The Burden of Proof kc-2 Read online

  "Please," said Dixon. Once more, he looked around the room.

  The weight of things had begun to settle on him. He was unhappy. "I don't want to fuck around with this."

  Stern considered his brother-in-law with his manifold secrets. Clara's voice, as ever now, came into his mind.

  Little as she cared for Dixon, she had never seemed surprised by their alliance. Stern had complained often that he did not know Dixon, was not sure he had ever gotten through to him, found the man at times as elusive as smoke.

  'I imagine,' she had answered, 'that he says the same of you.

  In the mock-Chippendale reception room of Barstow Zahn and Hanks,.a huge law firm, Stern sat with his children, awaiting Cal Hopkinson, with whom they had an appointment to learn the details of Clara's will.

  Stern regarded this event with the same maelstrom of contradictory emotions that lingering concentration on Clara's wealth had always prompted, but for the moment most of that was lost in the strong feelingsregretful, fond, salutary-of having his children near at hand.

  Tomorrow, Marta would leave. She had stayed a week following the funeral. Work was slow, she said, and Kate and she had planned to sift through Clara's things.

  Irstead, Marta had spent hours alone, looking dreamily about her own room, poking through the house as if it were a new location. She had already mentioned that she would need to return soon to finish.

  With the departure of Marta-the child who liked him best, or, more correctly, feared him least-Stern would be alone.

  His children had offered him what comfort they could in the last weeks, but he felt them drawn away by the onrush of their lives and their plain bewilderment at having to deal with him on their own. With all the children, Clara had been his mediator; they had far less direct experience of him. Oh, he had cared. Deeply. But, in his compulsive orderly way, in its place. No matter how late he returned home from the office, in a routine as fixed as prayer, he received from Clara each night news of the children, the disturbances and triumphs, the unfolding of each small life. Somehow, at the time, he thought they would know that a portion of her interest was his own. When they reached their teens, he was baffled and stung as, one by one, they took up attitudes which silently accused him of being aloof, un-involved. The lines of attachment were to their mother. As in old-time law, he saw now, the benefits ran only to those in direct contact, in privity.

  Cal appeared at last. He shook everybody's hand, precise as a clockmaker, and apologized for the wait. Cal was an unremarkable fellow-temperate, genial, a journeyman of sorts. The most impressive thing about him was a single physical feature: an inch or so behind his left ear, just below his hairline, was a round depression that darkened and appeared to head straight into his skull, as if someone had stuck a little finger into a ball of dough. The mark looked for all the world like a bullet hole-and that was what it was, a war wound from Korea, a medical marvel. The shot had passed straight through, with the only damage to Cal's outer skull. Once noticed, it was the kind of thing you could not keep your eyes off of. Stern spent his meetings with Cal awaiting the instant when he would turn away and Stern could stare freely.

  Cal ushered the family toward a wainscoted conference room.

  Stern was the last to enter, and Cal detained him at the door.

  "Before we start, Sandy- As I told you on the phone last week, there's a question or two I wanted to ask you about Clara's estate some peculiarities I imagine you're aware of."

  "Me?" Over the years, his commeme with Clara about her finances was limited to those rare occasions when she raised the subject, and usually he referred her to her bankers or attorneys.

  They were interrupted by the arrival of Cal's associate, a young woman with spectacles and straight brown hair named Van Zandt. Marta poked her head out the door to see what the holdup was, and at Stern's suggestion they all proceeded into the conference room, where they were seated around the long walnut table. Little plate engravings, precious caricatures of various legal scenes, ringed the walls, and there was the usual majestic view of the city-the law finns and the corporate headquarters gobbled up all the best space. Harry Fagel had tried years ago to lure Stern 'into this modern Versailles, but he would have none of it.

  "I think," said Cal, "I should just start at the beginning and tell you all about Clara's estate."

