pupils took on the contracted look they might have in strong light. He had cast her again in her inevitable role: once more, the loser; the flop-and-drop gal. She was not pleased. Margy, like everyone else, wanted a better life than the one she had.

"Nice for you," said Margy. She snatched her purse, Closed her case, smoothed her skirt as she msc, grazing him with a tight, penetrating smile. What was the poet's phrase? Zero at the bone. She had put on again her blank tough-guy look that she brought to business meet'mgs, once more Dixon Hartnell's hard-ass hired hand.

They walked the three blocks to the courthouse in virtual silence.

Stern's only remarks were directions: Just up there wc turn. They were escorted back to Klonsky's narrow office at once and Margy settled herself in the old oak armchair like a rider in the rodeo. She was ready.

"Margy," she said, when Klonsky asked what she liked to be called. "Hard g." Hard g, indeed, thought Stern. Like a diamond drill.

They had arrived late, and Klonsky cast an eye up at the clock. Time before the grand jury was assigned by a deputy court clerk in quarter-hour intervals and was zealously guarded by the Assistants, who were always pressed to get their business done in the period allotted.

Klonsky began questioning Margy, even while Stern was reviewing her nonsubject letter. It was signed by the U.S. Attorney himself and assured Margy that she was not suspected of any criminal involvement, assuming she told the truth before the grand jury. Stern put the letter iny this eruption of candor; except the virtue of honesty itself.

Indeed, after his bizarre interlude with Fiona, in which Helen had not been so much as a momentary thought, he had no idea whether this fact was any better than convention. But clarification was called for, and Margy, whatever his admiration, was not his destiny. The news had the predictable effect. Her pupils took on the contracted look they might have in strong light. He had cast her again in her inevitable role: once more, the loser; the flop-and-drop gal. She was not pleased.

Margy, like everyone else, wanted a better life than the one she had.

"Nice for you," said Margy. She snatched her purse, Closed her case, smoothed her skirt as she msc, grazing him with a tight, penetrating smile. What was the poet's phrase? Zero at the bone. She had put on again her blank tough-guy look that she brought to business meet'mgs, once more Dixon Hartnell's hard-ass hired hand.

They walked the three blocks to the courthouse in virtual silence.

Stern's only remarks were directions: Just up there wc turn. They were escorted back to Klonsky's narrow office at once and Margy settled herself in the old oak armchair like a rider in the rodeo. She was ready.

"Margy," she said, when Klonsky asked what she liked to be called. "Hard g." Hard g, indeed, thought Stern. Like a diamond drill.

They had arrived late, and Klonsky cast an eye up at the clock. Time before the grand jury was assigned by a deputy court clerk in quarter-hour intervals and was zealously guarded by the Assistants, who were always pressed to get their business done in the period allotted.

Klonsky began questioning Margy, even while Stern was reviewing her nonsubject letter. It was signed by the U.S. Attorney himself and assured Margy that she was not suspected of any criminal involvement, assuming she told the truth before the grand jury. Stern put the letter in his case and looked on as Klonsky worked. She asked Margy questions, all of them routine, and wrote down the answers on a yellow pad.

Wearing her prosecutor's hat, Sonia was like most of her colleagues, relentless, humorless, intense. Her pace was sufficiently methodical that Stern actually grew hopeful that the matter of the missing documents might not come up.

That would allow him to have a pointed conversation first with Mr.

Hartnell. But with only a few minutes remaining before they were scheduled to appear at the grand jury, Klonsky removed her tissue copy of the subpoena from the file and went through it, item by item. When Margy handed over the statements for the Wunderkind account, she added brightly, "That's it."

"That's it?" asked Klonsky, with an immediate look of apprehension. She glanced back to her papers.

Stern, for the first time, spoke up. Somewhere, he said, there was a misunderstanding. The various account-opening documents-signature forms, applications, et cetera-seemed to have been misplaced and could not presently be located.

A diligenf search had been conducted by Ms. A1-lison and would be continued, Stern stated, under his direction.

"They're gone?" asked Klonsky. "TrashedT'

Margy started to speak, butStern reached out to grab her wrist where a heavy bracelet lay. It was far too early, said Stern, to assume the documents could not be located.

The. subpoena had been served barely three weeks agO, and MD was a substantial company with hundreds of employees and more than one offic "I don't believe this," Klonsky said. She largely ignored Stern and put a series of questions to Margy, identifying the documents, the copies, the places they were stored. She extracted, in more precision than Stern had, the details. of Margy's search. Conducting this inquiry, Klonsky was rigid and intent behind her desk. WhateVer her occasional geniality, Ms. Klonsky, when provoked, was quick to anger, She looked at Stern. "I'm going to have to talk io Stan about this."

"Sonia," said Stern, "again, I think you are leaping unnecessarily-She cut him off with an ill-tempered wave of her hand, Clad in her familiar blue jumper, she bumped her belly a bit against her desk as she climbed out from behind her chair and led the way downstairs to the grand jury.

