by Adam Mitzner
“That’s also not uncommon. A taxi from the office to my apartment is probably six or seven dollars. I don’t mean to be cavalier about it, and when I remember to ask for a receipt, I will sometimes seek reimbursement, but given that I’m charging the client fifteen hundred dollars an hour for my time, I don’t feel like I have to get reimbursed every time I spend a couple of dollars out of my own pocket.”
Donnelly comes to a full stop. Like an athlete psyching herself up, she appears to be preparing for a final onslaught.
Aaron knows that means she’s going to question him about the 9:48 phone call to his office. Her smoking gun.
“Mr. Littman, you claim you never spoke to Judge Nichols on the night she was murdered, but you admit, do you not, that there was a call made from Judge Nichols’s phone to your office at 9:48 p.m. on the evening she was killed.”
“I have seen the records that indicate that, yes.”
Aaron can hear in his voice the defensiveness that juries hate. Of greater concern is the fact that he knows it’s about to get worse.
“Mr. Littman, you are not suggesting, are you, that the phone company is also lying?”
“No.”
“So, Judge Faith Nichols—a judge before whom you were defense counsel—called you from her personal cell phone at nearly ten o’clock at night.”
As damaging as the statement is, it’s not a question, and so Aaron stays mute.
“Mr. Littman, correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you testify that you were in the office that night? Your story is that you and Ms. London were side by side all night. But you also admit that maybe . . . just maybe . . . you left her side for . . . I don’t know . . . three minutes and three seconds here and there. Enough time for you to be in your office to be on that phone call.”
Having put forth this lie, Aaron has no choice but to perpetuate it. “I was in the office at that time, yes.”
“And yet you still deny that you spoke to Judge Nichols at 9:48 p.m.?”
“I didn’t speak to her,” he says.
He might as well have said, You have to believe me.
AFTER AARON’S EXCUSED FROM the witness box, the defense rests. Judge Siskind tells the jury that she wants to complete closing arguments that evening and that they can begin their deliberations the following morning. She declares a ten-minute recess so the lawyers can gather their thoughts, and everyone stands as the jury makes their way out of the courtroom.
Rosenthal is upbeat, telling Aaron that he did well. Aaron, however, could feel it all slipping away when he couldn’t explain that last phone call.
60
Donnelly’s closing argument seems overly strident to Aaron, but it’s not uncommon for defendants to feel that way. Hearing someone accuse you of committing an unthinkable act often sounds desperate to you but compelling to a jury.
Even Aaron has to admit, however, that the evidence against him is compelling. The affair is proven by the Ritz-Carlton records and the eyewitnesses. The blackmail by Nicolai Garkov. And the 9:48 call puts Aaron in contact with Judge Nichols right before she was killed.
“And what does the defense say in rebuttal?” Donnelly asks rhetorically. “That none of it is true. No affair. No blackmail. And that the call was made by someone else, someone trying to frame Mr. Littman, perhaps.” At this Donnelly pauses, as if she’s just thought of something, despite the fact that lawyers practice their closings for hours and almost never ad-lib. “But if there was no affair, as Mr. Littman and his wife claim, how would anyone know to call Mr. Littman to frame him?” Then she just shakes her head. “The defense makes no sense. None. The only reasonable conclusion consistent with the evidence is that Aaron Littman murdered his lover, Faith Nichols, so that Nicolai Garkov would not reveal that Mr. Littman and Judge Nichols were having an affair—news that would have destroyed the defendant’s marriage and his career.”
Rosenthal’s closing pokes holes in what the prosecution presented. As Aaron listens to Rosenthal do the best with what he has, he knows that the defense has not provided an alternative murderer for the jury to consider, which means that he’s asking them to reach a verdict in which no one will be held accountable for Faith Nichols’s murder.
At six o’clock, Judge Siskind completes her jury instructions. The jurors assemble out of the courtroom without making eye contact with Aaron, but he tells himself not to read anything into that and takes comfort in the fact that the trial is finally over.
