A Conflict of Interest Page 28

  “All I know is that I hope you get the death penalty so I can be there when they stick the needle in your arm!” I’m suddenly leaning forward and shouting, surprised that I’ve lost control in this way.

  Broden tries to restore calm, putting his hand on Ohlig’s leg to stop him, while turning to me to respond to my charge. “Alex, we don’t want to call Abby as a witness, but if you won’t admit that you believe your mother’s death was suicide, we’re going to have no choice.”

  I doubt Abby would be allowed to testify about what I told her because it’s hearsay, but stranger things have happened. And, if I denied the conversation and she testified it occurred, there are perjury risks in it for me.

  “Okay, we’re done here,” I say, getting up from my seat, which causes Broden to do the same. I take a juvenile pleasure in using my height advantage to stare down at him. To his credit, Broden gives no indication he’s the least bit intimidated. “Do what you have to do, Clint. But I’ll tell you this. If I see Abby Sloane anywhere near that courtroom, I will bury you. That is a promise. I’ll testify that Michael confessed to me, and the only reason I didn’t come forward was I had concerns it was privileged, and have since been told otherwise. So why don’t you think about that.”

  Broden knows better than to respond. The meeting has deviated from his script, and he isn’t going to bring it back. The only thing he can do now is let me leave without making matters worse.

  Ohlig, however, is not as well disciplined. “She was right about you, Alex!” he calls out harshly to me as I reach for the door. “Your mother said it to me time and time again—you’re just like her!”

  50

  When Elizabeth first suggested that we go to marriage counseling I resisted, claiming it was not a good time to be spending money considering that finding employment has been much more difficult than I ever could have anticipated. Most law firms, it seems, would rather hire an alcoholic than someone fired from his last job for anything having to do with sex. Elizabeth correctly pointed out that counseling would be much less expensive than divorce lawyers, and it’s not as if I didn’t have a large year-end check, so we could afford it.

  Our counselor is named Howard. He’s in his mid-sixties, maybe even older than that, which I find reassuring, and he has a warm way about him. Elizabeth is convinced he’s gay, which might be right, even though I think she’s reached that conclusion on the flimsiest of evidence—he wears a bowtie and, she claims, never looks at her breasts.

  The day after I met with Broden, Howard opens our session with a question: Which fictional person does your spouse remind you of? He tells us that he used to limit the inquiry to literature, but eventually found that too difficult for his patients, so now he’s open to television or movie characters, cartoons, whatever the hell you want.

  The first character that pops into my head is Scarlett O’Hara, perhaps because I know Gone With the Wind is Elizabeth’s favorite movie. I know not to go with that choice, however. Elizabeth will say that I must think she’s spoiled or looking for a man to save her, neither of which I actually believe. But, as Howard would say, the fact that my first thought is Elizabeth’s reaction, and that I then alter my response to fit what I think she wants me to do, is more telling than whatever I actually say.

  My mind next runs to stories I read with Charlotte, which must account for more than 80 percent of the reading I’ve been doing these days. I choose Belle from Beauty and the Beast. In my mind, this sounds like a good choice because I can describe Belle in the words equally aplicable to Elizabeth—very smart, beautiful, protective of her family, and strong willed.

  “You left out that she loves a monster,” Elizabeth says with a self-satisfied smile, pointing out the rather obvious flaw in my selection.

  “Well, perhaps it’s not a perfect analogy,” I laugh.

  “Let’s explore that for a moment,” Howard suggests in his soothing way. “What do you make of the fact that maybe Alex thinks he’s not the same on the inside and the outside?”

  “I guess I’d have to say that I didn’t know he thought that way,” Elizabeth says.

  “Do you, Alex?” Howard asks.

  “I think everyone is a little like that, right? I mean, who’s exactly the way the world sees him? But, I don’t think you should read too much into what I said. I was talking about Elizabeth, not me.”

  I suspect that Howard isn’t done with his analysis of my selection, but he can tell that I am, at least for the moment. He turns to my wife, “Your turn, Elizabeth.”

