by Adam Mitzner
Prior to making an argument before a court, Aaron is usually provided extensive legal memos outlining the state of the law and bullet points of the best arguments and sound bites to make. He takes that work and uses it as the basis for crafting his own presentation. As a general matter, every five minutes Aaron speaks in court are preceded by one hundred hours of other people’s toiling. But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t had to wing it from time to time. Indeed, some of Aaron’s best arguments have come in such circumstances.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” he says, and then pauses for a moment as he mentally sorts through the points he intends to make. “First, as the court is aware, bail has nothing to do with punishment, but is a device to ensure the defendant’s appearance at trial. Mr. Garkov has been out on bail for months without incident. Accordingly, there’s no reason to believe that he is a flight risk now. If anything, the risk of flight was much greater back when Judge Mendelsohn initially ruled that Mr. Garkov should be placed in supervised home confinement. Second, Mr. Garkov is under extremely tight protection. I can attest firsthand that it would be virtually impossible for him to flee the jurisdiction. He is guarded by no fewer than six people at all times. Third, at the present time, Mr. Garkov’s home incarceration is at no cost to the government. By contrast, time in the prison system imposes a cost, not only in terms of the dollars required to clothe and feed inmates, but also in the fact that the prison system is already overcrowded. And finally, Mr. Garkov has a constitutional right to aid in his defense. We understand that Your Honor has ruled that the substitution of counsel shall not delay the trial, and we respect that ruling, but it does mean that we have to get up to speed very quickly. That will be immeasurably more difficult if Mr. Garkov is held at the Metropolitan Correctional Center than if he were in home confinement.”
“Thank you, counsel,” Faith says in a perfunctory way.
For a moment she turns to Sanyour, as if she’s going to ask the prosecution to weigh in. She must think twice about that, perhaps out of concern that Sanyour will cut her off at the knees the way he did on the substitution issue, because she quickly straightens up in her chair. Aaron knows from the Matthews case that it’s the posture she assumes when she’s about to rule.
Faith hesitates for a beat and then plunges forward. “It is the order of this court that the bail conditions previously entered are hereby revoked. Mr. Garkov is to be held in the Metropolitan Correctional Center until trial. The court officers should now take the defendant into custody.”
The court officers move toward the defense counsel table. As Garkov’s hands are being cuffed, he presses his face right against Aaron’s ear.
In an icy-calm voice, Garkov says, “I want to see you tomorrow morning.”
11
Faith is still trying to catch her breath when she closes the door to her office. She held her composure in the courtroom, but the moment she’s out of sight, her head starts to spin.
What in the hell could Aaron have been thinking?
That’s just it, she tells herself; like she said in court, he wasn’t thinking. Or, equally likely, he was thinking only of himself. Typical Aaron. Goddamn it. He could never turn down a marquee case, even if it is for a terrorist.
Faith knows full well the furious activity that’s about to kick into gear at Cromwell Altman. Half a dozen lawyers will work all night on a motion to reconsider. It will be one of the classic Cromwell Altman tomes, fifty pages long with two hundred case citations, despite being written in less than twenty-four hours, and will say little more than that she was wrong to revoke bail.
“Judge,” her clerk Sara says, entering Faith’s office. “I . . . Do you want me to do anything? Research bail revocations, maybe? Um . . . I don’t know . . . Anything?”
Sara looks to be in as much shock as Faith over this turn of events, albeit for a very different reason. Sara knows that Faith normally doesn’t make a judicial ruling, particularly one of such magnitude, without consulting her clerks and asking for research.
“No,” Faith says, trying her best to sound like she’s in total control. “Thanks, Sara. I . . . I would like some privacy, though. In fact, tell Kenny too. I don’t want any interruptions this afternoon.”
NEWS OF THE DRUBBING Aaron took in court made it back to Cromwell Altman ahead of him. Even before he removes his coat, Diane is telling him that the phone has been ringing nonstop.
“There have been at least twenty press inquiries,” she says. “And Paul Stillman called and said it was urgent. Mr. Rosenthal also asked that you see him right away.”
