A Conflict of Interest (33 page)

On a normal workday the Cromwell Altman lobby teems with people, each one racing to make the elevator as if another one will never arrive. Today it’s eerie how deserted it is. Some of that is understandable given the holiday, but I’m surprised I haven’t overlapped with at least one or two of my partners.

I check my watch. It’s five minutes to nine. Prime time for arrival.

The Cromwell Altman partnership has met every January 1st since 1885 to vote on whether to enlarge its ranks. In addition to Abby, three corporate associates are up for partner this year, one of whom apparently has enough backing to make it, although it may be close. The other two have already been declared dead on arrival. With Aaron’s backing, Abby is considered a shoe-in.

I’ve never had any doubt that when the time came I would vote for her to make it. Of course, I realize it might be better for me if Abby simply vanished off the face of the earth, but even if I could derail her, which is highly doubtful considering Aaron’s backing, I know myself well enough to realize that I’m not constitutionally equipped to handle the guilt of ruining someone’s career.

There’s another reason as well, one far less noble: I’m still not over her, not completely. I want her to stay at the firm so that I can maintain some type of connection. Even if we’re not going to be lovers, at least I’ll be able to still see her from time to time.

The front desk of the building’s lobby is manned during business
hours by as many as six security guards. Even on weekends there are usually two. Today a lone guard, the poor guy who has to work on a national holiday, sits behind the marble station. I’ve probably walked by this same guard three times a day for the past seven years at least, but I don’t have the first clue as to his name.

“Happy New Year,” I remark as I walk by, not making eye contact. I fumble for my wallet, which contains my building pass, and then slap it outside against the turnstile and proceed through, only to make hard contact with the gate. When I again touch the pass to the turnstile I hear the same buzz and this time also see the red “STOP” beside the gate.

The few times this has happened over the years, I’ve walked over to the front desk to explain that my ID was not working. Now I’m afraid I’m going to be late, and seeing that we’re the only two people in the lobby, and he must have heard the buzz of denial as clearly as me, I call out to him.

“Hey, my pass isn’t working. Can you let me through?”

“I’m going to need to see some ID,” he calls over to me. “You’re also going to have to sign in.”

I let him know my displeasure with an exaggerated sigh, the kind that says I can’t believe how so little power can go to someone’s head. I walk over to him and put my wallet on the desk, removing my building pass and driver’s license from the sleeve.

The guard examines the pass as if he’s never seen it before, despite the fact that I’m quite sure he’s seen more building passes than any man who has ever lived. He next looks down at the desk. I follow his eyes, but the barrier at the desk curls upward to block my view of what has captured his attention.

All of a sudden, I comprehend what’s happening. I don’t even hear the guard explain it. His words are drowned out by my own, although mine are in my head only.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t understand.”

The better explanation is that I haven’t been listening. I’m sure what he said is fairly simple to comprehend.

“Mr. Miller, someone will be downstairs at approximately nine o’clock to discuss the situation with you.” He looks at his watch. “Please have a seat in reception.”

Revoking my building pass and denying me access to my office is something that could only be done at the highest level of the partnership. My mind races with the possibilities, but there’s really only one—Abby has filed a complaint against me.

If a client called me from the lobby of his office building and said that his partners had locked him out of a partnership meeting, my advice would be for him to get the hell out of there immediately—do not pass go, do not collect $200—and come directly to my office without talking to anyone. And then he’d say:
But if I do that, they’re definitely going to think that I did something wrong and they’ll fire me.
And I’d respond:
They wouldn’t be treating you like this unless they had already decided to fire you
.

The Cromwell Altman delegation selected to address me arrives in the lobby at precisely nine. It’s comprised of Aaron Littman; Jim Martin, the head of the corporate group, whom I probably haven’t spoken with for more than ten minutes in the twelve years I’ve been at the firm; and Paul Harris, whose presence on this team is undoubtedly to provide a friendly face to keep me calm.

