by Adam Mitzner
Rachel feels good being out of her work clothes. For tonight, she’s opted for her favorite little black dress and three-inch Manolo Blahniks that a dominatrix might wear.
When she arrives, the hostess, a stick-skinny Asian woman with hair almost to her waist, tells Rachel that Aaron has already been seated. She follows the hostess upstairs, where she sees Aaron occupying a table against the window.
Aaron stands when she approaches, a gesture Rachel’s always enjoyed. Very few of her dates do that.
The table is for four, and after a moment’s hesitation, Rachel takes the seat next to Aaron, rather than across. Aaron signals for the waiter to come over and quickly orders a bottle of wine. When she takes the first sip, Rachel assumes the wine must be very expensive by virtue of the fact that it tastes so good.
Rachel mentions the news of the day, which is that Judge Koletsky reversed the bail decision, and Garkov is back under house arrest in Trump Tower. “Not quite a profile in courage,” she says.
“Probably the right decision,” Aaron says with a shrug. “Anyway, not our problem anymore, right?”
Rachel raises her wineglass. “To it not being our problem,” she says, touching her glass against Aaron’s.
The waiter is very attentive, refilling their glasses so often that the first bottle is finished before the entrées arrive. Aaron orders a second bottle, although Rachel is already beginning to feel a buzz taking hold.
“So, the COC tomorrow?” Rachel says. “What’s on the agenda—world domination?”
“Besides me being handed my ass over Garkov? Something even more serious.” He waits a beat. “The prom.”
The derisive reference is to the annual Cromwell Altman black-tie gala, held every spring.
She laughs. “Will Cynthia be coming?” Aaron’s smile drops, and Rachel realizes that she must have inadvertently touched a nerve. “I’m sorry, Aaron. Did I say something wrong?”
“No. No.” Aaron’s eyes circle the room, as if he’s looking for the right words. “Cynthia and I . . . I’m staying at the Pierre for a few days while Cynthia and I give each other a little breathing room.”
The news sends a jolt through Rachel. She’s actually out on a romantic evening with a single Aaron Littman, or at least a separated Aaron Littman.
“I’m sorry, Aaron,” she says, hoping it sounds sincere. “When did this happen?”
“Just a few days ago. This too shall pass,” Aaron says with a taut smile.
As if the wine has taken over her judgment, Rachel places her hand on top of Aaron’s and gently massages his thumb with her own. At the moment where things might escalate further, Aaron slides his hand away.
“What’s going on in your life, Rachel?” Aaron asks. “Are you taking anyone to the prom?”
Rachel hesitates, wondering if she should say what she’s thinking. But that rarely works in such settings, and so she plays along as if the last thirty seconds never transpired.
“God, no,” she says. “Nobody in my life at the moment.”
“I thought you were seeing that foreign banker guy. Paolo? Giovanni?”
“Alessandro,” Rachel says.
“Right. So what happened there?”
“What always happens,” she says. “One of us wanted more, and I didn’t.”
They don’t finish the second bottle, but Rachel’s still drunker than she’s been in a while and in need of some air, and so when the waiter asks if they’d like any dessert, she suggests that it’s time to go. Once outside, Aaron offers to hail Rachel a cab, but she doesn’t want the evening to end, and she proposes to walk with Aaron the few blocks to the Pierre. As soon as she says it, she worries that she’s being obvious, but Aaron doesn’t protest, and they begin south down Lexington Avenue.
Three doormen stand in front of the Pierre, getting taxis for the guests. “Welcome back,” one of them says to Aaron.
“This is me,” Aaron says to Rachel. “Home sweet home.” He motions to the first cab lined up in front of the hotel. “Your chariot, my lady.”
The Manolos make it easier for Rachel to kiss Aaron on the lips. It lasts a second, maybe even two, before the seal is broken.
“Good night, Rachel,” he says when they separate.
