by Adam Mitzner
“Client gave the okay to start settlement talks.”
“Good. I think that’s the right call, especially if you can get him three years.”
“Yeah, I didn’t get that,” Rachel says, deadpan. “I got a year and a day, though,” she adds, breaking into a full-on grin. “And, needless to say, Malone jumped at it. All of a sudden, admitting guilt wasn’t such a moral quandary for him anymore.”
“Wow. Well done, Rachel.”
“I try.”
“That kind of good work calls for a reward. How would you like to work with me on the hottest case in the country right now?”
“I was hoping for a three-week paid vacation.”
“C’mon, Rachel, what fun can you have on a Caribbean island that competes with working around the clock for Nicolai Garkov?”
Rachel’s smile vanishes. “He’s the client?”
“Since about an hour ago.”
Rachel’s professional enough not to show concern, but Aaron can see the tell, the small crinkle at the side of her mouth, which she attempts to hide by turning her head toward her notepad.
“I . . . thought Roy Sabato was repping him,” she says.
“He was. Now we are.”
“And it’s before Judge Nichols now, right?”
Rachel was second-in-command during the Matthews trial, and so she saw firsthand how Aaron interacted with Faith, which gives her comment added weight. But Aaron dismisses the thought that Rachel has figured out his dirty secret and assumes she is referring solely to the harsh sentence Faith ended up handing down.
“You’re not afraid of her, are you?” Aaron says, trying to return to their previous banter.
Rachel, however, appears to be in no joking mood. She looks very much afraid.
“The truth, Aaron?”
“I expect nothing less.”
“This is going to give Donald Pierce a lot of ammunition.”
“Maybe, but the decision’s been made.”
“And that’s what worries me. You know you shouldn’t be doing it, and yet you still are.”
The statement equally applies to his affair with Faith. But unlike then, now he has little choice.
Through a soft smile he says, “So are you with me in this terrible mistake that I’m making?”
With Rachel, this is a rhetorical question. Her loyalty is a given.
“Of course,” she says. “Always.”
THERE WAS NO MORE unwelcome a visitor Aaron could have imagined as he was getting ready to leave for the day than Donald Pierce.
Pierce hasn’t called ahead, most likely because he knew he would have been told that Aaron was unavailable, which was Aaron’s standing order to Diane whenever Pierce asked for a meeting.
It is undoubtedly for this same reason that Pierce does not stop at Diane’s desk. Rather, he just walks straight into Aaron’s office.
“I need to talk to you,” he says. “It’s important.”
Everything about Donald Pierce is thin—his lips, his eyes, the few strands of hair still left on his head. He reminds Aaron of one of those little dogs that snarls and yips at everyone. The kind that seems crazy enough to strike at things twice its size.
Aaron debates saying that he’s in the middle of something, but that will lead to Pierce’s asking for time on Aaron’s calendar. Scheduled meetings are presumed to go on for at least a half hour, whereas a pop-in could be cut short by the next phone call.
“I’m on my way out, Donald,” Aaron says, laying the groundwork for his exit, “but we can talk for a second.”
To prove the point that this is going to be a short meeting, Aaron doesn’t offer Pierce a seat. Even worse, Aaron gets up and walks to his closet, retrieving his coat, which sends the unmistakable message that Aaron has allotted two minutes, if that, to whatever Pierce has to say.
Pierce gives the room a once-over—as if he’s imagining how he’ll redecorate when he becomes chairman of the firm—and then says, “I’ve already spoken with most of the other members of the COC. We’re all in agreement on this, Aaron. We should not be taking Garkov on as a client.”
“And why not? He’s got a Sixth Amendment right to counsel, doesn’t he?”
