A Conflict of Interest

by Adam Mitzner

  After the movie, Charlotte asks when we’re going to have cake. Elizabeth says she still needs to get it, as well as “some other things,” which I can only assume also includes a birthday gift for me.

  “This sounds like a good time for us to separate then,” I say. “Why don’t you both run your errands, and I’ll put in a quick appearance at the office, and then we can meet back at the apartment. No later than six,” I add.

  Elizabeth still doesn’t look happy about this plan, even though it’s clear she has an hour or so of things to do that I cannot attend, but I understand that she’d prefer I sit in the apartment and watch television rather than go to the office. “Okay,” she finally relents.

  I call the war room from the cab and tell Abby that I should be at the office in ten minutes.

  “Let’s meet in the empty conference room next to the war room,” she says. “That way none of the temps will bother us and there’s no chance we’ll destroy something.”

  “It sounds like this is going to be a messy celebration,” I say, clearly flirting.

  “You never know,” she says in a similar tone.

  I find her in the war room. She tells me to go next door while she gathers up some things.

  When she walks into the conference room, she closes the door behind her. In one hand is a brown paper shopping bag and the other holds a wrapped gift about the size of a cell phone.

  “First,” she says, reaching into the bag, “a toast.”

  She pulls out a full-sized bottle of champagne.

  “La Fleur,” I say. “Fancy.”

  “Only the best for you, Alex. You know that.” She hands me the bottle to open. “This was the part I thought might get messy,” she says nodding at the champagne bottle. “I don’t know what you were thinking, Mr. Mind-in-the-Gutter.”

  I laugh. “You would think my mind was in the gutter only if your mind was in the gutter.”

  The champagne bottle opens with a loud pop, but I catch the cork without allowing it to shoot across the room. I’m not able to stop the champagne from spilling out of the top, and Abby grabs the bottle from my hand and drinks the overflow.

  “Nice catch,” I say.

  “I hate when even a drop goes wasted.”

  She reaches back into the bag and pulls out two plastic champagne flutes and hands them to me. After I pour each of us a glass, she raises hers to eye level and says, “To the birthday that changes everything.”

  I told Abby about Winters’s comment right after, maybe even during, the party. “You remembered?” I say.

  “Of course, I remembered. What, you don’t think I’m listening to you when you talk?”

  I touch my glass to hers, and we both take a sip.

  She pulls out two white-and-white cookies along with two candles—one in the shape of the number 3, and the other in the shape of the number 5. Then she pushes the cookies together, so that they form a figure eight, and places a candle in each cookie.

  “I have to tell you, I was a little worried about running afoul of the fire code if I went all out with the candles, so I thought that this would do the trick. Oh, I forgot …” She reaches back into her bag a second time and pulls out a lighter.

  She carefully lights both candles and then favors me with a full-on smile. “Get ready now because I’m going to sing again.” She sings “Happy Birthday,” this time channeling Marilyn Monroe, and when she’s finished I’m applauding as if I’ve never heard anything so beautiful.

  “Time to make a wish and blow,” she says. “You know how to do that, right?”

  I’m tempted to tell her that she’s morphed from Marilyn to Mae West, but I’m preoccupied by the request. My normal go-to wish is the health and happiness of my family. Perhaps I should include myself in the equation this year. Maybe I should wish that thirty-five is when I finally do know what I’m doing. Then again, part of me just wants to wish that Abby and I make love soon. Without consequences, of course.

  I don’t settle on any one wish but blow out the candles anyway. “But wait, there’s more,” she says excitedly, like the infomercial barkers. “The present.”

  The box is light, and I have no idea what it might be. “Can I open it now?” I ask.

  “Of course.”

  They’re cufflinks. But more than that, they’re cufflinks in the shape of the Batman symbol.

  “I love them.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. I now know what I’m wearing on the first day of the trial.”

  We eat the cookies and finish the champagne in our glasses. Abby begins to pour me another glass, but I stop her.

  “I can’t go home drunk. I told Elizabeth that duty called, which is why I was coming in.”

