by Adam Mitzner
“When did you learn of this alleged bribe offer?” Judge Sullivan asks.
“I’m not exactly sure, your Honor.”
And bingo—Judge Sullivan’s expression leaves little doubt that Pavin just gave the wrong answer. If there’s one thing she simply will not tolerate, it’s the government not being straight with her.
“That tells me it wasn’t yesterday, which is the only excuse that I would have tolerated from an Assistant United States Attorney for failing to raise this issue before trial. You go back and you tell the United States Attorney that he is never to send an Assistant to me that doesn’t know precisely when evidence of a crime was discovered.”
“Your Honor—”
“Don’t even think about your Honoring me,” Judge Sullivan snaps. “Tell me, Mr. Pavin, who is the government planning on calling after this next witness?”
“Your—” and then Pavin catches himself before finishing the phrase, “Our next witness is our expert. Unfortunately, he’s not in the courtroom today. We had expected to lead with him tomorrow—”
“Stop right there, Mr. Pavin. You’re zero for two and, to be blunt about it, I’m really quite fed up with you today. The very idea that you would not have your next witness present so that you thought I’d have no choice but to let you go with this one or else lose the afternoon—”
“That’s not it—” Pavin is trying to get a word in, but Judge Sullivan won’t let him.
“You listen when I’m speaking, Mr. Pavin. That’s how it works. In case you forget that, ask yourself who’s wearing the robe. Because that’s the person who always goes first.”
“I’m sorry, your Honor.”
“Don’t apologize, just do your job better. And, to help you out, I’m going to give you the rest of the day off to talk to your boss about what happened today in court. And then bright and early tomorrow morning, you can put on your expert.”
No matter how much you hate your adversary, it’s still hard to watch him getting his head handed to him by a judge. Not that Pavin doesn’t deserve it, but I know it could just as easily be me the next time, and it probably will be.
“Abby, I really owe you,” Ohlig says later, when we’re heading back to the office. “How about I treat you to a very nice dinner. Ever been to Masa?”
Nothing but the best, or should I say, the most expensive, for Ohlig. I’ve never been to Masa, but I understand you can’t get out of there for less than $400 a person.
“You too, Alex,” he adds, although I get the sense that his invitation to me is hardly sincere.
“Thank you,” I say, “but I should take advantage of the mini-vacation to prepare for Heller. Sansotta will be here by five.”
Andrew Heller is the government’s expert economist, and Paolo Sansotta is our counterpoint. Ohlig knows about this meeting with Sansotta, which is probably why he invited me to come along with Abby—he knew I’d have to decline.
“That leaves just you and me,” he says to Abby. “Is it a date?”
She looks to me for the answer, but I’m doing my best to provide no hint. I could, of course, keep her from going simply by saying that she’s needed for the expert prep, but that would concede that I think she’d otherwise go.
I could also push her the other way if I told her I’d be fine without her, denying her a polite decline. That, also, would cede too much.
“Thank you,” she says, “but I need to stay here and help.”
“I guess you’re right,” Ohlig says, without a smile this time. “I’d be in serious trouble if I didn’t have you keeping Alex honest.”
37
Abby and I meet with Sansotta for about an hour, but by sixthirty I tell them both that I’m ready to call it a night. Abby looks at me like I’m crazy but doesn’t say anything until after Sansotta’s left.
“So that’s it?”
“Now that I have you keeping me honest, there’s really nothing else for me to do.”
I didn’t intend for it to sound like I was taking my ball and bat and going home, but I suspect that’s exactly what it sounded like.
“I’m sorry, Alex. But you know it’s not my fault.”
“I know, Abby. I didn’t mean it that way. You did a great job today. You should be as proud of yourself as Ohlig is pleased with your work. I’ll definitely be sure to mention it to Aaron.”
“I hope you can tell that I’m not at all happy about this.”
“There’s no reason for you not to be happy. Angry clients are part of the job. I’d be concerned if he wasn’t angry. At least with you on the team, he likes one of us.”
“Then why are you leaving now?”
“I haven’t seen Charlotte in weeks, and I thought this was an opportunity for me to cut out early.”
“Okay,” Abby says, although she sounds far from okay. “I guess it’s no secret that I miss being with you outside of the courtroom.”
“Same here,” I say.
The entire day in court washes away the moment I hear Charlotte’s excited announcement that I’m home. Without any lead-in, she’s talking to me as if we’ve been in the middle of a conversation.
“Gavin said that I wasn’t allowed to play monster because that’s a boy game and the girls have to play dress-up and princess, but I like playing monster sometimes. The other girls are scared, but it’s not like there’s a real monster, it’s just one of the boys, usually it’s Ryan, wearing a scary mask and screaming like this—grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr—and so it’s not scary, and if you tag the monster you get to be the monster the next time.”
“You go to an all girls’ school; where do you play with boys?” I’m embarrassed to even be asking this question, given that it highlights just how much of my daughter’s life is foreign to me.
“At sports, after school. There are boys and sometimes at the end, if we’re good, they let us play whatever we want. And that’s when the boys play monster.”
“So did you get to be the monster?”
“Daddy, I just told you, girls aren’t allowed to play monster.”