  Stern nodded. Marta nodded. Everyone agreed this was appropriate. Van Zandt handed Cal a document-a memo, no doubt, summarizing the will-and Cal solemnly began. Like most sophisticated estate plans, Clara's had been composed with the first eye on the tax laws. As the result of her father's providence decades before, and careful advice,since, Clara had been able to dispose of a significant fortune without the payment of a single penny in federal estate tax. Cal disclosed this fact with a refulgent smile of minor triumph.

  The great bulk of Clara's wealth had never been' transferred to her directly. Her inheritance from her father, mother, and maiden aunt had been placed in a series of trusts that Henry Mittlet had established at the River National Bank; these trusts would endure for generations, spilling out income and preserving corpus, in the venerated fashion of old money. When he was younger, Stern had believed that Henry had made these elaborate arrangements because he feared that his son-in-law was some kind of bounder. Now Stern knew that Henry's faith was simpler: any discretion, no matter how constrained, was liable to abuse. This brass-knuckled cynicism had made Henry a formidable attorney, although the same qualities of character also probably contributed to his daughter's lifetime discontent with him. Clara's fiercest internal struggles had been with her father, a clever, domineering, willful man.

  Now Clara was interred in the synagogue's small cemetery, in the sight of the large monument that Henry Mittlet had erected to himself and Clara's mother, Pauline, by the terms of the same will that had created the trusts. The earth reclaimed them all, and their passions, while their bank accounts survived. Stern, never without an appreciation for money, nonetheless contemplated these sad facts with amazement.

  "According to our notes," said Cal, "when we revised the estate plan after the most recent changes in the tax laws, the trusts were valued at a little over $7 million. Clara's own estate," he said, referring to the interest spun off to Clara by the trusts over the years which, largely unspent, had been invested for her by the bank, "was in the neighborhood of $2 million. Of course, there have been changes, with the stock market crash and other financial developments, but you have the general picture." Cal had taken his time getting to this point, and you could see that he enjoyed the effect the numbers had on his listeners. Kate's eyes widened and Peter whistled out loud. It was something of an achievement, Stern determined, to have kept the children in the dark about this. He himself was neither shocked by the figures nor far off in the estimates he had made on the way down today, or periodically over the years, concerning these dollars he had seldom deigned to touch.

  Clara's will left simple directions. Stern was named executor. The rights to the trusts' income passed in equal divided portions to the children-"share and share alike," as Cal put it. Out of Clara's own fortune, a number of substantial gifts were made to the children and charities; the rest was left in trust for Stern to use as he saw fit.

  Having outlined the will, Cal bored in on the details. As he described the provisions, he used the third person-"spouse Alejandro,"

  "children Peter, Marta, and Kate" -and did not bother to translate many of the technical terms.

  Nonetheless, the inevitable calculations seemed after an interval to take place around the table, and Kate suddenly began to weep. The children could expect to divide among themselves an annual income of about half a million dollars. To this was added a cash bequest to each of $200,000, not to mention the prospect of a good deal more when Stern departed the scene. It occurred to Stern that if he could keep Dixon out of trouble long enough, he would probably be a fitting financial adviser for his nieces and nephew. As to himself, Stern, for reasons he could h
ardly articulate, felt few compunctions about accepting his wife's gift; perhaps, perversely, because his own estate had grown well past the point where he needed it; or because, after all this, he felt it was his due. By Stern's quick estimate, the residue of the estate left in trust for him-what would remain of Clara's stocks and bonds at the bank-would total about a million dollars.

  Going through the details of the trust provision, Cal paused to eye Stern.

  "Clara directed specifically that you would remain the beneficiary for life, regardless of any remarriage."

  "I see," said Stern.

  Cal smiled briefly, delighted by this exacting manag.ement of the future, but the children seemed nonplussed by their mother's forethought-a pulse of discomfort traveled the room. None of them had yet raised this subject with Stern.

  No question they had thought of it; everyone had. Even Clara. But it was disconcerting to one and all-to Stern, as wellinto learn that she had formally resolved any objections:

  Cal had gone on, but Stern interrupted.

