The Best Friend

by Adam Mitzner

  Washington saw no humor in the situation. “That proposal is not acceptable to the People, Your Honor. Mr. Broden is a close, personal friend of the defendant. Granting this request . . . well, it would be like having the fox guarding the henhouse.”

  “Your Honor, I strongly resent—”

  “Yes, I know, Mr. Broden. You’re not a fox, and your client is no hen. Ms. Washington was just using colorful language. Obviously, this issue can be relitigated before the trial judge, but I’m going to grant bail on the following conditions: first, defendant post five million dollars or bond equivalent; second, he will be held under house arrest, at his own expense, complete with whatever monitoring devices and other security measures the Suffolk County Police Department deems appropriate; and, finally, he must hand over his passport forthwith.”

  The house in East Hampton had been Anne’s idea. She had wanted a place with a backyard and a pool for our girls, and she’d envisioned a future when their children would be excited to visit Grandma and Pop-pop. It had cost a fortune when we bought it, but it turned out to be the second-best financial decision we ever made, outpaced only by the appreciation of our town house in the city. But more importantly, this had been Anne’s happy place. She’d loved the garden in the back and the view of the ocean at sunset.

  After she passed, I didn’t come out at all. I missed Anne most when I was there.

  A few years later, I told the girls that I was going to sell it. They begged me to reconsider.

  “I think it would make Mom sad,” Charlotte said.

  Ella joined the full-court press, going so far as to get a summer job in East Hampton at a local bagel store. In the end, I never sold the house but still didn’t visit it often.

  But now it would be my home for the foreseeable future. More than that, it would be Nicky’s prison.

  I was sitting in the living room when the police car transporting Nicky made its way up the driveway. Behind it was a second patrol car, and a third pulled up the rear. In all, six police officers entered my home and attended to affixing the monitoring device to Nicky’s ankle, then calibrating it to trigger the alarm if he ventured beyond a tight perimeter outside the house.

  When they were finished, Nicky said, “Thank you,” as if they were fitting him for a suit rather than denying his freedom. Before they left, the cop in charge told us that there would be police stationed on the beach and at the end of the driveway twenty-four hours a day.

  “You’ll get used to it,” I said when I noticed Nicky tugging at the ankle bracelet. “That’s what my clients tell me, anyway.”

  “Does it zap when you leave the yard, like they do for dog collars?”

  “No, but they immediately arrest you. I’ve had clients who claimed that the bracelet activated when they hadn’t left the house, and the police showed up with guns drawn. One guy left his house because his dog had bolted. Luckily for him the judge was an animal lover, or else he would’ve been thrown back in jail. On the other end of the spectrum, my client Nikolai Garkov lives like a king while under house arrest, which is why he’s still there, going on . . . I’ve lost track, it’s been so long.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” said Nicky. “I’m eternally grateful for everything you’re doing for me. Not only defending me, but letting me live here too. And I’m also grateful that we got to be together again. But I’m afraid I’ll go crazy being confined to your house, as lovely as it is.”

  I laughed. “Well, then I have good news for you.”

  He looked at me suspiciously.

  “You won’t be here for long. I’m going to push for an immediate trial date. Hopefully, they won’t have all their ducks in a row fast enough to obtain a conviction.”

  He took a moment to consider that plan. “And what if they do get their ducks in a row?”

  “Then I will have made a grave mistake.”

  41.

  A million years ago, Margaret Catalano and I served together in the Federal Defender’s office. We shared a small office for a year before we each advanced to “singles.” Back then, I called her Maggie the Cat. After she was married and changed her surname to Gallagher, the nickname no longer made any sense, although she told me that I was free to call her Maggie the Gal if I liked. I stuck with Maggie after that.

