Losing Faith

by Adam Mitzner

  “I think so, yeah.”

  “I’m also going to say that, before I let you talk, I have to make sure that they’re not contemplating any type of obstruction or false-statement charge against you. After they give me assurances that you get a full pass, you’ll come back in and you’ll tell them what they want to hear.” She smiles confidently. “Sound like a plan?”

  “You’re telling me the promise of no charges will include the murder too, right?”

  “Definitely. Stuart, they’re not offering you this deal unless they already have their sights set on somebody else as Faith’s killer. My guess is that whoever Faith was seeing is number one on their list.”

  “But I don’t know who that is,” Stuart says. “I knew . . . well, was pretty sure she was screwing around, but I didn’t know with who.”

  Jennifer’s smile trails off. “Back to the economics metaphor. You can’t buy something with nothing. They want the name, and I don’t see you getting a free pass without giving them that.”

  “I swear, I don’t know,” Stuart says again. “Believe me, if I did, I’d be more than happy to have that motherfucker fry for killing Faith.”

  Jennifer takes this in. “Maybe they know. Or at least think they know. How about this: if I can get them to give up the name, will you confirm it for them?”

  Stuart pauses, his head spinning, having some difficulty breathing due to the pressure he feels. But he thinks he understands what she’s suggesting—that he lie to save himself.

  “Sure,” he says hesitantly. “If you think that’s the way to go.”

  She looks at him. “Stuart, I’m not telling you to lie, because that would be a crime,” Jennifer says with all the conviction of a POW denouncing his country on videotape. “But if they give us a name and that somehow jogs your memory that . . . you saw Faith with this man somewhere, I think the case against you goes away, and the full focus is on the other guy.”

  She doesn’t wink at him when she says this, but it’s obviously ­implied.

  JENNIFER REAPPEARS IN THE U.S. Attorney’s Office’s lobby an hour later. Stuart sweated every second of this period, figuring that the longer Jennifer was with the enemy, the worse it was for him.

  “Follow me,” she says without breaking stride, and heads out of the building. They walk past the security guards stationed in the makeshift structure on the bridge leading to One Saint Andrews Plaza and don’t stop until they’ve reached the center of the plaza, where there is no one within twenty feet of them.

  “Aaron Littman,” Jennifer says.

  “What? The lawyer?” Stuart says in disbelief.

  “Yes. They have a theory that Nicolai Garkov hired him to exert pressure on Faith.”

  Stuart still doesn’t understand. “Why would Garkov’s lawyer want to kill Faith?”

  “It’s more complicated than that,” Jennifer says, “and I’m not sure that they have evidence that he killed Faith. They played that kind of close to the vest. What they told me was that they did have evidence that he was having an affair with Faith, and they think that’s relevant to the investigation.”

  “What evidence?”

  “Apparently Faith and Aaron would meet at the Ritz-Carlton in midtown. The hotel has some evidence. I’m not sure what exactly, but it must not be conclusive because they need you to corroborate it. And I’m really sorry you have to hear this from me.”

  Stuart rubs his face, as if trying to wake himself up. Even though he was almost sure that Faith had been unfaithful, he still clung to the hope that he was being paranoid. Proof confirming his suspicions, and worse, a name and a face being attached, are more than Stuart bargained for. In his mind’s eye he can imagine Aaron Littman, conjuring the photo of him that ran in the Times on the day of the Eric Matthews sentence, and he can’t help but transpose that image on top of his naked wife.

  Jennifer has waited for the shock to sink in, but now she’s talking again, going over the next steps. “What they want you to say, Stuart, is that you saw Aaron Littman with Faith at the Ritz-Carlton.”

  Stuart isn’t making eye contact, although he’s heard what she said. A rage is running through him now.

  “Can you do that, Stuart? Can you tell them that you saw Faith with him at the Ritz-Carlton? You don’t have to know the date, although it would be at night, so you’ll have to supply some detail about why you were there, where you were standing, that kind of thing. I think the easiest thing to say is that you were suspicious and so you followed Faith. Then you can say that you saw her enter or leave with him, and you’ve given them what they want. And in return, you get what you want.”