Paul Stillman is the firm’s public relations guru. Although Aaron doesn’t fully understand what Stillman does to earn his twenty-five-thousand-dollar monthly retainer, handling the fallout from Cromwell Altman’s representing a terrorist certainly falls within his bailiwick.
Aaron knows exactly how the conversation with Stillman will go. Stillman will complain that he can’t do his job if he doesn’t know what’s going on, and then he’ll want to meet to “brainstorm”—that’s Stillman’s favorite phrase—about how to best handle the press inquiries.
To Aaron’s way of thinking, however, there are only two responses available: “Aaron Littman, a lawyer for Nicolai Garkov, said that he was disappointed with the judge’s ruling and was still considering his options, but noted that he was confident his client would be exonerated of all wrongdoing,” or “Lawyers for Nicolai Garkov could not be reached for comment.”
He concludes that it really doesn’t make much of a difference, and so calling Stillman can wait. Besides, he’d much rather get Rosenthal’s counsel at a time like this.
Just being in Sam Rosenthal’s office makes Aaron nostalgic for a time when lawyers were truly counselors. The space has the feel of the sitting room of a mansion in the English countryside. The chairs and sofa are covered in rich, tan leather fastened by nail heads, the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves are crammed with old hardback volumes with cracked leather spines, and none of the paintings was created in the last two hundred years. Rosenthal sits behind a comically large desk, his head six inches from whatever he’s reading, as if he needs to smell the words to understand them.
Aaron knocks on the door, even though it’s open. “I hear you wanted to see me.”
“Please, close the door, Aaron.”
They usually meet behind closed doors, but Rosenthal rarely makes a point of it. The scowl on Rosenthal’s face leaves little doubt that this will be the second unpleasant interaction Aaron’s had in the last hour.
“I heard about what happened in court today,” Rosenthal says. “She really put the hammer to you.”
Aaron settles into Rosenthal’s guest chair. “At least I get to spend the evening in my own bed,” he says.
It’s an oft-repeated lawyer joke. So much so that Rosenthal doesn’t even smile.
Instead, he sighs before saying, “I always tell people that this firm is my only family . . . but the only part isn’t right. You’re my family too, Aaron. And just as I would do anything for this firm, you should know that I would do the same for you.”
Aaron didn’t have the kind of relationship with his father that permitted heart-to-heart talks. He was too young when his parents separated to even remember their ever being together. Thereafter, his father moved around a bit, remarried, and had a second family in a Chicago suburb. They apparently took up all of his time, because Aaron heard from his father only on his birthday via a telephone call, which didn’t even come every year.
Aaron last saw his old man at his mother’s funeral. She died of cancer a week after Aaron’s high school graduation, which his father hadn’t seen fit to attend. Nor did he visit his ex-wife during the last months of her life. In fact, it had been nearly ten years since he’d even seen the man. And yet, his father decided that showing up unannounced at his ex-wife’s funeral was a good idea. It took all of Aaron’s willpower to not de
ck the son of a bitch, but he decided then and there that his father would forever be as dead to him as his mother.
In many ways, Aaron had ended up replacing his father with Sam Rosenthal. He was really the one who taught Aaron how to be a man. In the early years, when the firm was smaller and billable hours were not the Holy Grail they are now, he and Rosenthal would share long lunches at top restaurants discussing everything—politics, literature, and, of course, the law. Aaron learned more during those lunches than he had in college and law school combined, and certainly more than he ever had from his real father.
After Aaron made partner, the lessons continued, as Rosenthal went out of his way to groom Aaron as his successor. When Rosenthal’s accident caused that day to come much earlier than either of them had anticipated, their sessions morphed to address more philosophical concerns, with Rosenthal imparting what his brush with death had taught him and focusing Aaron on the things that comprise a well-lived life.
Right now, Aaron is sincerely moved by Rosenthal’s sentiment. And truth be told, he loves Rosenthal too, and wants to say something equally moving . . . but like many a son, perhaps, he has difficulty saying it aloud.
“Thank you, Sam,” is the best he can manage at first. Then, seeing that he should go on, he adds, “I hope you know I feel the same way about you too.”