  “That means we’re still going to have to celebrate your birthday for real. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Promise?”

  “Yes, I promise.”

  My day ends in bed with Elizabeth. “Did you have a nice birthday?” she asks.

  “I did. Thank you.”

  “No need to thank me, Alex. Not until I give you your present, anyway.”

  She reaches under her pillow and hands me a tie box with the Barney’s logo on the front, and a white satin ribbon around the corners. Inside is a blue and white striped tie.

  “I thought you could use a new lucky tie for the trial,” she says. “I didn’t want to get you anything too flashy. I hope you like it.”

  “I do,” I say to her, but can’t help thinking that I like the cufflinks more.

  24

  The Wednesday before Thanksgiving, Cromwell Altman lets everyone go at 2 P.M. to get a jump on the long weekend. Michael Ohlig, however, had another idea. It’s now close to five, and Abby and I are still in the war room with him, no end in sight.

  Some clients don’t want to be involved in their defense and treat their lawyers the way they do their auto mechanics—they don’t need to know what’s broken or how to fix it, so long as when they get the car back everything runs properly. Others want to be active participants, talking over strategy, scribbling questions during cross-examination.

  It came as no surprise to me that Ohlig fell into the latter camp, but he brought it to an entirely new level by demanding to hear my draft opening statement. I’ve done it twice already this afternoon, with Ohlig offering critiques on everything from the word choice to the cadence of my voice.

  Some of this makes sense, given that cases are often won and lost during opening statements. Jurors are like quick-drying cement. Most make up their minds prior to seeing a single piece of evidence or hearing from any witnesses, and then they conform the evidence to their already made-up minds about the verdict, dismissing as unreliable whatever contradicts their initial determinations.

  For the defense, and especially for a defendant who is adamant about testifying on his own behalf, it’s therefore imperative that the jury wait for this testimony. Usually the only way to do that is to promise them during the opening that the defendant will take the stand. The risk, however, is precisely what Aaron warned me about. If you commit during opening statements to having the defendant testify, he better damn well end up testifying, or the jury is left believing you’ve lied to them, and like women scorned, jurors who have been deceived demonstrate considerable fury when it comes to rendering verdicts.

  “One more time,” Ohlig tells me.

  I look at my watch, more for effect than to see the time. “This is going to be the last time. And I’m just doing the last part again.”

  “That’s my favorite part anyway,” Ohlig says, winking at me, or more likely, Abby.

  I stand as if I’m in court, clear my throat, and then take a deep breath. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I know what you’re thinking. You wouldn’t be human if you weren’t. It’s the question on each and every one of your minds. Is the man sitting here”—and then I point—“Michael Ohlig, guilty of these crimes? I’m going to tell you the answer.” Dramatic pause. “H
e is innocent. And I’m not the only one who thinks so. Judge Sullivan thinks so. Even Mr. Pavin thinks so. And, by law, every single one of you must think so. And that’s because Mr. Ohlig is innocent until proven guilty, and at this point there has been no proof of Mr. Ohlig’s guilt.

  “Over the next few days you’re going to hear various witnesses, but not one of them—not one—knows what was in Mr. Ohlig’s mind. They can speculate after the fact about whether Salminol was a good investment, but they can’t tell you the only thing that matters in this case—whether at the time OPM was selling Salminol, Michael Ohlig knew it was a worthless stock such that he was intentionally defrauding his investors.

  “It will be only at the end of this trial that you will hear from the one witness who knows the truth.” Another dramatic pause. “And that is Michael Ohlig himself. He is going to take the stand in his own defense, place his hand on the Bible, and swear before God and all of you that he is completely innocent of these charges. We—Michael Ohlig and I—ask you to remember that until he has the opportunity to deny these charges under oath, you must believe he is innocent. If you do that, we have no doubt that after he testifies you will reach the only verdict that is reasonable in this case, and that is that Michael Ohlig is not guilty.”

  “Bravo!” Ohlig shouts.

