by Adam Mitzner
Forty minutes later, while Aaron is still staring up at the pockmarked tiles on the ceiling, Agent Lacey reenters the room.
“You’re a lucky man, Littman,” he says. “There’s an empty bed at MCC, so you’re not going to travel very far tonight.”
Aaron offers a pained smile. Right now, he doesn’t feel very lucky.
40
It’s pitch-black when Rachel is startled awake. Her first thought is that it’s still the middle of the night, but then the phone alarm goes off again, and that’s enough for her to remember she has to meet Sam Rosenthal at six o’clock that morning.
Everything else rushes back in an avalanche of bad news: Aaron has been arrested, and she spent the night in his apartment babysitting his drunk wife, who believes that Rachel has been sleeping with her husband.
Rachel recalls the light being dim last night, but when she flips the switch, the illumination is harsh enough to take her a few blinks to adjust. When the room comes into focus, she spies the gown she wore to the prom folded over a slipper chair. More bad news: she has no clothing here aside from that dress.
With little choice, she puts the dress back on, like prepping for a walk of shame. Even without the benefit of a mirror, she knows she can’t step into a prison dressed like this, or even past the reporters camped outside the building.
It takes Rachel a few minutes of wandering about the duplex, but she finally manages to find the master bedroom downstairs. She pushes open the door and hears Cynthia snoring lightly. In a whisper, she says, “Cynthia,” and when that does not elicit a response, she returns to her normal voice. “Cynthia, you need to wake up.”
Cynthia groans, a deep guttural sound that makes Rachel think that she was even more inebriated last night than she previously believed. That perception is further reinforced when Rachel flips the light on and Cynthia violently places her forearm over her eyes and groans again, as if she’s a vampire.
“Cynthia, wake up. I need to talk to you.”
Cynthia opens a single eye. “Oh my God,” she says, and then tries the other one.
Rachel holds in a laugh. No one with a hangover enjoys being made fun of.
“How are you feeling?”
“I’ve certainly been better.” Cynthia glances over at the clock on the night table, then straightens herself and rubs her eyes.
Cynthia lets out another groan as she gets to her feet. “I haven’t drunk like that in a long time. . . . Thank you, Rachel. Very much. I don’t remember everything from last night, but I remember enough to know that I owe you an apology. So . . . I’m sorry.”
“No apology necessary. This is a very difficult time for all of us,” Rachel says. “I’m going to go downtown to the U.S. Attorney’s Office to find out where they’re holding Aaron. As soon as I know where, I’ll text you the address.”
Cynthia looks Rachel up and down before saying, “You’re going like that?”
“Yeah, that occurred to me, too. I was actually hoping that maybe I could borrow something of yours.”
Cynthia slowly makes her way to her closet. “I think this might fit,” she says, handing Rachel a simple blue dress with a J.Crew label.
“Thank you,” Rachel says. “My suggestion is that you not bring the twins. Aaron will be arraigned on Monday, and they can see him there. Sometimes seeing someone in prison . . . it’s hard.”
Cynthia’s eyes begin to tear up, and she rubs her face with her hands. “Okay,” she says quietly. “I’ll see you soon.”
And then Cynthia reaches forward and hugs Rachel.
THE U.S. ATTORNEY’S OFFICE visitors’ entrance is a makeshift structure that sits in the middle of the plaza outside the actual building. Two guards man the space, both of them twenty pounds overweight. One has a mustache and the other sports a beard.
“The building doesn’t open until eight o’clock,” the bearded guard says.
“I’m not here to see an AUSA,” Rachel explains, using the acronym for an Assistant U.S. Attorney so the guards know she speaks the lingo. “I want to visit someone who was arrested last night. I’m trying to find out where he’s being held. Aaron Littman.”
After she spells out the last name the mustached guard clicks some keys on the keyboard. “Littman. Aaron?” he says.
“Yes.”
“Looks like he’s over at MCC. That’s just across the way here.”
