A Conflict of Interest (34 page)

“Do you love her?”

It’s not the first time I’ve entertained the thought, of course. And, most of the time I considered it, I concluded that my feelings for Abby must be love. What else is it when a person consumes your every thought, when just being in her presence makes you happier than you ever thought possible?

But if it was love, I wouldn’t have ended it, I tell myself. Maybe it was lust. Or longing. Or just loneliness. No matter what I once felt, however, I can honestly say that I’ll never feel it again for her. Not after what Abby did. Isn’t that what’s most important now, anyway?

“No, I don’t love her,” I answer.

Elizabeth doesn’t seem the least bit pleased by my answer, which is hardly a surprise. I wonder if she wouldn’t have found it somewhat redeeming if I was in love, elevating the betrayal above the pursuit of mere physical pleasure. More likely, nothing I say is going to make her any happier, and I should respect that.

“I guess the more important question is whether you still love me. Do you, Alex? Do you love me?”

A
ll the while I was at Cromwell Altman, I dreamed of what it would be like not to work. In those fantasies, I went to the gym every day, took long walks in the park, picked Charlotte up from school, and read the great books I missed in college.

In the month since I was so unceremoniously sacked by Cromwell Altman, the reality of my unemployment has proven to be far different. With nothing to do all day and a wife who appears disgusted by the sight of me, I have difficulty finding a reason to get out of bed. When I gather up the strength to do so, I rarely leave the apartment, spending my days watching a lot of bad television and scarfing down junk food. Every so often Elizabeth tells me to get out because she wants some alone time, in which case I go to the Starbucks on 79th and Lexington and wonder why the other patrons don’t have jobs to go to, and if they’re just as depressed as me.

It is therefore hardly a surprise that Elizabeth is confused when I emerge from our bedroom at 9:00
A.M
. wearing a business suit, a white collared shirt, and a tie. Elizabeth is in running clothes, but it’s difficult for me to tell if she’s coming or going. If it had been two weeks ago, I would have said going, as she was obviously looking for any excuse not to share the same space with me, be it in the apartment during the day or our bed at night. In the last week or so, some of that coldness has thawed. Twice we’ve had breakfast together and a few nights ago we watched a movie on pay-per-view. The bedroom is still off limits to me, which in some ways is just as well.

“I have that meeting with Clint Broden,” I say. When it looks as if the name means nothing to her, I add, “the guy representing Michael Ohlig. I told you about it last week.”

At Cromwell Altman, we referred to his kind as a television lawyer. The guy who either has the celebrity client of the day and is trying
the case in the press, or is otherwise pontificating on television about someone else’s case.

I had read that Ohlig retained Broden to represent him in my mother’s murder trial, and so Broden’s call last week had not come completely out of the blue. It made perfect sense that Ohlig opted for Broden this time around. In his last trial, he was being accused of corporate crimes in federal court, in a case that demanded the review and understanding of millions of pages of documents, and so he went with a white-shoe corporate law firm. But a murder trial—especially, I imagine, one in Florida—is more like a street fight than a chess match, and Clint Broden is the legal world’s equivalent of the ultimate fighting champion.

“I didn’t think you were actually going to go,” Elizabeth says, sounding suspicious, as if I’m making up the entire meeting as a pretext to be somewhere else. Under the circumstances, I don’t begrudge her this paranoia.

“I’d rather not, but Broden played on my professional obligation. Apparently, I have a fiduciary duty to bring new counsel up to speed about the prior representation.”

“Even when the client in question killed your mother?”

“I made that point to Broden. I guess the real reason I’m going is because I have a morbid curiosity about the whole thing. Like rubbernecking at a traffic accident. I know it’s best for me to let it go, but I want to know what the evidence looks like, what Ohlig’s defense is going to be.” I look at Elizabeth to see if she’s getting any of this.

“Do you want to talk about it? It’s okay if you don’t.”

This is the way we’ve been communicating lately. There’s an exaggerated formality between us, characterized by each of us offering the other multiple-choice options on even the most trivial of matters.
Would you mind if I watch television with you, or would you prefer some quiet time?
Or,
I’d like to take Charlotte to school tomorrow morning. Are you okay with that, and if so, can you pick her up?