All except the verdict, that is.
AARON ENTERS HIS HOME that evening with only one thought in mind: this might be the last night he ever spends here. The sad realization hits him that this will be the case every time he comes home until there’s a verdict.
Aaron and Cynthia make love for the third night in a row. Like coming home, he wonders if this, too, will be the last time.
WHEN ERIC MATTHEWS WAS sentenced, Faith read her decision from the bench, going on for ten minutes about the seriousness of the crime and how a message had to be sent to both Wall Street and Main Street that financial fraud was every bit as destructive to the fabric of society as violent crime. When she finally uttered the payoff line—“I sentence you to fourteen years in prison”—Matthews didn’t show the slightest emotion. He didn’t even turn around when his wife let out a bloodcurdling shriek.
After Faith struck the gavel, while the guards were grabbing Matthews’s arms to handcuff him, he turned to Aaron and said, “What happened?”
“She sentenced you to fourteen years,” Aaron replied. “We have strong arguments on appeal—”
“No. What did she say about me?”
Eric Matthews wasn’t even the worst Aaron had ever experienced. Robert Fox, who was at one time considered the most feared man on Wall Street, literally pissed himself when he was sentenced to eight years. And back in the day, when the sentencing guidelines were mandatory, Aaron had two clients commit suicide before sentencing.
Now it’s his turn. Above all else, Aaron’s determined to preserve some modicum of dignity if the worst is to occur.
CYNTHIA AND THE GIRLS are present in the courtroom to wait for the verdict. Aaron wanted to spare them, but Cynthia prevailed upon him that it was important for them to share the experience. Besides, she said, nothing was going to keep her out of the courtroom, and Lindsay and Samantha would be anxiously waiting wherever they were, and she preferred them all to be together.
Midmorning on the second day of deliberations, the jury delivers a note that they’ve reached a verdict. That most likely means that someone switched sides overnight, as juries usually vote before adjourning for the evening.
“It’s a good sign,” Rosenthal says.
Aaron knows this is just something lawyers tell their clients to keep them from jumping out of their skin as they wait. He’s said it to many a client himself, even as he knew that there is no way of knowing if the switch was from guilty to not guilty or the other way around. Or even if there was a switch at all. It’s also quite possible the jury reached a verdict last night and decided to sleep on it, just to make sure no one wanted to change their vote.
Aaron purposefully doesn’t make eye contact with any of the twelve jurors as they enter the courtroom. There’s no reason to be lulled into thinking that a smile is a vote for acquittal.
It’ll be over soon. Less than two minutes.
He imagines he could hold his breath for that long, and a part of him feels like he’s doing just that. When everyone is in their place, Judge Siskind strikes her gavel to quiet the gallery.
The silence only adds to the grimness Aaron feels. He turns around to see Cynthia and the twins huddled together, as if they’re freezing and sharing bodily warmth.
“Will the defendant please rise?” Judge Siskind says.
Aaron and Rosenthal stand as one. Rosenthal takes Aaron’s hand in his and gives it a squeeze. Aaron suspects he means to c
onvey that they’re in this together, and yet Aaron has never felt more alone.
“Madame Foreperson, please read the jury’s unanimous verdict,” Judge Siskind says.
A gray-haired African-American woman stands. She has reading glasses perched on her nose and is holding a piece of paper at arm’s length, as if she hasn’t memorized the verdict she’s about to deliver.
Aaron finally looks at the faces of the twelve jurors. None of them look in his direction. Not one.
He shuts his eyes, trying to tune out all sensory experiences. His complete and total focus is on whether he’s going to hear the word not.
The foreperson reads in a monotone: “We, the members of the jury, for our unanimous verdict, hereby declare, on the sole count of the indictment, murder in the second degree, that we find the defendant, Aaron L. Littman, to be . . .” And then she looks up for the briefest second and says, “Guilty.”