She hesitates for a moment, searching his face for a sign of whether he’s playing hard to get or he means to end the evening like this. She so hoped that things would take a very different turn, but the look in Aaron’s eyes leaves little room for doubt that, at least tonight, he’s not ready for things between them to escalate beyond that one kiss.
FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS A night at the Pierre gets you a king-size bed, an armoire that hides a forty-two-inch flat-screen, and a marble bathroom. The first few nights, Aaron was pleased to come back to this place. He knew all too well the contempt and disappointment that would have awaited him with Cynthia, and so he considered it something of a gift to be alone. A vacation from his life, from his mistakes.
Rachel’s clumsy advance only crystallizes to him how much he loves his wife and how lonely he is without his family. He wants nothing more than to go back in time and not slide over that empty chair to chat with Faith. Then why did he in the first place? Because he could? Out of boredom? For the sheer thrill of it? How could any of those motivations have carried the day, especially when the danger was so great?
The answer, sadly, is the age-old one. He thought he could do both. That he could enjoy his time with Faith without risk to his family.
How wrong he was.
24
The Committee on Committees meeting begins promptly at 7:30 a.m., in the conference room between Aaron’s and Rosenthal’s offices. As is the case whenever the COC meets, there is no written agenda and no one is permitted to take notes.
The committee’s seven members are charged with everything from approving firm expenditures to setting the compensation for the partners. The heads of the firm’s five departments—litigation, corporate, tax, antitrust, and real estate—are members, as well as one partner at large, selected every two years by the chairman. Sam Rosenthal has an ex officio position as the former chairman of the firm.
Although the seating is not assigned, it never varies. Aaron is at the head of the table and Rosenthal across from him, which lends the meeting an air that they are the parents at a family dinner. Donald Pierce is stationed between Gregg Goldman and Jane Cleary on one side of the table, with Elliot Dalton and Abby Sloane across from them.
Abby Sloane is Aaron’s own addition to the COC, and so he assumes her support for his continued leadership is a given. Not only because she owes Aaron her seat at the table, but because she owes him her partnership as well. A few years back, when she was an associate, she was involved in a somewhat messy sexual-harassment issue that ended with the ouster of the partner she worked with and her subsequent elevation at Cromwell Altman. Abby knows that it could have easily gone the other way, and might have but for Aaron’s backing.
Goldman is head of the tax group and Cleary leads real estate, which puts both of them outside of Aaron’s direct sphere of influence. Aaron had always assumed that they both saw through Pierce’s act, but if Pierce’s threat of having a fourth vote is true, and Aaron can count on Abby’s support, that means both Goldman and Cleary have gone over to the dark side and are now in league with Pierce.
That leaves Dalton. Antitrust lawyers tend to be cerebral types, and Elliot Dalton certainly looks the part of the absentminded professor, with his half reading glasses perched atop his nose and the white tufts of hair that dust his scalp. What makes Dalton truly a wild card, however, is that unlike virtually every other Cromwell Altman partner, he doesn’t outwardly appear to have any greater ambition than what he’s already achieved. And that means Dalton can be counted on to vote for what he thinks is best for the firm.
Aaron calls the meeting to order and then asks Dalton to remind
everyone about the prom. Dalton does not look amused by the reference to its colloquial name.
“Well, the annual Cromwell Altman Spring Gala,” he says, “will take place at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The cocktail reception is going to be in the same gallery as the Temple of Dendur, which is commonly called the Egyptian Room. Dinner will be in the main hall. Attendees will be able to roam the museum, at least on the first floor. Of course, that requires covering the costs of about twenty guards and a hell of a lot of insurance.”
“Can I ask what this little soiree is going to run us?” Goldman asks.
“Ballpark, about a million, maybe a little bit more,” Dalton says. “But, I remind you all, my marching orders were for this to be a true event, and it will most definitely be that. To that end, we expect a full turnout from the partners, and at least a fifty percent turnout from the associates. Please get the word out and do whatever you can to strong-arm your people to show up.”
