A Conflict of Interest Read online

  I want to remind her that I had been ready to travel Thanksgiving weekend, and I would have had a five year old in tow to make the trip that much more difficult, but I let it go. I’m now more concerned about my mother’s health.

  “You haven’t mentioned not feeling well before, Mom. What’s wrong?”

  “Maybe I’m getting the flu.” My mother’s usual go-to illness, no matter what symptoms are actually present.

  “Do you have a fever?”

  “No, at least I don’t think so. I’m just feeling blah. I’ve been having trouble sleeping, and I’m a little achy.”

  “Mom, it’s pretty common for people to get depressed around the holiday and Dad’s death has got to be wearing down on you.”

  “I don’t mean to worry you, Alex. I’m going to be fine. As they say, this too shall pass.”

  “You should do what’s best for you, but traveling won’t be that bad and neither will the weather. I’ve traveled on that Wednesday and my flights have always been on time. I’ll have a car pick you up at JFK. The whole trip, door-to-door, won’t even take four hours.”

  “You know, I’d really like to see you, and the little one too, but I’m just not up to it right now.”

  “It’s an open invitation, Mom. And if we don’t see each for Thanksgiving, we’ll definitely come down there for Christmas.”

  There’s silence on the line for a few moments, then I ask: “Are you sure everything is all right, Mom?”

  “I’m fine,” she replies. “Don’t worry about me.”

  21

  This is Assistant United States Attorney Christopher Pavin,” he says when I pick up the phone.

  “I’ve got a case with a guy who has exactly that same name.” My witticism is apparently lost on Pavin because all I hear is dead air. “What can I do for you, Christopher?”

  “Classy move you and your client pulled with Popowski,” he says, “too bad it didn’t work.”

  Damn. He must have found Popowski. That makes things ten times worse than it was before. The old Watergate cliché—the cover-up is worse than the crime—is truer in criminal law than in politics. Even if Ohlig is innocent of the securities fraud charges, evidence that he was involved in Popowski’s disappearance will earn Pavin a conviction on everything. Jurors think the same way Abby did—innocent men don’t obstruct justice.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.

  “We have a witness who’s going to testify that your guy knew that Salminol was a dog stock, and he directed the sales force to pump it and then dump it, and that’s a direct quote.”

  Pavin has overplayed his hand. Enough at least that I feel justified retaking some of the moral high ground.

  “Be serious,” I say. “Popowski was there for what, all of two weeks? No one’s going to believe a word that guy has to say.”

  “It’s not Popowski,” Pavin says calmly. I can tell he’s been savoring that information, hoping to drop it on me for maximum effect, which is just what he’s done. “I’ll give the devil his due—Ohlig’s hiding Popowski but good. But I’m not an all-my-eggs-in-one-basket kind of guy, no pun intended. Let’s just say I’ve got someone who worked at OPM way more than two weeks.”

  “Who?” I ask, but already know the answer I’m going to get.

  “When you get serious about taking a plea, I’ll lay it all out for you. If not, you’ll find out at trial. Have a good day, Mr. Miller.”

  “How’s my favorite gravy train?” Joe Freeman asks.

  “I’m good. My colleague, Abby Sloane, is with me and that’s why I’ve got you on speaker.”

  “Okay. Let me bring in Maria if this is going to be a business call.”

  After Freeman’s flunky joins us, I get down to brass tacks. “I hear there may be some dissent brewing in our joint defense club. Our mutual best friend, Chris Pavin—”

  “You mean Assistant United States Attorney Christopher Pavin,” Freeman says, laughing.

  “Yes, that’s him. He’s telling me he’s got a witness from inside OPM.”

  “He must have had FBI agents staking out every beach in the Caribbean to find Popowski,” Freeman says, chuckling again.

  “He says it’s not Popowski, but a real insider.”

  “I can tell you it’s not Ruderman, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “That’s what I’m asking. I didn’t think it would be your guy, but stranger things have happened.”