Standing behind them, making it difficult to see him, is Ron Kantner, the firm’s HR director. His presence confirms what I had already surmised—I’m about to be fired.

Paul steps into the lead as they approach. I wonder if this is choreographed. Then again, perhaps this is what friends do to cushion the blow.

“Hello, Alex,” he says, extending his hand as if we were greeting each other at a funeral.

“What’s going on?” I ask, although he knows that I know.

He shakes his head and looks to Aaron. I’m about to be on the receiving end of what I’ve seen Aaron do so many times before—impart bad news in a way that’s designed to make the recipient feel lucky to be receiving it.

“Alex, I’m very sorry that it’s come to this, but the partnership has voted to reformulate. We all wish you the very best in your legal career.”

“I don’t understand,” I reply.

Aaron has faced down many more liars than most people, and I’m not as proficient as those who do it every day. He sighs deeply. The look on his face is classic Aaron—the one he gives at the point when clients profess their innocence.

“Alex, I was really hoping you would spare us the discomfort of going over what we all know.” He says this solemnly, as if it’s going to pain him to explain why my career is over.

“I’m sorry,” I say, immediately kicking myself for apologizing to him, “but you’re going to have to. I really don’t understand why you’re firing me.”

Aaron sighs again, this time even deeper. “Very well. Why don’t you have a seat.” He motions that I sit down on the leather sofa where I was waiting for him. Aaron sits across from me but Martin, Harris and Kantner remain standing. When I’m in position, he begins, “Human Resources received an anonymous call via the sexual harassment line reporting that you were involved in an inappropriate relationship with Abby Sloane. As you know, we have a duty to investigate all such allegations, even the anonymous ones. We reviewed your emails and voicemails and they left no doubt that there was an intimate relationship between the two of you, which, as you also know, is improper and grounds for immediate termination.”

The lawyer in me knows not to admit anything, even just to argue that Abby and I had sex only once. That means there’s no way I can defend myself but to deny the charge outright—a futile gesture if they’ve actually listened to my voicemails or read my emails.

Although it shouldn’t matter, that Aaron used the term
intimate
—not sexual—to describe my relationship with Abby has taken some of the wind out of my sails. I’m sure he thought the two terms were interchangeable and made the word choice based on decorum, but it makes his charge accurate, whereas otherwise there would be room for debate.

“What about Abby?” I say, just to fill the void because I know the answer.

“She’s been elected to the partnership,” he says, as if there is no inconsistency at play. Needless to say, it would compound the problem if Cromwell Altman penalized Abby in any way. I’m only glad she made it on her merit, because if she hadn’t, your conduct would have put the firm in an untenable situation. Even so, her elevation is always going to be tainted with the idea that the firm had no choice but to make her partner in order to avoid a lawsuit.”

Aaron moves slightly to the side, allowing Kantner’s bald head to stick through. It’s his turn now, like the guy who reads the disclaimers at the end of the commercials.

“Mr. Miller,” he says, “we’ll be boxing up and sending to you all of your personal items. After you sign a release, the firm will send you your final paycheck for the year and whatever year-end profit you’re entitled to.”

I spent nearly thirteen years at Cromwell Altman and billed more than 30,000 hours, and this is my good-bye. I’m being treated like a criminal, locked out and not even permitted to retrieve my photographs.

At least, I’m going to be paid for the year, which will provide some financial cushion. But the firm really had no choice about that. For starters, I’m owed that money under the partnership agreement. But what probably carried the day was that the last thing Cromwell Altman wants is a public lawsuit centered on partner compensation. Besides, the fact that they’re going to require that I sign a release (and confidentiality agreement, I’m sure) before they pay me a penny of what I’ve earned leaves little doubt that they consider us to be enemies now.

After what is less than a minute, and feels like a blink of an eye, Aaron stands and extends his hand to me. “I look forward to continuing our relationship, Alex. Being your partner was enriching for me, and I hope that remains true, even as your ex-partner.” The use of the term
ex-partner
strikes me as unnecessary and, in a way, just cruel, bringing home the finality of this decision. Then again, that was probably the point.