“You know that line from The Godfather?” Rosenthal says. “When Vito Corleone tells the Turk that he spoils his children by allowing them to speak when they should listen? Well, I think I’m guilty of the same thing, because I let you off the hook too easily before. But now I’ve given you some time to handle it on your own so you could preserve my—what did you call it? Plausible deniability? But that didn’t seem to work out too well for you, and so it’s time for you to tell me exactly what the hell went on between you and Judge Nichols, and how much of that Nicolai Garkov knows.”
It doesn’t surprise Aaron that Rosenthal has figured it all out. Rosenthal wouldn’t be half the lawyer he is if he hadn’t. Part of Aaron feels relief that his secret is finally revealed. The other part, however, feels shame.
“Okay,” Aaron says with a heavy voice. As much as he wants to maintain eye contact, though, Aaron can’t help himself and he turns away. His eyes fall to the floor, which at least will not offer any judgment about his sins.
“I had an affair with her, Sam. It started before the Eric Matthews case. Remember the George Vanderlyn dinner? When she was at our table? That night. When she got the Matthews case, we both figured it was going to plead out, and so she didn’t recuse herself, and I stayed on as counsel. There really wasn’t anything remarkable about the trial. She was fair, or at least no more unfair than anybody else might have been. But the sentence . . . That was certainly a shock. Maybe Faith really thought the crime merited that type of prison term. I don’t know . . . I also don’t know just how the hell Garkov found out about me and Faith, but he did. Somehow. Now he thinks I can blackmail Faith into acquitting him.”
Rosenthal doesn’t look horrified at the disclosure, which Aaron finds even more disconcerting in a way. Aaron’s heard more than his fair share of confessions, and he knows the importance of not letting on that what you’re hearing is incomprehensible to you. It’s likely the reason that priests are shielded from their parishioners in the confessional.
“Is it over?” Rosenthal asks.
“Yeah. Right after the Matthews verdict, she cut off all communication. No explanation, she just stopped cold turkey. I guess it all just caught up with her. I mean, I kind of felt relieved, to be honest. Glad all that deception was finally over.”
As Aaron’s words hang in the air, he braces for the condemnation that he deserves. Instead, Rosenthal places his hand over Aaron’s, patting it gently.
“You should have told me about this sooner,” Rosenthal says. “I could have told you about some things you might not know about. For starters, why she likely ended it. She was told that she was on the short list for the Supreme Court.”
Aaron’s heard that Faith’s name has appeared on such lists, but he never put any stock in such rumors. Those short lists are never so short anyway, and even his own name, and Rosenthal’s too, in his day, were bandied about as potential high-court nominees.
“Right. And so are a few dozen others,” Aaron says, “not to mention that there aren’t any vacancies.”
“No, it’s for real. Justice Velasquez is going to step down at the end of the term. The president wants a law-and-order judge, and nothing says that like the longest insider-trading sentence in history. On top of which, I guess I don’t have to tell you, but Judge Nichols won’t exactly look bad on television for her confirmation hearings.”
Aaron assumed all along that Faith ended their relationship and suddenly broke off all ties because she thought better of the double life of adultery. But now it seems that it wasn’t her husband she was concerned about, as much as her career.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Aaron asks.
“Why would I tell you, Aaron? Senator Kheel told me in confidence. Besides, I didn’t have any reason to believe there was anything going on between you and the judge before whom you were appearing. But if it’s full-disclosure time, you should know that I had a few meetings with Judge Nichols and did some of the preliminary vetting of her background. Kheel’s thank-you for the campaign contributions I bundle for him. At least one good thing in all of this is she didn’t breathe a word about having a relationship with you. And I asked her point-blank whether there was any infidelity in her background.”
“So tell the senator that there are such problems, and make the Supreme Court go away.”
Rosenthal gives a bitter chuckle. “If it were only that simple, Aaron. He’ll want to know what I know, and how I came to know it. I don’t think now is the time to be sharing your ethical issues with a U.S. senator, do you?”
