by Adam Mitzner
The fact that the trial is less than a month away tells her something else: Garkov’s not falling for it. He’s going to put the squeeze on the government to prove his guilt beyond a reasonable doubt.
Faith closes the folder and places it back on her desk. She can’t help but smile at the irony. Perhaps this, too, is God having the last laugh.
Presiding over the Garkov trial is the kind of thing that can make a career. A year ago—hell, three weeks ago—Faith would have been no less excited than Sara to get it.
But now? It’s the very last thing in the world she wants.
3
The Colburn Group is a multibillion-dollar conglomerate that pays Cromwell Altman upwards of one hundred million dollars annually. It operates in a dozen different industries, with a hand in everything from military defense to petrochemical manufacturing to operating fast-food restaurants.
And for the last ten minutes, Aaron has been getting an earful from Colburn’s general counsel—a stern-looking man named Douglas Harrold—about how if Cromwell Altman wants to keep that plum business, it’s going to have to offer a 20 percent discount.
“Aaron, it’s not personal,” Harrold says. “Your work on the tanker case was . . . what can I say, we reserved for a two-billion-dollar loss, and we thought that was too optimistic, and then you got us a resolution at less than half of that. But our board has given us a mandate to cut company-wide, and that’s got to include outside legal, too.”
Aaron’s used to playing chicken over fees, but Colburn is Cromwell Altman’s third-largest client, and their matters keep at least fifty lawyers fully subscribed. Losing that much business in one fell swoop would necessitate a round of layoffs, and profits per partner, the yardstick by which the firm’s success is measured, would definitely take a hit.
Still, Cromwell Altman isn’t JC Penney, and Aaron prides himself on never putting his services on sale. More to the point, he’s not going to forgo $20 million in fees without a fight.
“Doug, belt tightening around legal fees is the very last thing Colburn should be doing,” Aaron says. “The regulatory inquiry on the tanker ended well, but there’s still the class action to worry about, and those plaintiffs’ lawyers smell blood in the water. Besides, it’s also a matter of principle for me. I don’t reduce my rates for any client. That way, every client is assured that they’re getting the rock-bottom best deal.”
“Rock-bottom?” Harrold laughs. “C’mon, Aaron, you guys charge us a fortune.”
“We charge you what the market will bear. Every one of our clients pays exactly the same rate that you do.”
Harrold now looks like a man who’s grown tired of this little dance. “All right. I don’t want to play hardball here, but I guess I’m going to have to in order to make my point. You should know that I’ve already spoken to Steve Weitzen over at Martin Quinn. He’s willing to offer us a twenty percent discount, and their rates are already lower than yours. So net-net, by switching our work to them, we’ll save at least thirty million a year. That’s real money.”
“No, Doug, you have it wrong. We saved you a billion on the tanker case. Now that, my friend, is real money.”
Harrold shakes his head. “Aaron, I’m sorry, but you gotta give me something here. Otherwise, I’m going to have to make the move.”
Aaron looks squarely at Harrold. As the top legal officer of a Fortune 100 company, Doug Harrold normally gets his way, and he certainly gives every outward manifestation that he means what he just said.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Aaron says, “but while I’m still your lawyer, allow me to give you some advice. And because you’re on an austerity program, I’m not even going to charge you for it.” Aaron smiles but then quickly resumes a more serious demeanor. “I think you’re looking at the relationship with Cromwell Altman in the wrong way. We’re not just lawyers for your company. We’re a personal insurance policy for you. Now, I know you’ll take some heat from your board if you stay with us at our rates, rather than bargain-hunt with Martin Quinn, but you and I both know that you’re not going to get fired over it. On the other hand, there’s no way you’re going to keep your job if the class action ends with a multi-billion-dollar verdict and you’re left explaining to the board of directors that it was your call to switch lawyers.”
The knock on the conference room door punctuates Aaron’s point. It’s Diane Pimentel, one of Aaron’s two assistants. Aaron’s other assistant serves as his legal secretary, but Diane is the gatekeeper. She controls his schedule and handles the emergencies that demand his time on an almost hourly basis.