Aaron’s knees buckle, and he consciously has to plant his feet to keep himself upright. When his mind flashes on how Cynthia and the girls are reacting, he suddenly becomes faint and tumbles back into his chair.
The court officers converge on him, forming a wedge that makes it difficult for him to move more than a foot from the table. A single word has instantly transformed Aaron into a convicted murderer.
“Poll the jury,” Rosenthal says.
Aaron is thankful that someone has done something, even though he knows this will only make it worse. It was bad enough when the foreperson spoke for them, but now each one will declare Aaron guilty.
“Very well,” Judge Siskind says. “The defense has requested that each member of the jury state for the record how he or she voted. So, let’s go through the jury members, one at a time. Madame Foreperson, you may begin.”
The African-American woman stands again. “Guilty,” she says, and then she sits down. She’s followed by a middle-aged man with a mustache who does the same thing. A younger woman with curly hair, and then a younger man who has shaved his head, and then an older man who is balding all repeat the act. It has the look of a very feeble wave at a sporting event, the orderly rising and sitting, except instead of throwing their hands in the air, each one says, “Guilty.”
Midway through, Aaron summons the courage to swing around, and it’s even worse than he could have imagined. Cynthia is curled into herself, with Lindsay and Samantha draped over her on either side. Aaron can’t see any of their faces, but their bodies are convulsing in a way that indicates suffering.
“There you have it, Mr. Rosenthal,” Judge Siskind says when the last juror has spoken. “The jury’s verdict is unanimous. I’m going to—”
“Your Honor,” Rosenthal interrupts, “at this time, the defense moves for a judgment notwithstanding the verdict and requests to be heard in chambers immediately.”
This is the after-verdict equivalent of requesting a directed verdict, and it’s even more rarely granted. If judges are loath to take the decision out of the hands of a jury at the trial’s midpoint, they are twice as unlikely to overrule it after a verdict is rendered.
Judge Siskind uses her gavel to quiet the gallery. “Mr. Rosenthal, your motion is not unexpected, but I’m going to put this matter down for thirty days from today. In the next month, I expect both sides to review the transcript and prepare motion papers. When we reconvene, I will hear arguments concerning sentencing, in the event that I do not grant the defense’s Rule Thirty-Three motion to nullify the jury’s verdict.”
Rosenthal exhales loudly. It’s as if he’s expelling the shock of the guilty verdict.
“I know that what Your Honor just proposed is the standard procedure after a guilty verdict,” he says, “but there is something . . . something that the defense needs to bring to the court’s and the prosecution’s attention immediately. Accordingly, I renew my request that the court hear from the defense in chambers at this time.”
Judge Siskind looks lost. She likely carefully scripted the trial’s conclusion, perhaps even preparing both a guilty and a not-guilty speech, and now Sam Rosenthal is asking her to ad-lib.
“Okay,” she finally says. “Let’s do this now.”
Aaron can finally feel his brain function again. He looks for Rosenthal to provide some type of explanation.
“I would never let you go to jail, Aaron,” Rosenthal says.
61
Aaron is escorted out of the courtroom by the guards, who do not extend him the courtesy of unlocking his handcuffs. With each step, he experiences the same sickening sense of anxiety that he did before the verdict. He tries to calm himself by saying that the worst has already happened, but that’s hardly a soothing thought.
In the outer office of her chambers, Judge Siskind says, “Do we need to sit down for this, Mr. Rosenthal, or can we do this here?”
“Here is fine,” Rosenthal says without emotion.
The stenographer sets up her machine but tells Judge Siskind she needs a chair before she can begin. Judge Siskind’s law clerk, a twentysomething woman with long, black hair, says, “Here, use mine,” and pushes it in her direction.
Finally, with the court reporter seated but everyone else standing, Judge Siskind says, “Mr. Rosenthal, I assume I speak for everyone when I say we’re on pins and needles. What is it that you had to discuss so urgently in chambers?”
“I killed Judge Faith Nichols.”