  "Is it this trust for me, Cal, that prompted these concerns you raised in the hall?" On reflection, it occurred to him why Cal wanted to speak one-on-one. There might be some conflict btween Clara's desire tprovide for him and the restrictions Henry Mittlet had set, down decades ago. "i'm not concerned, Sandy. I have a question."

  "But about this trust for my benefit?"

  "More or less. Just give me a moment." Cai dandled a hand; he was too fussy to step out of order. He had been discussing Clara's charitable gifts and he returned to the subject. Kate was crying with fervor. Van Zandt, the bigfirm associate, ever prepared, had come armed with a box of tissue and offered another to Kate, while Cal continued with the details he adored.

  "Clara also made a bequest of $500,000 to the Riverside Reformed Congregation, half of which she asked to be used to support the Inner-City Arts Program."

  The children took this in, still dazzled by the fountain of money spilling forth, but Stern-who might otherwise have received the funds-found Clara's charity characteristic and commendable. For Stern, the notion of himself as a Jew was an absolute and fixed point of reference, the North Pole, as it were, on has personal compass, against which all other issues of identity were judged. Clara and he shared a belief in the importance of the children's religious education, the observance of the High Holy Days.

  But her religion was far more institutionalized than his.

  To Clara the synagogue which her maternal grandparents had helped found was a significant anchor, and against all reason she was devoted to the rabbi, a smug self-promoter, and to his many community projects. At Rabbi Weigel's urging, Clara had taught music appreciation as a volunteer for three or four years in the Inner-City Arts Program, an interfaith effort to enhance the curricula of DuSable's most impoverished schools. Clara admired the culture and civility of the well-to-do, but not lheir sense of privilege. She had always been a lerson of conscience.

  "That's more or less it." Cal was done. He put down his memo and looked about the table, as if for applause.

  "The problem," said Stern, referring once more to the trust Clara had left for him. Cal already seemed to have forgotten.

  "Oh," said Cal. "As I say, just one question, Sandy: we've been wondering what became of it."

  "It?"

  "The money. You understand." Cal leaned forward. "Don't you?

  "I had taken it, Cal, from the figures you'd been using that there was another million in the estate." As soon as the words were out he regretted them, particularly the precision with which he seemed to have calculated.

  . "Well, not quite," said Cal, mincing as ever. "Clara's holdings haven't made it all the way back from the crash.

  But it's the $850,000 that's gone from her investment account I'm talking about."

  No one, for a moment, said anything. "Gone?" asked Stern finally.

  "Removed," said Cal.

  The two men considered each other.

  "You're not telling us there has been a defalcation, are you?"

  "Lord, no!" Cal turned to Van Zandt, as if for help. "We get a consolidated statement from the bank each quarter on the trusts and Clara's investment account. When we heard the news, we looked, of course, and I saw that this sum had been withdrawn last month. I assumed, Sandy-I was certain she would have discussed {his with you."

  Cal paused. "I called."

  Stern only now understood.

  "You believe Clara spent this money?"

  "What else? I took it she'd made an investment on her own, bought a summer home-", Cal's hand trailed off. Marta spoke up.

  "What would she do with $850,000? That's bizarre."

  Stern, strongly inclined to agree, began to add his voice to Marta's.

  But some better instinct saved him. He was-. rising to a treacherous pass. He had no business predicting What was possible or impossible with Clara in these latter days. Perhaps she was funding a hippie sect. on of conscience.

  "That's more or less it." Cal was done. He put down his memo and looked about the table, as if for applause.

  "The problem," said Stern, referring once more to the trust Clara had left for him. Cal already seemed to have forgotten.

  "Oh," said Cal. "As I say, just one question, Sandy: we've been wondering what became of it."

  "It?"

  "The money. You understand." Cal leaned forward. "Don't you?

  "I had taken it, Cal, from the figures you'd been using that there was another million in the estate." As soon as the words were out he regretted them, particularly the precision with which he seemed to have calculated.