The prom issue now put to rest, the COC’s next order of business is actual business. Aaron distributes the firm’s monthly financials, which include several top-ten lists identifying clients in various categories: amount paid to date; hours billed; WIP, the abbreviation for work in progress; and firm investment, which identifies the clients with the highest unpaid bills. Although the order sometimes varies, the same ten clients appear on nearly every list.
The final page has the heading “Unapplied Retainers.” Below it are nine of the names that appear on the other lists. The one exception occupies the top spot: Nicolai Garkov, who, according to this document, placed two million on retainer, of which $150,000 has been billed to date.
“How did the Garkov bill get to a hundred and fifty thousand dollars?” Cleary asks. “Didn’t we just take that on a few days ago?”
“There was an up-front bonus of a hundred thousand dollars,” Aaron says. “We only have fifty thousand dollars in the matter—”
Aaron is about to explain that they wouldn’t be billing any time in the future, when Pierce interrupts. “I want to be on record that I expressed to Aaron my very vehement opposition to the firm taking on this client. Putting aside the moral aspect of representing a terrorist, this client will cost the corporate department dearly. I’m only sorry that I wasn’t prescient enough to realize it was going to hurt the entire firm. I’ve already heard from headhunters that their phones are ringing off the hook from associates looking to jump ship, now that Cromwell Altman is the law firm of choice for judge killers.”
Rosenthal is quick to answer. “Then I propose that going forward we only represent the most virtuous companies and individuals. Anyone who has legal problems of any kind is simply not welcome as a client of this morally superior law firm.”
This elicits some laughter, although Aaron notices that Pierce does not seem amused. Goldman and Cleary aren’t either, for that matter, but at least Abby and Dalton crack a smile.
Aaron decides it will be best to just get the bad news over with as quickly as possible. “There’s no reason for this to take up any more of the committee’s time. We’re not going to continue in the Garkov representation. I spoke with Clint Broden yesterday, and he’s coming in for us.”
The bombshell disclosure only seems to embolden Pierce. “Wait. So, let me get this straight then,” he says. “We lost ten million, maybe twenty million, in business and perhaps some of our best young lawyers over a less-than-two-hundred-thousand-dollar matter? Do I have that right, Aaron?”
“We haven’t lost anything,” Aaron says sharply. “The associates aren’t going to leave, not with what we pay them, and we earned a hundred and fifty thousand dollars for a few hours’ work. I fail to see what the problem is.”
“I’ll tell you the problem, Aaron. Craig Sinoway of Globe Tech told me point-blank that he’s going to pull his corporate work—that’s twenty million dollars annually—because of Garkov. That’s the goddamn problem, Aaron.”
“Isn’t that convenient, Don,” Aaron replies. “Blame me when you lose a client. You don’t think the fact that you royally screwed up their secondary offering has anything to do with the loss of business?”
Aaron and Pierce are staring daggers at each other when Dalton chimes in. “That’s uncalled-for, Aaron. Donald is making a valid point. No partner should take on a matter that’s going to be a net loser for the firm. That’s just common sense.”
Across the table, Rosenthal and Aaron share a silent moment. They both now know that Elliot Dalton is Pierce’s fourth vote.
25
Of all the time-wasting things that Agent Kevin Lacey could imagine, questioning Nicolai Garkov about the murder of Faith Nichols ranks near the top. There is no way a guy like Garkov, sitting next to a lawyer like Clint Broden, is going to give anything up.
When Aaron Littman was representing Garkov, he at least had the decency to tell Lacey no thanks over the phone, but the day after the memorial service, Lacey got a call from Clint Broden, who said he was in as Garkov’s new counsel, and that he wanted a face-to-face. And when the prime suspect to a murder wants to talk, you drop everything to hear what he has to say, even when you know that it’s likely going to be little more than a chain yanking.
