A Conflict of Interest Page 3

  “Dan’s got some time,” Fleming says.

  “No.” Further explanation is unnecessary. Dan Salvensen was passed over for partner and is now more or less on autopilot until the firm tells him it’s time to leave, at which time Cromwell Altman will find him a nice home in a client’s legal department, with the understanding that he’ll refer work back to the firm.

  “What about David Bloom?”

  “He’s a fifth year, right? I need a seventh or eighth year.”

  A long silence follows, until Fleming looks like he’s got no choice but to come clean, which in his case takes the form of his showing a glimpse of his yellow teeth. “What about Abigail Sloane?”

  “If she has the time. Definitely.”

  “She’s up for partner at the end of the year. She’ll make time.”

  “Okay then. Abigail Sloane it is.”

  “You owe me, Miller,” Fleming says. “Big time.”

  By the time I return to my office, Abby Sloane is already there. She stands beside my door frame, careful not to cross the threshold, as if my office is hallowed ground that requires special permission to enter.

  “That was fast,” I say. “Come on in.”

  Abby glides into the guest chair across from my desk and I settle in opposite her. She’s wearing a very serious expression, which seems to be a fixture among associates. A yellow legal pad is in her lap, which is also standard. Virtually everything a partner says to an associate is transcribed immediately.

  “Welcome aboard.” My tone suggests the assignment is some type of vacation for her, when in actuality it’s going to add another sixty to seventy hours to what was likely already a fully subscribed work week.

  “Thanks,” she says, as if she’s actually pleased to have the additional work.

  This is not the first time I’ve worked with Abby. When she was a first year, which would have been seven years ago, five years before I made partner, we were two of at least twenty-five associates working on a large antitrust litigation. She was a document grind, one of a dozen or more who reviewed millions of pages of documents off-site at the warehouse the firm had rented, while I was on-site reviewing the thousands of pages that the warehouse people had concluded might be important.

  I could remind her of that fact, but think better of it. I don’t recall a single other member of the document team, and there’s no reason I should recall Abby either, except that she is exceptionally beautiful. Her biography on the firm’s website lists that she studied ballet, and she moves with a dancer’s grace. She wears her blond curly hair loose and long, almost alone among her female colleagues, most of whom have opted for more lawyer-like styles.

  “You come highly recommended,” I say. “When I was in the House of Pain, I told Brian that I needed someone very good to second seat this one, and he said it didn’t get better than you.”

  “And when Brian told me to report to the Batcave for my new assignment, I was excited to be working with you.”

  I smile, surprised, but also impressed that Abby is comfortable enough to make fun of me. Most associates follow the old saw about children—they are to be seen, but not heard.

  “Did you think that Brian’s office was the only one in the firm with a nickname?” she asks.

  “So, this is the Batcave?” I say with a self-deprecating laugh. “That makes sense. The client was here yesterday and that’s the first thing he asked about. Why I like Batman.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “That Batman is a defender of the innocent.”

  “And what’s the real reason?”

  I hesitate before answering. Clearly, Abby Sloane is not your typical associate.

  “Why can’t that be the real reason?”

  “Because then you’d be a Superman guy. He’s really a defender of the innocent. I’ve always seen Batman as … well, as a little like a criminal himself.” And then, as if she fears that she might have overstepped, she adds, “I hope that’s not heresy.”

  “No, it’s actually quite perceptive. There’s a view in the comic book world that you’re either one or the other. You know, the way normal people divide the world up into Republicans or Democrats. Elvis or the Beatles. For comic book geeks, it’s Batman or Superman.”

  “I see you’ve made your choice,” she says, perusing the walls.

  “Batman is much more interesting,” I begin to explain. “I know that this is now in super geek territory, but think about the two of them as literary characters. They’re both orphan tales of a type. What’s more traumatic, having your parents murdered in front of you or never knowing them?”

  “I’m sorry, Alex,” she says all of a sudden. “I should have asked about your family. The firm sent an email around last week, but I forgot about it until you mentioned parents just now. How are you doing?”

  I smile, and then involuntarily chuckle to myself.

  “What?” Abby asks.

  “It’s funny you should ask about my father because I was thinking about him the moment that you did. It’s from him I get my comic book genes. Although, I have to admit, he was a Superman guy. Anyway, I’m fine. Thank you for asking.” I hope my smile conveys that it’s true. “And there’s no need for you to apologize. I was very much enjoying talking about superheroes. I’ve tried getting my daughter interested, but she’s all about princesses, much to my chagrin.”

  “How about we make a deal?” Abby pauses, as if she wants me to commit in advance to what she is about to propose.

  “I’m afraid I’m too much the lawyer to ever accept any deal without reading the fine print first,” I say.

  “It’s not that type of a deal,” she says. “I’m going to do some studying up on my superheroes, and then I’ll fully engage you in this Superman/Batman debate. Frankly, I feel a little overmatched at the moment. You don’t know this about me yet, but I don’t like to venture into areas where someone else has superior knowledge.”