  “Trust, but verify. I get it.”

  “So, have you heard anything?”

  “Nada.”

  “Be sure to tell me if that changes, okay?”

  “Will do. Hey, when are you going to let me take you out to lunch? I’d like to thank you for sending the work my way.”

  “Out to lunch? I thought with what you’re billing Ohlig on this thing, you’d buy me a car.”

  “It’s my strict policy that on the first referral—no matter how large—all you get is lunch, but it’ll be at a nice place. It’s the second client when you get into automobile territory.” Freeman laughs again. “Don’t even ask what I do for the third one.”

  After Freeman, Abby and I go down the list of the other lawyers for whom Ohlig’s footing the bill. Next comes Sheffield. “Not my guy,” he tells us with some conviction. “He’s as loyal as the day is long.”

  George Eastman’s assistant tells me that her boss is on another line. “Ask him to call me back,” I tell her. “It’s about his client Eric Fieldston. It’s important that I speak with him right away.”

  Our last call is to Jane McMahan, Allison Shaw’s lawyer. Based on Ohlig’s leering at Abby, I had a preconceived notion of the type of woman Ohlig would hire as his assistant. McMahan has already confirmed my suspicions, at least in part. Take what you’re thinking and double it was the way she put it after her first meeting with her client. But McMahan also told me that Allison Shaw swore the relationship was always absolutely professional.

  After I explain the purpose of my call and McMahan conferences in her associate to participate, I’m assured that Shaw remains firmly in the tent. “I don’t know what Ohlig’s either giving her or holding over her, but unless something dramatically changes, Allison is the least of your worries. She’s going down with the ship on this one.”

  As I’m hanging up the phone, my other line rings. It’s the long buzz indicating an internal call. The caller ID tells me it’s Aaron Littman.

  I pick up the receiver. Aaron’s not the kind of person you answer on speakerphone.

  “Hello Aaron. How are you?”

  “I just got a call from George Eastman.”

  My stomach drops. It makes sense that Eastman would reach out to Aaron first. He probably owes 70 percent of his practice to referrals from Aaron, and he’s doing whatever he can to explain that he had no choice, in the hope that Aaron forgives him. It’s ironic, actually. Aaron’s quip about secretaries being more dangerous to the defense than CFOs notwithstanding, I knew from the outset that Fieldston was the guy who could hurt us the most if he flipped, and Aaron figured that Eastman was our best bet to prevent that from happening given his dependence on Aaron for work, and his well-known distrust of the government.

  Aaron is now calling to tell me that he was wrong.

  “I hope you’re not calling with bad news,” I say.

  “You already know, then?”

  “Pavin told me someone had gone to the dark side, so I’ve been calling the most likely suspects. When I called George Eastman, I was told he was on the phone. You call five minutes later, and so I figure it’s not a coincidence.”

  “He wanted to give me a heads-up first.”

  I mouth to Abby “It’s Fieldston,” and then say into the phone, “What did he say?”

  “Usual B.S. He had no choice. He’d be disbarred or at least sued for malpractice if he didn’t allow a client to take a get-out-of-jail-free card. He’ll try to get his guy not to hurt us too badly, but now he’s got almost no control since
his client is taking his marching orders from the prosecutor.”

  “Did he tell you what his client is going to say when he testifies?”

  “I didn’t get into the particulars because I knew you’d need to hear it from him. Call George. He’s waiting for your call.”

  When we reach Eastman’s assistant the second time, she puts us right through.

  “I just got off the phone with Aaron,” Eastman says.

  “Yeah, me too. But it’s my case, George, so I need to hear it directly from you.”

  “Pick up, Alex. No offense, Abby.”

  I remove the handset from the cradle and turn off the speaker button. “Okay, go ahead.”

  “Thank you. I want to do this one-on-one.”

  “So tell me.”

