A Conflict of Interest Read online

  It’s now a little after six, and I still haven’t heard from Robertson. At 5:30 I started obsessively checking the internet for news of the result, but to no avail.

  “Any news?” Elizabeth asks when I look up from the laptop.

  “Not yet.”

  “Should we have dinner? Or do you want to wait?”

  “No, let’s have dinner. I think it’s better if I pull myself away from the refresh button for a while.”

  “Charlotte, dinner,” Elizabeth calls toward the Pink Palace.

  Charlotte runs into the dining room. Climbing onto her chair, she asks what we’re having for dinner.

  “Noodles,” Elizabeth tells her. “Your father and I are having salmon. You can taste it if you want.”

  “Blech,” Charlotte says.

  “That’s not very polite,” I tell her.

  “Daddy, tell me again why Papa thought the Scary Lady looked like Grandma.”

  Like most small children, Charlotte likes repetition. She asks to play the same games, watch the same television shows, and hear the same stories over and over again. For the last few weeks, she’s become fixated on the Scary Lady and asks about her nearly every time we sit down for dinner.

  “Well,” I say, staring up at my former nemesis, now peacefully hanging on the wall looking down at our dining room table, “Papa was in a flea market one day and he saw a picture on one of the tables. Do you know what picture he saw?”

  “Was it the Scary Lady?”

  “It was. And he looked at it and he thought it looked like the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. The woman in the picture had dark hair and beautiful blue eyes, just like the woman Papa loved.”

  “But Grandma had yellow hair.” This is a point Charlotte always makes at this juncture of the story—that the picture doesn’t look like my mother.

  “When I was a little boy Grandma had dark brown hair, just like in the picture.”

  “But why did Papa think all those lines on her face was like Grandma? Grandma didn’t have different colored lines on her face when you were little, right, Daddy?”

  “That’s right, sweetie. The picture reminded Papa of Grandma even though it didn’t look exactly like her. What type of picture looks exactly like someone?”

  “A photograph.”

  “Right.”

  “But sometimes a painting can too,” she says. “We saw a picture in school of a lady who was kind of smiling and it looked just like a lady.”

  “That’s also right. But sometimes you draw a picture of me or Mommy or even yourself and it doesn’t look exactly like us, right? It may not have hands or a nose, but I still know it’s me.”

  The phone rings. It’s a family rule not to answer the phone during mealtime, but Elizabeth jumps up at the first ring.

  “Hello? Yes, he’s right here,” she says, and hands the phone to me, mouthing, “It’s Morgan.”

  I walk into the bedroom for privacy. I don’t even say hello into the phone until after I’ve shut the door behind me and am seated on the corner of our bed.

  “Hi, Morgan.”

  “Did you hear?”

  “I didn’t. What did he get?”

  “Life. No parole.” She sounds halfhearted, to say the least.

  “Congratulations.”

  “For what? It’s losing, Alex. In Florida, that’s the only other sentence that can be given in a capital case.”

  “I know. But it’s a good result. You did a great job on this case, Morgan. I’ll be eternally grateful to you.”

  “I wanted the death penalty,” she says. “Maybe someday you’ll tell me why you didn’t.”

  By the time I return to the dining room, Charlotte’s gone.

  “I said she could eat in front of the television,” Elizabeth explains. “I thought you might want to talk.” Elizabeth places her hand on top of mine. “Is it what you thought?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you—” she searches for the right word—I can almost follow her thought pattern. Happy? Pleased? “Satisfied” is the one she settles on.

  “I think so. Most of all, I’m just relieved it’s finally over.”

  Elizabeth draws closer to me and kisses me on the cheek, which is followed by a meaningful hug. As is her usual practice, she doesn’t say what she’s thinking, instead leaving it to me to decipher her thoughts. Sometimes I think of it like learning a foreign language—if I continue to practice, someday I’ll be fluent.

  I suspect she’s questioning whether it’s truly over, which, to misquote our former president, depends on what the meaning of the word “it” is. The Ohlig trial is over, but only in the sense that a verdict has been rendered and a sentence imposed.

  Part 7

  60

  The moment I walk through the large doors, the irony hits me. I’ve probably spent more time in courtrooms over the last year than I ever had before, and yet this is the first time I’m doing it as a lawyer in nearly a year. And the surroundings are anything but familiar.

  New York Supreme Court, the majestic name notwithstanding, is actually a lower trial court (the highest court is the Court of Appeals). Cromwell Altman’s cases were almost always in federal court, which has jurisdiction over federal crimes such as insider training, securities fraud, and money laundering.

  The distinction between state and federal courts is one that I didn’t even know existed until I took federal procedure in law school. I remember Professor Thalstein telling us on that first day: All the legal training in the world isn’t worth a damn if you don’t know what building to go to.

