by Adam Mitzner
And there is no better time to take that next step than after the prom.
Her mind flashes on the image of Aaron in formal wear, looking like James Bond, right down to holding a martini, shaken, not stirred. When she conjures herself standing beside him, she realizes that something new is called for, a dress that is going to blow Aaron Littman’s mind.
She types into her search engine Dolce & Gabbana. She could walk up Madison and actually shop in the company’s showroom, or better yet, travel the even shorter distance to Bergdorf’s or Barneys, but she’s still not ready to make that extra commitment to decadence—shopping in public during a workday.
A few screens in, she comes upon a silk chiffon in platinum, with two jeweled straps. It makes the model in the picture look like she has a chest, and Rachel figures she’s a cup size bigger, if not two, so the effect on her will be that much greater.
She has just completed inputting her credit card information when the phone rings. The caller ID says “Restricted Number.”
Rachel figures it’s most likely a snotty judicial clerk about to tell her that some filing she made last week has been bounced. She considers whether to let the call go to voice mail, but law clerks are often difficult to get on the phone, and so she answers.
“Rachel London.”
“Ms. London?”
She knows from the way he’s said her name that it’s not a clerk. The caller is a man, not a boy.
“Yes?”
“This is Special Agent Kevin Lacey of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
Rachel has at least ten clients who are currently subjects of ongoing FBI investigations, and she hasn’t a single clue as to which one this call is about. The FBI is notorious for putting people through the wringer and then not following up again for months, sometimes even years. She’s had clients who gave the FBI interviews and were contacted three, and once four, years later, always on the eve of the statute of limitations’ running out, and been told that the U.S. Attorney’s Office was about to indict.
“And which one of my very lucky clients are you calling about, Agent Lacey?”
“I’m afraid you’re the client on this one, Ms. London,” he says in a voice that’s too confident for Rachel’s liking. “I’m investigating the murder of Judge Faith Nichols, and I wanted to talk to you a little about that.”
There’s a standard operating procedure at Cromwell Altman for calls with the FBI: act friendly, get as much information as you can without giving up any, and when that effort has been exhausted, say that you need to discuss the issues with your client.
She’s never had a case without a client, however.
“I’m . . . not sure I understand,” she says to stall him. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think that the FBI is trying to encourage me to divulge attorney-client privileged information concerning Nicolai Garkov.”
“The FBI would never think of such a thing,” Lacey says in a tone that makes it difficult for Rachel to discern whether he’s being sarcastic. “I’m just making a very straightforward courtesy request for you to come down and speak with us, informally. If we ask you about something that you believe is privileged, you don’t have to answer. And I hate to have to resort to clichés about this, but, as I’m sure you understand, this is the easy way. The alternative is that we’ll issue a grand jury subpoena, in which case you’ll still have to speak with us, but it’ll be under oath and on the record.”
Just as Cromwell Altman has an SOP, so does law enforcement, and Lacey just followed it: first ask a witness to talk, but if the witness says no, compel the discussion with a subpoena.
Rachel expects Lacey to fill in a little more about what’s going on here. But instead he says, “We’re willing to offer you the full queen-for-a-day protection, Ms. London.”
This is the government’s carrot for cooperation. Whatever Rachel tells them during the meeting will not be used against her if the government later indicts her. It’s not the best protection in the world, but at least it’s something.
The fact that Lacey would even offer it is cause for concern, however. It tells Rachel that there might be some universe in which she’s at risk of prosecution.
That’s enough for her to decide it’s time to end the conversation.
“Well, Agent Lacey, I’m really going to need to discuss this issue with my partners, as well as with Mr. Garkov,” she says.
“Ms. London, while I appreciate you have client concerns, we’re on a very tight time frame. I can’t even say it’s on a fast track. It’s more like a rocket ship to the moon. So I don’t have much flexibility with regard to time. If I don’t hear back from you within the next twenty-four hours, you can expect a subpoena.”
“Can we make it forty-eight?”
“Wish I could, but I can’t.”
Christ. They were really taking a hard line on this.
AARON KNOWS IT’S RACHEL from the sound of her knock. She has a particular rhythm, although he’d be hard-pressed to repeat it exactly.
His first thought is that she wants to do a postmortem on last night, something that he’d just as soon avoid, if possible. It’s as close to an inviolate rule as there is: nothing good is ever accomplished by discussing a kiss.
When she walks in, however, Aaron can tell that she’s got something more important than that on her mind. She looks as if there’s been a death in her family.
Even before sitting down, Rachel says, “I think I need a lawyer.”
Damn. It’s even worse than he thought a moment ago.
“Let me guess,” he says, trying mightily to maintain a lighthearted tone. “An FBI special agent named Kevin Lacey just called you.”
She looks like she could be knocked over with a feather. “Yeah, how’d you know?”
“You’re not the only one on his call list. I just spoke with him too.”
Aaron held out some flicker of hope that Lacey was asking him to meet to have Aaron formally assert the attorney-client privilege on Garkov’s behalf. But there’s no reason for the FBI to have two lawyers do it. That they’ve reached out to Rachel can only mean one thing: the FBI has Aaron in its sights.
