A Conflict of Interest (30 page)

“Mr. Foreman, what is the jury’s verdict?” Judge Sullivan asks.

He waits a beat, perhaps to savor his moment in the spotlight. “On the first count of the indictment, violation of section 10(b) of the Securities and Exchange Act of 1934, we, the jury, find the defendant not guilty.”

There is a roar in the gallery and Ohlig’s posture slackens. He even grabs my hand with his fingers. He must not realize that the jury is going to offer a separate verdict for each count.

The foreman’s voice cracks through the gallery’s chatter. “On the second count of the indictment—” and then he stops, looking up from the sheet he’s holding and toward Judge Sullivan. “Your Honor,” he says, breaking the rhythm in the room, “do I have to read each count separately? We’ve voted not guilty on all of them.”

I have absolutely no idea what, if anything, Judge Sullivan says in response. The gallery erupts, and then I feel Ohlig’s embrace. “You did it! You did it, Alex!” he says over and over again in my ear.

I push against him and he releases his grip. Given his state of euphoria, I doubt Ohlig even notices that I’ve broken away somewhat abruptly. He has already put the bear hug on Abby, and I’m sure he’s squeezing her even tighter than he did me. From Abby he moves on to his wife, embracing her over the wood divider separating the gallery from the counsel area.

I can’t help but wonder if Pamela knows about Ohlig and my mother. I assume she doesn’t, for if she did I can’t imagine her being so supportive. Then again, perhaps she’s forgiven him. The moment my mind flashes on that possibility, I wonder if Elizabeth would forgive me, which, in turn, gives way to whether I’d want to live in a marriage with that kind of debt. But maybe that’s the quid pro quo. They forgive, and you acknowledge that you betrayed someone who loves you enough to forgive the betrayal, in the hope that you can become worthy of that love.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Pavin approaching. I expect him to offer his congratulations, but he steps past me.

“Mr. Ohlig,” Pavin says, and as he’s doing so I become aware for the first time of the four large and rather hard-looking men standing beside him.

I can’t believe Pavin is actually going to arrest Ohlig for obstruction of justice right here, in open court. Even for someone like him, this seems a bush-league move.

Ohlig hasn’t even turned toward him, but Pavin continues, “These gentlemen are United States marshals. They are here to place you in federal custody and accompany you to Florida where you will be placed under arrest for the murder of Barbara Judith Miller.”

Though I understand the string of words that Pavin has just uttered, I can’t yet make sense of them.

Ohlig seems as much at sea as me, but the reality sinks in the moment the light reflects off the silver bracelets held by one of the marshals. Ohlig actually slaps the handcuffs away, but I have awakened enough to call out his name. That’s all I need to say for his shoulders to slump and his hands to drop to his sides. He knows what’s happening now.

In one pirouette, the marshal turns Ohlig around and handcuffs him behind his back. When the marshal spins him again, Ohlig and I stand face to face. His eyes are deep with despair, as if in one moment everything has been revealed.

“Alex,” Ohlig says, but he stops short of saying anything else. I suspect that he was going to ask for my help, and then thought better of it. Maybe because he knows that under the circumstances there’s nothing I can do.

Maybe because he knows that under the circumstances there’s nothing I will do.

I
’m really sorry,” Abby says as soon as Ohlig clears the courtroom. “You and me both. Just when you think the worst of it is that your mother was cheating on your father and now you’re defending the guy she was cheating with, you find out that you’ve actually been defending her murderer.”

I say this with a weak smile. She reciprocates with one of her own. As always, just the sight of it pushes me off balance.

“Let’s get out of here,” she says. “Wherever you want to go. Drinks. My place. My place and then drinks. Drinks and then my place.”

I appreciate her effort to comfort me, but I decline. “I think I should stay here a little longer and see if I can get some information. Why don’t you head back to the firm, and I’ll catch up with you later.”

“Are you sure?
I’m
more than happy to wait with you here.”

“I’ve got some things I need to do,” I say, realizing that there’s likely no reason to be cryptic, as I’m sure Abby knows that I’m going to call Elizabeth. “I’ll stop by your office as soon as I get back to the firm.”

“Why don’t we meet at Tao,” she says. “I don’t feel like going to the office and answering a lot of questions.”

Tao is a bar on the corner of 58th and Madison. It’s a large, dark space that serves strong drinks.