  I had pegged her as a lifer at the FD’s office, and she stayed there for a good decade after my departure. Sometime in the 1990s, her husband became a judge in Patchogue, which is one of those towns on Long Island with a train stop and little else, and she moved out with him and their three boys. I’d expected her to continue as a public defender, but she switched sides, joining the Suffolk County District Attorney’s Office, rising through the ranks to become the First Deputy under the prior DA.

  When Jack Ethan was elected three years ago as the new DA, Maggie decided to strike out on her own. Not long after, I began getting lunch invitations whenever she came into the city.

  One tried-and-true way for a criminal defense lawyer to get clients is through referrals from other criminal defense lawyers. At this stage in my career, I easily turned down twice as many cases as I accepted, but I never turned away a prospective client without giving them a name or two to call. Maggie started inviting me to lunch because she wanted hers to be that name in Suffolk County.

  Her practice was housed on Main Street in East Hampton, on the second floor, above a J.Crew. She buzzed me in from the street level. When I passed through the office doors, I was greeted not by Maggie but by a black Labrador.

  “Sorry, we don’t get too many visitors,” Maggie said.

  “Maggie the Cat has a dog,” I said.

  I rubbed the top of the dog’s head, and he immediately dropped to the floor, exposing his belly.

  “You’re getting an invite to a belly rub on the first date. Normally he’s not that easy,” she said with a laugh.

  “What’s his name?”

  She laughed again. “Funny story there. We got him shortly after Larry’s diagnosis. The doctor said that having a dog would be therapeutic for Larry, but I think he meant for both of us. Anyway, we couldn’t agree on a name. Larry wanted something judicial sounding, and I wanted something more whimsical. As you might recall, I’m an avid reader of mysteries, so I suggested Hercule, as an homage to Agatha Christie. Larry, ever the jurist, came up with the Solomonic compromise that we name him Holmes and keep to ourselves whether his namesake was Oliver Wendell or Sherlock. But from day one, Larry called him Ollie, and it stuck.”

  She led me into the workspace. It was for the most part open, with what I presumed to be Maggie’s desk situated against a series of windows that looked out on Main Street. On the other end of the floor was an enclosed conference room; a modest bullpen with four cubicles occupied the center.

  “Big office for one person,” I said.

  “I think my entire floor is still smaller than your private office, and I’m not paying a thousand dollars a square foot for mine. But it’s not just me here. I have a secretary and a paralegal, although both of them work part time. You know how it is, feast or famine. When I’m gearing up for trial, I keep them all busy around the clock, and when I’m not, I don’t want the overhead. Anyway, I’d give you the tour, but you pretty much have it by turning your head three hundred sixty degrees. So come sit down and we can chat a little about this case of yours that I’ve read about.”

  Our friendship was one of the longest continuous relationships I’d maintained. Maybe the longest. I communicated from time to time with college and law school classmates on social media, but I hadn’t seen any of them since college or law school. Although I’d known Nicky longer than anyone else, the long gap in our relationship exceeded the period we had been friends. But I’d stayed in touch with Maggie, albeit on and off, for the better part of forty years.

  “Before we get down to business, I need to say that you look good, Clint. Taking good care of yourself too, I hope.”

  The compliment was somewhat backhanded. The unspoken impl
ication was that I had barely survived Charlotte’s death. I’d seen Maggie since then, but for her, and many people I knew, the stock image of me was of that grief-stricken man who cried uncontrollably at the press conference. I wanted to tell her that, despite outward appearances to the contrary, I was still very much that broken man. The only difference was that I’d buried that pain deep within myself.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’m trying. And I would say the same thing to you. You look good. But I know that looks can be deceiving. How are you?”

  She smiled, understanding all too well what I meant. The stock image in my mind when I thought of Maggie was at her husband’s funeral, when she was obviously not at her best. That was at least a year ago, maybe two.

  “Thank you. I’m trying too. Still tough without Larry, but everyone tells me that it takes time. I think it’s getting better, and then every once in a while . . .”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

  “I know you do,” she said, reclaiming her smile. “Spending time with the kids helps.”