And therefore he needs to be extremely careful. The FBI will question Rachel at length about this conversation, so his next words should be as self-serving as possible.
“No reason to look so glum, Rachel. Garkov must have shut them down, and so they’re trying to get something on him by going through us.”
Even to himself, this sounds like whistling past the graveyard. Aaron is reasonably sure that Rachel has already reached the same conclusion he has, that this isn’t about Garkov at all.
“Well, I’m glad that if I’m going to jail, you’ll be there to keep me company,” she says with a nervous laugh.
Although Aaron’s thankful for the levity, he’d just as soon not be making jokes that could be misconstrued. “So . . . what did you tell the very special agent?” he asks.
“That I was concerned about the attorney-client privilege and needed to speak with you. He told me that if he didn’t hear from me in twenty-four hours, I’d be getting a subpoena. I tried to push back, but he wasn’t having it.”
“That doesn’t give us much time, now, does it? Let me talk to Sam about how to handle this. Until then, don’t talk to anyone about this.”
AS SOON AS RACHEL leaves, Aaron walks into Sam Rosenthal’s office. He assumes he looks every bit as nervous as Rachel did a few moments ago.
“Sam, I just got a call from the FBI. They want me to come in on Judge Nichols’s murder. They called Rachel too.”
Rosenthal is stoic. Lawyer 101—never let your client think that you’re worried.
“Does Rachel know anything that can hurt you?” he asks.
“No.”
“Are you sure? She saw a lot of you and Judge Nichols together.”
&n
bsp; “In court, Sam. She saw us together in court. But, to answer your question, how can I be sure? I didn’t think you knew.”
Rosenthal sighs, as if mentally stepping back, and then says, “It’s probably a safe bet that the U.S. Attorney’s Office already knows about the affair anyway. That must be why you’re getting this attention. Unfortunately, that also means we need to go outside the firm for Rachel’s representation. You know that they’re going to scream conflict of interest if I show up representing you and her, and I don’t think that’s something we want to litigate.”
Aaron feels like a weight has come off his shoulders. As long as Rosenthal’s in his corner, he feels safe.
“Thank you, Sam.”
“For what?”
“For agreeing to represent me?”
Rosenthal laughs, as if the mere thought of his not doing so would be absurd. “Of course, Aaron. I’m with you. Always. Never forget that.”
Aaron nods. “Richard Leeds,” he says. “For Rachel.”
Leeds was the firm’s usual go-to conflict counsel. He didn’t work at Cromwell Altman in the technical sense that his paycheck didn’t come from the firm, but he relied on Aaron, and lawyers beholden to Aaron, for most of his clients. Which meant that Leeds would do everything within his power to make sure that nothing Rachel told the U.S. Attorney’s Office would hurt Aaron or Cromwell Altman.
“Okay,” Rosenthal says, “I’ll reach out to Fitz and see what I can get out of him about the way this is breaking. Then I’ll tell Leeds that he’s our guy for Rachel.”
One last issue remained: the FBI’s request to speak to Aaron.
“You know you can’t go in, right?” Rosenthal finally says.
“I realize the problems that would arise as a result, yes.”
They’re both experienced enough that those difficulties do not need to be articulated. In any interview, Aaron would be asked about his relationship with Judge Nichols, and if he answered truthfully, he’d be serving up his motive on a silver platter.
Worse still, if he told them that he met Faith in the park on the night she was killed, they’d likely arrest him on the spot.
28
That night, Aaron goes home. It’s been less than a week since Cynthia told him to get out, when he confessed his affair with Faith. He’s been away from home for much longer periods of time, of course. His record is four months—this was about seven or eight years ago, when he tried a case in Albuquerque.
It feels different this time, however. He’s unwelcome.
He called earlier to ask Cynthia if he could come by, explaining that he had something he needed to discuss with her face-to-face. She was cool on the phone, but she didn’t make him beg, at least. Nevertheless, he knows his wife well enough that he has no doubt she’s still furious, and he has every reason to believe that she’s only going to be even angrier when she hears why he’s there.
He enters the apartment and calls out her name. “I’m in the living room,” she says.
Cynthia is sitting in one of the matching leather chairs, which Aaron knows is her favorite spot in the apartment. Diana Krall is playing on the stereo, a Cynthia favorite, and there’s a glass of red wine on the table beside her.
She’s still in her work clothes, a pair of gray slacks and a black silk blouse. She looks good, he thinks. Almost disconcertingly so, as if his absence has been a boon to her.
Cynthia must see Aaron spying the wine, or else she realizes that she’s the host in this situation. “Do you want something to drink?” she asks. “There’s a bottle of Chianti already open.”
“No, thank you.” He looks past the living room, down the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. “Are the girls home?”
Cynthia shakes her head. “Lindsay’s at rehearsal and Sam had a yearbook meeting. Lindsay called and asked if they could go to Starbucks with some friends afterward.”
“Have the girls said anything? About my absence, I mean.”
“I told them that you were traveling.”
Aaron nods. “How have you been, Cyn?”
