Losing Faith

by Adam Mitzner

  Neither of them says anything for a good ten seconds before Cynthia puts him out of his misery. “I can’t even look at you anymore, Aaron. Just get the hell out of my sight. Go to a hotel or something, and give me some time alone.”

  PART TWO

  19

  Judge Nichols’s murder is covered by the New York tabloids with the hyperbole for which they are famous. The Post plastered its front page with JUDGE MURDERED! while the Daily News went with JUSTICE DEAD. Under both headlines was Faith’s photograph, the official shot from the court’s website.

  The New York Times’s coverage was more muted, but the story still merited two columns on the front page before jumping to the obituary section. Though long on biographical details (reared in Greenwich, Connecticut, attended Miss Porter’s School before Smith College, then Yale Law School), the paper provided few details about the circumstances of Faith’s murder besides the fact that she was bludgeoned to death in Central Park, with an anonymous source claiming the murder weapon was a tree branch. The article mentioned she was currently presiding over the Nicolai Garkov case and that she’d revoked his bail only the day before her murder, then left it to the reader to connect the dots.

  In a sidebar story, the Times reported that Judge Nichols was only the fifth federal judge murdered since the Civil War. The deaths of two of the judges—John H. Wood of San Antonio and Richard J. Daronco of New York—were confirmed to have been in connection with their official capacity. Judge Wood was known as “Maximum John” for his tough sentences for drug traffickers and was shot in the back while leaving his home in May 1979. Charles Harrelson, the father of actor Woody Harrelson, was ultimately convicted and received two life sentences for the contract killing. A few years later, Judge Daronco was murdered by the father of a losing litigant. In 1989, Judge Robert Smith Vance of Atlanta was killed by a mail bomb, and while many speculated it was due to his refusal to overturn a conviction, that connection was never proven. The last federal judge murdered before Judge Nichols was John Roll of Arizona, who had the misfortune of being in the crowd on January 8, 2011, when a gunman opened fire, badly injuring U.S. congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords, as well as killing six others and wounding ­another twelve.

  Faith’s funeral is held the Monday morning after her death. It is a family-only event, the location itself a closely guarded secret.

  The following day is the public display, a memorial service at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. As much as Aaron would rather not go, his absence would be conspicuous, and so he has no choice but to join close to one thousand of his fellow members of the bar to pay his final respects.

  Despite the grim circumstances, the event has the feel of a bar association meeting. Nearly every member of the judiciary from the Southern District of New York and the Second Circuit Court of Appeals attends, and the city’s most prominent lawyers jockey for their attention. There was some buzz that the governor, and maybe even the vice president, would be on hand, but according to the program that’s given to Aaron when he enters the church, Edward Kheel, New York’s senior senator, and Faith’s benefactor for the Supreme Court, is the highest-ranking government official in attendance.

  Even in the best of circumstances, Aaron’s not a fan of any gathering of his fellow members of the bar, which is often little more than a mix of egotistical rantings and groveling for business, sometimes coming from the same person. Today’s chitchat is even more labored than usual. In the ten minutes since he’s arrived at Saint Pat’s, Aaron has had two conversations in which the factoid about Woody Harrelson cited in the Times was referenced, and in both cases the lawyer who shared the information acted as if this were highly confidential information.

  Aaron’s now cornered by Steven Schwartzfarb, a short, pudgy bald man who works at a small white-collar boutique law firm. He chats Aaron up whenever he can in the hope that Cromwell Altman will throw some conflict work his way, which Aaron has never done and never will.

  “I hear your man Garkov has a target on his back on this one,” Schwartzfarb says.

  Aaron offers a polite smile. He’s not going to discuss with Schwartzfarb of all people the possibility that Nicolai Garkov killed Judge Nichols, that’s for sure.

