by Adam Mitzner
Leaving a message is out of the question. A voice mail from him would be all Faith needed for his disqualification. Sending a text would be less risky, however. Particularly if it is vague enough that he could later deny he was the sender, if it came to that.
He types into the phone: It’s me. Urgent that I speak to you right away. He knows at once that sounds too desperate, and so he deletes it. For his second effort, Aaron tries: Faith, please call me at this number as soon as you can. Very important.
After reading it over twice, he hits the send button.
Aaron comes out of the park on the East Side and considers waiting for Faith’s response in the Dunkin’ Donuts on the corner of Ninety-Seventh and Madison, or the pizza place across the street. He concludes that the fewer people who see him in this neighborhood, the better, however, so he starts to walk, very slowly, back toward his building.
If Faith is going to respond, she’ll do it in the time it’ll take him to get back to Seventy-Fifth and Fifth. If she doesn’t call or text by then, she isn’t going to.
Even though the phone is set to vibrate, Aaron checks it at least three times on every block: once when he crosses the street, again midblock, and a third time when he’s about to cross again. But as he gets closer to his apartment, the realization begins to sink in that Faith is not going to answer.
Every year, as part of the orientation for the first-year associates, Aaron gives a speech titled “The New York Times Test.” He tells the newly minted lawyers that everything they do professionally should be governed by one simple question: How would they feel if their actions ended up on the front page of the New York Times? Could they look their spouses, significant others, friends, or parents in the eye and defend their conduct? Because if the answer is no, then they shouldn’t do it. Under any circumstances.
Aaron knows he’s a complete hypocrite, having failed miserably at the New York Times test. Numerous times. When he began his affair with Faith. When he didn’t disclose it to Eric Matthews or the prosecutors or the firm. When he entered his appearance on behalf of Nicolai Garkov.
Now he’s going to pay the price. His transgressions will literally be splashed across the paper of record. He’s going to bring shame to his wife and children, and Donald Pierce will have all the ammunition he needs to complete his coup.
In other words, life as he knows it is about to end.
17
During the week, Jorge and Julio work the front door of Aaron’s building from 6:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m. Someone once told Aaron that they’re cousins, and there’s a certain resemblance in that they’re both Hispanic men with shaved heads, goatees, and somewhat sullen expressions. They’re in full uniform, gray suits with red ties and dark double-breasted overcoats. And, of course, white gloves.
Julio opens the door for Aaron, but they both greet him in unison. “Good evening, Mr. Littman.”
At exactly that moment, Aaron feels his pocket vibrate. He pushes the door back open himself and races against the traffic across Fifth Avenue, so as not to be overheard, without even turning back to see how the cousins have reacted.
“Hello?”
“Who is this?”
“Faith, it’s Aaron.”
“Oh . . . what the hell, Aaron?! You know—”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Absolutely not. Even this discussion is extremely improper.”
“Faith, be quiet for a minute and just let me say what I need to tell you.” He doesn’t wait for her assent. “Garkov knows about us. And he’s going to use it to get what he wants. I need to see you. Right away.”
“Aaron—no. I can’t be seen with you. I shouldn’t even be talking to you.”
“Faith, I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t absolutely critical. And I just can’t do it over the phone. Please. No one will see us, I promise. I’m begging you.”
There’s a long pause, during which all Aaron can hear is his own heart pounding.
“Where?” she finally says.
Thank God, he thinks to himself.
“The Alice in Wonderland statue.”
“Of course,” she mutters.
They met there once before, spending the evening necking like high schoolers. “No one will see us there,” he says by way of explaining his choice of venue.
“If I can get away, I’ll be there in a half hour. Maybe forty minutes. If I’m not there by then, I’m not coming, and if I get there and there are people around you, I’ll leave.”
He can’t even thank her before the phone goes dead.
WHEN AARON’S DAUGHTERS WERE in grade school, the Alice in Wonderland statue in Central Park was just about their favorite place on earth. Even though there’s a full-fledged playground closer to their apartment—complete with slide, swings, and a large sandbox—the girls never wanted to play there, always running toward the bronze statue and then jumping on top of the mushrooms in a race to be the first to climb to the top of Alice’s head.
After nine on a cold school night in March, however, the area around the statue is empty, as are the nearby benches. Fifty or so yards to the south is the duck pond, where a couple sits tossing bread crumbs into the water, but they’re far enough away not to be of any concern.
It isn’t until nine thirty that Aaron first becomes concerned Faith might not show. But ten minutes later, she emerges from under one of the streetlamps as if she’s an apparition. He expected her to be in gym clothes, but she looks like she’s just left a party—high heels and what appears to be a tight dress under her open coat.
“Thank you so much for coming—”
“I’m not going to stay long,” she interrupts, “so tell me what’s going on.”
He exhales deeply. “Like I said, Garkov knows about us. He hired me to get to you. He said that if you don’t reverse yourself on the bail . . . I don’t know what he’s going to do exactly, but I’d just as soon not wait to find out.”
Aaron thought Faith would share his concern, but he immediately knows by the angry way she’s looking at him that she does not see them as common allies in this fight. She looks disgusted by the very sight of him.