Pierce rolls his eyes. “I’m not a big believer in the whole everybody-deserves-to-be-represented thing, and even if everyone is entitled to a lawyer, that doesn’t mean that they’re entitled to Cromwell Altman. But let’s not cite the Constitution to each other. This firm’s mission isn’t to defend the innocent. It’s to make money for the partners. And taking on a goddamned terrorist like Garkov is going to cost our corporate group eight figures, easy. We’ll be radioactive as far as the big banks are concerned. Not to mention that when the representation becomes public, it’s going to send the associates flying to headhunters, and you can bet the press is going to be all over us.”
“Come on, Don. This firm has taken on lots of unpopular causes. It’s what lawyers are supposed to do.”
“They’re not supposed to piss away tens of millions of dollars in corporate business.”
Just like with Rosenthal, Aaron knows Pierce is right. There is simply no logical argument for why Cromwell Altman would represent Garkov. Unlike with Rosenthal, however, Aaron doesn’t give even a passing thought to telling Pierce the truth. Instead, he falls back on the old adage that the best defense is a good offense.
“If you’re half the lawyer you’re always telling me you are, Don, then I would think that the big banks would be rushing to retain your services no matter who I decide to represent. So if you can’t hold on to your clients, don’t go blaming me.”
Before Pierce can respond, Aaron pushes past him and leaves for the day.
8
Faith Nichols lives in a Tribeca loft designed by her architect husband, Stuart Christensen. She bought the place when she was single and furnished it in a shabby-chic style. Stuart spent the first year of their married life replacing all of Faith’s furniture and gutting the interior, right down to the studs. Now it’s minimalist with a capital M, which means that the space is very beautiful but somewhat difficult to live in.
More than once Faith has mused that her home is a metaphor for her life.
“Something smells good,” she says, catching a strong whiff of garlic.
“It’s pasta night,” Stuart calls out. “You know how I like my pasta, right?”
“Yes, I know,” she says with a forced laugh.
One of Stuart’s favorite jokes, which has been old for quite some time. She would say something like, You like your pasta the way you like your women, and Stuart would supply various punch lines—spicy, hot, soaked in wine, or in his bawdier moments, filled with meat. Tonight, she doesn’t even bother with their little game.
“Well, today I’ve made it so hot, you can’t keep your clothes on,” Stuart says anyway.
Faith smiles politely and then excuses herself to change out of her work clothes. Stuart once told her that when Frank Lloyd Wright designed a house, he would also design the furniture (which Stuart did in their place too, for the most part), and he would even instruct the owners on what clothes to wear while inside it. Faith considers herself fortunate that she’s still able to select her own wardrobe, even as she appreciates the irony that her work attire is a black robe.
Faith reaches for the baggiest sweatpants and T-shirt in her closet. She could wear something a bit more formfitting, but she’d just as soon not pique Stuart’s interest tonight.
When she comes back to the dining table, Stuart is sampling his culinary creation. “Ahhh, ’atsa spicy-a pasta,” he says in a cartoon Italian accent.
“Please tell me there’s more wine,” Faith says, noticing her husband has a nearly full glass beside him.
He pushes the bottle toward her but doesn’t go so far as to get her a glass, even though he’s standing in
front of the cabinet where the stemware is stored. She nudges him aside and pulls one down herself.
“I got the Garkov case,” she says in a flat tone as she pours.
Stuart’s mouth forms a twisted smile. Faith knows that he’s experiencing a bit of schadenfreude, which is about as unbecoming an emotional response as she can imagine.
It’s moments like this, which occur far too frequently, that she can’t believe she ever convinced herself that marrying Stuart was a good idea. She knew his faults—narcissistic, insecure, outsized sense of entitlement—but disregarded those alarm bells because she was thirty-nine and feared that he might be her last chance at not ending up alone.
“The nomination was always a long shot, Faith,” he says. “Truth is, I never believed it was actually going to happen.”
Faith isn’t surprised that Stuart has jumped to the conclusion that the Garkov case is going to hurt her chances. She’s tempted to put him in his place, which she could do simply by telling him that the assignment will likely help her cause. But the satisfaction she’d derive by knocking him down a peg is outweighed by her desire simply not to engage him at all.