“But I thought you wanted to play.”
“I want to play, but they won’t let me. Isn’t that unfair?”
“That sounds very unfair.”
“Do you want to play monster with me, Daddy? You could be the monster, but if I tag you, then I’ll be the monster.”
Elizabeth has up until now been standing quietly as Charlotte detailed the discriminatory practices of monster. “Sweetheart,” Elizabeth says, “Daddy’s probably hungry. After he has some dinner, then maybe the two of you can play monster.”
“Then what should I do now?” Charlotte asks.
“Do you want to watch a little SpongeBob?”
Elizabeth often jokes that SpongeBob is like crack for five-year-olds. Sometimes she jokingly refers to an episode as a bump, as in, Maybe I’ll give Charlotte a bump of the Bob to chill her out.
Charlotte is clearly pleased with Elizabeth’s offer. In fact, I’m sure she views it as much of more of a win-win than a compromise.
After the television is turned on, Elizabeth joins me in the dining room, and hands me a glass of red wine. A half-filled glass is already on the table.
“Is the trial over?” Elizabeth says with a sarcastic smile. She knows it’s not but is asking why I’m home before midnight.
“The judge let us out early.”
“So, how’s it going?” she asks, after taking a sip of her wine.
“We’re getting our butts kicked is how it’s going. But Abby had a strong day today, so at least she’s making Ohlig happy.”
I’m exploring Elizabeth’s face for some reaction to my invocation of Abby’s name. As usual my wife is difficult to read. Maybe because I want to push Elizabeth into some revelation about Abby, I begin to explain Abby’s heroics. “So, Ohlig clearly bribed this guy to change his testimony. Of course, he doesn’t seem the least bit concerned he’s been found out, and it’s now my job to make sure that, even though he’s committed
a crime, it’s not put into evidence. I’m telling him there’s no way, and then Abby comes up with this half-baked relevancy argument. Ohlig loves it, and he tells me that he wants her to make it. I say fine, and wouldn’t you know it, Judge Sullivan ends up being pissed at the prosecutor over something else entirely and so she rules in our favor. That’s justice in America. The one time we should definitely lose an argument, we win because the judge wants to send a message to the U.S. Attorney, probably as some kind of payback over something that happened in another case, maybe years ago.”
“But it’s good for you, right?”
“Yes. For today, it was good, but tomorrow’s likely to be quite another story. First they’re going to put their expert on, and then, after that, Fieldston is going to testify. He’s Ohlig’s number two and he’s just going to bury us.”
“You don’t think that Ohlig’s testimony will be enough for reasonable doubt?”
Once again Elizabeth’s grasp of trial strategy is right on. I suppose being married to a litigator is the equivalent of at least two years of law school.
“It’s the only thing that might. He’s really quite good. I guess it’s true what they say: once you can fake sincerity, everything else is easy.”
After dinner, I play monster with Charlotte, alternating between being the monster and the scared villager. At different intervals Charlotte tells me that I’m playing wrong, even though it doesn’t seem to me that there are any rules besides running around screaming. After the game, it’s bedtime, and I read her the same story I did the last time I put her to bed, which was more than three months ago, I think.
Elizabeth is watching television in bed. After I’ve returned from my evening ritual, brushing my teeth, taking my contact lenses out, and putting on my pajamas, I notice that she’s wearing a nightgown. It’s not one of the lacy things that I’ve bought her over the years for Valentine’s Day, the kind that’s intended to be worn once, and even then for less than five minutes. Rather, it’s what I suspect some women wear to sleep every night, but Elizabeth prefers flannel pajamas, especially in the winter.
“Is that new?”
“No. I just don’t wear it very often. Do you like it?”
“I do.”
She looks beautiful, and the initial pang of desire I feel frightens more than emboldens me.
It feels like I’m cheating on Abby.
Abby might even ask me about it tomorrow, and the idea that I’d lie to her about whether I was sleeping with my wife just seems too ridiculous, even for me. But I suspect that’s what Abby was thinking when she questioned me about why I was going home early.
Why is it that my lust for Abby doesn’t conjure the same fear? When I want Abby, it only makes me angry at Elizabeth, but the opposite isn’t true. For some reason, I’m angry at Elizabeth now too.
“What are we watching?” I ask.
“It’s a Law & Order rerun.” Elizabeth laughs. “I’ll switch it. I’m sure you’ve seen enough courtroom drama for a while.”
“It’s fine. I’m really tired, anyway. I’ll probably be asleep before Charlotte.”
I take my glasses off and put them on the night table beside me. Then I turn away from the television and shut my eyes, hoping that sleep takes me soon.
Elizabeth strokes my hair for a few moments, most likely an effort to remind me that there are other options besides sleep. The last thing I remember is that she lowers the volume to allow me some rest.
38
Sitting in the witness box, Professor Andrew Heller embodies what Santa Claus would look like if he taught at a New England prep school for boys, which is to say that he’s approaching seventy years old, seemingly hasn’t lost a single white hair, has a full white beard, and completes the look with tortoiseshell glasses and a rep tie with the Harvard colors. All pulled together on his six-foot-four frame, he makes exactly the impression the government is paying him to make—a cross between the beneficence of Mr. Rogers and the authority of God.