  I bow in an exaggerated fashion, my hand stretched out in front of me, like a Broadway actor taking a second curtain call. Even Abby is clapping, although I’m sure it’s to join in the theatrics of the moment and not because she finds the closing flourish particularly praiseworthy, or at least not any more than it was the other times I did it this afternoon.

  All of this cheering is quickly drowned out by the ring tone of Ohlig’s BlackBerry, which, aptly enough, is to the tune of Sinatra’s “My Way.” He immediately breaks eye contact with me, and he reaches for the device on the table beside him. He answers it right before Sinatra can lament about the few regrets he’s had.

  “I’ve got to take this,” Ohlig says. He gets up and walks to the back of the room, going as far away from us as he can, which still isn’t more than fifteen feet.

  I look across the table at Abby, and she rolls her eyes at me. I know what she means—Ohlig’s been keeping us here, and now he’s making us wait.

  “I’m sorry too,” Ohlig whispers into the phone. “Yes, I’ll be home tonight.”

  All of a sudden I go from being annoyed that he has interrupted our meeting to feeling uncomfortable about listening in on his call, which I assume is with his wife, in part because I can’t imagine Michael Ohlig apologizing to anyone else. He gestures that he’ll be only a minute more.

  Ohlig looks around the room and I can almost read his mind. He wants to find a place where he can have some privacy for this call.

  “Michael,” I whisper, “would you like us to leave you alone for a few minutes?”

  His eyes open more widely, a signal of his exasperation, and then he says, sotto vocce, “Would you mind? Just for a few minutes?”

  Abby and I leave him with his call, stepping out into the hallway and shutting the door to the conference room behind us. “I’m glad I’m not married,” Abby says, laughing.

  “He’s a braver man than me,” I reply. “It’s the busiest travel day of the year and he still hasn’t made his way to the airport. No wonder his wife is pissed.”

  I’m about to say more when Ohlig peeks his head out of the room. “I gotta go,” he says. “Pamela is concerned that my flight is going to be overbooked or cancelled or something and I won’t make it home before Thanksgiving.”

  “I’ll call you a car,” Abby says.

  “Thanks, but it will be quicker if I just grab a cab.”

  “Okay,” I say, “but it might be tough getting one in midtown at this time.”

  “Don’t worry about me.” He flashes the trademark smile that says that he’s not worried, so no one else should be.

  Not five minutes after Ohlig’s left the building, I ask Abby if she’s ready to call it a night as well.

  “Might as well,” she says. “Meet you downstairs in five?”

  Since the first time we shared a car home together, it has become our daily routine. Once Abby asked if I had concerns that the firm’s car service would show that we shared a car each night, but I told her that I was sure Aaron Littman didn’t review the taxi slips to see if the lawyers were taking the most direct route home. “Besides,” I said, “it’s cheaper for the client than two cars. Everybody’s a winner.”

  “I’m going to miss you tomorrow,” Abby says to me when the car turns onto the West Side Highway.

  “Me too,” I say. I can’t remember the last day we didn’t see each other, now that we’re pulling seven-day weeks. “Promise me you’ll be back in the office on Friday?”

  “I promise,” she laughs. “But that begs the question. How will I survive a day without you, Alex?” She says this with a mocking chirp to her voice, but I don’t think she’s joking. Then, again, maybe I’m projecting because that’s how I feel.

  25

  I wake up shortly after sunrise on the day after Thanksgiving, following an evening when I had difficulty falling asleep. I was hoping the extra helping of turkey might give me a break from my recent insomnia, but no such luck.

  Elizabeth has recently begun suggesting I see someone about my sleep problems. So far I’ve dismissed the idea by saying I don’t have the time to be on a shrink’s couch, and by pointing out the professional benefits for me to be awake for twenty hours a day leading up to the trial. Besides, I know all too well the source of my inner turmoil.

  As soon as I’ve finished brushing my teeth, I’m dialing into my voicemail, as I do every morning. I have a message, which causes me to smile as if it were an involuntary reflex. The message turns out to be the same one from last night, which I’ve already listened to, more than once, actually.