SAM ROSENTHAL IS SITTING in the lobby area of the MCC when Rachel arrives. He’s wearing a three-piece suit and tie, and with his bald head and cane, Rachel thinks that he looks a little like Mr. Peanut, sans top hat and monocle.
Rachel proceeds to fill Rosenthal in on last night.
“Cynthia knew about the affair,” she says.
Rosenthal nods. “Yeah, Aaron told her. After the murder.”
“No. She knew before. She’d figured it out somehow.”
Rosenthal doesn’t react, although she’s certain he understands what she’s saying: if Cynthia knew that Aaron was having an affair with Judge Nichols, then she had a motive.
They sit for the next few minutes in an uncomfortable silence. Rachel has a million questions, but she can tell that Rosenthal is in no mood to answer any of them.
After what seems like an eternity in awkward purgatory, the guard behind the desk shouts out, “Counsel can enter now.”
Rosenthal and Rachel go up to the third floor. Once there, they’re led by another guard, this one a woman, to the visitors’ room—the same place where Aaron met with Nicolai Garkov.
“We’ll be bringing the defendant in shortly,” the guard says.
“He’s not a defendant,” Rosenthal answers.
“What?”
“There hasn’t been a formal charge yet, and so Mr. Littman is not a criminal defendant. He’s merely been arrested.”
“Oh,” the guard says, the distinction obviously irrelevant to her. “Either way, he’ll be here in a few minutes.”
AARON ENTERS THE ROOM wearing a light blue smock. It looks a bit like a hospital gown, although it fully closes in the back. Small favors, Aaron thinks.
He has no idea where his Brioni tux, the antique platinum cuff links and shirt studs, and the A. Lange & Söhne chronograph watch he had on eight hours ago are at this moment. He hasn’t showered, and he has a day’s growth of stubble. Worst of all, he knows his breath and body stink.
He resists the urge to hug Rosenthal and Rachel on sight.
“How are you holding up?” Rosenthal asks.
“Not the best night of my life,” Aaron says with a pained smile. His mind flashes on Garkov and how stoic he was in the face of adversity. “But, truth be told, not the worst, either.”
Aaron shows Rachel a slightly sturdier smile, but she looks away. Although he would have thought it impossible, he must look even worse than he thinks.
“How are Cynthia and the girls?” he asks.
Rosenthal turns to Rachel for her answer. “Cynthia’s doing okay. I spent the night at your place. I think she’s hanging in there. She talked to your daughters and said that they were at a friend’s house last night, and she thought it was best if they stayed there for the night. When I left your house this morning, she was getting ready to go and get them. She’s going to come down here as soon as she brings the girls home. I told her that she shouldn’t bring your daughters. I hope that was okay.”
“Yes, of course,” Aaron says. “Thank you, Rachel.”
He can feel the tears welling up in his eyes. How much more is he going to put Cynthia and the girls through?
Rosenthal is seemingly oblivious to the emotion overcoming Aaron. He uses the silence to get down to business.
“They’re reporting on your affair with Judge Nichols,” he says, “and it does seem as if they have some evidence you spoke with her that night. On the bright side, I don’t think they have proof that you
saw her in the park. If they did, I’m sure Fitz would have leaked that too.”
Aaron can tell that until that moment Rachel didn’t know that he saw Faith right before she was murdered. He looks at her earnestly, hoping it conveys his apologies for keeping her in the dark, but all he sees back is overwhelming sadness.
Rosenthal continues to make the point that the case against Aaron is extremely weak. “I truly think that all they have is a circumstantial case. That’s why they’re doing what they can to pressure you—arrest you at the prom to poison the jury pool, two days in jail to soften you up, and then offer you a deal and hope you take it.”
Aaron laughs, a reaction as inconsistent with his circumstances as any could be. “I almost forgot. How was the rest of the prom?”
Rosenthal smiles back. “Pretty good, actually. I think everyone had a nice time.”