  “This is easy for me. Batman.”

  “Interesting,” Howard says, “because he’s another person who is not who he appears to be. It’s as if there’s a theme here. So, why Batman, Elizabeth?”

  “For starters, Alex lost both his parents this year and, like it was for Bruce Wayne, I think it’s been life altering for him.”

  I nod, waiting for Elizabeth to get to something meatier. Apparently Howard is too because he says, “What else?”

  “I think Alex is lonely, but it’s a loneliness that he’s created for himself. There are people around him who love him, and yet he pushes us away.”

  “Talk to Alex,” Howard says, a common refrain.

  Elizabeth turns a quarter toward me. “You know how we once talked about how Superman was more like Clark Kent and Batman was really who he was inside, and that he created the Bruce Wayne persona, not the other way around?”

  I nod back to her, even though I don’t recall having shared my theories on the subject with her. I certainly remember when Abby and I talked about it, however. It is a sad reminder of where my focus has been lately. Each conversation with Abby remains clear as could be, and yet I can’t recall much of anything Elizabeth and I have discussed in the last six months.

  “Well, I was thinking that there was another pretty big difference between them. Superman is always Superman. He can’t not be because he’s got those powers whether he’s Clark Kent or Superman. But Batman, he could choose not to be Batman if he wanted. He could just decide not to put on the costume. He could stop what he’s doing, get married, and have a regular life.”

  “Maybe Batman could go to therapy,” Howard suggests. “Or couples counseling, with Lois Lane.”

  Elizabeth smiles at me, a private joke that she knows Howard has mistakenly referenced Superman’s girlfriend. I smile back that I recognize the error too.

  She’s right, however. They both are. I don’t have to be the person I’ve always been. I could choose to be different. I could try to work harder at my marriage and take better care of the people in my life who love me.

  It’s not a foolproof plan, of course. There are some things that just cannot be bent to your will, and a happy marriage is one of them. But I certainly loved Elizabeth once. It’s not impossible to think I could recapture that feeling, or recognize that it’s matured into something equally satisfying.

  At the very least, I’m determined to try. I only hope it’s enough.

  On Valentine’s Day, my personal items from Cromwell Altman arrive in a single box. I’m sure it took no more than a half hour for someone to box it up, but the six-week delay just further reinforces how low a priority I am for the firm. Then for a moment I wonder whether the timing was intentional, someone’s idea of a joke, but decide that I had it right the first time—no one at Cromwell Altman gives me a second thought, not even to have a laugh at my expense.

  To add insult to injury, there’s not even a cover note. At least they didn’t make me pay for the delivery, I think to myself.

  As I look through the accumulations of my professional life, I can’t believe how few of the items that surrounded me every day actually belong to me. There are four photographs—two of Charlotte, both from when she was a baby, a wedding photo of Elizabeth, and a picture I took of Elizabeth and Charlotte three years ago during our vacation to St. Marteen. It never occurred to me how out of date the photographs are, or that I didn’t keep a picture of Elizabeth and me in my
office, although now I wonder why that was without arriving at a satisfactory answer.

  At the bottom of the box is the Batman cup that I used for pens, which reminds me that the Cobblepot for Mayor poster hasn’t been returned. I’m assuming that it will come separately, and I hope that I don’t have to call Kantner to get it back; or worse, that they’ll claim it’s firm property by virtue of its hanging on the firm’s walls.

  “Is it what I think it is?” Elizabeth asks when she sees me holding the Batman mug.

  “Afraid so,” I say. “The nose is chipped on the Caped Crusader.” I hold the mug up. “Apparently it was too difficult for someone to put some bubble wrap around it.” I expect some type of reaction, but when there isn’t any, I add, “I can fix it pretty easily, though. A felt-tip black pen should do the trick.”

  “I’d prefer it if you throw it all away,” she says. “I don’t want any reminder of that place in our home.”