“When it’s over, maybe,” I say, careful to add, “thank you.”

When I arrive at Broden’s office, I am greeted by one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. She identifies herself as his receptionist and directs me to have a seat.

The office is opulent in a way I have never seen in even the largest of law firms, complete with its own panorama of Central Park that rivals Cromwell Altman’s view. As I wait in reception, I peruse a large, leatherbound book without a title that rests on an antique end table. It is a map of sorts, identifying the artwork that hangs in the office, the artists, and where each piece was purchased. On the matching end table is a second book, this one listing the same information for the artwork that hangs in Broden’s Miami office, which he maintains to service his large percentage of clients in the drug-trafficking trade. The price of each piece of art is omitted, of course, but the message is clear: Broden’s clients spare no expense in retaining him.

“Hi, Alex. Clint Broden,” he says as I’m flipping through one of the books. I stand and shake his hand.

Broden is a small man, not more than five and a half feet tall and a hundred and sixty pounds after a full meal. But there is a heft to him that signals he’s a man of wealth and taste, as Mick Jagger so aptly put it. He’s known for dressing with some flash, and for this meeting he’s wearing a contrasting white collar on his blue striped shirt, oversized gold cufflinks, and a large watch ringed with diamonds. I normally don’t even register the eye color of the men I meet, but there is something penetrating in Broden’s stare, such that I immediately feel pulled in by his ice-blue eyes.

He leads me toward his private office, and as we’re walking he lobs his first surprise. “Michael is already here,” he says.

I stop short. I knew that Ohlig had made bail, so that’s not the reason I’m surprised he’s here. After Ohlig showed up for trial in the securities fraud action, which posed the risk of life in prison, Broden was able to convince the Florida judge that it was foolish to think Ohlig would consider fleeing, even though the death penalty is a possible outcome this time. I wonder if it’s Broden’s pull with the state judge or Ohlig’s money that has allowed him to keep his freedom. On
the other hand, I have no doubt that Ohlig isn’t actually a flight risk. Running would admit guilt, and I’m now convinced that he’s just not built that way.

What surprises me, however, is that this is the first I’d heard that I’ll have to face Ohlig. I don’t think the bait-and-switch was by happenstance.

“On the phone you told me this meeting would be just the two of us,” I say to Broden. “‘Lawyer-to-lawyer’ was the phrase I believe you used.”

Broden smiles at me, a look that says that he wasn’t trying to be deceptive. “As you know, perhaps better than anyone else, sometimes Michael has his own agenda.”

With that he extends his arm to open the door to his office.

Broden’s office is the size of at least three partner offices at Cromwell Altman—larger than Aaron Littman’s even—and reminds me of the drawing room of a mansion on Fifth Avenue. The furniture is rich in color and texture, deep brown leathers mixed with red velvets and blue silks. The desk is enormous and strikingly modern, without even a scrap of paper on it. Two flat-screen televisions adorn the wall opposite the park, and between them is a large working fireplace, flames crackling inside. The art book in reception and my introductory art classes in college have already prepared me for the fact that the most valuable pieces reside here, including a large Miro that had only recently been purchased at Sotheby’s.

Ohlig sits in a high-back leather chair beside the fire. He looks at me smugly, and I can’t help but think that he should be wearing an orange jumpsuit and not the bespoke gray flannel number he’s sporting.

Broden points to the chair closest to Ohlig, but despite the seating plan, I select the chair farthest from him, deliberately offering Ohlig a sneer as I pass. Broden settles into the chair between us without saying a word, as if everything is still going exactly according to plan.

“Thank you again so much for coming in, Alex,” Broden says as he arranges himself in his seat. “It would have been easy for you to ignore me, so I want to start off by telling you how much I appreciate your agreeing to meet.”