  Although there are juridictional differences, it’s the stark difference in comfort level between the two venues that matters most to me. Federal courthouses were built by the United States government and a finer example of pork spending by Congress would be hard to find, right down to the fact that the two newer federal courthouses in New York are named after the United States senators that made possible a billion-dollar expenditure on a single building. No expense was spared in either of them, from the high-tech audio and computer linkages to the leather chairs and twenty-foot ceilings. By contrast, the state courthouses serving Manhattan couldn’t be less impressive. They’re spread among several buildings, none of which appear to have been renovated in the last fifty years. The courtrooms themselves are poorly lit, and even more poorly ventilated, freezing in the winter and like ovens in the summer. Behind each state court judge’s bench is some type of quote—like In God We Trust or And Justice For All—and I’ve never been in a courtroom in which every letter was still affixed to the wall.

  Three weeks ago, right after Labor Day, a headhunter introduced me to a small law firm called Peikes, Schwarz, & Selva. The firm has six lawyers—the three founders, who have some type of insurance-based corporate practice, an associate who helps them out with their deals, and a tax guy. They decided they needed a litigator and, at least according to the headhunter, they were impressed with my big-firm background.

  A day after the call I had a one-shot interview, a far cry from the three times I had visited Cromwell Altman just to get my summer position. I met with Donald Peikes, Stephen Schwarz, and David Selva, en masse, in the firm’s only conference room. We talked for close to an hour, about a 70-30 split between them asking about me and my asking about them. When they left, they sent in the tax guy, and after him the associate, each getting a separate fifteen-minute audience with me.

  After I’d met everyone at the firm, Schwarz came back alone and made me the offer. He explained that it was an “eat what you kill” kind of place, but I had already been primed by the headhunter that my compensation would be about half of what I had been earning at Cromwell Altman.

  I called back the next day and accepted the offer. Don Peikes told me that he was confident I would do well at the firm, and I said I was excited about the opportunity. In truth, the thing I liked best about them was that they didn’t seem to care why I left Cromwell Altman.

  My case is sixty-eight
h on the docket. That means I’ll be here at least all morning before I get my less than five minutes in front of the judge, and then he’ll almost surely adjourn the motion so we can do it all over again in three months.

  The lawyer on the first case on the calendar asks for a three-month adjournment because he’s not prepared. His adversary tells the judge that this is the fourth adjournment request, but the judge responds that he shows only two prior adjournments, as if that made it any better, especially considering that each adjournment is at least two months. As the only sanction, the judge tells him that it is now being marked “final.”

  The judge listens to about three minutes of argument on the next case before telling the lawyers that he’s heard enough to know that the case should settle. He says he’s going to hold the motion in abeyance while the parties meet with a mediator and gives them the same day to return to the court as he did the first case—three months from now.

  “Next case,” the judge calls out to his clerk.

  “The People of the State of New York against Axion Chemicals,” the clerk shouts out.

  Unlike the prior two cases, which had one lawyer per side, this time a scuttle of lawyers rise in two packs and start to move from the gallery and approach the bench.

  In the row in front of me are three not too well-dressed men, and my prejudices on these types of things lead me to assume they are the civil servant lawyers employed by the New York State Attorney General’s Office. Out of the corner of my eye I see their adversaries, who are sitting closer to the front, and I swallow hard.

  “Appearances,” the courtroom deputy shouts. “Plaintiff first.”

  “For the People of the State of New York,” the oldest of the shabby-suit contingent begins, and then rattles off some names.

  “And for the defense?” the courtroom deputy asks in the other direction.

  “Abigail Sloane of the law firm Cromwell Altman Rosenthal & White.”

  As the argument begins, I can piece together that it has something to do with an environmental claim the state had brought involving some type of illegal dumping. The Assistant AG says the case had only recently been filed and requests discovery from Abby’s client before any adjudication on the merits. Abby argues for dismissal now, claiming that a recent decision by the highest court in the state reinterprets the statute on which the charges are based. The representatives of the AG’s office vigorously dispute that assertion.

  The judge listens to about ten minutes of this back-and-forth, which is three times more than he gave to the first two matters combined. He says the issue is “interesting and complex,” so he’ll reserve judgment and file a written decision in the future. In state court, that means nothing will happen in the case for another six months to a year, which I’m sure is exactly the reason Abby filed the motion in the first place.

  I use the transition between cases as cover to leave the courtroom. As I’m lying in wait in the corridor, I see the male colleague who stood beside Abby during the argument push the door open for her. She’s saying something to him when she catches my eye.

  My stomach is in knots, and I wonder if I’m going to be able to confront her without becoming sick. But as she approaches, those feelings dissipate, and I realize that I’m going to be able to go through with it.

  It’s been nine months since I last saw Abby. She looks harder than I remembered. She’s still beautiful, of course—looks like hers don’t vanish quickly. She’s cut her hair short, which is ironic because I’ve let mine grow.

  Abby actually jumps back a bit when I say hello, confirming that she hadn’t seen me in the courtroom. She displays no hint of pleasure in this reunion. If anything, she seems annoyed that I still exist.

  “Sean, do you mind going on ahead of me?” she says to her colleague.

