A Conflict of Interest Page 18

  32

  Alex?” Abby is standing in my doorway. She closes the door behind her without my inviting her in. “I know this is very upsetting to you. Would it help if we talked about it?”

  I sweep my arm, gesturing that she should sit down. Abby settles into my guest chair, her face full of concern.

  “It’s not just the affair,” I say without further prompting, “although that would be more than enough. I just hope to God my father didn’t know.”

  I’m about to tell her my theory regarding the connection between the affair and my mother’s death, but stop just before the words come out. I don’t want to tell Abby that sometimes affairs with married men end up that way.

  As if she’s reading my mind, she says, “This is a subject that will be aided by alcohol, don’t you think? Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  We agree to meet up at the bar at the Mandarin Hotel in the Time Warner Center. I don’t make any comment about her selecting a bar on the top floor of the hotel, meaning there’s little chance of someone seeing us who isn’t also selecting a clandestine spot for a drink, and she doesn’t say anything about my request that we not be seen leaving the firm together.

  The hostess tells me that my party has already arrived, and instructs me to follow her. Abby has secured a table in the corner, by the window. Outside is a panoramic view of Central Park. She has a glass of white wine in front of her, nearly finished.

  I’ve barely sat down before someone arrives asking for our drink order.

  “What scotch do you have?” I ask.

  He points to the list on the table, which actually sets out about six or seven different varieties, ranging in price from $20 to $250 a glass. I order the $20 glass. Abby says she’ll have the same, and downs the rest of her wine.

  When the waiter leaves, Abby leans close to me and says, “Alex, don’t be mad at me for saying this, and I know that finding out about your mother and Michael is very upsetting to you, but parents are people too, you know? Don’t be too hard on your mother without knowing what she was going through.”

  “I know, Abby. Believe me, I do. I mean, who am I to throw stones, right?”

  She could pretend that she doesn’t understand, but Abby doesn’t insult me in that way. I half-hope that she’s going to comment that I’ve stayed on the right side of that divide, but what she says makes clear that she considers that to be a distinction without a difference.

  “I guess that’s my point. Until you know what was going on with her, you really can’t judge her. My parents had a very rocky marriage, and so I learned a long time ago that there’s nothing lonelier than being with someone you don’t love.”

  “Would you provide the same defense for Michael? Because I won’t. I’m furious with him.”

  The second round passes quickly, our banter covering our favorite books (Abby surprises me with her love for Wuthering Heights, while she tells me that I’m nothing if not predictable for liking The Great Gatsby) and the fact that neither of us has seen a movie since the summer. When I hear myself asking for a third scotch, there’s a sloppiness to my words. Also, the conversation has turned to superheroes, which reminds me of the first time Abby and I were out drinking.

  “I have one for you,” she says. I can tell by her smile she’s pleased with herself. “I’ve been thinking about your theories about Batman, and I have a real problem with them.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “You claim that Batman is really Batman deep down, and he created Bruce Wayne as a persona, but that’s not really who he is, right?”

  “Yes, that is my thesis.”

  “Then riddle me this: Why is he Bruce Wayne at all? Why isn’t he Batman twenty-four-seven?”

  I want to come up with a quick and pithy response, but none comes to me. I’m not sure if it’s because of the alcohol taking effect or she really has me stumped.

  “Wouldn’t people wonder where Bruce Wayne went?” I finally say.

  “Maybe he died. Or moved to Memphis.”

  “Do you equate the two?”

  “Have you ever been to Memphis?”

  “Fair enough. But how’s this—I think he keeps the Bruce Wayne persona to protect those he loves.”

  “Nice try,” she says dismissively. “But who does Batman ever love? There’s no female, unless you count Catwoman, and we both know that relationship isn’t going anywhere. Face it, Alex, Batman is a loner. He might as well be Batman all the time.”

  “That’s so sad,” I say.

  Perhaps I also look sad because Abby changes her expression too. Her smile recedes and she looks at me intently. She brings her face closer to mine, and then she kisses me. At first lightly, and then more deeply.

  “Please,” she moans, our lips still pressed together. “Please come home with me. It’s time, Alex.”

  From the moment we enter the cab, we’re kissing like teenagers. Neither the cab driver nor anything else matters. We don’t stop until the cab does, at which time I pull out a crumpled twenty dollar bill from my pocket to pay a fare that is less than half that, and slam the door behind me.

  Abby’s building has no doorman. She unlocks the front door without looking back, but I scan the empty street to make sure no one sees me enter.

  As soon as we cross the threshold we’re kissing again, my hands running down Abby’s body. Without saying a word, Abby breaks our embrace and takes my hand. I know this is really happening, but there’s a part of me that feels like tomorrow I will awake to realize it was all a dream.

  Abby does not turn the light on in her bedroom. She steps out of her shoes and for the first time she seems small to me. My lips leave hers and I begin kissing her neck, working my way down to her now bare shoulders. When she lets out a gentle sigh, I know my life will never again be the same.

  I want this moment never to end, and knowing that’s impossible, I want to remember every detail—the smell of her hair, the way her breasts feel in my hands, the softness of her lips—so that when we’re not together, I can relive it.