“Garkov’s your problem, Aaron. Get Sam Rosenthal to fix it. That’s what he does, right? But whatever you do . . . just leave me out of it.” She shakes her head in abject disgust. “I don’t know what I was thinking by meeting you, Aaron. But I . . . I’m warning you to stay the hell away from me. If you contact me again, I’m going to remove you as counsel and file a formal complaint with the bar association.”
She gets up, but he grabs her arm. “Please, Faith,” he pleads.
“Let go of me,” she snarls. “Coming here was a mistake.”
She yanks her arm away from his grasp and then turns her back on him.
THE LAST THING AARON wants when he returns to his apartment is for Cynthia or the girls to see him in this state. His initial plan is to dart straight downstairs to their bedroom, but then he realizes that might be where Cynthia is, and so he calls out her name.
“Cynthia?”
No answer. Thank God.
One or both of the twins might be home, but they’re likely holed up in their rooms. That gives him the opportunity to hurry downstairs to his bedroom without being seen.
Aaron takes off his suit and hangs it up, placing his shirt in the bin with the dry cleaning to go out the next day. Then he takes a shower, feeling the need to wash away the insanity of the last hour.
Before leaving the bedroom, he calls out for Cynthia again. Still no answer. He walks into Samantha’s room, where he sees his daughter in her usual pose, staring into her laptop.
“Where’s Mom?”
“IDK—wait, that’s a total lie. She’s at the hospital.”
“Is your sister home?”
“Yuppers.”
Aaron has a similarly abbreviated conversation w
ith Lindsay and then heads to the kitchen, where he pulls a tumbler out of the cupboard and pours himself a generous amount of scotch. He takes his new best friend into the living room and tries to calm his nerves.
Shortly before 1:00 a.m., when Aaron is midway through his third drink, Cynthia finally appears. She looks a bit harried, which is not uncommon after she finishes a long night on call.
“Sorry I’m so late. There was this first-time mom,” she says as she’s taking off her coat, “and I’m told she’s at eight centimeters, but when I got there, she was only at two, and so I was stuck at the hospital . . . you got my text, right?”
Cynthia has said this without even looking at Aaron. But when they make eye contact, her expression changes dramatically.
“Aaron, what’s wrong? You look . . . like death.”
“I’m not feeling particularly well,” he says.
“And I see you’re self-medicating.”
She walks over and puts her hand to his head, checking if he has a fever the way she does with their daughters. She hesitates for a moment and then says, “You feel normal.”
During his affair with Faith, Aaron always showered before returning home, and then worried whether the clean scent would be as incriminating as the sexual one he’d washed away. For a moment he has that same fear again, wondering if Cynthia can ascertain that he’s lying by the sweet floral smell that clings to him.
“Why don’t you just crawl into bed?” she continues. “I’ll join you in a few minutes. You’ll feel better tomorrow. I promise.”
Aaron nods that he’ll follow the doctor’s orders, but he knows she couldn’t be more wrong. Tomorrow will undoubtedly be the very worst day of his entire life.
18
Aaron feels like a man dressing for his own execution. Part of him wants to run. Run and never turn back. But he knows that the only thing he can do is go about his business as usual.
He puts on his favorite Brioni suit, a crisp white shirt, and a solid blue tie, and then heads out the door. Twenty minutes later, he steps into his office and sees Sam Rosenthal sitting there.
“What, are they painting the conference room?” Aaron asks.
Rosenthal doesn’t smile.
“Judge Nichols . . . her body was found last night in Central Park. She was murdered. It’s all over the news.”
The lawyer in him knows that he should stay quiet, but Aaron can’t help himself. “Sam . . . I saw her last night. In the park. I was trying to talk her out of staying on the case. Garkov must have someone following her . . . If he took pictures of Faith and me together . . .” Aaron shakes his head, as if he’s in disbelief.
“Sam, I didn’t kill her,” he says.
I didn’t do it. You have to believe me.
Aaron wouldn’t believe a client who told him the same story, and so he fully expects Rosenthal’s incredulity. But instead he sees in his mentor’s eyes that Rosenthal will not abandon him. And that is oddly even more comforting than being believed.
NICOLAI GARKOV LOOKS LIKE a man who has just won the lottery. Even he must know how unseemly it is to gloat over another person’s violent death, and yet here he is, grinning ear-to-ear before Aaron can even say hello.
Under other circumstances, Aaron would have brought Rachel to this meeting. But the last thing he wants is a witness to this discussion.
They are meeting in the same room on the third floor of the MCC where Garkov told Aaron not two days before that he would kill Faith Nichols—and maybe Aaron too—if she did not release him from this place. As he did then, Garkov is wearing the ill-fitting orange jumpsuit, and the guards who brought him in have left him constrained around the ankles but unlocked his handcuffs. Seemingly the only difference in today’s scene is the look of pure joy on Garkov’s face.
“I take it you’ve heard,” Aaron says.
“Yes. Good news travels fast,” Garkov says.
Aaron’s only response is an icy glare. “You do realize that you’re going to be the prime suspect in her murder?” he says.