  “Before we get into it, my client wants to express to your client that he’s very sorry about this. He said I should tell you, and that you should tell Ohlig, that he knows Ohlig has always treated him and his family very generously and—and this is a direct quote—it breaks his heart to have to do this.”

  “Then why is he doing it?”

  “He has no choice. Pavin was really turning the screws on him. Eric’s got three young kids, and his wife is sick. She’s got some type of woman’s cancer or something. The stress of a trial, the prospect that his wife would die, and he’d be in prison … it was just too much.”

  “So he’s going to commit perjury to save his own skin?”

  As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve made a mistake. I should be treating Eastman like a hostile witness—kid gloves at first, so I get the information I want while he still thinks we’re friends—and then hit him with the accusations at the end. Throwing a punch right out of the gate is just going to cause Eastman to shut down.

  “You know I’d never let him lie on the stand. He tells me it’s the truth, and I have no reason to believe otherwise.”

  I start to backpedal in the hope that I can repair the damage. “I know this isn’t your fault, George. I would have done the same thing if Pavin offered my guy immunity to testify against your guy. But give me a nibble here. What’s Fieldston going to say?”

  “Sorry,” he says in a world-weary tone. “Pavin told me no-can-do. I actually had to get special dispensation from the Holy Pavin just to have this call with you right now, and he relented only when I told him you’d figure it out anyway when I stopped taking your calls, so the least he could do was to allow me to try to keep what was left of my professional reputation.”

  “Witness tampering if we do it; the word of God if Pavin does it.”

  “Something like that.” Eastman’s voice is heavy, as if he knows how unfair all of this is, although it isn’t clear to me whether he feels most sorry for Ohlig or himself, knowing full well that I will do everything I can to get Aaron to cut off Eastman’s referral spigot for this kick in the teeth.

  After we’ve hung up, Abby asks, “So, what’s he going to say?”

  “On the advice of Christopher Pavin, George Eastman’s taken a vow of silence, I’m afraid.”

  “Great.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You know what Fieldston’s going to say?” She’s already nodding. “Whatever Pavin tells him to.”

  “So, what now?”

  “We get Ohlig here tomorrow morning and start talking to him about a plea.”

  That evening, as I’m getting ready to go home, I call Abby. It’s been our routine as of late for me to tell her before I leave for the day. At first they were status calls, talking about what we needed to do the next day, with a little small talk at the end. The last couple of weeks, however, the percentages have shifted the other way, and more recently I’ve been saying good-bye in person. The irony isn’t lost on me that I used to call Elizabeth to tell her I was coming home, but now I usually don’t.

  “I’m heading out for the day,” I say.

  “What, no personal visit? Now I’m just a phone call?”

  “Do you have a lot of stuff still to do?”

  “Is that a trick question?”

  “Want to share a ride home?”

  “Can you give me a half hour? If you can’t wait, that’s fine. But I need to get an email out tonight or my boss is going to have my head.”

  “Your boss really sucks,” I say, and then agree to meet her downstairs in half an hour.

  After six, Cromwell Altman has a car service that maintains a lineup of Lincoln Town Car sedans, like a taxi stand at the airport. You just get in the first one and tell the driver where you’re heading, and he hands you a voucher so the client is charged for the ride.

  Abby and I pile into the back of the first car on the line. It’s as telling as anything else about where we stand with each other that Abby doesn’t ask why I’d want to share a car home with her given that we live on opposite sides of the park.

  “Two stops,” I tell the driver. “The first is to Riverside and 88th. Then you’ll go crosstown to take me home to 80th and Park.”

  The feeling in the back of the car reminds me of that evening after Peter Luger’s. I’m specifically conscious of my hands, so much so that, not knowing what to do with them, I clasp them in each another. Abby is apparently suffering from the same dilemma because her hands are in the same position.

  The car pulls up to Abby’s building. Just like before, I get out of the car first. Unlike the last time, however, I extend my hand to help her out of the car.