  51

  As Deputy Gattia told me that day with Judge Sullivan, the Florida Assistant District Attorney assigned to prosecute Michael Ohlig is a woman named Morgan Robertson. I learned by googling her that she’s a native Floridian who stayed in-state for college and law school. She went to the DA’s office right after graduation and never left, her tenure approaching twenty-five years.

  “I hope you didn’t have any trouble finding the place,” she says. “I still get lost every time I visit your fair city.”

  We had spoken by phone a few times, but with Michael Ohlig’s trial now only a month away, she’s come to New York to meet with me. Even though she hasn’t shared the reason for her visit, I have a pretty good idea what she wants.

  We had agreed to meet at the New York District Attorney’s Office in lower Manhattan. She’s right that it’s a hard place to find. It has a vanity address of One Hogan Square, named after Frank Hogan, a legendary New York DA. The office is attached to the Criminal Court building and is accessed through a side entrance off Centre Street, so it’s a real pain to find if you don’t know where to look.

  “I’ve been here before,” I tell her.

  “I thought your practice would be exclusively on the federal side of the street,” Robertson says. “Good to know that Cromwell Altman gets down in the muck with real criminals, too.”

  It doesn’t take me long to conclude that Morgan Robertson is a type—the hard-ass, professional prosecutor. She reminds me of Wednesday from the Addams family in that she has a very pale complexion and jet black hair, although hers is styled in a professional bob and not braided pigtails. All of this is topped off with a dark, conservative suit paired with an even darker shirt under it. She’s probably in her late forties, and she’s not wearing a wedding band. The predominant first impression she makes is that she’s all business, which is accentuated by the fact that she doesn’t smile at what I assume to be the joke she’s just made.

  “I’m glad to know you don’t believe white collar criminals are criminals,” I say. “I know quite a few AUSAs who would disagree with you. But I’ve actually had a few cases with the DA’s office too. Usually the business crime unit.”

  “John Payton’s group?”

  “Yeah,” I say, not hiding too much that I think Payton is an absolute imbecile.

  “Agreed,” she says, and for the first time smiles at me. As if she can tell a prosecutor’s smiling in friendship is not something I’m accustomed to, she says, “We’re on the same team on this, Alex. There’s nothing I want more than to see Michael Ohlig pay for his crime.”

  “That makes two of us,” I say.

  “Good. You’ll be pleased to know that we have a strong case against him. We can put him on his boat with your mother on the day of the murder. On top of which, the coroner’s report said your mother had sleeping pills in her system at the time of her death, and an order was put in for this same brand of pills through a Canadian pharmacy, and was paid for with Ohlig’s credit card. I originally thought that after we laid it out for him, Ohlig would take a plea, which is why I didn’t reach out to you sooner. But now it appears that we’re heading for trial, and so I’m here to ask for your help to make sure that your mother gets justice.”

  “I’m sorry, but I still don’t see what I can add to the case. I didn’t even know they were having an affair until after she died.”

  “Alex, you’re the living reminder to the jurors that your mother isn’t just a name, but a real person whose life was tragically cut short. That she left behind people who loved her. I want you in the courtroom every day of the trial so the jurors never forget that. And then, after we get a conviction, you’ll need to give a victim’s impact statement in the sentencing phase.”

  This shouldn’t surprise me, but the idea that I’ll have to testify in furtherance of putting Ohlig to death is sobering, despite what I said in anger during my meeting with him and Broden. As I understand Florida law (also from Google), in a death penalty case, after the defendant is convicted, there’s a second trial regarding the sentence. The prosecution’s case is usually based on the victim’s family pulling the jurors’ heartstrings, and some psychologists talking about how irredeemable the defendant is and how he’d be a danger to society if he isn’t put to death. Then the defense goes the other way, the defendant’s relatives beg for mercy and the shrinks claim mitigating factors—normally remorse, bad childhood, etc.—that make the defendant’s life worth preserving.

  “How long will it last?” I ask her.