“I’m so sorry to bother you, Mr. Littman,” Diane says, “but Ms. London just called. She and Mr. Hahn are with a client and she asked that you come by as soon as possible.”
“I have to deal with this other matter,” Aaron says to Harrold as he comes to his feet. “So if your position is still the last word on this, I’ll have your files sent over to Martin Quinn by the end of the week.”
There’s a momentary standoff. Having represented Doug Harrold for years now, Aaron knows he’s the kind of man who’s unwilling to go all-in when there’s any chance of losing. Aaron’s just waiting for Harrold to reach that conclusion, too.
Aaron extends his hand. “No hard feelings, Doug, and I wish you the best of luck with Weitzen.”
That’s enough to do the trick. Harrold takes Aaron’s hand and Aaron can feel the yielding in Harrold’s grip.
“You win, Aaron,” Harrold says as they shake hands. “Let me talk to my board. I’ll tell them that . . . I don’t know what the hell I’m going to tell them, to be honest with you, but I guess I’ll have to think of something. We really do need you on the class action . . . and whatever comes down the pike after that.”
“Thanks, Doug,” Aaron says. “You’re making the right call. For you and the company both.”
RACHEL LONDON HATES IT when supposedly grown men act like little boys, but that’s exactly what Peter Hahn and Joe Malone are doing at the moment. She’s voiced her disagreement with them, and in response they’ve actually retreated into opposite corners of the room. Malone has turned his back on her, while Hahn stands with his arms crossed.
She catches Hahn’s glare, which is somewhere between icy and contemptuous. Hahn’s the kind of senior partner who expects blind obedience from his subordinates, even if they’re partners too, like Rachel.
Rachel was only recently assigned to the Malone matter. It was one of those unlucky convergences that define the big law firm life: on the day after Rachel’s major trial concluded, Hahn demanded a junior partner to handle some of the witnesses for his own messed-up case.
Although she’s not yet fully up to speed on the facts of Joe Malone’s case, Rachel understands enough to know that, despite Malone’s protestations of innocence, the odds of his conviction are, in her humble opinion, more than 70 percent. Conviction at trial means a long prison term, so the smart play would be to try to cut a favorable plea deal. But every time she’s dared broach the subject of Malone pleading guilty in exchange for a shorter sentence, Hahn and Malone have shut her down.
Her latest effort is similarly falling on deaf ears.
“In any plea deal, the government is going to demand that Joe admit, under oath, that he stole those paintings,” Hahn says, as if Rachel doesn’t know this. “And Joe can’t truthfully say that because he’s not guilty. That pretty much rules out a plea, no matter what the government ends up offering us.”
Rachel can’t really believe that this is Hahn’s actual basis for refusing a plea deal. There isn’t a client who walks through Cromwell Altman’s doors that doesn’t profess their innocence, sometimes in the most extreme ways—on their children’s souls, offering to take lie detector tests, you name it. I didn’t do it. You have to believe me might just be the most commonly uttered phrase by Cromwell Altman clients. Probably in all of criminal defense. Yet nea
rly all of them ultimately plead guilty and admit everything . . . and the few who end up going to trial, in Rachel’s mind at least, aren’t any more innocent; they just have a greater risk tolerance, or are in denial.
Rachel is quite sure that the real reason behind Hahn’s position has nothing to do with believing Joe Malone is innocent and everything to do with envisioning his picture on the cover of the American Lawyer, complete with some pun-heavy headline: WORK OF ART. Or maybe DEFENSE OF ARTISTRY. They don’t write articles touting your legal genius when your client takes a plea. Even losing at trial will likely be a boon for Hahn’s career—it’ll add a few hundred thousand dollars to his billable-hours column and increase his stature just by keeping his name in the media. After all, Clarence Darrow lost the Scopes Monkey Trial and yet he’s famous ninety years later.
