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Authors: Scott Turow
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these huge transactions he handled for his customers.
Dixon, however, continued to point up signs that he was in the clear.
"That subpoena doesn't even mention my name," he said.
"That has to be good, doesn't it?"
The absence was superficially encouraging. But there would have been little reason for the agents to be so obvious in their pursuit of Dixon last week--or to have gone out of town with their initial subpoenas--unless they believed he would quickly recognize the meaning of these inquiries. His client, Stern decided, was keeping things to himself--not unprecedented in these circumstances, and, Lord knew, the general course with Dixon. Today, however, was probably not the time to press, On his feet again, Stern, as he often did, took a moment to stare from his window in Morgan Towers, the city's tallest building, down to the Kindle River, whose swift waters ran here, through various tributaries, into the Mississippi.
With its shining, silvery face, the Kindle had been first named La Chandelle, the candle, by the French trader JeanBaptiste DuSable, who had tarried here on his way from New Orleans to what eventually became Chicago. DuSable's trading post, named after him, was now by far the largest part of a consolidated tri-city municipality of almost a million. Just south, where the river branched and rejoined, two other towns, Moreland, settled by the English, who had Anglicized the river's name, and Kewahnee, once an Indian encampment, had grown up from barge ports and had been merged into DuSable in the mid-1930s. In this era of urban sprawl, the entire area, including the tri-cities, was usually referred to by the name of the surrounding county-Kindle--a hodgepodge megalopolis of city and suburb, prosperity and blight, home in total to almost three million people. The willingness of locals to see their city known by the county name had probably not been dampened by the rediscovery during the 1960s that DuSable, traditionally referred to as the first white man in these parts, had been black.
Dixon was speaking behind him. He wanted to know if they were obliged to turn over all the records the government required. Most of the trades, given their size, had been executed in Chicago, and the search for documents would occupy days for Margy Allison, Dixon's executive vice president, who ran the Chicago office, three hundred miles from here.
"I see no choice," said Stern. "I shall complain to the prosecutor bitterly about the burdens of production. Tell her your business will be brought to a standstill. And I must have some time to look at the records, to see if I can make out what the government suspects. But eventually we must produce. We cannot challenge the subpoena as overbroad --it is quite precise."
"Whatever happened to the Fifth Amendment?" That was Dixon for you, cavalier where. other executives would .stammer before the words could come from their mouths.
Stern explained that the subpoena sought records which belonged in law to the corporation rather than to Dixon himself. The corporation, not an individual, had no Fifth Amendment rights. Dixon could refuse to testify about the records; but the papers themselves would have to be handed over, Claudia buzzed. She had lOonsky. Dixon, in the meanwhile, chewed on his cigar and puzzled over the mysterious logic of the law.
"Ms. loonsky," he said.
"Mr. Stern," she answered. A clear, self-assured voice.
They had never met, but Stern had seen her in the courtroom when she approached the podium for status calls. She was in her late thirties, Stern thought, a robust-appearing woman with broad shoulders, dark hair, strong hands. In court, she had emitted the forbidding persona familiar to many assistants, including a number of the women; eager to prove themselves as tough as their male counterparts, they often came across as humorless and driven, citizens of the late century who saw bmtaiity as a necessary mode in female style. It was largely a pose, but under
Dixon, however, continued to point up signs that he was in the clear.
"That subpoena doesn't even mention my name," he said.
"That has to be good, doesn't it?"
The absence was superficially encouraging. But there would have been little reason for the agents to be so obvious in their pursuit of Dixon last week--or to have gone out of town with their initial subpoenas--unless they believed he would quickly recognize the meaning of these inquiries. His client, Stern decided, was keeping things to himself--not unprecedented in these circumstances, and, Lord knew, the general course with Dixon. Today, however, was probably not the time to press, On his feet again, Stern, as he often did, took a moment to stare from his window in Morgan Towers, the city's tallest building, down to the Kindle River, whose swift waters ran here, through various tributaries, into the Mississippi.
With its shining, silvery face, the Kindle had been first named La Chandelle, the candle, by the French trader JeanBaptiste DuSable, who had tarried here on his way from New Orleans to what eventually became Chicago. DuSable's trading post, named after him, was now by far the largest part of a consolidated tri-city municipality of almost a million. Just south, where the river branched and rejoined, two other towns, Moreland, settled by the English, who had Anglicized the river's name, and Kewahnee, once an Indian encampment, had grown up from barge ports and had been merged into DuSable in the mid-1930s. In this era of urban sprawl, the entire area, including the tri-cities, was usually referred to by the name of the surrounding county-Kindle--a hodgepodge megalopolis of city and suburb, prosperity and blight, home in total to almost three million people. The willingness of locals to see their city known by the county name had probably not been dampened by the rediscovery during the 1960s that DuSable, traditionally referred to as the first white man in these parts, had been black.
Dixon was speaking behind him. He wanted to know if they were obliged to turn over all the records the government required. Most of the trades, given their size, had been executed in Chicago, and the search for documents would occupy days for Margy Allison, Dixon's executive vice president, who ran the Chicago office, three hundred miles from here.
"I see no choice," said Stern. "I shall complain to the prosecutor bitterly about the burdens of production. Tell her your business will be brought to a standstill. And I must have some time to look at the records, to see if I can make out what the government suspects. But eventually we must produce. We cannot challenge the subpoena as overbroad --it is quite precise."
"Whatever happened to the Fifth Amendment?" That was Dixon for you, cavalier where. other executives would .stammer before the words could come from their mouths.
Stern explained that the subpoena sought records which belonged in law to the corporation rather than to Dixon himself. The corporation, not an individual, had no Fifth Amendment rights. Dixon could refuse to testify about the records; but the papers themselves would have to be handed over, Claudia buzzed. She had lOonsky. Dixon, in the meanwhile, chewed on his cigar and puzzled over the mysterious logic of the law.
"Ms. loonsky," he said.
"Mr. Stern," she answered. A clear, self-assured voice.
They had never met, but Stern had seen her in the courtroom when she approached the podium for status calls. She was in her late thirties, Stern thought, a robust-appearing woman with broad shoulders, dark hair, strong hands. In court, she had emitted the forbidding persona familiar to many assistants, including a number of the women; eager to prove themselves as tough as their male counterparts, they often came across as humorless and driven, citizens of the late century who saw bmtaiity as a necessary mode in female style. It was largely a pose, but under
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