A Conflict of Interest (18 page)

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. “He 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.

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 living 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.

My father used to say that you could tell the difference between a tennis player and someone who plays tennis by the way they hold a racquet. Those who were more than recreational players had a way of making it appear that the racquet was an extension of their arm. I was a tennis player, my father told me on many an occasion, whereas he merely played tennis. Sometimes he also mentioned that Michael Ohlig was a tennis player too.

Elizabeth holds a brush in that same way, leaving no doubt that she’s a painter, and not just someone who paints. But since Charlotte’s birth, it’s a sight I’ve rarely seen. In fact, I don’t think Elizabeth’s
painted other than with our daughter since she was born. The last time I asked Elizabeth about it, which was more than two years ago, she said that she was just too busy, pointing to Charlotte as Exhibit One.

I excuse myself to take a shower. I’ve been under the water for only a few minutes when I hear a hard knock on the door.

“What?” I yell after turning off the water.

“Honey, open the door,” Elizabeth says.

“I’m in the shower.”

“I know. You need to get out of the shower and open the door, please.” She says this forcefully, like when she commands Charlotte to take a time-out.

I pull the door open a crack and poke my lathered head through the small opening. “What? Can’t I shower in peace?”

“Alex, there are two policemen here to see you,” she says, looking frightened.

I’m done in thirty seconds. I dry off and put on a T-shirt and jeans to walk out to our living room, where I see that one of the policemen is actually a policewoman. She is much younger than her partner; so young, in fact, that I wonder if she might still be in training.

I wait, saying nothing for an awkward moment, assuming one of them will explain their presence. The female officer finally does the honors.

“I’m Officer Kenney and this is Officer Michaud. We’ve just explained to your wife that we received a call from the Palm Beach Sheriff’s Department. Apparently they had your address, but no phone number. They want you to call them as soon as possible. You’re supposed to ask for a Deputy John Gattia.”

She hands me a business card, with the back facing me. On it, in red pen, someone has written
John Gattia—561-555-4242—Palm Beach
. I expect one of them to tell me why I should call the Palm Beach Sheriff’s Department, but they act as if their mission is complete.

“What’s this about?” I finally ask, although I might as well have said,
What did Michael Ohlig do now?