  “I’ll tell you one thing, this is definitely going to slow up the other prosecutions,” Schwartzfarb continues. “All of the U.S. Attorney’s Office resources are now going to be put toward finding who killed her. It’ll be like 9/11 all over again. Remember? They stopped prosecuting securities fraud and focused entirely on antiterrorism. We had to let two associates go back then because there just wasn’t enough work anymore.” Schwartzfarb shakes his head mournfully, as if the two fired associates are casualties of the attack as much as the nearly three thousand souls who were in the two towers that day. “I guess the silver lining is that Garkov is going to end up being a full-employment act for lawyers, right? They’re going to want to talk to everyone he ever spoke with. You got those guys lawyered up yet? Because, you know, I won’t have any conflicts and so if I can help in any way . . .”

  Aaron has tuned out even before Schwartzfarb’s ham-fisted request for work. Someone is approaching the podium.

  “It looks like the service is about to begin,” Aaron says. “I’m going to grab my seat. Good to see you again.”

  Sam Rosenthal is sitting two-thirds of the way back from the stage on the aisle. He moves over a seat when Aaron joins him.

  “How you holding up?” Rosenthal asks.

  Rosenthal and Aaron haven’t discussed Faith’s murder since that first time in the office. Rosenthal hasn’t even mentioned Nicolai Garkov, for that matter. Aaron is grateful for the respite, knowing it is likely the calm before the storm.

  Aaron looks about for a moment. He wants to be absolutely sure no one is eavesdropping.

  “I’ve been better,” he says.

  “I just finished chatting with your old buddy Fitz,” Rosenthal says.

  “And how is the good United States attorney?”

  “Wanting to be mayor.”

  “Yeah, right. President is more like it.”

  “The good news is that he’s focused on Garkov.”

  Aaron nods that this is indeed good news. There’s no need for him to say what they’re both undoubtedly thinking: that’s subject to change if they ever find out that Aaron was sleeping with Faith, not to mention that he was with her right before she was murdered.

  “Get this,” Rosenthal continues, “Fitz actually suggested that he might try the case himself.”

  Aaron smiles at the thought of it. “I don’t think he’s even seen the inside of a courtroom in the last decade.”

  Rosenthal laughs with him, but this moment of levity is interrupted when New York’s highest-ranking Catholic, Patrick Cardinal McKeowen, approaches the podium. He’s dressed in the traditional ceremonial garb, pointy hat and all. McKeowen welcomes the crowd and then segues seamlessly into an invocation of God’s awesome plan, which forever remains a mystery to those who are subject to it.

  After the cardinal reads a few benedictions, George Vanderlyn, the head of Faith’s old law firm, Windsor Taft, says that he knew Faith was destined for greatness from the first time he laid eyes on her, which makes Aaron recall that Faith referred to Vanderlyn as ­Vanderleer because of the way he always stared at her breasts.

  Judge Francis Petrocelli follows Vanderlyn to the podium. He tells the crowd that the entire judiciary has suffered a great loss, and then Senator Kheel tries to wax poetic, but it comes out sounding too much like a campaign speech.

  The final speaker is Faith’s husband, Stuart Christensen.

  When you’re sleeping with another man’s wife, you learn quite a bit about the cuckold as well. And so even though they’ve never met, Aaron feels as if he knows Stuart intimately. According to Faith, Stuart is smart, but not nearly as much as he thinks he is; he never wanted children, which Faith knew going in
but hadn’t realized that it was actually a manifestation of his narcissism, which, to her mind, made it less acceptable than had it been a life choice; and he was not very good in bed, which Faith also knew going in, but she changed her mind about its importance somewhere around the two-year mark.

  Nothing in the eulogy causes Aaron to doubt Faith’s assessment. Stuart seems a touch too happy to be there, and he goes on ten minutes too long, which reminds Aaron of a comment Faith once made—that her husband took too long to do everything except the one thing where she wanted him to last.

  When the service ends, as the others start a new round of glad-handing, Aaron tells Rosenthal that he’s going to head back to the firm.

  “Let’s work the room a little bit,” Rosenthal says. “We don’t have to stay long, but you should say hello to some people.”