  “What are they up to, your kids?”

  “None of them are lawyers, thank goodness, although my youngest, Ryan, is threatening to go to law school. I think that’s largely because his start-up failed, and he doesn’t know what else to do with himself. My eldest, Michael, is thirty-five, married, three kids, and they live in Boulder, which is not ideal for grandma time. The middle guy, Patrick, he’s in Manhattan doing I have no idea what for a company about which I don’t have the first clue. I’ve had some business with your daughter over the years. You must be very proud of her. She’s got a great reputation in the office. DA material, if you ask me.”

  That had been the recent rumor du jour—Ella running for District Attorney, either against the incumbent or as the party’s nominee after Drake McKenney retires. But whenever I mentioned it to Ella, she brushed it off as courthouse gossip.

  “My daughter’s career plans are dispensed on a need-to-know basis. Unfortunately, she long ago concluded that her father does not need to know, and as a result, I don’t.”

  Maggie laughed at that. I imagined her children were equally tight-lipped about their lives.

  “Forgive me, I think I knew this at one point, but now I can’t recall: Is Ella married?”

  “No. She has a long-term boyfriend, and they live together. He’s a lieutenant with the NYPD. Unfortunately for me, Ella’s romantic life is another thing that requires a higher security clearance than I possess, so I have no idea if I’m going to be paying for a wedding in the near future.”

  “Okay, now that we’ve complained about our kids,” Maggie said with a wry smile, “let’s get down to business, shall we? You want the lowdown on a Mr. Jackson Ethan?”

  She was right, but only partially so. “I know his older brother, Benjamin.”

  “Actually, they’re half siblings. Didn’t you ever wonder why Benjamin is over seventy and Jack is . . . I’d say forty or so, tops?”

  The truth was, I hadn’t. I probably should have, though.

  “Old man Ethan, Benjamin and Jack’s dad, he took on a chippie when he must have been pushing seventy himself,” Maggie explained. “Jack was the progeny of that blissful union.”

  “What are your impressions of the new DA?”

  “He’s not so new. Three years now. He’s smart, aggressive, and generally fair, although I know more than a few defense lawyers who think he sometimes cares more about his own reputation than the merits of the case.”

  “What prosecutor doesn’t?”

  “Touché, but some more than others.”

  “Any bad blood between you? I only ask because I thought you’d never leave the DA’s office.”

  “No, nothing like that. I was very close to Arthur. When he was defeated for reelection, Jack was gracious and said that I could stay on, but I knew he’d want his own number-two, so it was time for me to go. Besides, the idea of working for someone who was only marginally older than my son wasn’t very appealing. The irony is that if Arthur had won, I’d likely be the one trying this case against you.”

  “Lucky for me that he lost, then,” I said. “But I’m surprised that Jack is taking the lead on this.”

  “I think it’s just too big for him to pass up. A front-page murder case. The chance to beat the great F. Clinton Broden. From Jack’s point of view, if he gives it to an underling and there’s an acquittal, it’s the same political fallout as if he tried it himself and lost. You have to understand that the job out here is different from being the District Attorney in Manhattan. Jack doesn’t want to be governor or run for congress or be the GC of a hedge fund. His only ambition is to keep getting reelected. And the best way for him to do that is to avoid a major screwup. He touts his office’s ninety-four percent winning percentage like he’s gunning for the DA hall of fame. You don’t win that often without being selective about the cases you indict and the ones you take to trial. Of course, yours is an outlier. Jack had no choice but to indict. Otherwise, he seems soft on famous people, and that’s an even surer way to get booted from office. Even though the Hamptons crowd contributes to his campaign, they all vote in Manhattan. So Jack’s real constituents are the handymen and pool cleaners who cater to the summer folks. Those people will remember on Election Day if he didn’t indict a hotshot LA writer who murdered Samantha Remsen. On the other hand, if he loses at trial, they’re likely to blame the high-priced, hotshot Manhattan lawyer who got the guy off and still reward Jack with their vote for fighting the good fight.”