WHEN RACHEL AND ROSENTHAL return to the waiting area, Cynthia is there, sitting impassively, staring down at her hands. Although Rachel can’t hazard a guess as to what’s actually running through Cynthia’s mind at a moment like this, the visual is that she’s contemplating her wedding band.
As they approach, it becomes obvious to Rachel that Cynthia’s in need of any news, good or bad. Rosenthal, however, doesn’t pick up the cue. It’s almost as if he doesn’t want to be reminded that other people are suffering as much as him as a result of Aaron’s plight.
Rachel takes it upon herself to fill Cynthia in. “He’s good,” she says. “Very good, in fact. His spirits seem high. He was smiling and joking with us. He asked about you and the girls. He’s obviously concerned about all of you. How did it go with them?”
“Not something I ever saw myself doing,” Cynthia says. “But they’re strong kids. I think they’ll be okay. At least I hope so.”
Rachel looks at Rosenthal, trying to will him to say something to comfort Cynthia. Instead he says, “I’m afraid I need to get back to the office.”
After Rosenthal leaves, Cynthia says, “Aaron absolutely adores Sam, but I swear, the man is something of a stranger to human emotion. It’s as if the empathy bone just isn’t in him.”
Even though Rachel feels the same way, for some reason she feels the need to defend Rosenthal. “I think this is hitting him pretty hard. It always seemed to me that Aaron was like a son to him.”
Before Cynthia can respond the guard says, “Mrs. Littman. You can go in now.”
AARON CAN’T SAY THAT he’s pleased to see his wife enter the visitors’ room. The pain in her face is so blinding that Aaron has to turn away. It’s as if she’s become disfigured by her suffering.
“I’m so sorry, Cynthia,” he says.
Cynthia places her hand on top of his. Aaron wonders if such physical contact between inmates and visitors is permitted, but none of the guards at the corners of the room tell him otherwise, and so he takes refuge in the warmth of Cynthia’s touch.
“How are the girls doing?”
Cynthia’s expression falls even lower. “Honestly, I’m not sure. They must be terrified. But they’re trying to hold it together. They told me to tell you that they love you.”
Aaron can’t recall the last times the girls told him that they loved him. As he’s wondering if they actually said that or Cynthia is being kind, she removes her hand from Aaron’s and her posture stiffens.
“Can you answer one question for me, Aaron? And do it honestly?”
“Okay,” he says tentatively. He’s already declared his innocence to Cynthia, but he knows that she’s not going to ask him anything about Faith.
“Do you still love me?”
“Of course I do. I love you, Cynthia.”
As much as Aaron knows anything anymore, he knows that’s true. He loves his wife, and believes he always will.
He only fears that this realization has come too late. That his love will also be a prisoner in this cell forever.
41
In the nearly fifty years that Sam Rosenthal has been associated with Cromwell Altman, he does not recall there ever being an emergency meeting of the COC. But on the Sunday morning after the prom, the entire COC is assembled around the conference room table, with the exception of Aaron Littman, of course.
Rosenthal feels his age, which is unusual for him. Most of the time, his limp notwithstanding, he feels stronger than he did twenty years before, but this morning every movement seems labored. He barely slept last night and then awoke before dawn to go see Aaron. Worse still, he knows that there will be many sleepless nights to follow.
Sitting across from Aaron’s empty chair, Rosenthal calls the meeting to order. There is usually considerable cross talk among the members of the COC before the meeting gets under way, but today you can hear a pin drop. To a person, they’re waiting to hear what Rosenthal has to say.
“Thank you for coming this morning,” he begins. “There are two things I want to do today. First, I want to tell you about what’s going on, as best as I know, and as best I can share consistent with the attorney-client privilege.”
“Wait a second,” Pierce says, interrupting. “What privilege do you have that we don’t?”
“I’m acting as Aaron’s counsel. As such, there are communications between us that I cannot share with the rest of you.”
“When was this decided?” Pierce says. “I don’t remember a conflict check going around the firm. And there was no new matter opened to indicate that Aaron was seeking representation by the firm.”