They are about to walk away—in fact, Martin is already heading toward the elevator—when Aaron turns back to me. “One more thing,” he
says. “I know you’re enough of a professional that there’s no need to say this, but Abby has specifically requested that you not contact her. She’s understandably very upset. No one wants to make partner this way.”

All at once, my entire being becomes consumed with the same thought. Not that I am unemployed; or how I’m going to explain this to Elizabeth; or even whether this will cause the end of my marriage.

I wonder why Abby would do this to me.

Even though it’s close to freezing outside, I walk the more than twenty blocks back to our apartment, each step of the way wishing I had somewhere else to go. The walk gives me time to play out in my head different ways to tell Elizabeth, but no version sounds better than any other.

When I turn the doorknob to the apartment, I have no idea what I’m going to say, or even if I’m going to tell her. What awaits me inside, however, is even more surprising to me than the end of my career—Elizabeth is painting.

The easel I bought for her thirtieth birthday is set up in the living room and the paints that were included with the gift are on the coffee table.

“You’re back earlier than I expected,” she says, relaxed in a way I haven’t seen in some time. “Last year, didn’t it go all day? Isn’t it some type of ridiculous firm tradition where you make them bend over and ask ‘may I please have another?’”

I don’t even force out a smile. “You’re painting?”

“You make it sound like you found me here with another man. Yes, I’m painting. You do remember that I did that once, don’t you?”

“I’m just surprised is all. When was the last time you painted?”

“Why should that matter? I’m painting now. See, this is one New Year’s resolution I’ve already kept. That bodes very well for the ones we discussed last night.”

She has said all of this while looking intently at her canvas, which is probably the reason her lightheartedness has continued for so long. Elizabeth finally looks up at me to finish the thought. “Anyway, being a painter is like being President—even after you stop doing it, you still retain the …”

It has taken her this long to read me. But when our eyes meet there is no longer any doubt. She knows that something is horribly wrong. Lying is not an option.

I just tell her.

Short declarative sentences, without emotion.

I had sex with Abby Sloane. Once. Right after my mother died. She told the firm. They fired me. I’m sorry.

I’m very, very sorry.

When I’m finished Elizabeth doesn’t say anything, at least not at first. She looks mainly at the floor, as if she’s too disgusted with me to meet my eyes.

Elizabeth prides herself on remaining in control. I’ve never seen her lose it, not even with Charlotte, giving her a far better track record than I have.

“Is it over?” she finally asks.

I find the question odd, especially considering I’d already told her that it was only once and it had been Abby who’d gone to the firm with the disclosure that led to my termination. Then again, maybe she’s asking about my feelings, which I had not addressed in my short mea culpa.

“Yes, it’s over,” I say.

Elizabeth takes a very heavy breath. It’s obvious how hard she’s working to keep it all together. Every muscle appears rigid.

“So, what am I supposed to do now?” she asks.

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to hurt you. I want to cause you to feel pain like I’m feeling right now, so you know how it feels to be betrayed. Betrayed by someone you thought was there to protect you. To feel like your entire life is coming to an end.”

There is a fury to Elizabeth’s words, so much so that I wonder if she might lash out at me, or even spit in my face. I’m trying to meet her eyes, but even that is too difficult, and I hang my head in shame.

When she hasn’t said anything for a few seconds, I again say, “I’m sorry.” I realize too late that I should have said that I loved her.

Her rage gives way to tears, although I can tell she’s trying her best not to be swept away by that emotion. “I guess that’s the best you can do for now,” she says.

“I’ll try harder. I promise I will.”

“There’s only one condition I have for not throwing you out right this minute.” She pauses, as if she wants me to ask what it is, but I don’t, afraid to say anything. “Promise me you won’t call her or email her. That you won’t see her under any circumstances. Ever. I want to know that it’s just us. That it’s completely over with her.”

“Okay,” I say weakly, deciding it was best not to mention that Abby, apparently, has no interest in speaking with me.