  “How’s he in front of a jury?”

  “Good. He’s handsome, so that helps, especially with young women, so you may want to steer clear of them on the jury. He’s not a dazzler, but he is thorough.”

  “So your typical prosecutor?”

  “More or less.”

  Her assessment ended part one of my reconnaissance, sizing up my adversary. I would have preferred Maggie say that Ethan was a lightweight, but I wasn’t surprised by her description. The first indication that he’d be a formidable opponent was when he told me that he was trying the case himself. A lesser lawyer would have been only too happy to pawn the long hours off on an underling.

  “What do you know about the judge, Molly Sloane?” I asked.

  “She’s too new for anyone to know much about her. I never crossed paths with her before she became a Your Honor, and nobody I know had ever heard of her before she ended up on the slate. I understand that she did trust and estate law, which is big out here, obviously, but an odd springboard to the bench. I can ask around a little if you’d like.”

  “Maybe. I’ll find out more tomorrow.”

  “She already scheduled the initial conference?”

  “At eleven a.m.”

  “That tells you something, I guess. She’s eager to start the case.”

  “Me too. I’m going to ask for a trial date ASAP.”

  Maggie didn’t say anything at first. She looked to be considering the various reasons why I might want to rush headlong into trial. I could tell by the squint in her eyes that she hadn’t come up with one that made any sense.

  “Far be it from me to second-guess you, but your guy’s out on bail. What’s the hurry?”

  “House arrest.”

  “Same difference. I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that the sheets at your East Hampton vacation home are softer than the ones they use over at the Riverhead Correctional Facility.”

  “Well, not in the guest room.”

  She didn’t laugh at my quip. Instead, her eyes asked me to explain.

  “My guy doesn’t have an alibi. He’s asleep in the house. He’s just left a party after a blowup fight with his wife, and she stayed behind. Time isn’t going to change any of that. The defense is going to be that Tyree Jefferson killed Samantha Remsen. It’s a door-number-one or door-number-two situation. She was either murdered in Jefferson’s house—which makes him the killer—or she was murdered after Jefferson dropped her off at her house—
which means my guy murdered her. On top of that, as I’m sure you remember, Nicky’s first wife died under suspicious circumstances. Even though he was acquitted of that crime, the last thing I want is for that story to take root over the course of months, poisoning the minds of prospective jurors. I figure that if I can move quickly to trial, I might be able to fill the jury with people who haven’t heard about Nicky’s past.”

  “I hear you,” she said, which is lawyer for I disagree.

  “So you in?”

  “In what?”

  “If we go to trial fast, I’m going to need help. You should tell your staff that their paychecks are going to get a lot fatter, real fast.”

  “I’m flattered, but, no offense, I’m too old to carry your bags, Clint.”

  “That’s not what I’m asking for. I need a real sounding board, Maggie. The last time I represented Nicky, right before the verdict was read, I had this sinking feeling in my gut that I was too personally involved in the case. I don’t want to feel that way this time.”

  “In other words, you want someone else to blame if your friend is convicted of murder?”

  “I want someone to make sure I don’t do something stupid that gets my friend convicted of murder.”

  “Like going immediately to trial, you mean.”

  “I’ll hear you out on that. But only if you’re in.”

  “I’m too old to play hard to get, Clint. I’m in. And I never go to trial any sooner than absolutely necessary.”

  42.

  Wearing the jurist’s black robes, the Honorable Molly P. Sloane looked like a child in a Halloween costume. She had impossibly large, dark eyes, a mouth that stretched across her entire face, and long curls that reminded me of a flower child’s. If I’d shared this initial observation with Ella, she would have told me—first—I was getting old, and—second—that I was a creature of the patriarchy who found a young woman judge so threatening that I resorted to belittling her youthful appearance.