When the judges had deserted the new federal building, they left the grand jury behind. The defense lawyers protested this propinquity to the United States Attorney's Of-rice, but it was recognized as vain posturing. For all practical purposes, the grand jury belonged to the prosecutors. An unmarked door in the corridor a floor below led into what looked like a doctor's reception room; it held the same inexpensive furniture, with cigarette burns and splintered veneers, as in the U.S.

Attorney's Office upstairs. Behind two additional dOOrs lay the grand jury rooms themselves.

Stern had often peeked inside. It did not look like much: a tiny raised bench at the front of the room and rows of tiered seats, like a small classroom. The twenty-three grand jurors, who had been called out of the regular jury pool to help the prosecutors determine whether they had enough evidence to try someone for a crime, tended to be union workers of one kind or another who had no store to mind, or else the retired, women at home who could manage the time, or frequently those out of work who valued the $30 daily fee.

To Stern, the grand jury, purportedly intended to protect the innocent, remained one of the preeminent fictions of the criminal-justice scheme.

Occasionally, the defense bar was warmed by tales of a renegade grand jury that returned a no bill or two, or quarreled with the prosecutors about a case. But usually the jurors deferred, as one would expect, to the diligent young faces of the U.S. Attorney's Office.

By all reports, the grand jurors sat knitting, reading papers, picking at their nails, while a given individual, brought here by the might and majesty of the United States, was grilled at will by the Assistants.

"Remember I am here," he told Margy. She strolled inside, hauling her briefcase, and did not look back. She remained in poor humor with him.

Klonsky also was put out, and, perhaps without meaning to, slammed the door on Stern as she called the session to order.

The proceedings were secret. The room had no windows and a single door.

The grand jurors, the prosecutors, the court reporter could not disclose what had occurred, unless there was a trial, When the government was required to reveal the prior testimony of witnesses. In this federal district, commendably, there were seldom leaks of grand jury matters and much went on here that was never heard about again, a comforting fact for those subjecfed to baseless or even unprovable allegations. But it was the same respectable principle of secrecy that was cited to bar the witness's lawyer from attending; Stern had only the right to walt at the door, in the fashion of a well-trained dog. The witness, under no bans of confidentiality, could leave if need be after every question to ask the lawyer's advice.

But intimidated by the setting, and eager to appease the interrogator, they seldom did so. His clients usually left Stern maintaining his vigil at the door, his case and hat in hand, his stomach grinfling.

Sometimes, particularly with male voices of a certain timbre, Stern found that the seat nearest to the grand jury room enabled him, if he moderated his breathing and others outside were not gabbing, to overhear the proceedings word for word. Today he was not as fortunate. Barney Hill, the deputy court clerk who slotted fame and filled out attendance forms for witnesses, chatted to Stern about the Trappers? and the women's voices did not seem to carry as well through the heavy door. He could hear Klonsky at a certain pitch and the confident tone of Margy's response.

After fifteen minutes, the door banged open and both women. emerged. They were finished. Predictably, Margy had oho sen not to visit with her lawyer.

"I'm still concerned about those documents," said Klon-sky from the threshold of the grand jury room, with a number of the grand jurors milYmg about behind her. "Ms. Allison's going to be looking for them again."

"Of course," said Stern.

"As far I'm concerned, we're beginning an investigation for an O.O.J,"

Obstruction of Justice.

Stern once more attempted to mollify her, but Klonsky, with half a smile at his familiar excuses, waved him off. She repeated again that she was going to talk to the U.S.

Attorney, and headed out, apparently to do just that.

Stern, left with Margy, pointed her to one of the narrow rooms immediately beside the grand jury chamber which were set aside for witnesses' consultations with their counsel.

The room, six by. ten, was bare; it contained a worn table and two chairs, and the gray walls were marred and filthy.

Stern's practice, invariable over the decades, was to debrief his clients right here, while their memories were fresh, question by question.

Stern closed the door and Margy sat, frosty with him but otherwise calm. He asked how it had been:

"Fine," she said serenely. "I lied."

Stern stood with his hand on the'knob of the door. This happened now and then, of course. Not as often as was commonly imagined. But now and then. A client chUCks up her chin and frankly admits to committing a felony.

Notwithstanding, he promptly felt feverish, weak.

He sat down, facing her. She remained bitter and. cross.

"May I ask," said Stern, "in what manner you provided incorrect information?"

She flipped her white hand, her bracelets and long nails.

"I don't know. She asked if I had any idea where the records went."

Realizing that he was somehow the target of all. this, he tried to avoid showing his relief. Barring further stupidity -an outright confession-the government would never make a case for perjury based on the fact that Margy had kept her opinions to herself.

"She asked if I knew anything about this Wunderkind account from any other source."

"You told her no?"

"Right."

"That was untrue?"

"Yep."

Stern had not been bright enough to ask that question in his office.

Perhaps Margy might have responded fully then.

Certainly she was not likely to expand now.

"Anything further?"

"She asked if I talked to Dixon about the,documents.