“This is your call, Joe,” Hahn continues. “No one can make it for you. If you’re ready to stand up in open court and admit your guilt, then we’ll call the prosecutor right now and see what kind of deal we can get. But if you want to prove your innocence, there’s only one way to do that, and that’s by winning at trial.”
Joe Malone turns back to the conversation. Rachel thinks she sees uncertainty in his face about what to do, but then he says, “I told you guys from the very beginning, I’m innocent.” And then, as if to convince himself, he adds, “I swear that I am.”
I didn’t do it. You have to believe me.
That’s enough for Peter Hahn to declare victory. He nods at Malone and flashes Rachel a self-satisfied smirk before saying, “I guess that settles it, then.”
Nothing is settled for Rachel, though. She’s not going to let Hahn’s ego be the reason that Joe Malone rots in jail for the next ten years. At least not while she has one more card to play.
“I’m going to get my witness folders,” Rachel says, and scurries out of the room. Once in her office, she calls Aaron Littman.
Rachel knows that calling Aaron to come to her rescue will only add to the gossip about them, even if she is actually asking Aaron to rescue the client and not her. Still . . . every so often, someone, usually a guy who’s been flirting with her, will lean in and whisper conspiratorially that people say she’s sleeping with Aaron. The guy will make it seem as if he’s imparting some top-secret information she needs to know in order to avoid embarrassment. Sort of like telling her that there’s a stain on her blouse.
Years ago, she heard Kevin Bacon mention on a talk show that it never ceases to amaze him when people come up to him and say, “Do you know there’s a game called Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon?” She feels just like that. Of course she knows. How could she not?
She tells herself that it’s not her fault, and the gossip stems from the fact that she doesn’t look the part of a big-firm law partner. Most people who ventured a guess at Rachel’s profession would guess model, given that she’s five foot ten with a slender figure and golden-blond hair that falls to the middle of her back. But she knows that’s not the only reason. She brings some of it on herself. The way she looks at Aaron, as if he’s the only man on earth.
Aaron’s assistant, Diane, tells Rachel that he’s behind closed doors with a client.
“Can you tell him that I need his help as soon as possible?” Rachel says. “I’m with Peter Hahn in conference room B on fifty-six, and we’re meeting with Joe Malone. Peter’s pressing to go to trial, but I think that will end badly, and there’s a chance we can still get a sweetheart plea deal out of this.”
Rachel returns to the conference room clutching the witness folders that were the pretext for her absence. Hahn and Malone barely acknowledge her return, and she sits quietly, waiting for the cavalry to arrive.
Within a few minutes, there’s a knock on the door.
“Hi, I’m sorry to interrupt,” Aaron says, entering the room. “I understand that you’re on the verge of trial, and so I wanted to stop in and see if I can lend some support.”
Rachel doesn’t have to look at Hahn to know he’s absolutely furious. She can’t blame him; nobody likes being undermined. But her primary duty is to the client, and Hahn was clearly giving Malone some bad advice. Besides, Malone’s smile tells her that he’s more than happy to have an audience with the firm’s chairman. Joe Malone originally came to Cromwell Altman for Aaron, but he was farmed out to Peter Hahn when the one-million-dollar retainer Aaron requires proved beyond reach.
Before Hahn can leap in, Rachel says: “Aaron, you’ll recall the fifty-thousand-foot overview. Joe was until recently the studio assistant to Robert Attias, who I’m sure you know is, in many people’s opinion, the greatest living American abstract expressionist master. The position of studio assistant is an extremely close one with the artist. Basically, Joe handled not only Attias’s professional life but his entire life, for the last ten years. During the course of that relationship, Attias made eight gifts to Joe of his artwork. None were the serious types of paintings that sell at auction for tens of millions. These were more like sketches . . . but each still has considerable value because it’s virtually impossible to buy an original Attias unless it’s a fifty-million-dollar painting. There’s a dispute about the value of these gifts, but we peg the sketches as worth somewhere between three million and five million. That’s a lot of money for Joe, so he wanted to sell some of them, but Attias is the kind of guy who expects blind loyalty, and he would have fired Joe if he got wind that Joe had sold off the sketches.”