The question answers itself, and so an uneasy quiet settles in between them. Finally, Rosenthal says, “Were you in love with her?”
“No,” Aaron says reflexively. “At least, not enough that I ever considered leaving Cynthia,” he adds, correcting himself.
Rosenthal nods, but Aaron knows his mentor has no frame of reference for what happens in the long middle of a marriage. In all the years they’ve known each other, Rosenthal has never mentioned a woman.
“Who else knows about the affair?” Rosenthal asks. “Besides Garkov, obviously.”
“No one, Sam. Not even Cynthia.” He shakes his head. “Although I didn’t think you knew either, so perhaps I overestimate my ability to be clandestine in such matters.”
“I take it, then, that you haven’t told Judge Nichols about Garkov’s threat?”
“No. I thought maybe she would figure it out by my appearance today and just decide to recuse herself.”
Rosenthal rejects the suggestion with a shrug. “You’re giving her too much credit. Clients retain you at the last minute all the time to take over the trial work. Why would she think this one is any different? And even though the Matthews case didn’t end well, everyone gave you high marks for the defense. There’s no reason for Judge Nichols to think that anyone who hires you in a case before her has blackmail on their mind.”
“And yet you figured it out.”
“That’s because I know you have reasons not to take the case. You have no idea about the earful I’ve gotten from the other members of the COC, and none of them has suggested anything nefarious.” Rosenthal smirks. “They just think you’re a self-centered egomaniac, putting your interests above theirs. But they don’t think for a minute you’re being blackmailed by your client.”
Aaron gives a small laugh at the gallows humor. “Good to know.”
Rosenthal’s expression returns to its previous grimness. “But you do have a serious problem here, Aaron.”
“I know. Believe me, I know.”
12
When she gets back from court, Rachel London calls her minions into the conference room nearest to her office. On the door, she’s taped a paper sign: GARKOV WAR ROOM.
At least 50 percent of Cromwell Altman’s interior conference rooms are designated as war rooms of one type or another. War room sounds much fiercer than storage space, but the latter description is actually more accurate.
Roy Sabato sent over his entire Garkov file—six banker’s boxes and a thumb drive. A team of first-year lawyers is reviewing the thumb drive, tasked with printing out whatever they think Sabato didn’t recognize as actually important. As first-years are inclined to do, they are being over-inclusive, and so now eight banker’s boxes sit in the corner of the conference room.
As the junior partner on the case, Rachel serves as field general. She commands the rank-and-file (i.e., the associates) so that they can execute the battle plan drawn up by command (Aaron).
“Listen up,” Rachel says to the six lawyers sitting around the table. They range in seniority from Harrison Geller, who is fresh out of law school, to Clare Ferguson, who’s up for partner this year. “Aaron wants a comprehensive brief telling Judge Nichols why she was wrong to revoke Garkov’s bail, and he wants to file it tomorrow morning.”
They all know this means they’re going to be here all night. Still, no one shows the slightest sign of displeasure. Pulling all-nighters is part of the job. Go big or go home.
“Here’s how we’re going to do it,” Rachel continues. “I want Chris, Harrison, and Amanda to begin the research right away. Figure it out among yourselves how to divide it up . . . but no matter how you do it, there shouldn’t be a single decision concerning bail revocation in the last . . . let’s say fifteen years, that you haven’t reviewed. Rick, I want you to take the longer view. Your job is the historical analysis of the reasons to permit criminal defendants to be out on bail, and the factors that go into making that determination. Maybe we can do a statistical analysis of how many people accused of financial fraud ever jump bail—and let’s remember, financial fraud is all Garkov’s been charged with thus far. Clare, once you start to get a feel for what’s out there, begin drafting. We’re going to file a brief, a compendium of cases, and maybe an affidavit from Aaron himself, because he’s seen what Garkov’s home confinement looks like. You know what, on second thought, I’m sure the conditions for the home confinement are in either Mendelsohn’s or the magistrate judge’s order. Somebody fish that out, and if the terms are clear, we won’t need an affidavit.” She takes a deep breath, surveying her troops. “Okay. Any questions?”