“Me? Oh, I’m just peachy.” She looks even angrier than her words, which is a tough feat. “You’re still wearing your wedding band, so I’m assuming that you’re not here to ask me for a divorce.”
Aaron instinctively looks down at his ring finger. It hasn’t even occurred to him to remove the platinum band. He quickly eyes Cynthia’s hand. She, too, is wearing the symbol of their union.
He decides it will be best if he just gets to the point. “I got a call from someone at the FBI. I think they might know that I was with her that night.”
Cynthia’s previous posture as furious wife has vanished. The blood drains from her face and she slumps back in her chair.
“On second thought, maybe I am going to have a drink,” Aaron says.
He walks over to the kitchen, and like he did the night Faith was killed, he pulls out a bottle of scotch and a tumbler. After pouring himself a generous amount, he takes it over to the chair opposite Cynthia.
Aaron takes a long, slow swallow. “I’ve asked Sam Rosenthal to represent me in all this, but I think it’s important that I move back home. I don’t want there to be a record of my staying at the hotel because—”
“Yes, of course. Because you want us to look happy. Have to keep up appearances,” Cynthia says with a tight-lipped smile.
“Yeah . . . So is it okay if I come back home?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Please, Cynthia. We don’t have to share a bed or anything like that. I know how angry you are, and believe me, I know it’s totally justified, but there are things going on besides you and me here. Do you really want to see me in jail over this?”
“So I take it that the answer to my question is no. If I don’t want my children’s father in jail for murder, I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”
“I guess not.”
“Then welcome home, Aaron.”
“Thank you,” he says with some relief.
Cynthia isn’t going to be so easily placated, however. “Oh no, thank you, Aaron.”
There’s no reason to prolong this, and so Aaron quickly says, “I’m going to go back to the hotel and get my things. I’ll be back in about an hour.”
Cynthia isn’t finished with him yet. “Just one more thing, Aaron. I don’t want to see you moping around here about her. Not for a second. If you’re going to live in this house, you’re going to understand that her murder wasn’t a tragedy. If anything, it averted a tragedy. Just remember that.”
AARON RETURNS A LITTLE more than an hour later. His daughters are now home.
He visits them in the order they are usually dealt with—Lindsay and Samantha. Hardly ever Samantha and Lindsay. Perhaps that’s because Lindsay is the eldest, albeit by twenty-two minutes. But it’s also because she demands the attention, being the much more aggressive of the two. The one more like him, Aaron thinks.
Although she matches her father more in temperament, Lindsay is the spitting image of her mother. The same sparkling emerald eyes and radiant smile. He catches himself almost every time he sees her, remembering Cynthia the first time he looked in her direction.
“So, what’s going on?” he says.
“Oh, hey, Dad. NM.”
“ ‘NM’?”
“Not much.”
“Has speech become so labored for you that you need to abbreviate not much?”
“Mhm,” Lindsay says, but this time with a smile.
“I haven’t chatted with you in a while. Catch me up.”
Lindsay doesn’t look up at him, but instead focuses intently on her iPhone, tapping away at the keys.
“Nothing to say,” she says, still tapping.
“How’s the play going? All good there?”
“Mhm.”
Aaron laughs
to himself, as he’s sure that Lindsay finds nothing odd about this exchange. “Okay, then. I’m going to see if your sister is as scintillating a conversationalist as you.”
He finds Samantha in a similar pose as her sister—lying on her stomach in bed, except instead of staring at her phone, Samantha is looking at her laptop screen. Unlike Lindsay, who possesses more of a classic beauty, there’s something exotic about Samantha’s looks. Aaron imagines that even now, the boys think Sam’s the sexy one of the Littman girls, which might account for why she’s had no fewer than six “serious” boyfriends over the past two years.
“Hold on,” Samantha says the moment Aaron steps toward her. “Hey, Dad. How was your trip?”
Aaron falters, momentarily forgetting that Cynthia had told the girls he was traveling, but then he says, “Good. Glad to be back home.”
“I’m talking to Jason,” she says.
“Jason, huh. How about taking a minute away from Jason to talk to me? I won’t be too long. I promise.”
She doesn’t agree, but instead turns back to the computer screen, which must be where Jason exists. “I gotta go. Later.” Then she closes the laptop. “What?” she says.
“Nothing,” Aaron says. “I just haven’t seen you in a few days. Tell me . . . I don’t know, tell me anything.”
Samantha is more of a caregiver than Lindsay, and so it doesn’t surprise Aaron that she’s going to give him what he wants—some attention. He doesn’t know if that quality is going to make Samantha happier later in life, but he’s confident it will at least make Samantha’s life partner happier than Lindsay’s.
“Let’s see . . . ,” Samantha says. “So, Jason got mad at me today because I told him that I didn’t think his presentation in English was very good because . . . it really wasn’t. And he was telling me that I need to support everything he does and tell him it’s great, even if I think it’s crap, and so I told him that I thought that was crap, and just because we’re, you know, boyfriend-girlfriend doesn’t mean that I’ve had a lobotomy and can’t tell the difference between an insightful presentation about The Stranger and one that makes it seem as if he didn’t even read the book.”