Direct expert testimony is like a professional basketball game—it’s only worth watching the last two minutes. It takes Pavin almost an hour to go through Professor Heller’s curriculum vitae, at the end of which the jury knows that he’s won just about every prize there is to win in the field of economics. At last, Pavin’s about to get to the good part.
“In your expert opinion, Dr. Heller, did Mr. Ohlig know Salminol was being propped up solely by OPM making a market in that security?”
Heller’s not qualified to testify about what Ohlig knew, only what he thinks a reasonable person would know, and so I could object to the question. When I don’t, I earn another of Ohlig’s icy stares.
“He did,” Heller says in a confident voice.
“And do you further have an expert opinion concerning Mr. Ohlig’s state of mind regarding the value of Salminol at the time his company was selling it to the public?”
“Yes. Mr. Ohlig knew Salminol was about to go bankrupt, making its stock worthless. At the same time, he was directing his sales force to sell it as a can’t-miss investment.”
Pavin nods at the jury. They look back like an approving audience getting their money’s worth.
“Your witness,” he says without making eye contact with me.
My cross is as it’s been with all the government’s witnesses—short. I make the obvious points—Heller has no first-hand experience in trading, he has never met Ohlig, he knew nothing about Salminol until this case, and he’s being paid for his testimony. Then I’m done and I sit down.
“Are you just going to bend over and let this continue?!” Ohlig says as we’re packing up to leave for lunch.
Since Heller’s direct began, Ohlig has looked like just sitting next to me has been a struggle. Now that we’re out of the jury’s presence he’s having even more difficulty containing his rage. So much so that if we weren’t in a courtroom with armed guards, I actually think he might take a swing at me.
“And what would you have me do, Michael?”
“Try putting up more of a fight.”
“Trust me,” I say, and as soon as the words pass my lips I realize that’s the problem. “All objecting does at this point is signal to the jury we’re afraid of what he’s saying.”
Ohlig stares daggers at me. “So you decide that the best way to defend me is to kiss Professor Father Time’s ass.”
“Michael, the guy’s a Nobel Prize winner; we’re going to have to rely on Sansotta to offset him.” I should probably leave well enough alone, but I don’t. “I know we’ve had a couple of bad days, but I can’t change the facts.”
“Well, thank you very much, counselor, for that sparkling legal analysis.”
We’re at a stalemate. All that’s left is Ohlig’s glare repeating what he has already said—he’s not happy with the way this is going, and he blames me 100 percent.
“I’ve been telling you for weeks that Fieldston’s the guy,” I say. “He’ll be the government’s final witness.”
“There are a few more people left on their witness list,” Abby points out.
“Pavin’s not going to call them. After lunch, he’s going to call Fieldston, and then he’s going to rest. Fieldston will testify that Michael knew he was defrauding his customers, and that’s the last piece Pavin needs to convict.
“You better make damn sure he doesn’t get it,” Ohlig says, and then storms out of the courtroom.
On Thursdays, Judge Sullivan gives everyone a two-hour lunch break so that we can all catch up on our other work, returning phone calls and the like, during business hours. That means Abby and I are heading back to the office.
Before heading down to the war room, I stop back in my office to check my emails. There’s an envelope on my chair. It was hand-delivered, with my address printed out on a plain white label. Inside there’s a DVD that is equally nondescript; it could have been purchased at any electronics store. Taped to the disk is a card on white stock that contains only the printed message: “THIS MIGHT
HELP.”
I dial up the mailroom. A man with a heavy Spanish accent answers. I think he says his name is Jorge.
“Hi, this is Alex Miller. I received a package on my chair, but it doesn’t have any return address. Do you guys have a record of when we received it?”
“Who’s it from?” Jorge asks.
“I don’t know. There’s no return address or any markings. I was hoping you guys might have a record of where it came from.”
“Hold on.”
I wait a minute or two while Jorge yells in Spanish to others in the mailroom, apparently having forgotten to put me on hold. When he comes back on the line, he says, “I’m sorry, but nobody here knows anything about any package to you.”
This isn’t much of a surprise. It stands to reason that someone going through the trouble to make sure that nothing on the package can be traced back would be smart enough not to leave their name and number with the mailroom.
“Jorge, let me ask you this. If someone dropped it off with security downstairs, is it possible that they would have just sent it up to my chair?”
“They’re not supposed to,” he says. “All packages are to go through the mailroom. Ever since 9–11. If it’s a bomb or something, I guess they want us guys to explode.” He laughs, even though his analysis is probably correct.
I walk the disk down to the war room and wave it at Abby. “Look what I got.”
“What is it?”
“Don’t know. It was left on my office chair. No return address. The note only said that it might help. The mailroom has no record of any delivery to me. Whoever sent us this gift wants to be anonymous.”
“Yeah, I wonder who,” she says.
Abby pulls her laptop out of her bag and puts the disk in the drive. A few clicks later and we hear a woman’s voice. I don’t recognize who it is, but it’s mature, confident, and if such a thing is possible to ascertain from sound alone, she’s as sexy as hell.