  Rosenthal is already thinking about a defense, in the event one is needed. He’d like the people in this room to tell the FBI that Aaron was no more upset about Faith’s death than any other lawyer who attended the memorial service.

  The truth interferes with that strategy, however. Aaron simply cannot stay another moment in this room. He feels claustrophobic and fraudulent, pretending to be a professional acquaintance of a woman he knew far greater than that.

  “I just can’t, Sam. I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go.”

  Rosenthal’s nod releases him, and Aaron heads for the exit as fast as he can. He makes it only as far as the church steps, however. While his eyes are still adjusting to the bright sunlight, he hears his name.

  He stops and turns to see Clint Broden jogging to catch up to him. “Just the man I wanted to see,” Broden says when he finally catches up.

  A few years back, the American Lawyer ran a profile of Aaron and Broden under the headline of THE TITANS, referring to them as the two best white-collar criminal defense lawyers in the country. It had the compare-and-contrast you’d see in a high school English term paper, with everything from their family upbringings (Aaron being Jewish, Broden a Roman Catholic) to their pedigrees (Harvard College/Yale Law for Aaron, Saint John’s/Fordham Law for Broden) to their physical differences (Aaron at six foot two, Broden at five foot six) becoming a comment on how they approached their cases differently.

  “Hey there. What can I do for you, Clint?”

  “I met with Nicolai Garkov yesterday,” Broden says. “He wants to make a switch.”

  Aaron’s initial thought is that Garkov must have something on Broden. But Faith’s successor as the trial judge hasn’t been selected yet, so maybe Broden was picked on the merits.

  “Did he offer you a hundred grand for the initial consult, Clint?”

  Broden’s grin reveals he understands the reference. “Look, Aaron, we’re going to need to talk seriously about what’s going on here, but this obviously isn’t the time or place for that discussion.”

  That’s fine by Aaron, who’d like nothing more than to extricate himself from this encounter. “Well, you know where to find me,” Aaron says, and immediately starts his way down the stairs.

  He’s only taken a single step, however, when Broden says, “I almost forgot. Nicolai asked me to convey to you that he’s very sorry.”

  Aaron turns a quarter so he’s looking Broden in the eye, despite being a step below him. “I’ve been fired before, Clint. And, as Nicolai knows, I wasn’t very enthusiastic about taking the case in the first place.”

  “I apologize,” Broden says, not sounding at all contrite. “That was poorly phrased. I meant to say that he extends his sincere condolences for your loss.”

  20

  Kevin Lacey knows that coming up to Stuart Christensen at his wife’s memorial service isn’t the classiest thing in the world, but as an FBI agent with over twenty years in, he also knows that etiquette takes a backseat to having the element of surprise on your side. Lacey was debriefed by the cops who spoke with Stuart the night of the murder, but hearing it secondhand isn’t the same thing. Not by a long shot.

  The rest of the FBI have their money on Garkov as the judge’s killer, and Lacey has to admit that’s the safe bet. But, at least statistically speaking, about a third of the time women are murdered, a sexual partner committed the crime, and that means that Stuart Christensen deserves a good hard look too, even if he isn’t a terrorist.

  When the crowd thins to just a handful of people, Lacey approaches.

  “Mr. Nichols,” he says, even though he knows that’s not the man’s surname. An interrogator’s trick, to throw the suspect off balance.

  “It’s Christensen,” Stuart says quickly, and with a sharp edge.

  “My apologies, Mr. Christensen. My name is Kevin Lacey. I’m a special agent with the FBI.” Lacey nonchalantly slides his suit jacket open, exposing the badge on his belt. “I know that this couldn’t be a worse time for you, sir, but I was hoping that I could have a few minutes. I’ve secured a room so we can meet in private.”

  To Lacey, talking to a suspect is like going out on a first date: you know almost instantly how far they’ll let you go. His initial impression of Stuart Christensen is that he is not going to be easy. His body language—crossed arms, turned shoulders, indirect eye contact—is the triple crown of noncooperative verbal cues.

