A Conflict of Interest (31 page)

In trials, as well as life.

“Abby,” I say, with far too heavy a voice as I’m looking down at my drink. “I can’t do this anymore.”

She reaches across the table to take my hand. “Alex, I know what’s going through your mind. Believe me that I do. But we make each other happy. Don’t throw that away.”

“You don’t know.” I say this sharper, more angrily, than is warranted, and then try to take it back. “What I mean is that you couldn’t know. No matter how strongly I feel about you, this just isn’t what I want for my life.”

“Then what do you want?”

“To be someone who doesn’t cheat on his wife.”

“But you are who you are, Alex,” she says without judgment, as if it is uncontroverted fact. “You’ve been cheating on Elizabeth for months now. And not just the time we actually made love. You cheat on her every time you’d rather be with me than with her.”

“Forgive me for saying this, but it really doesn’t have to do with you. I have a family and I need to deal with them first.”

Abby begins to cry. I’m embarrassed to say it makes her look even more beautiful. My impulse is to comfort her, to tell her it’s all going to be all right, that she’s better off without me, all of which I believe to be true, but which I also know will sound patronizing. I reach over and put my hand on top of hers, but then she pulls hers farther away.

The moment I step into our apartment, Elizabeth offers me her best smile. When I don’t smile back, hers drops away, replaced with a look of concern. I don’t deserve her sympathy, of course, at least not because
of how I look, which is more a result of my just ending things with Abby than the circumstances surrounding Michael Ohlig.

Then again, the two are not totally disconnected.

“Talk to me, Alex,” she says.

“What’s there to say?”

“Maybe we should try something new for us, Alex. Maybe, just this one time, we should talk to each other honestly.”

“Okay,” I say, dragging out the syllables to feign that I have no idea what she’s referring to. “What is it that you want to tell me? Or is there something you want to ask me?”

She frowns. “Alex, sometimes you act like I don’t have a clue about what’s going on. Your father’s best friend—the man who introduced your father to your mother—has been arrested for your mother’s
murder
. Certainly you must have some feelings about that.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“The truth, or something else even,” she says with another smile. “Anything that lets me in a little bit.”

“Michael Ohlig and my mother were having an affair. I’m not sure how long it was going on, but I know it started while my father was still alive. My mother must have ended it right before she died, or maybe Michael ended it and she was threatening to tell his wife. Either way, he killed her for it. I suppose if I’m being totally honest about it, my mother shares the blame.”

Elizabeth sometimes has the type of concentration you can see, and she shows no hint of surprise at this disclosure, as if she’s known about it all along.

“You knew, didn’t you?” I say, probably too accusingly. “About the two of them.”

“Let’s say I had my suspicions. Not that she was involved with him, but I suspected that your parents’ marriage wasn’t as happy as you thought.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Even though I say this with anger, she responds soothingly. “Alex, let’s not start about what we choose to tell each other.”

My reflex is to ask her what she means, but I know better. She might actually tell me, and that would take us down a path I’m not prepared
to travel. Instead, I go in the other direction, sending my own signal that maybe Elizabeth should be wary too. “If my father made her unhappy she should have left him.”

“No one makes someone else happy.”

This is something of a credo with Elizabeth, the idea of taking responsibility for your own happiness, or misery, as the case might be. But she has said this with a vastly different voice than in our last few exchanges. It’s still gentle, but now is characterized by a definite inward resolve.

Elizabeth takes my hand in hers. For the life of me I can’t remember the last time we’ve held hands.

“Alex, I really don’t think that Michael Ohlig made your mother very happy. Do you?”

T
he first day back at the office is excruciating. Amidst trying to catch up on the emails and voicemails I’d ignored during the trial, and taking awkward congratulations on the trial, I can’t stop myself from thinking about Abby. I begin the day checking my voicemails and end it the same way, but for the first time in months, there are no messages.

The next day is exactly the same.