Aaron looks at Rosenthal, but Rosenthal doesn’t accept his gaze. He stares straight ahead, looking only at the judge.
No one says anything for a good twenty seconds. The silence is broken by Victoria Donnelly.
“I . . . I don’t know what Mr. Rosenthal is trying to get away with here, Your Honor,” she says, “but what I do know is that the jury has spoken. They found Mr. Littman guilty. This is nothing more than a stunt to somehow persuade the court that the verdict should be set aside. Or maybe it’s a ploy for leniency for when you sentence Mr. Littman. Either way, it’s wholly improper.”
Judge Siskind doesn’t respond at first, but when Rosenthal doesn’t rebut Donnelly’s charge she prompts him. “Mr. Rosenthal?”
“It’s hardly a stunt, Your Honor,” he says. “I’m willing to plead guilty and to be sent to prison for my crime.”
“Your Honor,” Donnelly says, now in an almost pleading voice, “you may not be aware of this, but Mr. Rosenthal and Mr. Littman are very close. Father-son like, is what I’ve been told. Certainly, many a father would willingly switch places with his son to spare him from prison. Mr. Rosenthal has no family of his own, and while he may think he’s doing something noble, he is not. Justice demands that the guilty be punished, and as we have all seen in the trial, and as the jury has found, Mr. Littman murdered Judge Nichols.”
After what feels to Aaron like an eternity but is really only a few seconds, Judge Siskind says, “The jury has indeed spoken, and therefore I am ordering Mr. Littman to be remanded to the custody of the Department of Corrections, forthwith.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Donnelly says, relief across her face.
“Don’t thank me just yet, Ms. Donnelly,” Judge Siskind says. “Mr. Rosenthal . . . I really don’t know what to do with you at this point. I don’t have any authority to confine you, and so . . . notwithstanding your confession, you are free to go after this hearing, unless Ms. Donnelly’s office has the FBI place you under arrest. But, if you truly want to be held accountable for this crime, I will hear from you tomorrow at 10:00 a.m., at which time I would expect you to put forward whatever evidence you have that you, and not Mr. Littman, killed Judge Nichols.”
NOT EVERY JUDGE PERMITS a convicted murderer time with his family. Aaron intends to make the most of it.
He’s standing in the hallway, his hands still cuffed behind his back, when he sees his family from a distance, making their way down the long corridor.
Cynthia is flanked on either side by Lindsa
y and Samantha, as if they’re holding her upright. As they approach, Cynthia rubs her eyes, apparently deciding that she’s going to try to hold it together for this farewell. His daughters, by contrast, make no effort to stem their tears.
The girls envelop him, and Aaron takes in the sensation of being sandwiched between them. As much as he wants to lose himself completely in this feeling, he can’t quell the fear that he’ll never again experience his children’s touch.
“It’s going to be okay,” he says, trying to maintain his composure.
“Girls,” Cynthia says, “we’ll see your father very soon, but you need to say good-bye to him for now. I’d like to have a few moments alone with him, please.”
There is a final squeeze by both of them, and Samantha says, “I love you, Daddy.” True to form, Lindsay says only, “ILY,” which Aaron has learned stands for I love you.
The girls walk away, and as Aaron watches them leave, Cynthia says, “What happened in chambers?”
Aaron hesitates for a moment, not wanting to raise Cynthia’s hopes unnecessarily. But there’s no way he can keep this from his wife.
“You’re not going to believe this, but Sam just confessed to killing her.”
“What?”
“I know. He said he killed her.”
“Then why aren’t you free?”
Aaron smiles. If only it were that easy, he thinks.
“It doesn’t work like that,” he says. “Donnelly doesn’t believe him. She said he was just giving himself up to spare me. Surrogate-father stuff. The judge didn’t know what the hell to do. So she said that I’m to stay in custody and she’ll hold a hearing tomorrow morning. She told Sam to bring whatever evidence he has to convince her that he’s the one that should be going to jail and not me.”
“Do you think it’s true? Could Sam have done such a thing?”