  “Fuck him,” Stuart says quietly. “I’ll say whatever they want me to.”

  31

  Rachel London learns that the firm has decided to go outside for her lawyer when she receives a call from Richard Leeds, who tells her that he’s spoken to Sam Rosenthal about representing her. The immediate thought that comes to Rachel’s mind is disappointment that Aaron didn’t break this news himself. Just as quickly, she forgives him, realizing that it makes perfect sense that Aaron and she shouldn’t discuss the investigation.

  As soon as she starts to feel that Aaron hasn’t betrayed her, however, Rachel begins to wonder why she needs conflict-of-interest counsel at all. She knows that the technical reason is that the firm believes that her interests conflict with those of another Cromwell Altman client. But that client certainly isn’t Nicolai Garkov, because Aaron is being represented by Sam Rosenthal, and the conflict rules prohibit the same law firm from representing clients with divergent interests.

  Which means it’s her interests and Aaron’s that aren’t aligned. And that concerns her greatly.

  RICHARD LEEDS’S LAW FIRM is called Leeds, Jonns, and Williams. Stepping off the elevator, Rachel is surprised how much it looks like Cromwell Altman.

  Sometimes smaller firms have a home-office feel to them—no receptionist, cramped space, boxes in the hallways, and little, if any, natural light. But Leeds’s firm has the trappings of a mega-firm—leather furniture, large conference room, and a view of the Statue of Liberty. If she didn’t know otherwise, Rachel would assume two hundred lawyers work there, rather than the fewer than ten who actually do.

  A few minutes after Rachel arrives in reception, a woman with a disproportionately large chest and shoulder-length blond hair, who can’t be more than twenty-five years old, introduces herself as “Mr. Leeds’s assistant” and escorts Rachel to Leeds’s office. That’s enough to set Rachel’s preconceived notions about Leeds in stone. What senior partner at any law firm has a twentysomething secretary, let alone one who resembles a porn star?

  “There she is, the guest of honor,” Leeds says when Rachel enters his office. Then he extends a hand. “Rich Leeds,” he says as if it’s a privilege to meet him.

  Leeds is one of those men where the parts are much greater than the whole. If Rachel were to describe him—medium build, good head of sandy hair, nice enough features—it would leave the impression of someone much handsomer than Richard Leeds. She finds something extremely smarmy looking about him, however, reminding her of a carnival barker.

  Also in the room is a young woman whom Leeds has not even bothered to introduce. She’s pretty too, although in that for a lawyer way. Blond hair, thin, and young must be Leeds’s type.

  “Hi,” Rachel says, extending her hand to the woman. “I’m Rachel London.” Then she adds, “But I guess you knew that since I’m the client.”

  “Alyssa Sanders,” the blonde says. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  Rachel surveys Leeds’s office. It’s the corner, naturally, and the views go straight out to the New York harbor, capturing Lady Liberty without obstruction.

  “So, Rachel, does it feel strange to be on the other side of the proverbial table?” Leeds asks.

  “A little,” Rachel concedes.

 
“First rule. Your job here is to be the witness. Let me be the lawyer. Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay, then. The AUSA wants to see you tomorrow. I would have preferred to have a few more days to prepare, but they wouldn’t budge. My guess is that they’re going to move soon with an arrest on this thing. She wouldn’t tell me who, of course, but you don’t have to have a crystal ball to see that your buddy Nicolai Garkov has a bright red bull’s-eye on his back. I reached out to Clint Broden, just to give him a heads-up, and to get whatever I could out of him. He wasn’t giving me ice in winter, but he did make it very clear that Garkov wasn’t waiving his attorney-client privilege with Cromwell Altman.”

  “Did Sam Rosenthal say why I needed conflict counsel?”

  Leeds looks at Rachel with a perplexed expression, as if he’s never questioned why he’s retained on any matter.