  As I’m about to enter her, I hesitate. I’m not exactly sure why, to freeze the moment perhaps, a way of marking before and after. Or perhaps it’s to remind myself that I could stop.

  She shudders, and let’s out a cry that is unmistakably of pleasure. We move slowly for a few minutes. Her breathing, short gasps, increases in intensity and speed as we do.

  I know she’s close, and I slow down to hold her off.

  “What?” she says breathlessly.

  “Can you go on top? I want to be able to see you better.”

  She doesn’t answer, at least not verbally, but rolls around my body until she stretches over me. Her palms flatten on my chest and she begins to rock slowly; within seconds we’re again at full speed.

  “Abby,” I whisper.

  She opens her eyes and smiles broadly. She looks absolutely radiant. I’m about to say something else, but she closes her eyes again. Her head rolls back on her shoulders, and she swings her hair around like a lasso. I can feel her tighten around me, which is followed by a short shriek, and then a longer wail.

  She goes on for longer than I could imagine. When she finally subsides, it’s my turn to experience that exhilaration, and I release into her. The moment I do, however, I’m consumed with shame.

  I could blame the alcohol, of course, but that would only be partly right. I knew it was heading in this direction, and I could have stopped it, but I didn’t. And not just when I ordered a third round, but from the very beginning—the late night messages, the intimate talks, the dinners, the shared rides home and the voicemails. Every day the voicemails. I had thought maybe I could have the affair without the sex, as if that was somehow better, rather than worse. At least now there’s a clarity to my actions and I can no longer hide behind the technicality that I haven’t broken my marriage vows.

  I start to get dressed, searching in her covers for my underwear, when Abby asks me to stay. “It’s not even eleven o’clock,
” she says. “You normally don’t get home this early.”

  I’m not going to be convinced, however. I can’t wait to get out of her apartment and to somewhere safe. The irony is not at all lost on me that for months now, Abby has been my safe haven from the troubles in my life. Now, in one fell swoop, I’ve made being with her the most dangerous place of all.

  Rather than join Elizabeth in bed, when I come in to the apartment I go directly to the Pink Palace. Charlotte sleeps without a blanket, often on her knees with her backside in the air. I can’t imagine how she can be comfortable that way, but she’s snoring lightly, completely at peace. Belle the bunny’s ears peek out from under her arm.

  I sit at the corner of the bed and stroke Charlotte’s soft curls. It was a bargain, I tell myself. One time. One time only, and then I’d know. What I was missing. What I longed for. I won’t need to do it again because I’d have that memory to fall back on. Rather than repeat the act, I’d just remember it again, and it would be like being with her.

  First I thought Abby and I could be lovers without making love. Now that that’s failed, I take solace in thinking we can go back to the way things were before. I know it’s another lie, but I’m praying I can make it come true.

  33

  Is something wrong?”

  I had hoped to get out of the apartment before Elizabeth woke up. Six o’clock turned out not to be early enough.

  I’m almost fully dressed. All that remains is for me to fix my tie and grab my coat and I would have made it to freedom, but now I’m going to have to engage her.

  “No, why do you ask?” I say.

  “You seem a little stressed.”

  “You can tell that by the way I’m tying my tie?”

  “I heard you come in last night, but you went straight into Charlotte’s room. Now you’re leaving at the crack of dawn. It doesn’t take a mind reader to recognize that something’s going on with you.”

  “I’ve got a meeting with Ohlig this morning that I’m not looking forward to, that’s all.”

  “Did something happen?”

  There’s no reason not to tell her about Ohlig and my mother. Their affair isn’t covered by attorney-client privilege, and it would not only allow Elizabeth into my thoughts, something she complains I exclude her from too frequently, but also provide an explanation as to why I’m out of sorts this morning. I’m afraid to share with her my mother’s infidelity for fear it reveals too much about my genetic makeup. Fruit of the poisonous tree is the expression in the law. Once a piece of evidence becomes tainted, everything that flows from it is equally inadmissible. It’s not a perfect analogy, but it works. If I tell Elizabeth about my mother, we’ll start talking about the reasons people cheat, and that’s not a discussion I want to have with her.

  “Just the usual stuff,” I say instead.

  I access my voicemail within seconds of leaving my building. There’s a message, and my heart lifts, hoping it’s from Abby. It is. The computer voice reveals she left it just after we said good-bye last night.

  “Hey you,” her voicemail begins, “I already miss you. Your smell. Your touch. I can’t say it was worth the wait because I’ve wanted you that way for so long, but God, it was amazing. Thank you.”

  I know that I’ve lost the bargain. I want her more than ever now.

  I arrive at the office before seven, but it’s already a buzz of activity. I want some quiet time, so I shut my door. I replay last night in my head, trying to experience it all over again, until I’m awakened from the fantasy by a knock.

  “Come in,” I call.

  Abby opens the door. She has an unabashed smile, the very picture of joy. For the second time I feel a pang of shame.

  “You’re here early,” she says. “I was going to leave you a note, but this is so much better.” Clearly, she is not suffering from the same hangover that I am, and I’m not referring to the effect the alcohol had on me.