  We stand face-to-face, still holding hands. I feel almost as if a magnetic force is pulling me closer to her. Only one kiss, and that’s it, I tell myself, although even as I think it, I know it’s a lie. Once we kiss, I’ll want more.

  “Good night,” I finally say, somehow able to get the words out before acting on my impulse.

  “Good night,” she replies, smiling as if she heard everything that was in my mind.

  I must have the worst poker face on earth because the moment Elizabeth sees me, she says, “Someone looks very happy.”

  “Just glad to be home,” I say. “A tough day.”

  She’s sitting up in bed, reading, and looks at me suspiciously. “What happened?”

  “For starters, the one guy we knew could bury us—Ohlig’s second in command—has cut a deal with the prosecution. So, we’re pretty much dead in the water now.”

  “I’m sorry, Alex. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

  “I don’t see how. The guy’s going to say that Ohlig is guilty. It’s pretty hard to come back from that.”

  “What does Ohlig say about it?”

  “I haven’t told him. I called him and asked him to come up tomorrow so we can talk face-to-face. You know, he doesn’t even ask me what’s going on. It’s the weirdest thing. I can’t figure out if he’s just super cool or delusional.”

  “Do you think he’s going to take a plea now?”

  I smile at her, impressed at her understanding of trial strategy. “I don’t know. I’m going to recommend it, but he’s been swearing he’s innocent from day one, and I think he’s so far out there that there’s no coming back.”

  22

  So, you’ve called me into the Batcave,” Ohlig says as soon as he’s settled into my guest chair. “And now I’m here. Will Batgirl be joining us? Or is Abby more like Robin?”

  “I thought we should do this just the two of us,” I say, ignoring his attempt at humor. I also leave out that the reason it’s just me and him is because Abby’s presence immediately brings out Ohlig’s Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky persona.

  “Okay, you’ve built your suspense. What’s so important that the phone is no longer an adequate means of communication?”

  “Fieldston’s flipped.”

  Ohlig gives a weak smile, an attempt to show this is nothing he can’t handle, I suspect. Then, in keeping with that theme, he says, “I had my money on Ruderman. I always thought that guy was a weasel.”

  With his punch line delivered, the smile that’s the usual fixture on his face recedes, replaced by the
expression that defines most people in Ohlig’s circumstances—the grim sadness of someone confronting his mortality for the first time. Ohlig looks away from me, his focus directed over my shoulder, somewhere out the window.

  “I just can’t believe it,” he says, now more in regret than in anger, and not really to me as much as into space. “I mean, Eric was like family. I know that people say that all the time, but I’ve known the guy for twenty-five years. He came to work for me right out of college. I taught him this business. I paid for him to get an MBA, for Christ’s sake.”

  I shake my head in sympathy. “Don’t be too hard on him. If Pavin had offered you immunity to turn on Fieldston, I would have told you to take it.”

  “But I wouldn’t have.”

  I assume Ohlig’s saying that he wouldn’t lie to save his own skin. But it could be that he wouldn’t betray someone to save his own skin even if it required only that he tell the truth. It’s one of those pronouncements that’s easiest made when it’s not going to be tested, however.

  “This changes things,” I tell him.

  “No, it doesn’t,” he tells me.

  “Michael, we need to focus on reality for a moment. All that stuff about the presumption of innocence they teach you in fifth grade—you can forget it. It just doesn’t exist. Jurors assume the same thing you do when someone’s arrested—that they’re probably guilty. Pavin’s going to show them that you made more money than they can even contemplate exists, and in the process that you destroyed the life savings of thousands of people, most of whom were widows and retirees. And then, to top it all off, Eric Fieldston—the person at OPM you most trusted—will swear under oath that although he loves you like a father, his conscience requires that he tell the truth, and the truth is that he knows for a fact that you knew Salminol was a total sham.”

  Ohlig shakes his head. It’s a soft gesture, suggesting he absolutely can’t fathom how it’s come to this.