  “It’s just standard operating procedure,” he says dismissively.

  Rachel nods as if she accepts the explanation. She knows, however, that there is nothing standard about what’s going on here.

  “Who’s the assistant?” Rachel asks next.

  “Oh, I thought you knew. A woman named Victoria Donnelly.”

  Rachel shakes her head. She was hoping it was someone she knows, someone who likes her. But there are lots of assistant U.S. attorneys in Manhattan, the office being the size of a large law firm. On top of that, attrition is high; a faster revolving door would be hard to find. The most common path is two years at a big law firm, three to five at the U.S. Attorney’s Office, then back to the big law firm.

  “Victoria’s . . . how do I put this diplomatically,” Leeds says with a self-satisfied smile. “Well, she’s not going to win any popularity contests, that’s for sure. But even though she can be very abrasive at times, she’s smart and a hard worker. She’s also pretty experienced. I think she’s probably been in that office for at least a decade by now.”

  “Funny that I’ve never had a case with her,” Rachel says.

  “She’s out of the OC unit,” Leeds says. “That may be why.”

  Organized crime. Most of Rachel’s cases are brought by the securities fraud unit. The fact that an assistant out of OC is handling the case means that Nicolai Garkov is the main suspect, or at least was at the time when they had to decide what prosecutor to assign.

  Leeds lays out the instructions for tomorrow’s session, which are nearly word for word what Rachel tells the witnesses she preps: Listen to the question, wait until it’s finished, make sure you understand it, think about your answer before saying anything, answer the question and only the question, and then stop. And above all else, don’t volunteer anything. He omits the most important one—to tell the truth—but perhaps that’s because he thinks it’s implied.

  They spend the next four hours going through a mock interview. Leeds plays Donnelly’s part, asking the questions in a surly manner, and Alyssa acts as defender, the role Leeds will play when they do it for real. Rachel has done this playacting as inquisitor a hundred times herself and finds it easier being a witness than a questioner. She doesn’t have to strategize or plot, but simply respond to the questions as succinctly as she can.

  “I think you’re ready,” Leeds declares after the question-and-answer game. “Just follow my rules, and you’ll do fine.”

  Rachel smiles at him, suggesting agreement, but something tells her that it’s not going to be that easy.

  32

  As soon as he returns to Cromwell Altman, Sam Rosenthal enters Aaron’s office to run down the particulars of his almost-breakfast with Fitz.

  “They know about the affair, and so we need to assume you’re at least a target, if not the main target, in all of this,” he says, even before taking a seat in Aaron’s guest chair.

  Aaron greets the news with a heavy sigh. “If they already know about the affair, why can’t I go in and tell them my story about Garkov’s blackmail? Maybe that will get them to refocus their energies on him.”

  “Among other things, because you can’t tell your story,” Rosenthal says. “The attorney-client privilege is going to block you from revealing anything Garkov said to you.”

  “The threat Garkov made isn’t privileged. Crime-fraud exception.”

  Rosenthal’s response is the slightest raise of his brow. It might be indiscernible to most people, but Aaron reads it as a strong rebuke. If it were translated into words, it would say, Do you really need me to explain this to you?

  “Even if that’s true,” Rosenthal says slowly, “and you know as well as I do that it’s a debatable issue, admitting that Garkov was blackmailing you, or that you were in a conspiracy with him to blackmail Judge Nichols, would be suicide. They may know about the affair, but God willing, they’ll never learn about the blackmail. And it’s the blackmail that gives you a motive. Besides, are you actually thinking you’re going to admit you saw her on the night of the murder? And you know as well as anyone else, you can’t go in there half-pregnant. You tell the truth or you shut the hell up. I know it’s frustrating not to defend yourself, Aaron, but this is not the time or the place to put on your defense. If they want to indict, nothing you say is going to change that. All talking to them does is lock you into a story, which very likely will not be the best defense when all the evidence is known.”