  “We’ve told the judge we estimate the guilt/innocence phase will take a month, so—”

  “So you figure a week?” I say with a smile.

  “Give or take, yes,” she says, returning the smile. “And then the sentencing phase will be only a day or two, at most.”

  “Okay. If you really think it’s necessary, I’ll be there.”

  “I really think it’s necessary.” This is followed by a pregnant pause, which tells me there’s more to come. “I’m also going to need you to testify.”

  “About what?”

  “Ohlig’s defense isn’t a state secret. He’s going to claim that your mother took her own life. I’d like for you to tell the jurors you knew her better than anyone, and she didn’t commit suicide.”

  Of course, I already knew this, and I wish that he would mount another defense—any other defense—but, as they say, you have to play the cards you’re dealt.

  “Okay,” I say, “I’ll tell the jurors I knew her better than anyone else and I don’t believe she committed suicide.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.” I think I’ve said this without equivocation, but Robertson looks like she’s not sure I’m up to the task. “What’s the problem?” I finally ask.

  “No problem—assuming you’re telling the truth. But Clint Broden told me that you initially believed it was suicide.”

  “I would have figured you’d be experienced enough to know better than to believe what a defense counsel says.”

  She doesn’t smile, but instead looks at me even more closely. I imagine it’s the same look I’ve given many a witness whom I believed was lying to me.

  “You ever see Broden do a cross?”

  “Once. In law school. They played a tape of his cross of Senator Carmichael.”

  “Ah, the ‘this is not the Senate, it’s a place of justice and honor’ speech,” she says, quoting Broden’s most famous line from the examination.

  “That’s the one.”

  “I’ve been up against Broden a few times. He’s the only lawyer I know who is actually better than his reputation. He’s the best cross-examiner I’ve ever seen, hands down.”

  “Is this supposed to make me a more confident witness?”

  “No. It’s supposed to make you a less cocky one. I’ve seen Broden get the truth out of hardened criminals, guys who have beaten polygraphs. You don’t strike me as a guy who’s that experienced a liar, so don’t try to start now.”

  “You’d be surprised,” I say.

  �
��What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. Just trying to be funny.”

  When I return home, Elizabeth is cooking dinner. It smells like she’s making chili, or at least something with cumin in it.

  “Are you going to be the star witness for the prosecution?” she asks as I approach her in the kitchen.

  “Looks that way. The ADA wants me to attend the entire trial, which means I’m going to have to be in Florida for a week, maybe two. On the bright side, at least I’m not going to have to miss work.”

  Thankfully, Elizabeth has not seen the need to rub salt in my wounds by complaining about my unemployment. Based on the head hunter discussions I’ve had, it will likely be a while before I land a job, and when I do, I won’t earn anywhere near the kind of money I was raking in at Cromwell Altman. On the other hand, most of the firms that would hire someone like me aren’t going to demand 2,500 hours of work every year. For Elizabeth, that is more than a fair trade-off.

  “You know, the trial probably won’t start until Charlotte’s done with school,” I say. “Maybe you’ll want to come down with me.”

  She gives me a soft smile, one that suggests she thinks I’m trying too hard. “Let’s see what happens,” she says.

  By now the worst of it has seemingly passed. Elizabeth and I are getting along well, even enjoying each other’s company. I have not only been permitted re-entry into our bed, but Elizabeth has also been trying to make good on her New Year’s resolution, concluding that some of our marital discord was due to a lack of physical intimacy. Howard, our marriage therapist, strongly endorsed the sentiment, and so Elizabeth and I have made love more in the last month than we did in the entire past year.

  I welcome Elizabeth’s efforts and am trying my best to reciprocate, but I find myself reflecting regularly upon whether I’d thought about Abby that day, and then realizing that the question supplies the answer. And, of course, it’s difficult to be intimate with Elizabeth, a woman I’ve made love to for the past fifteen years, without comparing it to the one time I was with Abby, no matter how often I tell myself that no lover of longstanding could win such a competition.