“And just so you know, Bob once gave a painting to Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie,” Malone says. “And they donated it to some charity, and Bob was just livid. I swear. He couldn’t see the big picture about how that canvas probably built a school somewhere in Africa. All he kept ranting about was what complete ingrates Brad and Angelina were.”
“So to protect himself against Attias’s finding out that Joe was selling the gifts,” Rachel continues, “Joe sold them in private sales and required the buyers to execute confidentiality agreements and agree not to resell the works until after Attias’s death. The buyers naturally demanded a cut in the price in exchange for agreeing to those restrictions, and so the works were sold at what we think was a thirty percent discount. The government is claiming it was more like fifty percent. And of course, somehow Attias found out about the sales. He got so pissed off that he called the FBI and claimed he never made any gifts to Joe and that Joe had stolen them. The prosecutor thinks that they have a winning hand here because Joe’s selling the works at a discount, and in a private sale with confidentiality restrictions, and that could be deemed to indicate Joe was trying to avoid anyone knowing that these works were on the market, which is the typical MO for stolen art.”
Hahn is now finally about to say something, but Aaron waves him off. Rachel wonders if Hahn’s head is going to explode right here in the conference room. He’s spent a thousand hours on the Malone defense, but Aaron’s content to rely upon the two-minute recap he’s just heard from the recently assigned junior partner on the case.
“What’s the bid and the ask regarding plea negotiations?” Aaron asks.
“Um . . . we haven’t really had any, but I figure that conviction on all counts likely means ten years, give or take,” Hahn says. “The Assistant U.S. Attorney on the case is a woman named Stephanie Kessler and she’s a . . .” He looks at Rachel and must decide not to use the term bitch, but says, “. . . tough one. I don’t have a real feel for where she’s going to land on this. Maybe three years is doable. I doubt we’d end up doing much better, though. The main issue is that there’s no way Joe can allocute his guilt because . . . because it’s not true.”
Rachel’s eyes meet Aaron’s in a tacit See what I’m dealing with moment. Aaron’s response is an almost imperceptible nod, reinforcing in Rachel’s mind that she and Aaron share telepathy.
“I didn’t do it, Mr. Littman,” Malone says. “I know you must hear that all the time, but I swear, I’m innocent.”
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br /> “Yes, I do hear that all the time,” Aaron says. “And this may surprise you, but it’s been my long-held view that when you’re contemplating whether to take a plea, guilt and innocence are largely beside the point.”
Malone looks as if he’s just heard the Pope deny the existence of God, but Rachel knows exactly where Aaron is heading. She’s seen him perform this particular bit of magic before: getting a man who has heretofore shouted his innocence from the mountaintop to do a one-eighty-degree turn and consider pleading guilty—for the right price, of course.
“Mr. Malone, are you married?” Aaron asks.
“Yeah.”
“Kids?”
“Two kids. A nine-year-old girl and an eleven-year-old boy.”
Aaron nods. “So, in three years, they’ll be twelve and fourteen. I’m not saying that the next three years don’t matter, because every day matters . . . but you need to think about not seeing your son again until he’s twenty-one. And you need to think about the possibility that the worst case here isn’t ten years, but say you get sentenced to fifteen. Or twenty. Now you’re in territory of not seeing your grandchildren being born. What a plea does for you is, in many ways, more important than vindication. It assures you a future. Peter here thinks three years is doable . . . but what if he can get you two? So now you’re looking at the certainty of being back at home before your daughter is interested in boys. On top of that, you’ve got to consider the financial cost of a trial. Conservatively, you’re looking at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and more if you lose, what with post-trial briefing and appeals. That’s college tuition for your kids, security for your wife. And while we win our fair share of cases, and Peter’s as damn good a trial lawyer as there is, the sad truth is that the prosecution wins many more than they lose. I’m talking something like a ninety percent conviction rate. Those odds should give even the most innocent man something to think about.”