The silence is double-edged. It hurts that Abby appears to be weathering the separation better than I am, but it would be worse if she weren’t. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

All the litigators at Cromwell Altman meet on the last Wednesday of every month. Someone, usually a more junior lawyer, is tasked with the responsibility of giving a presentation, either about a case the firm just won (or, in rare instances, lost), or some developing area of the law. This month, the meeting was pushed up because most of the lawyers take off the week between Christmas and New Year’s.

The meetings are held in the partners’ dining room because there are enough seats for most of the litigation department, at least the half that shows up. It looks more or less like a five-star restaurant. Tables of two, four, and six seats, each with a white linen table cloth and fine china place settings. A buffet is laid out along the back wall of the room.

Partners are encouraged to sit among the associates. The firm thinks of it as a way to bond, but it actually just makes the meetings that much more uncomfortable for everyone. Everyone except me, I should say. Since September, I’ve always sat with Abby, normally at a table for two.

David Geyser is the chairman of the litigation group, a figurehead position because it’s well known that Aaron’s the one who’s really in charge. Pretty much all David Geyser does as chairman is make sure the litigation meetings start precisely at noon and end exactly at one. It’s actually something he’s quite good at.

I purposely arrive fifteen minutes late so I won’t have the awkward moment of either choosing not to sit with Abby if she got there before me, or seeing her select a seat away from me if I’m the earlier arrival. I enter quietly, taking a seat at a table in the back. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds, however, before I spy Abby sitting in the middle of the room. She’s the only associate at a table of four male partners, one of whom is Aaron Littman.

When our eyes meet it’s the first time since Tao. She smiles at me, but it’s different from the smile I’d become so accustomed to seeing. It’s uncertain and without the confidence she normally projects.

I smile back, as broadly as I can, and then her expression morphs into the glow that I’ve missed so much.

She flutters her fingers at me in a wave, and mouths “hi.” I nod back at her and mouth “hello.”

Meanwhile, Geyser is standing in the front of the room behind a podium that bears the firm’s initials—CARW—in large letters. As long as I’ve been at the firm, there’s been speculation that Aaron’s Littman’s name was going to replace Franklin White’s on the letterhead, a move that would make sense given that White was at Cromwell Altman for only a few years back in the 1970s, and was given a place on the masthead only because he was formerly a judge on the Federal Appeals Court. The firm thought it would provide some cachet during the recession at the end of that decade. The running joke is that the reason the name change hasn’t happened is because no one wants the firm to be known as CARL.

Geyser is talking about Aaron’s representation of a cable company against one of the phone carriers, which
The American Lawyer
magazine had opined was the biggest stakes litigation in the country this year; it settled sometime during the summer. That’s when I realize that this is the final litigation meeting of the year, which is when Geyser does his year-in-review, going through the department’s highlights over the past twelve months.

With the exception of mentioning Aaron’s case first, Geyser is apparently going in chronological order because next he discusses a pro
bono death penalty case from January, followed by an SEC insider-trading case that was filed in February. Six more cases follow, all of them resulting in successful outcomes. To hear Geyser tell it, Cromwell Altman is more successful than Perry Mason.

With about five minutes left before the hour is over, Geyser says, “And last, but certainly not least, just last week, Alex Miller and Abby Sloane obtained an acquittal of OPM CEO Michael Ohlig in a securities fraud trial.”

Although he spared the other lawyers whose cases he discussed, Geyser says, “I see you, Abby, but where’s Alex hiding?” I sheepishly raise my hand. “There he is, way in the back. Why don’t you stand up, Alex. You too, Abby. Stand so we can all recognize the fine work you did in this case. You’ve made Cromwell Altman proud.”

I rise, and then Abby comes to her feet. Our colleagues in the litigation department are clapping.

“Well done, both of you,” Geyser says. His voice rises above the applause, although with the microphone in front of him it sounds as if he’s yelling. “This was a spectacular year for our department and the firm. I have every expectation that next year will be even better. From my family to you and all of yours, have the happiest of holiday seasons and a joyous New Year.”