The fact that the FBI has to go to Garkov—and at Trump Tower, no less—just makes it that much more distasteful. But the main reason Lacey is annoyed this morning has nothing to do with the venue or the task at hand, but with the fact that Tim Walker is coming along for the ride. Walker is the agent in charge of the original Garkov case, the money-laundering and obstruction indictments that landed Garkov on trial in front of Judge Nichols in the first place, and Walker is still trying mightily to transform those into a conspiracy to commit murder. If Garkov went down because of Judge Nichols rather than the American students in Red Square, the job would be considered just as well done.
The problem is that Lacey thinks Walker is a pompous ass, and not nearly as good an agent as everybody says. Worse still, Lacey has it on good authority that Walker thinks the exact same thing about him.
“I can’t believe this asshole is back to living here,” Walker says as they take the elevator to Garkov’s apartment within Trump Tower.
“I guess Judge Koletsky didn’t want to end up facedown in Central Park,” Lacey responds.
Upon entering Garkov’s apartment, they’re greeted by Clint Broden, who looks as if he’s about to give an opening argument, attired in a dark, finely tailored suit; bright tie; and gold cuff links in the actual shape of dollar signs. By contrast, Lacey and Walker are wearing jeans and sweatshirts. They dress for court only when they’re going to court.
“Mr. Broden,” Lacey says, “I’m Special Agent Kevin Lacey and this is my colleague Special Agent Timothy Walker.”
“Welcome, gentlemen,” Broden says. “Come in. Mr. Garkov is waiting.”
Lacey has the feel of being at the circus, staring up at this giant approaching them. Garkov is also dressed to kill, although in his case that means a red velvet smoking jacket.
They all take seats in the living room. Lacey and Walker sit on the ends of a long sofa, while Broden and Garkov are side by side on the couch opposite them. The giant lion’s-head fireplace breathes flame.
“Mr. Garkov, thank you for meeting with us,” Lacey says. “As I’m sure your counsel has told you, we’re investigating the murder of Judge Faith Nichols. We’d like to ask you some questions.”
Garkov nods but doesn’t give any other assent. Even so, it’s enough for Lacey to continue.
“Look, there’s no big state secret here, Mr. Garkov. You should be aware that we’re looking hard at you on this one. Obviously, your reputation precedes you, but the timing of her murder—a day after Judge Nichols revokes your bail—also doesn’t look too good for you. So before we get our feet stuck in the cement that you’re our guy, we figured we’d give you the opportunity to tell us otherwise.”
Gark
ov doesn’t look the slightest bit intimidated. “Well, I guess you have me, it seems,” he says in a slow voice. “You’ve figured it all out. I confess. I was so upset at being put in prison that on my second night there, I simply walked out the front gate, hailed a cab, and luckily for me, the driver did not think anything of picking up a seven-foot-tall man wearing an orange prison jumpsuit, nor did he mind that I didn’t have any money to pay him, and he took me straight from the correctional facility to Central Park. I knew that Judge Nichols would be there, because . . . well, it should be obvious, she confided in me her every movement. Then I killed her, of course, because she revoked my bail. Afterward, I left the park. Now, as luck would have it, the same cabdriver was nice enough to wait for me. He took me back to prison, where I reentered through the front door. So . . . you got me! Good work, Agent Lacey.”
Garkov bellows laughter, and Broden joins in.
Walker rolls his eyes at Lacey, making it clear that he views this as Garkov’s idea of a joke, jerking the FBI around.
“You’re going to have to do better than that, Nicolai,” Walker says, the anger evident in his voice. “All it would take is for you to have someone on the outside who’s following her. He watches her leave her home, follows her to the park, and cracks her skull.”
Lacey chimes in. “Yeah. It’s not the most intricate murder scheme of all time. And let’s not kid ourselves: there’s only one person who avoids life in prison if she’s dead. And I’m looking right at him.” Lacey’s stare says the time for fun and games is now over. “So let’s start again, with some feeling this time, shall we?”
“Hold on. My client is not going to say anything further at this meeting,” Broden says.
“Then why did you make us haul our asses up here?” Walker asks.