  “I had trouble sleeping last night, and so I decided to come in early today.”

  “That sounds like we should talk,” she says.

  “No, if it’s okay with you, I’d just rather be for a little bit. We can talk later, if you want. But for now, I’d rather not.”

  “I’m going to make you a deal that I think you’re going to like, Alex.”

  “Isn’t the line that it’s an offer I can’t refuse?”

  “If you prefer. Anyway, I can only imagine how you’re turning inside. So, if you want to chalk it up to one of those we-both-wanted-to-know-what-it-was-going-to-be-like kind of things, and now we know that it was pretty damn spectacular, so we never have to go there again, I’m okay with that. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll be disappointed, but I’ll live. I understand that you’ve got a lot of stuff on your plate right now, and the last thing you need is me making demands. Okay?”

  This is more than okay. In fact, I can’t imagine that she could have said anything that would have been of greater relief. She’s essentially granting my greatest wish. We can pretend that last night didn’t happen. I am having my cake and eating it too.

  “I appreciate that, I really do. And you’re right, things are a little … complicated right now, wouldn’t you say? I mean, we’re about to start a trial defending the guy my mother was cheating on my father with, and at the same time I’m cheating on my wife with you. This is going to be hard enough for me without pining for the next time we’re going to make love. There’s only so much my mind can take.”

  “Okay, Alex. Like I said, we can go at your speed. I’ll keep my hands off you during the trial, and after that, you can tell me what you want this to look like. Deal?”

  And that’s how we leave it. We are once again lovers in every way other than the most defining.

  A few hours later, Ohlig enters my office in the company of my assistant. I had earlier told the receptionist on my floor to have Ohlig cool his heels until I was ready for him. As power plays go, it was a little juvenile, but it apparently did the trick because Ohlig seems put-out.

  “What’s with all the heightened security, counselor?” Ohlig says when he enters my office. “It’s like the Corleone compound after Bruno Tataglia got whacked. So now I’ve got to wait in reception?”

  I’ve already decided not to engage in any small talk. As soon as he’s seated, I begin.

  “Michael, there’s no way to say this without being straight up.” I lean into him, the way he sometimes does with Abby to show he’s totally fixated on whatever she’s going to say next, and allow a long silence, waiting for him to offer something unsolicited. It gives me some professional pride that he’s been trained too well to fall for such a trick. “I need to know about the relationship you were having with my mother.”

  Ohlig’s expression is one I’ve seen before on countless clients. It isn’t surprise, shame, or embarrassment, but calculation. He’s playing out in his mind whether he can pull off a lie or should come clean with the truth. I’d estimate that more than 90 percent of my clients who perform this calculus choose to lie.

  “It’s true, Alex. Your mother and I were, as you say, in a relationship.”

  I expect more, some type of explanation about how it began, or why they chose not to tell me. Anything. But he has answered the question in full and is not going to volunteer extraneous information; again, just the way I’ve prepared him to testify when he’s cross-examined by Pavin.

  “Why didn’t you tell me? For Christ’s sake, I’m representing you and you’re having an affair with my mother? Michael, you flat-out lied to me.”

  “Not telling you that I was seeing your mother was not a flat-out lie. At most it was a sin of omission, and one she swore me to.”

  “You’re giving me technicalities?” I say, my voice now rising. “At my mother’s funeral I asked you when you’d spoken to her last and you made it seem as if you’d barely spoken to her in weeks. You spoke to her the day before she died! From my conference room, no less.”

  I see the same darting in Ohlig
’s eyes as before, the tell that he’s still not sure whether to lie or not. But he must know that I couldn’t make such a specific allegation unless I have proof.

  “Yes. Your mother called me at your office. She said she was going to be all alone on Thanksgiving and it was my fault. Well, yours and mine. The goddamn men in her life, as she put it. She was upset on the phone, I’m not going to lie to you about that. But I saw her that night and everything was good after that. I swear.”

  “You should have told me.”

  “With all due respect, what you were told about your mother’s personal life was her decision, not mine. She didn’t want you to know.” He smiles as if to convey that we’re still friends. “You may be my lawyer, Alex, but first and foremost you’re her son.”

  Ohlig’s delivery is smooth, as if he’s been preparing this speech for some time, and I’m sure on some level he has. It’s clear to me that when he questioned Abby about what phone lines were tapped, it wasn’t because he was worried about something being incriminating on the tapes, at least not in a legal sense. He was concerned I’d find out about him and my mother.

  “It’s difficult to talk to you about this,” he continues, “but if you must know, your mother was fine with what was going on between us. She understood that I wasn’t going to leave Pamela. She was just happy for the time we were spending together. And as for my not telling you about us, like I said, that was her decision, but now I realize that was wrong on my part, and so I’m sorry.”

  I have no interest in his apology. “When did it start?” I ask, pointedly.

  “Alex—”

  “Just answer my question: Did it start before my father died?”

  If he lies to me about this I’ll know that he’s likely lying to me about everything. Of course, the converse is not necessarily true—if he comes clean on this it just may be that he suspects I already know the truth, which, of course, I already do.