  “If that’s not the ideal trait for a litigator, I don’t know what is. And I suppose I’m not going to get a better segue into talking about the facts of our little case. So, without further adieu, let’s talk about everything Michael Ohlig.”

  I go through the basic facts of the case, explaining Ohlig’s rationale for his trading position as well as the charges the government is likely considering. I also tell her about my family connection to Ohlig, adding that I didn’t think it would make much of a difference given that I had just met him myself.

  “The first order of business is to assemble a joint defense team,” I say. Abby’s been involved in enough of these types of cases to know what I mean—that I’m going to retain cooperating counsel to represent Ohlig’s employees.

  “Ohlig’s on board for picking up the tab?”

  “What’s another million to him?” I say with a smile.

  This is the quid pro quo of the joint defense. The main target—in this case Ohlig—will pay the legal bills for the other key people at OPM, in exchange for their cooperation with his defense. The lawyers chosen by us to receive this business are almost entirely dependent on such referrals to sustain their practices and are savvy enough to know that the gravy train comes to a screeching halt if their client turns against our client. Of course, all of this is unspoken because a lawyer has an ethical duty to represent his client zealously, regardless of who’s footing the bill.

  “And, while I’m doing that, I’m sorry to say, you’ll be—”

  “Let me guess: collecting and reviewing the documents?”

  “How did you know?”

  Litigation, especially as practiced at Cromwell Altman, is all about the documents. If the partners think about cases in terms of how much revenue they bring to the firm, associates categorize them in terms of how many boxes of documents to be reviewed.

  “Just a wild guess,” she says, showing me a smile with enough wattage to illuminate a small town. “Any idea how much?”

  “I think it will be manageable, although there wi
ll probably be a lot of trade tickets. I’ve asked Michael to send up what he has, but I’m sure we’re going to need to make a visit down to him at some point to check out the operation and make sure we’ve retrieved everything.”

  This is every associate’s worst nightmare—reviewing documents when there is real lawyer work to be done. I decide to give her a ray of hope.

  “I’m not looking at you to be a document grind, Abby. I really need a strong number two on this. We’ve got the green light to bring on as many temps as we’ll need to go through the documents. I can’t tell you that you won’t have to review the key stuff, but when we get to trial, I’m looking to you to be operating on a partner level.”

  “You think there actually will be a trial?”

  The firm very rarely takes a case to trial. The stakes are just too high for most clients to risk on an all-or-nothing result, be it a gamble over money or freedom, and so most cases settle. In my dozen years at the firm, I’ve been involved in only seven trials, and on some of those my participation was minimal.

  “He says he’s innocent.”

  By now I know Abby is smart enough not to fall for that as an answer. She doesn’t disappoint me.

  “Don’t they all? I mean, right up until the moment you confront them with the evidence that they’re not?”

  There must be something in the way I react because she adds, “Are you sure there’s not going to be a problem here because he’s a family friend?”

  “I’m sure. I just like to believe that we’re on the side of the angels. You know, innocent until proven guilty and all that.”

  “So, you want us to get him off and for him to actually be innocent?” She says this with another smile, one that tells me that she’s on board, regardless of her own suspicions.

  4

  Despite the fact that I’ve been at Cromwell Altman for most of my adult life, I doubt that there is anyone here I’d still talk to after either I or they left the firm. The one exception is Paul Harris.

  Paul and I joined the firm on the same day, two of fifty-two first-year associates. Through the years, as the others began dropping away, either by relocating, going in-house, switching firms, or leaving the law altogether, it became clear that Paul and I would likely be the only two left standing. In the homestretch, we were both putting in sixteen-hour days, seven days a week, and spending a lot of our non-billable time together in the firm cafeteria. During the worst of it, we joked that we spent much more time with each other than with our wives. After we made partner, we continued the camaraderie, our horror stories about the unreasonable demands of the partners morphing seamlessly into complaints about the poor work ethic of the associates.

  A few times a year, Paul and I use the expense accounts we’re given to wine and dine clients to share an expensive lunch just for the two of us. We justify having the firm pick up the tab by telling ourselves we are discussing legal issues or business development, but the encounters almost always devolve into nothing more than rank gossip about firm intrigue and catching up about our kids. Today we’re at Aquavit, a toptier Swedish restaurant about five blocks from the office.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Paul says as he approaches the table. “My meeting at Taylor Beckett on that”—he looks both ways to be sure he’s not going to be overheard—“on, you know, that merger, went longer than I’d expected.”

  “No worries. I just got here myself.”

  Paul takes his seat and tucks his tie into his shirt, an affectation I’ve seen so many times I don’t even make fun of it anymore. The waiter is right behind him and asks the usual first question in a place like this—“sparkling or still?” I have never ordered bottled water in a restaurant when someone other than a client or the firm was paying. Without missing a beat, Paul tells the waiter that sparkling would be great.

  “So, how’s everything going with you?” It’s a reference to my father, I think.