  Since I left Cromwell Altman, I’d composed a myriad of monologues in my head about what I would say to her if given the opportunity. Some were little more than rambling diatribes, filled with curses and promises that she’d rot in hell for what she did to me. In others I went even further, vowing some type of revenge, although I could never figure out exactly what form it would take. In my better moments, I took the high road, telling her about how happy I was with Elizabeth, and about our new child on the way—serving the revenge fantasy up cold, as the saying goes.

  Now, in the moment of truth, I’m overwhelmed by the realization that nothing either she or I say is going to matter. For better or worse, we’re both where we are, and we both know it’s because of what she did.

  “Fancy seeing you here,” I say when Sean is far enough away not to be able to hear.

  “What do you want?” she says, bitterness in every syllable.

  “I want to talk to you. Given everything, that doesn’t seem to be too much to ask.”

  “I don’t want to talk to you, Alex.”

  “I can’t believe you’re still so angry. I mean, after what you did I should be the angry one.”

  “What I did?” she says, her voice rising to the point that I can feel the eyes of others in the corridor on me, as they turn to wonder what the commotion is about. “You have no idea, do you?”

  I take a step back, but she holds her ground. At first her face screams her contempt, but then it slackens, and I now see in her eyes that she feels sorry for me.

  “I didn’t tell the firm about us,” she says with a trace of pity in her voice. “Your wife did.”

  “Elizabeth? No, that doesn’t … Aaron told me it was an anonymous call.”

  “It was, Alex. But then she called me. She told me she’d known for a while, and wanted to get you away from me. I told her that you’d ended it with me already, and that it had only been once.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said that … she said that she didn’t care, and told me that someday I’d have a family and I’d understand, and I should stay away from you.”

  61

  I go directly home from court, the trip reminding me of my walk home from Cromwell Altman on New Year’s Day. Once again, my thoughts are consumed with what I’m going to say to Elizabeth.

  My desire to confront her is powerful. Not only did Elizabeth ruin my career at Cromwell Altman, but she allowed me to believe it was actually Abby who had done it.

  When I enter our apartment, Elizabeth is sitting at our dining room table. Her hands rest on her swollen belly. She’s a little less than a month shy of her due date, but Charlotte came two weeks late, so I’m not expecting anything to happen for a while still.

  She jumps up, startled that I’m home in the early afternoon. “Did something happen at work?”

  I pause, simply to freeze the moment. I know everything will be different after I tell her.

  “I saw Abby Sloane in court today.” I wait a beat, trying to ascertain what Elizabeth looks like when she lies. Then, almost involuntarily, I deny myself the opportunity. “She told me it was you who told the firm about Abby and me.”

  I expect an apology, but Elizabeth doesn’t offer one. To the contrary, she looks at me through defiant eyes, seemingly without any remorse for what’s she’s done.

  “Why, Elizabeth? You know everything I sacrificed to become a partner at Cromwell Altman. How could you feel justified to take that away from me?”

  “That place,” she says, unable even to bring herself to mention the firm’s name, “made you lose sight of what’s important—your family. Alex, I know it’s hard to see it now, but I did what I did to protect our family. You included.”

  “How can you say that? I’m earning less than half what I did at Cromwell Altman. Who’s going to pay for private school for Charlotte? For a baby nurse? For this apartment?”

  “We’ll be fine financially. It’s not like you’re working for minimum wage. You’re still earning more than most people. A lot more. Besides, you know that I never cared about the money.”

  “You certainly spent it.”

  “I liked it. I’m not going to deny that it was
nice having money. But it’s more than a fair trade-off to have my family back. And, Alex, that’s what happened.”

  That the ends justify the means is an often heard argument in criminal defense, and yet, with the exception of self-defense, it is almost never exculpatory. Rather than debate Elizabeth on this issue, however, I ask a different question.

  “How long did you know about Abby and me?” I ask.

  “I suspected for a while. I’ve seen you on trial before, but this time you weren’t just working all the time—you seemed happy about it, like you couldn’t wait to go to the office. Your parents died within months of each other and you didn’t seem to lose a step, and that’s just not normal, Alex. I figured something else had to be going on with you. Then after the trial ended … it was like a switch flipped. All of a sudden you announce that you’re taking some time off, and I was really excited about it, but then you were walking around here in a trance … and no matter how hard I tried to talk to you about what was going on, whether it was the fact that Michael had been arrested or something else … I just couldn’t get through to you. So … I checked your BlackBerry. Because yes, I think I have the right to know what’s going on with my husband. And it’s not like your password was hard to crack. I was hoping it was going to be Elizabeth, but I knew it’d be Charlotte.”

  “I still don’t understand why. Why go to the firm? Why not just tell me?”

  “Because that wouldn’t have worked, Alex. Maybe it would have been enough for you to stop with Abby, but that was never the real problem. That was more of a symptom than anything else. If you stayed there, in time, things would have gone back to being just like they were. And I don’t mean the infidelity. I mean you wouldn’t have seen what was happening to yourself. To us.”

  “So you made the decision that my career should be over? Just like that?”