  Aaron feels appropriately chastened. He’s thinking like a client, not a lawyer.

  Just like when a hurricane approaches, the safest course in a criminal investigation is to hunker down and pray that it passes you by. And if it doesn’t, then you pray that the damage can be contained. The one thing you never do is anything that makes you an easier ­target.

  “Okay, you’re right. We stay away.”

  Even though he knows inaction is the proper course, Aaron still can’t help but wonder just how complete the destruction is going to be once this particular storm passes.

  RACHEL HAS THE DISTINCT impression that Aaron is avoiding her. She can’t really blame him if he is. She’s said it to clients a thousand times herself: when the prosecutors ask, Who did you speak to about the facts of the case? you want the answer to be My lawyer and no one else, so as to not permit the claim that they were conspiring with anyone to get their stories straight.

  But she can’t let the opportunity of Aaron alone at the Pierre go untapped. She needs him to know that she’s his for the asking.

  “Hey, you,” she says after knocking on Aaron’s open office door.

  When Aaron smiles at her, she realizes she was worrying about nothing. He’s just as happy to see her.

  “Hey yourself,” he says.

  “I was wondering if you wanted to get a drink after work today.”

  Aaron’s smile recedes. She can actually see his face tighten.

  “Is something wrong?” he asks.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. No. I didn’t mean to worry you. I met with Rich Leeds this morning, and I’m meeting with the AUSA tomorrow, but all is good. I just hate the idea of you being all alone in a hotel room, ordering room service, that’s all.”

  For the second time, Aaron looks concerned. “I’m sorry, Rachel. I should have told you sooner . . . but I’ve moved back home. It turned out to be just a minor kerfuffle after all.”

  “Oh,” she says.

  Just then, Sam Rosenthal enters Aaron’s office. Rachel wonders if it’s her imagination, but she senses that Rosenthal is looking at her like a protective parent who thinks that she’s not a good influence on his son.

  “I need to . . . I’m late for something,” Rachel says, trying to come up with an excuse to leave before Rosenthal asks her to go.

  As if he senses her nervousness, Aaron smiles to put her at ease. “If we don’t talk tomorrow because . . . of your other engagement down at the U.S. Attorney’s Office, I’ll find you at the prom for sure. Just so you’ll recognize me, I’ll be the guy wearing a t
uxedo.”

  WHEN RACHEL’S OUT THE door and not within earshot, Rosenthal says, “You know she’s a witness now, right?”

  “I trust her, Sam. I daresay almost as much as I trust you.”

  Aaron knows that he has not assuaged Rosenthal’s concerns. Part of that is because Rosenthal worries about everything. But on this score, Aaron knows there’s some cause for concern when a woman who knows him as well as Rachel is providing evidence to the U.S. Attorney’s Office.

  33

  Jesus Christ Superstar.

  That is the Brunswick Academy high school musical this year. There was some grumbling about whether it was appropriate because of its religious theme, which became louder when the school cast Lindsay as Judas and another girl as Jesus, with the explanation for the unusual casting being that none of the boys who auditioned could sing.

  The Brunswick auditorium is the size of a small Broadway theater, with a capacity of more than a thousand. The Littmans have seats toward the middle, on the aisle. Samantha, who’s never been one for public performing, sits between her parents.

  After the overture, Lindsay has the first song. Her singing voice has always been something of a marvel to Aaron. It’s a skill he does not possess, but one that is so present in his daughter that at times it seems like magic to him. Cynthia credits her side of the family for Lindsay’s soprano range, but to Aaron’s way of thinking, it is something unique to Lindsay, setting her apart from him and Cynthia both.

  After the show, the four of them go to a Mexican restaurant a few blocks south of the school. It’s one of the girls’ favorite after-school haunts, the kind of place that only has tacos and burritos on the menu.

  It is the first time since Aaron’s return that Cynthia seems happy. The girls, too, appear to be in excellent spirits. Lindsay is pleased with her performance, and Samantha, as always, is her number one fan.