“Okay.” I look down at my watch. “Can you give me another forty-five minutes here, and then another forty minutes or so to get uptown?”

“Take as long as you like, but I can’t guarantee I won’t be drunk by the time you show up.”

Just as Abby starts to walk away, a woman in her early twenties, whom I’d presumed was one of Judge Sullivan’s clerks based on the fact that she periodically whispered things in the judge’s ear during the trial,
approaches me. “Judge Sullivan would like to see you in her chambers,” she says.

I could ask what she wants to see me about, but judicial requests, like those from Aaron Littman, can’t be declined without damage to your career, so I simply follow her. When I enter the judge’s chambers, I see that Pavin is already there. Next to him is Gattia, the deputy from the Palm Beach Sherriff’s Department.

“Thank you for coming,” Judge Sullivan says. She’s not wearing her robe and is attired in a cream-colored silk blouse and black pants. “Now that the case is over, I don’t have any obligations regarding ex parte communications, so I took it upon myself to talk to Mr. Pavin and the fine gentleman from the Palm Beach Sheriff’s Department so I can better understand what just happened in my courtroom. Once they explained it to me, I thought that they owed you an explanation too.”

“Thank you, your Honor,” I say.

“No need to thank me. Also, I would be remiss if I didn’t tell you that you tried a fine case. I’ve already told Mr. Pavin the same thing. It was a pleasure having both of you appear in my court.”

“Thank you again,” I say. Pavin, for once, is quiet, and just nods.

“So,” she says, shifting her attention to Gattia, “Mr. Gattia, why don’t you tell Mr. Miller what you just told me.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Mr. Miller, as I just finished telling the judge, Michael Ohlig has been charged with your mother’s murder. Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to go into the full extent of our evidence, but you will be contacted by the assistant district attorney handling the matter. Her name is Morgan Robertson. Perhaps she’ll be able to answer your questions.”

“I didn’t even know you thought my mother was murdered.”

“We apologize for that, but given your relationship with Mr. Ohlig, we thought that was for the best.”

“What can you tell me about the evidence?”

“That it’s very strong,” Gattia says. “There’s the affair, of course, which I understand you’re aware of from the tapes.” I nod, closing my
eyes in a semi-wince. “But we also have evidence that he was the last person to see your mother alive. We can put him and your mother near Ohlig’s boat on the day she died. I wish I could tell you more, but I’m sorry to say that I can’t. I’ve probably already told you more than the ADA would have liked. But she told me that I could say that our evidence is strong enough that she suspects Ohlig will take a plea.”

Judge Sullivan apparently waits to see if I have anything more to say because after a few moments of silence, when it is clear that I don’t, she says, “Mr. Miller, I want you to know that I did not have any advance notice that your client was going to be arrested. My understanding is that a deal was reached between Fitz”—a reference to the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York that those who consider themselves to be his friends use—“and the District Attorney down in Palm Beach. Apparently, to avoid tainting me, the decision was reached to get approval through the chief judge. Which was probably wise because I can tell you right now, I would not have permitted that kind of spectacle to go on in my courtroom.”

“Again, your Honor, on behalf of my office, I apologize,” Pavin says, still groveling. I can’t really blame him. Even though the Southern District of New York has more than forty federal judges, the U.S. Attorneys’ Office can’t afford to make an enemy of even one of them.

Judge Sullivan’s expression makes it clear that no one is going to get off that easy. “Mr. Pavin, that is a discussion best had between Fitz and me, and not one that we need to waste Mr. Miller’s time on.”

In the cab on the way to Tao, I call Elizabeth. She had left several messages on my cell phone.

“I’ve been calling you non-stop,” she says even before saying hello. “Ever since I read on-line about the verdict and then that Ohlig killed your mother. Is it true?”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t call you sooner. You’re not allowed to bring cell phones into the courtroom. I didn’t see you called until I left, which was about thirty seconds ago.”

“I’m not mad, Alex. I’m worried about you. Are you okay?”

“How am I supposed to be? I just saved my mother’s murderer from prison.”

“Come home, Alex. We can talk about this in person. I won’t pretend that I can understand what you’re going through, but I’m here to listen.”

“Thank you,” I say, sounding more pro forma than I should. “I have some things I need to do first, unfortunately.”