  Lacey knows that most people don’t like talking to the FBI, but he never got that Leave me alone feeling from a parent whose child was kidnapped. They wanted him beside them 24/7. And usually spouses were all too happy to talk Lacey’s ear off, throwing out the most mundane pieces of information in the hope that it would somehow crack the case wide open. But when loved ones weren’t so inclined? That told Lacey they had something to hide.

  “I’ve already spoken to the police,” Stuart says. “I told them everything I knew.”

  “I understand completely, Mr. Christensen, and I wouldn’t even ask if it wasn’t important. The first twenty-four hours of any investigation are the most critical, and in this case the NYPD did a lot of that work on account of the fact that the whole jurisdictional thing wasn’t ironed out until the morning after the murder. Unfortunately, that means the FBI’s had to play some catch-up here. Leads can get cold in a hurry, and I just want to make sure that we’re doing everything we can, which I know is what you want too. In this instance, doing everything we can means talking to you now, I’m afraid.”

  After the buildup Lacey just gave, if Stuart declines, he’s practically begging the FBI to take a hard look at him as a suspect. Nevertheless, Lacey has the distinct impression that Stuart is weighing his options.

  “Of course,” Stuart finally says. “I want to help in any way I can.”

  Lacey directs Stuart out of the sanctuary, and they walk through the hallway until they reach the part of the church that is used for Sunday school classes. They enter room 19, and Lacey motions for Stuart to have a seat.

  Lacey didn’t check out the classroom beforehand, and so it isn’t until he and Stuart are inside that he realizes the chairs are for very small children, kindergartners, maybe. When Stuart sits down in the tiny chair, he looks completely ridiculous.

  “My apologies,” Lacey says. “I asked to use one of the classrooms and they gave me this one.” He looks around and sees a full-sized chair behind the teacher’s desk in the other corner of the room. For a split second he considers wheeling it over for himself, but then thinks better of it for fear that the power imbalance will cause Stuart to shut down. The playbook is to put your suspect at ease in the hope that will make him open up, and if that doesn’t do the trick, then you scare the crap out of him.

  So Lacey pulls up another tiny chair and settles his six-foot body on top of it. It doesn’t break under his weight and actually isn’t as uncomfortable as he thought, and so whatever little sympathy he had for Stuart Christensen the moment before dissipates, which is good because now he can get down to business.

  “I’m really not permitted to comment
on the investigation,” Lacey says, “but, off the record, we don’t believe your wife was the victim of a random attack. I know the press is saying that the murder weapon was a tree branch grabbed in the heat of the moment, but one of the reasons that this is an FBI matter, and not being handled by the NYPD, is that the working theory is that your wife was killed in connection with her official duties. Here’s a little bit of trivia for you: When JFK was assassinated, there wasn’t a federal law making it a crime to kill the president. Had Lee Harvey Oswald been brought to trial, it would have been under Texas state law, and he would have been tried in a Texas state court. After the Kennedy assassination, the law changed so that the murder of a federal official—I mean everybody from the president down to a mailman—is a federal crime. But only if the murder occurs in connection with the victim’s official duties.”

  Lacey sees the subtlest trace of relief in Stuart’s face. One thing’s for sure: if Stuart Christensen did murder his wife, it had nothing to do with her role as a United States district court judge.

  “But like I said,” Lacey continues, “we’re early in the investigation, and we still have a lot of people to talk to. And I suppose that’s a perfect segue for me to ask you about the night of the murder. Why was your wife in the park?”

  Lacey knows the answer to this question, as well as most of the others he’s going to ask, from the download he got via the NYPD. But that doesn’t mean he’s not acutely interested in the response.

  “I already told the NYPD folks that I have no idea,” Stuart says. “In fact, that’s the question I keep asking myself. Faith told me she was going to the gym. It’s in the basement of our building and she works out most nights at eight, and gets done anywhere from one to two hours later. That night, after she told me she was going to the gym, I went into the bedroom to read and must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew, I got a call from the police telling me that they’d found Faith’s body in Central Park.”