  “Okay. It’s hard to know how it’s supposed to feel.”

  “When my father died, I remember some guy telling me that it’s impossible to describe it until you’ve experienced it. Just the idea that I couldn’t talk to him.”

  “I’m a little worried about my mother. She seemed to be holding up okay, but they were married thirty-five years.”

  “I could make a comment about wanting to die after being married thirty-five years, but out of respect to your parents, I’ll refrain.”

  I smile, not at all offended by his effort at levity. “Point well taken.”

  After the waiter has returned with our sparkling water and taken our orders—Swedish meatballs for Paul and the smoked salmon for me—Paul announces that he has some news. My sixth sense has already alerted me to what he’s about to say, but that doesn’t mean I’m not hoping I’m wrong.

  “Lauren and I are expecting,” he says with pride. “Twins, in fact.”

  “That’s great,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment.

  It’s not that I’m sorry Paul and Lauren are having more children, but they are the last couple I know with a first child Charlotte’s age who have not yet added to their family. Intellectually I know there are many reasons why couples stop at one, but in our case it has nothing to do with choice or ability. Without saying it aloud, both Elizabeth and I have doubts about whether our marriage can sustain the weight of another child. My reaction to Paul’s news isn’t a matter of misery loving company, but more that I took some solace that his presumably happy marriage provided camouflage for my marital difficulties.

  “I don’t know if I told you, but we had been trying for a few years and finally went to a specialist. Now we’ve got two for the price of one.”

  “That’s great,” I say again. “When is Lauren due?”

  “March 9, but the doctor told us that second children come early, and with twins it’s more likely to be late February.”

  “Which flavor?”

  Paul chuckles a little. “One of each.”

  “That’s great,” I say for the third time. “How’s Ryan taking to the idea?”

  “Very excited about a little brother, but could take or leave the sister part.”

  I stop myself from telling Paul that this, too, is great.

  “And what about you guys?” he asks.

  I shift in my seat. “We’re talking about it.”

  “I assume you know this, but given that it’s been a few years since Charlotte was conceived, let me remind you that you need to do something more than talk for it to happen.”

  “Really? Maybe that’s been our problem.”

  I wonder if there is too much melancholy in what I intended to be a joke because Paul segues quickly. “So, I hear congratulations are in order for you as well. Word on the street is that you bagged a big one, my friend.”

  “Thanks. Although I think it means a little less when you’ve bagged your father’s best friend.”

  “Is his money green?

  “It is indeed.”

  “Then it makes no difference at all.” We both laugh, and before I’ve stopped, he adds, “But, even better than that, I hear Fleming gave you Abby Sloane.”

  News travels fast, apparently. I think about calling Paul on his terminology—that Fleming gave Abby to me, as if she’s property—but instead I play dumb.

  “And I’m to be congratulated for that why?”

  “I’m sorry, but did you go blind recently?”

  “And here I thought you were congratulating me because she’s the best associate in the firm. If you recall, she won that insider trading case last year even though no one thought she had a chance in hell of getting an acquittal, and then she second-seated Aaron on that enormous environmental disaster thing.”

  “Yeah, that too,” Paul says sarcastically, emphasizing the point with a roll of his eyes. “So tell me, what’s the new case about?”

  Paul’s practice is mergers and acquisitions, which means he’s more of a banker than a lawyer. He’s never set foot in a courtroom or taken a depo
sition. My guess is he probably knows more about criminal proceedings from watching Law & Order reruns than from his legal training.

  “The client ran a boutique brokerage house down in Florida. Apparently a hot stock he was promoting went south, and now the investors want his scalp.”

  “I see you’ve already drunk the Kool Aid,” Paul says with a laugh.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that I worked at one of those”—and he air quotes—“boutique brokerage firms between college and law school. They’re the ninth circle of hell. I lasted about four months and by the time I left, I was the second most senior guy in the whole place. I swear to you, they handcuffed—actually handcuffed—some poor schmo to his desk until he made a sale. They wouldn’t let him go to the bathroom or eat or anything. Sixteen hours. Imagine the worst frat house you can think of, and then imagine stealing money from senile retirees, and you’re about halfway there.”

  “My guy says his shop wasn’t like that.”

  “Of course not. How could I forget, all of your clients immediately admit whenever they’ve done something wrong.”

  “Wait just a second,” I say with a laugh. “He’s not just my client. Mike Ohlig and OPM are clients of Cromwell Altman Rosenthal & White, which makes them your clients too.”

  “OPM, huh?”

  “You’ve heard of them?”

  I’m not at all happy that Ohlig apparently has a reputation that precedes him. I had googled Ohlig, as I do with all my clients, but the search provided only hits to charity functions he attended and some campaign contributions. The legal databases confirmed what Ohlig told me—OPM had only a handful of complaints against it, and none was within the last five years, which is a pretty good record considering how heavily securities firms are regulated and how litigious investors can be, especially in down markets.