“Like what? I would think that, today of all days, the firm would go a little easy on you.”

“Don’t be mad at me, Elizabeth. As you said, today of all days. I need to talk to some people at the firm about what happened. They’re not going to want to wait until tomorrow. There might be press inquiries.” This is a red herring. As a rule, Cromwell Altman never comments on the record regarding any matter. “I’ll try not to get home too late.”

As I hang up the phone, I realize that I’ve become a very proficient liar. Like everything else, I suppose, practice makes perfect.

T
ao is a cavernous place. There’s a large bar area on the street level and tables upstairs. The hostess downstairs is a slim Asian woman wearing a bright blue silk kimono.

She leads me up the stairs and toward the back of the darkly lit room. Abby breaks into an easy smile when our eyes meet. I try to smile back but must not do a very convincing job.

“Not much to celebrate, I guess,” she says as I take my seat.

“Can I get you a cocktail, sir?” the hostess asks.

I look to see what Abby’s drinking, but because it’s so dark I can’t even tell what color it is. “I’ll have whatever she’s having.”

“It’s a mojito,” Abby tells me.

“A mojito,” I say to the hostess.

“Like I said,” Abby continues when the hostess leaves, “you don’t look like you’re much in the celebrating mood.”

“I’m not really,” I say.

“Did you find anything out?” she asks.

“After you left, Judge Sullivan had me back to her chambers and I had a brief discussion with her, Pavin, and the guy from the Palm Beach sheriff’s office that I met right after my mother died. He said that they have a witness who places Ohlig with my mom the day she died, near his boat or something like that. That and the affair. I think there was some more too, but I wasn’t following all that well.” I chuckle slightly, even though I know it’s inconsistent with the tone I’ve set. “If you can believe it, he told me, with a straight face no less, that the Florida D.A. thought when they laid out all the evidence, Ohlig would take a plea.”

This makes Abby smile. She truly is a beautiful woman, and my mind flashes on my conversation with Paul at Aquavit when he said that Fleming had given Abby to me. That was what, a little more than four months ago? Part of me wants to go back to then, before I came
under her spell, but I know that’s impossible. I take some comfort that it’s only part of me with that desire.

“Did you talk to him?” she asks.

I think she means Ohlig, rather than the Florida prosecutor. I’m less certain whether she wants to hear what Ohlig has to say for himself or is concerned about how he’s holding up.

“No. I don’t think I even asked to, but if I did they must have told me that no one can speak to him until he gets back to Florida. You know, it was all a little bit of a blur and I honestly don’t remember.” My voice trails off, indicating that I have nothing else to say on the subject.

The waitress places my mojito in front of me. “Are you two ready to order?” she asks.

Abby says she’s ready, but I ask the waitress to give us a few more minutes. I’m not sure either of us is going to feel like eating after I’ve said what I came here to say.

After the waitress walks away, I raise my glass. “Thank you for all your work on the trial. Michael Ohlig was very lucky to have you. You did an outstanding job.”

She meets my glass with her own. “Thank you, even if we both know that you’re full of it.” After she’s taken a sip, she adds, “Alex, I know that this is really hard for you, but you should be very proud of the work you did for him. It was a very difficult case to win, and you tried it brilliantly. Just brilliantly. You were right at every turn and, as you know, I doubted you on some of it. All I can say is that I’m really embarrassed about that now.”

Like me, and maybe all litigators, Abby is very precise in her language. In this instance, however, I’m not sure what she’s embarrassed about. Perhaps it’s her way of saying that she thought I was throwing the case and now thinks I wasn’t. Then again, it could be as simple as her saying that she would have put Ohlig on the stand and she now thinks that I was right about keeping him off.

Trials are like sporting events in this way. A successful outcome seemingly validates every move leading up to it, as if any other decision would have changed the result. In hindsight, the decision to pass on fourth and four that gets the first down is considered the only option
that would have worked, although in an alternate universe, a running play might have gone for a touchdown. Same goes for the Ohlig trial. Who’s to say that if I had opened by telling the jury that Ohlig was going to testify and then closed the defense’s case after he looked those jurors in the eye and, in his most sincere voice, swore to them that he had done nothing wrong, the jury wouldn’t have still voted to acquit? Maybe they would have been even more certain of his innocence. You can never tell what was down the road not taken.