Abby Sloane comes to Sam’s defense. “Donald, let Sam say what he brought us here to say,” she snaps. “Then you can make whatever points you want, but I’m telling you right now that it would be a huge mistake if the firm did not represent Aaron. He’s our partner, for God’s sake. The one thing we most certainly don’t want to do is send the message to our clients that our own partner—the head of the firm—chose another law firm to represent him.”
That’s enough to quiet Pierce down, at least for the moment.
“How is Aaron doing?” Jane Cleary asks.
“He’s fine, under the circumstances,” Rosenthal says. “Obviously, he’s looking forward to clearing his name. There is no doubt in my mind that Aaron is innocent and will be vindicated. Tomorrow we will appear before a magistrate judge and ask for bail.”
“What’s the likelihood of his making bail?” Gregg Goldman asks.
“Realistically . . . it’s even money,” Rosenthal says. “A lot depends on which magistrate judge gets assigned, but this type of situation—the murder of a fellow judge—makes it difficult to handicap how even the most lenient judge will rule.”
Rosenthal makes direct eye contact with each of his fellow COC members before going on to the next point. Other than Pierce, he has their attention.
“But I understand that we need to do more than just protect our partner. We also need to protect the firm. And that leads me to the second matter for which I called this meeting. Given Aaron’s incarceration, we need to elect a new chairman.”
Like clockwork, Pierce says, “And let me guess. You propose that you will—with a heavy heart, of course—take on the mantle of leadership. Do I have that right?”
Rosenthal and Pierce stare hard at each other, like two gunslingers in the Old West.
Elliot Dalton breaks the silence. “I know that you’ve been patiently waiting, Donald, but this is not the time for a new direction.”
“I couldn’t disagree more, Elliot. Now is precisely the time for new leadership. We need to do everything we can to distance ourselves from Aaron. To tell our clients that his transgressions have nothing to do with the way we conduct business at Cromwell Altman. We should cut him loose and make it crystal clear it wasn’t that he went outside the firm for counsel but that we didn’t want to represent him.”
Rosenthal is ready to spit fire. “That is never going to happen!” he shouts. “I am going to do ever
ything in my power to protect Aaron. End of discussion. And, Don, I’ll either do it here or I’ll do it somewhere else—and make no mistake about it, I’ll take my fucking name off the door on my way out!”
“There’s no reason to prolong this,” Sloane says. “Let’s just vote. I’m with Sam.”
“Me too,” Dalton says.
“My vote and Aaron’s proxy makes four,” Rosenthal says.
Donald Pierce looks angry enough to split in half, but there’s nothing he can do. Samuel Rosenthal has the votes to become the chairman of Cromwell Altman Rosenthal and White for the second time.
AARON’S SECOND INCARCERATED NIGHT is far worse than the first.
No longer does it feel like a curiosity that will someday make a good story, to be told in the comfort he’s always known. Now it seems he might well have to live out his days in an eight-by-ten windowless room with three other men.
It is a common narcissism that people view their lives like novels in which they are the protagonist. It’s a comforting thought, because it means that even when the story twists and all looks lost, there remains the unshakeable belief that a happy ending awaits.
Part of Aaron clings to that belief like it’s a life raft. It’s simply unfathomable for him to imagine being taken from his family. And yet he knows all too well that the unthinkable sometimes occurs. Faith, of course, being the prime example. She undoubtedly thought that her story’s next chapters took place at the Supreme Court. How wrong she was.
Of all the insincere gestures known to man, prayer by an agnostic has to rank right up there. And yet, that’s what Aaron does. Silently, he asks for forgiveness and pledges to be a better man, a better father, a better husband, if only he’s given the chance.
42
Unlike their more prestigious district court counterparts, who are nominated by the president, confirmed by the Senate, and serve for life, magistrate judges are appointed by a judicial panel and serve eight-year terms. They’re tasked largely with doing the busywork that district court judges would rather not be bothered with, which includes bail hearings.