Returning home from a trip, Stern finds his 58-year old wife a suicide in the garage. Before she killed herself, Clara removed $850,000 from her bank; she was also being treated for herpes. Poor Stern can hardly absorb the bad news because at the same time he’s pressed to mount a defense that will keep his sister’s detestable husband out of jail. Dixon Hartnell is the rapacious czar of a commodities-futures trading empire. The government has collected evidence indicating that Dixon has been concealing large profits on illegal orders. Stern’s son-in-law, who works for Dixon, has been granted immunity to testify against his boss. As his indictment looms, Dixon proves a perversely uncooperative client.
That’s where matters stand for a long time. Readers who can press through the first 400 pages will find the plot shaking itself awake before hurtling toward a resolution that might have been plausible had it been simpler. In the interim Stern yields to the itch of autumnal lust. His wife’s body has barely cooled before middle-aged women are all over him, hiking their skirts. Imagine Agatha Christie interrupting her stories with news of Poirot’s sexual enthusiasms and you’ll have a fair idea of what Turow offers here. Stern thinks of “crimson-tipped hands pressed into the loose pale flesh of his own back,” and later observes a “rosy tumescent glow and throbbing veinous parts.” Indeed. Turow’s story cries for a dash of wit or humor.