The Garkov case doesn’t come up again during dinner. Instead, Stuart discusses a project he’s working on for a midtown law firm. He looks annoyed when Faith can’t recall the firm’s name, which she knows he sees as some type of slight on his work, although that doesn’t make any sense to her.
“So, every little thing is about the budget,” he says. “You know, Can we use cheaper materials on the secretarial stations? Can’t we go with fabric rather than leather on the associate chairs? But when we start talking about the two founders’ offices, oh, now all of a sudden no expense is to be spared. One of them wants a state-of-the-art media center that he controls with a remote from his desk. You know, with a sliding panel that reveals three or four television screens and when it opens, the lighting simultaneously dims? And the other guy, he wants me to put in a safe that’s as large as a walk-in closet. I half-jokingly asked if he was going to be hiding bodies in there.”
Stuart’s rant is interrupted by Faith’s phone. She can tell that he’s immediately annoyed and that he blames her. She wants to tell him that it’s not her fault her phone is ringing, but she could let it go to voice mail and thereby demonstrate to Stuart his superior place in her life, and she’s not about to do that. She knows who’s calling, and for the record, that person is more important to her than Stuart.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Your Honor, it’s Jeremy. The senator asked that I call you right away. He regrets that he couldn’t do it personally but hoped that you’d understand. If it’s not too much of an intrusion, can I come to your place to explain where things stand in light of today’s case assignment? I’m in midtown now, so I could be there in half an hour.”
Faith instinctively looks up at her husband. He’s not going to be happy about this.
Who cares? she thinks.
THE LITTMANS LIVE ON Fifth Avenue, between Seventy-Fifth and Seventy-Sixth Streets, in a prewar art deco building. A plaque outside identifies the building’s architect as Rosario Candela, the gold standard of New York City residential architects.
The year that the twins were born, Aaron and Cynthia purchased a ninth-floor classic six—two bedrooms, living room, formal dining room, and small maid’s room off the kitchen—facing Central Park. They had previously lived downtown, in a much hipper area, but the twins’ arrival meant they had to think about schools and parks, and so the Upper East Side became their new home. As their neighbors moved or died, the Littmans annexed their apartments, like real estate conquistadors. Today their Manhattan castle stretches over three thousand rambling square feet, occupying most of the building’s ninth floor, which connects by a staircase to a converted two-bedroom on the eighth that now comprises their master suite.
Tonight Aaron has arrived home with flowers in hand. Nothing that extravagant, just a bouquet of what the florist on the corner on Madison recommended. He knows that it’s partly his guilty conscience that contributes to these romantic gestures, but they are about more than his making amends for transgressions of which Cynthia is unaware. He’s trying to be more like the man he wishes he were, and that man brings his wife flowers just because he loves her.
He calls out, “Cynthia?” but she doesn’t answer. His teenage daughters aren’t likely to drop their time on social media to acknowledge his presence, so it’s not until he has ascertained each of their rooms is empty that he’s sure he’s alone.
Aaron’s being the first to come home at night is rarer than a blue moon. It places him in the uncomfortable position of being alone with his thoughts, a state of being that he seeks to avoid whenever he can. Especially because these days such introspection almost always leads him to reflect about Faith.
Aaron wishes that he could point to some cataclysmic event that resulted in his breaking his marriage vows—a brush with death that caused him to rethink his existence, or that Cynthia somehow betrayed him first, justifying revenge. But the simple truth is that he has no excuse and even less explanation. Opportunities had presented themselves before, and he’d never truly been tempted.
During the four months Faith and he were together, barely a day went by when Aaron didn’t think about ending it. But he never did. Rather, he became even more immersed, buying prepaid phones like he was a drug dealer so his nightly calls to Faith would not show up on his phone bill, paying the Ritz-Carlton’s nearly six-hundred-dollar nightly rate with cash fresh from the ATM to avoid the room charges showing up on his AmEx bill.