  It’s from Abby, of course. She says she was just calling to say goodnight and hoped I had a happy Thanksgiving. She ended the message saying, “Thank God we’re going to see each other tomorrow. I feel like I’m going through Alex withdrawal.” I should erase it, but I like to keep Abby’s most current message, just so I can hear her voice at will.

  I could go right to the office, but it’s going to be a late night and Abby won’t be arriving until at least ten. Most likely because I’m feeling guilty about being so happy to see Abby, I decide to make breakfast for Elizabeth and Charlotte. That inner turmoil thing again.

  It isn’t long after I’ve started mixing the pancake batter that I hear Charlotte’s soft patter coming from her room. She’s wearing a pink nightgown with Sleeping Beauty on the front and holding by the ears the stuffed toy rabbit that is her usual bedtime companion.

  “Good morning, sweet Charlotte bear.” I struggle for a moment to recall the bunny’s name. “And good morning to you too, Belle.”

  “What are you doing, Daddy?”

  “I’m making pancakes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I thought you and Mommy might like pancakes for breakfast.”

  “Can you make a smiley face on them with chocolate chips, like Mommy?”

  “Okay,” I say, fighting the impulse to tell her that chocolate chips for breakfast isn’t the most nutritious start to the day. “Does Belle want some pancakes too?”

  “No,” Charlotte guffaws in a low voice that I love. “Belle’s a baby bunny. She doesn’t eat pancakes.”

  “Well, maybe she’d like to try them,” I continue. “Or should I serve up some carrots?”

  “Daddy,” Charlotte says, now sounding a bit annoyed with me, “Belle is pretend. She doesn’t eat anything.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetie. I didn’t know.”

  Charlotte doesn’t acknowledge the apology. Instead, apparently satisfied her first basic need of existence—food with chocolate—will be met this morning, she proceeds to her second basic need and asks if she can watch television. When I tell her yes, she runs into the livin
g room.

  I am pouring the last of the batter into the pan when I hear Elizabeth giving Charlotte her good-morning hug and kiss. “Mommy, Mommy,” Charlotte exclaims, “do you want to watch SpongeBob with me?”

  “Let me say good morning to Daddy first, okay?”

  “Okay,” Charlotte says, sounding disappointed.

  “Am I still dreaming, or are those pancakes I smell?” Elizabeth says when she enters the kitchen.

  “They are indeed. I’ve been thinking that the quality of my life should be defined by the quality of the pancakes in it.” This is a line from a movie we saw on television a few weeks before.

  “An excellent idea,” Elizabeth answers. “You should eat pancakes all the time if you want,” she says, continuing the reference.

  “Charlotte requested hers with chocolate chips for the eyes, nose, and mouth. Is that the way you want them too?”

  Elizabeth laughs. “No, I’ll just have mine with some coffee, if that’s okay.”

  Ten minutes later the pancakes are ready. “Charlotte, breakfast,” I call out. “There’s a pancake here with your name on it.”

  Charlotte runs into the kitchen and stares disappointedly at her pancakes. “It doesn’t have my name on it. It just has a smiley face.”

  I instinctively look at Elizabeth and she has done the same toward me. “It’s just an expression,” Elizabeth says before I can. “It means that this pancake is for you.”

  “But if you’d like, I can put your name on a pancake,” I add.

  Charlotte doesn’t answer, but Elizabeth is more polite. “These are great, Alex. Didn’t Daddy do a good job making the pancakes, Charlotte?”

  “Yes,” Charlotte responds on cue. “These are the best pancakes I’ve ever had.”

  Elizabeth laughs. “It isn’t going to get better than that.”

  No, I think to myself. It isn’t going to get better than that.

  As a thank you for my cooking, Elizabeth offers to do cleanup, but I tell her that I’m happy to finish the job. When I’m done and come out into the living room, Charlotte is standing before the toy easel we bought her for her birthday. She is wearing one of my old T-shirts, which is what she uses as a smock, and it looks like Elizabeth is wearing one too.