  . "Well, not quite," said Cal, mincing as ever. "Clara's holdings haven't made it all the way back from the crash.

  But it's the $850,000 that's gone from her investment account I'm talking about."

  No one, for a moment, said anything. "Gone?" asked Stern finally.

  "Removed," said Cal.

  The two men considered each other.

  "You're not telling us there has been a defalcation, are you?"

  "Lord, no!" Cal turned to Van Zandt, as if for help. "We get a consolidated statement from the bank each quarter on the trusts and Clara's investment account. When we heard the news, we looked, of course, and I saw that this sum had been withdrawn last month. I assumed, Sandy-I was certain she would have discussed {his with you."

  Cal paused. "I called."

  Stern only now understood.

  "You believe Clara spent this money?"

  "What else? I took it she'd made an investment on her own, bought a summer home-", Cal's hand trailed off. Marta spoke up.

  "What would she do with $850,000? That's bizarre."

  Stern, strongly inclined to agree, began to add his voice to Marta's.

  But some better instinct saved him. He was-. rising to a treacherous pass. He had no business predicting What was possible or impossible with Clara in these latter days. Perhaps she was funding a hippie sect. Or feeding a drug habit.

  "Cal, I am not certain I understand how this could have occurred."

  "I presume Clara went to the bank, dissolved the great bulk of her portfolio, and took the money. It was hers, after all."

  ".Have you checked with them?" "Sandy, I wanted to speak with you first. That's why I called." Cal was in excruciating discomfort.

  Probate lawyers dealt with a world of fixed intentions. They were not suited to surprise.

  Clearly, he feared that the family might blame him, and had descended already to the sweaty depths of lawyerly justification. "I took it you would know about this. It didn't-occur to me-" Cal cut himself off. He seemed to recogffze that he was merely doing harm by reemphasizing how shocked he was that Clara had acted without consulting her husband.

  Cal's sudden-and uncharacteristic-sensitivity seemed by some improbable logic to awaken Stern to his own distress. He was, in fact, reeling.

  Oh, it was absolutely childish, a response greedy as a six-year-old's, but he could not stifle the thought.
She had seen to the children; she had fattened the rabbi and his favorite charity. Only he, in her last days, had been deprived.

  Shame and anguish, the same venomous mix, rose in him once more.

  Cal had gone on talking.

  "Now that you tell me you have no idea What this is about, I'll call Jack Wagoner over at the bank at once. We'll track it all downi The probate court will require it."

  These vows seemed to do tittle to comfort Cal himself who sat there worried and deflated, licking his lips. He made it sound as if the money had run away on its own.

  "When was this transaction?" asked Marta. "How late in the month?" Cal turned to Van Zandt, who had the date -five days before the afternoon Stern had come home to find Clara. Van Zandt handed a paper, the statement, to Marta; she then offered it to her father, who pushed it aside. The thought of embezzlement, some kind of foul play, occurred to Stern again, but that was unlikely-worse, absurd.

  He looked up at a sound: Kate had begun burbling again.

  Twenty-six years old, with her face tear-blotched and her makeup washed away, she looked half her age. She lolled back on the arm of her brother, who had been largely silent throughout, still laid low by the contemplation of his mother. Stern, in his present state, found himself easily irritated by Peter's solicitude. How was it, he wondered, that the women always seemed to turn to Peter? None of them would tell you that he was untroubled; but they all seemed to adore his quiet sulkiness. He was available. Reliable. A person you could count on.

  Peter had undermined his father in the most insidious wayby exceeding him. By being what it mattered most that Stern was not. This sudden incisive view into the odd mechanisms of his family did nothing to stem the rising tide of his grief.

  He shook hands with Cal and Van Zandt. His children stood, too, but seemed to have no idea how to proceed, whether to stay or go, or even if they ought to move. Stern realized suddenly that he was the-center of attention. They were all watching him-his children, the lawyers-looking for signals. What to do, how to respond. But he had little to offer by way of instruction. Here in these elegant surroundings his soul again plummeted toward misery. Suicide.