In its throes, Aaron felt like he was two people: his regular life proceeded as usual, and then once a week or so he met Faith, and during those two or three hours in her company, he felt as if he inhabited an alternative universe where his wife and children didn’t exist.
They had met at a legal bar association dinner. It was the kind of event that honors whoever can strong-arm enough people to buy tables at five thousand dollars a pop. Members of the judiciary are part of the bribe and are allocated among the two hundred or so tables.
The honoree was George Vanderlyn, the chairman of Windsor Taft. Aaron later learned that the only reason Faith was even at the dinner was because she had worked at Windsor Taft before her appointment to the bench. She wasn’t even originally seated next to Aaron, but when Jose Luiz claimed to have some fire to put out in a deal he was working on, Aaron felt compelled to slide over a seat so that a federal judge was entertained. He can scarcely remember how one moment they were talking, and before he knew it, they were in an upstairs room.
It might have been years before their sexual life intersected with their professional one. There were forty-one judges in Manhattan, and even though Faith had been on the bench for almost three years already, Aaron had never had a case before her. But a little more than a month after their affair began, Faith’s name came rolling out of the wheel as the judge randomly assigned to preside over the trial of Eric Matthews.
Aaron had been representing Matthews for nearly a year by that point, and he expected Faith to recuse herself. But despite the fact that it violated every ethical canon in the book, Faith said that there was no reason they couldn’t keep their professional and personal relationships separate. “Besides,” she said, “you know cases like this always end in a plea bargain, and so where’s the harm?”
Of course, the case didn’t plead out.
During the trial Faith had been fair, or at least no more unfair to the defense than any other judge might have been. Certainly, Aaron didn’t think it was due to any of her rulings that the jury found Matthews guilty. He had told his client that the odds of an acquittal were slim and had urged a plea deal even before Faith had been named as the presiding judge, but Matthews wouldn’t hear of it.
Aaron expected Matthews to be sentenced to between four and five years, which was what similarly situated defendan
ts had received from other judges. But then Faith dropped the hammer with fourteen years, explaining that the severity was necessary to send a message that financial fraud was every bit as destructive to society as street crime.
Aaron, however, received a very different message. He heard loud and clear that it was over between them.
9
Just one look at Jeremy Kagan makes it clear why he decided to be the man behind the man. His appearance not only inspires little confidence; it actually creates concern. It’s something about his eyes. The way they seem to always dart around, as if he’s on constant lookout for something to go wrong.
When Kagan extends his hand toward Faith, she can’t help but suppress a laugh. Stuart believes Kagan’s arms are too short for his torso and derisively refers to him as T-Rex.
As they make their way over to the living room, Faith is hoping that Stuart will let her speak with Kagan alone. But like a petulant child, Stuart takes his seat beside them.
“I’m sorry, Stuart,” Kagan says. “Can your wife and I speak privately?”
Stuart looks insulted, although he would be morally outraged if Faith ever tried to sit in on a meeting he was having with a client. He skulks off, muttering something about being in the bedroom if anyone needs him.
Kagan isn’t one for small talk, and so as soon as he hears the bedroom door close, he gets down to business.
“Your Honor, Senator Kheel wanted you to know that he’s already spoken to the White House, and your assignment to the Garkov case is being viewed as a very positive development. So much so that they’ve asked Justice Velasquez to stay on until the end of the Supreme Court’s term in May, in order to give you enough time to finish the case.” He smiles, stretching out his scraggly beard. “In other words, you’re a lock.”
Faith isn’t smiling, however. She knows the part that Kagan has left unsaid.
“I assume it’s not a lock if Garkov’s acquitted,” she says.
Kagan’s cheerfulness vanishes. “Hold on. Do you even see that as a possibility? The White House is banking on the fact that you’re judge and jury on this one. The senator believes it’s what put you over the top.”