It doesn’t escape me that Broden is prefacing his comments as if I’m doing him a personal favor that has nothing to do with Michael Ohlig. He wants this to be between him and me because that way there should be no bad blood. I imagine he pointed out to Ohlig several times the disadvantages of his presence at this meeting, and his client simply overruled him. In this way, Broden is right—I do know all too well the challenges Broden faces in representing Michael Ohlig.

“Ground rules?” Broden says, his inflection making it sound like a question. I nod, telling him that the floor remains his. “I’ve asked Michael to be here today.” He stops and catches Ohlig’s eye. “Actually, I misspoke.
Michael
asked me if he could be here today. I agreed, with the following proviso: he will not speak, and you should infer nothing by his silence. He is aware that you no longer represent him, and therefore that certain aspects of this meeting will not be subject to the attorney-client privilege.”

“I understand the parameters of the privilege,” I say, deliberately sounding annoyed by Broden’s lecture, although I would have given exactly the same one were I in his shoes. “What I don’t understand is what you want from me.”

“A fair question,” Broden says with a smile that, despite my knowing better, I find disarming. “Before answering you, I’d like to make one more point.” He looks to me, as if he’s waiting for my permission to make this very important pronouncement. This time I offer no encouragement.

“Thank you,” he says, either because he views my silence as acquiescence or that’s the way he had scripted it, assuming I’d say something to signal my assent. “Michael has asked me to say in no uncertain terms that he’s eternally grateful for all you did for him in the OPM trial. He knows that he owes his freedom—his life, actually—to your skill and dedication. And he feels absolutely terrible that things have turned out the way they have. He’s also aware of what happened at Cromwell Altman, and he is very sorry for your setback, and is confident you will land on your feet.
But
”—Broden puts a strong emphasis on the word, as if he’s addressing a jury—“Michael is completely
innocent of these new charges, and he once again needs your help to make sure that a gross injustice doesn’t occur.”

“Completely innocent,” I repeat. “It’s not like I haven’t heard that from clients before, right?”

“Maybe,” Broden concedes, “but I believe him. And from what he tells me, you believe him too.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“That you know he didn’t kill your mother.”

“Well, that’s news to me, Michael,” I say, annoyed at this construct of Broden as interpreter.

Broden shakes his head at Ohlig, the non-verbal cue that he shouldn’t rise to my bait. “Michael is certain your mother … forgive me for saying this, Alex, but your mother was not murdered by anyone. It will be our defense at trial that your mother took her own life. It’s the only conclusion consistent with the evidence.”

“You mean other than that your client’s a murderer?”

“Please, Alex,” Broden says soothingly, “let’s keep this on a professional level. I know that’s asking a lot given how hard all of this must be on you, but I think it will be best for everyone if we all refrain from personal attacks. I understand that, at first, you also believed your mother took her own life. Given that no one knew your mother better than you, it’s important we place before the jury your initial assumptions about her death.”

So this is why I’m here. For them to see how hard a line I’m going to take on this issue.

“Well, that’s just not true.” I say this firmly, looking first at Broden, and then at Ohlig. “In fact, I recall him saying that he was positive that she did not kill herself.”

“So, you were discussing the possibility of suicide,” Broden says, “and, at that time, before the evidence was known, Mr. Ohlig said that he did not believe it was a suicide.”

This is why smart people don’t meet with the other side’s lawyer before trial. “No, that’s not the way I recall it at all,” I say.

“Michael told me that you and he discussed the possibility that your mother committed suicide on at least two occasions,” Broden
replies. “First, you said it at your mother’s funeral. Pamela Ohlig corroborates this account. The second time was when you met privately with Michael after you learned of his romantic involvement with your mother.”

I laugh. “So, Michael told you I said that my mother killed herself, and then to prove the point you tell me that his wife says so, too.
That’s
what you’ve got?” I laugh again, louder this time. “Very compelling stuff.” Then, turning to Ohlig: “You know, Michael, if you’re going to lie, go all out, man. Why not just say that
I
confessed to killing my mother?” They both look at me grim-faced. “Well, I hate to disappoint you guys, but I never thought my mother killed herself and I never said anything of the kind to Michael, as he damn well knows.”