When the applause begins to die down, Geyser adds, “Our next meeting will be on January 7, at which time we hopefully will have an announcement that a new partner has joined our ranks.”

He doesn’t mention Abby by name, but everyone knows it’ll be her. The other two litigators of her vintage have already been told that they’re going to be passed over, their names not even being put up for consideration, which makes Abby the litigation department’s sole candidate. At this juncture, particularly with her sitting next to Aaron, I doubt you could find anyone to take odds against her making it.

There’s usually some mingling after the departmental lunch, but I get out of there as soon as I can. I’m just not ready yet to make small talk with Abby, or even to discuss Geyser’s seeming endorsement of her with any of the others.

I suspect our encounter at the lunch has emboldened Abby because we run into each other the next day in front of my office. It’s not quite a chance encounter, however. As I’m returning from the men’s room, I find her leaning against the door frame to my office, waiting for me.

“Hey stranger,” she says. “Long time, no see.”

I don’t know what to say. Taking pity on me, Abby says, “Mind if we talk in your office?”

“Sure,” I say, gesturing that she enter. I want to tell her to shut the door, but I know that would be a mistake.

“So, how much did you have to pay Geyser?” I say as she takes a seat, doing my best to keep this encounter on a lighthearted plane.

“I know. It was a little embarrassing. After he said it, I said something to my table like, ‘God, if I don’t make it now, I’ll never be able to show my face around here,’ and then Rick Rubin says, ‘Don’t worry about it, Abby. If you don’t make it, you’ll be pushed out so you won’t have to show your face around here.’”

“He’s such a horse’s ass.”

“Aaron put him in his place, though. He looked right at Rubin and said, ‘That’s true of partners too, you know. It’s not a lifetime position.’”

I chuckle lightly, a jealous pang hitting my stomach at the specter of Aaron coming to Abby’s rescue. “So, what are you doing trolling 56?” I ask.

She looks flustered for a moment. “I’ve got a meeting.”

“Who with?”

“Aaron, and a cast of thousands, of course.”

“That’s a good sign,” I say. “I mean, if Aaron has brought you to a case less than two weeks before the partnership vote, there’s little doubt that you’re going to make it.”

“I suppose,” she says. “Truth is, my meeting doesn’t start for another few minutes. I came up early because I wanted to see you.”

“Here I am,” I say, feeling foolish for saying it, but not sure what response would be more appropriate. Should I tell her that I miss her with every fiber of my being? What good will that do unless I want to
end up in bed with her, which, while true, is something I’m trying my damnedest to avoid.

“How are you doing?”

“I’m good.” I try to punctuate the point with a smile.

“Good for you,” she says without a smile, and somewhat bitterly, I think. “Unfortunately, I’m not doing so good.” She lowers her voice. “I really miss you, Alex. It’s so hard coming to work and not having you there to talk to you. I mean, putting aside everything else, you were also my best friend.”

I want to say that I miss her too. Actually, that’s only partly true. What I actually want to do is lock my office door and take her in my arms. But I know that’s only going to make things that much worse.

“It’ll get easier.”

The moment I say this I realize how patronizing it sounds. I should have been honest and told her that it’s been torture for me too, that I think about her every minute of every day. But the opportunity is gone now.

Abby clenches her jaw, an effort to hold back tears, I think.

“Thanks for the advice, Alex,” she says curtly. “I’ve got to go.”

She bolts to the door and I take off after her, stopping once I enter the hallway. I can’t yell out to her, and so I watch her recede from view, as she enters the woman’s restroom without looking back.

It is then and there that I decide I’m going to take the rest of the year off. I’d rather not encounter Abby again until I have my sea legs.

G
rowing up in a Jewish household, Christmas was something I longed for but couldn’t have, at least not directly. My parents were not religious people, and so they had no objection to my watching Christmas shows on television or participating in my friends’ annual rituals, but they drew the line at having a Christmas tree of our own or giving out presents on the 25th.