“At first,” Garkov says with an unconcerned air. “But”—he looks around the room—“I do have a fairly strong alibi, don’t you think? Now, let’s talk about something that matters, like when I can get out of here.”
“It’s not that simple—although I know you know that,” Aaron says. “Everything is on hold until a new judge is appointed, and that’s not going to happen until after the funeral. Then I’ll make the bail application again. Be prepared for the fact that the new judge might well keep you here.”
“Well, what’s a few days in the grand scheme of things?” Garkov says. “And I suspect it is going to be that simple. I have every confidence that my next judge will see the wisdom behind house arrest, which apparently fell outside of Judge Nichols’s understanding.”
Aaron suspects that Garkov is correct. The next judge, being only human, will have severe concerns about ruling against Nicolai Garkov. Of course, Garkov could pull someone who is worthy of standing up to that challenge, but even if bail isn’t reinstated, there is little doubt that whoever presides over Garkov’s eventual trial will be more likely to acquit than Faith.
He also knows that another lawyer will be making that application. Now that he no longer has sway over the trial judge, Aaron Littman is superfluous to Nicolai Garkov’s defense.
MOST MARRIAGES HAVE THEIR demarcations. Like the equator, these are imaginary lines that take on navigational importance. Some you know going in—the wedding, the day your children are born—the things that forever change the way the world was before.
The night you tell your wife that you’ve been unfaithful and that your lover has been murdered—oh, and that you were the last person to see her alive—is certainly one of them.
Aaron wrestled all day with whether he should venture so far out on a limb with Cynthia. In addition to all the usual considerations that counsel against confessing infidelity to a spouse, he’d be creating evidence that could be used against him later by law enforcement. Spousal privilege would prevent Cynthia from testifying about the things he would share, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t still hurt him in other ways, like leading the police to admissible evidence that they might never have otherwise found.
But he pushed away such fears because he trusts Cynthia. He wants her to know that he might end up being a suspect in Faith’s murder, so she’ll know not to unwittingly say anything that might incriminate him.
At least, he thought it was a good strategy.
When he arrives at home, Cynthia is in the kitchen. Their housekeeper, Eunice, normally prepares dinner for the girls, and Aaron is usually wining and dining clients. But sometimes Cynthia likes to prepare dinner herself. She finds it relaxing, she says.
She’s wearing the yoga pants she favors as her at-home attire, and the blue hoodie Aaron bought her as a gift from the Ugg store near his office.
Cynthia is one of those women who looks her best without makeup, with her hair tousled and . . . wearing yoga pants and a blue hoodie. Aaron can’t help but consider the cruel irony that as he prepares to confess how unworthy he is of her love, she has never looked more beautiful to him.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” Cynthia says when she first sees Aaron in front of her in the kitchen. Cynthia’s pique from yesterday over the Garkov case has apparently been put aside. She seems sincerely happy that he’s here.
Aaron is trying to come up with some way to begin when Cynthia says, “I heard on the news about your judge. How terrible. Do they know who did it?”
“No. Not yet . . . Actually, I have no idea what they know. But . . . look, I have something to tell you and it’s important.”
Cynthia turns away from the stirring she’s engaged in at the stove. “Okay . . . ,” she says hesitantly.
He motions for her to sit down in their breakfast room. When she does, he takes a s
eat beside her. He wants to take her hand but knows that would be a mistake.
Despite Aaron’s grave setup, Cynthia looks impassive. Aaron wants to turn back, but it’s too late for that. All he can do now to limit the pain is come out with it quickly.
“I had an affair with the judge, Faith Nichols,” he says. “It’s been over since the Matthews trial ended, but that’s why Nicolai Garkov hired me. He wanted me to blackmail her to get an acquittal. And I saw her last night, to try to tell her . . .”
Aaron can now see the fear in his wife’s eyes, and although he had more he was going to say, he puts everything else aside and blurts out, “I didn’t kill her, Cynthia. I would never do such a thing.”
I didn’t do it. You have to believe me.
Cynthia’s face constricts, as if she’s just been struck. He can tell that she’s fighting back tears even as she processes how her life just went straight to hell.
Aaron’s silent now, bracing himself for the barrage of questions he’s sure is to follow: How many times? Was it ever in our bed? Did you wear a condom? What do you mean you saw her right before she was murdered?
But instead Cynthia asks something else. “Why . . . why are you telling me this now?”
“I . . . don’t know if I should even be telling you at all, to be honest.”
“You’re being honest?!” Cynthia shouts at him. “An honest man doesn’t fuck around!”
Aaron takes a deep breath. “You asked me why I was telling you now, and I was trying to answer.”
Cynthia shakes her head violently. “Okay, sure. Go right ahead.”
“I thought about telling you earlier, but I just thought that would hurt you for no reason. It was over, and the only rationale I could see for telling you was to make myself feel better . . . and that didn’t seem to be good enough a reason. I-I’m so sorry, Cynthia.”
“Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! I don’t want to hear that you’re sorry, Aaron. Sorry for what even? For having an affair or for telling me that you’re going to be arrested for killing her?”
