A Conflict of Interest (42 page)

She nods at me, without showing any hint of what she’s thinking. But there’s no need for her to say more.

I know she’s thinking that it actually has been my decision.

C
losing statements are the following morning. They track the openings, laying out the evidence. Robertson makes her case for murder, and Broden argues that the jurors must have some doubts about whether it could have been suicide.

Fictional courtroom portrayals usually show each side taking its turn. However, in real life, the prosecution gets a second bite at the apple during closing arguments, a rebuttal after the defense closes. The theory is that because they carry the burden of proof, they get the final word.

During rebuttal, for the first time all trial, Robertson seems at ease in the courtroom. “There is only one truth,” she tells the jurors. “There’s only one way that Mrs. Miller died. We have given you proof beyond a reasonable doubt that it’s murder. The defense would like you to believe that it’s something else, maybe suicide. But what it all boils down to is who do you believe: Mrs. Miller’s son, Alex, an attorney of impeccable reputation who understands the importance of truthful testimony, or Michael Ohlig, a man who admitted to all of you that he lied numerous times to protect himself? You can only believe one of them. Alex Miller told you that right before her death his mother was making plans to see her granddaughter in Disney World. He swore to you that his mother would never—
never
—have committed suicide under any circumstances. It is even more inconceivable that she would do so and not leave a note to explain her reasons or just to say good-bye to her only child and only granddaughter. Do you believe him? Or do you believe Michael Ohlig, a man who was cheating on his wife with his best friend’s wife? A man who lied to Mr. Miller not once, not twice, but several times? And why did he lie? Because, he said, he was afraid of his wife finding out about the affair. Well, if Mr. Ohlig would lie to avoid his wife finding out he was engaged in an affair, wouldn’t he surely lie to all of you to stay out of prison?”

The jury is out for a day and a half. Thursday afternoon, they finally file into the courtroom with a verdict in hand. I remember the feeling I had sitting next to Ohlig the last time this happened. I’m just as uncertain about the outcome, again wondering if decisions I made played a determinative role.

Elizabeth squeezes my hand, and this, too, takes me back to when I stood beside Ohlig as he accepted judgment in New York. Then I resisted making any physical contact with him so he’d know he was in it alone. Elizabeth’s gesture conveys the opposite. She’s with me, she’s saying. I caress the top of her hand, and think about how thankful I am that she’s here. More than she knows.

The theatrics are the same as before: The foreperson, this time a young woman, rises and walks the note to the judge. When she returns to her spot, Judge Rodriguez calls for Broden and Ohlig to stand to accept judgment.

“Madame Foreperson,” Judge Rodriguez says, “on the sole count of the indictment, murder in the first degree, how does this jury find?”

In a clear and loud voice, the young woman says: “Guilty.”

Ohlig shows little emotion, as if he had expected this outcome. He shakes Broden’s hand and then reaches over the gallery’s railing to embrace his wife. Pamela is less stoic, tears visibly running down her face.

“Quiet, please,” Judge Rodriguez says in a booming voice over what has by now become a fairly loud rumble from the gallery. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this completes your duty for what we call the guilt and innocence phase of the trial. However, your service is not yet finished. In this state, when the prosecutor has obtained a conviction for capital murder, a sentence of death by lethal injection may be imposed. It is now your obligation to hear and evaluate the evidence as to whether capital punishment is appropriate in this case. Please be advised, however, that you will not render sentence. Your verdict is solely an advisory opinion for me to consider. I will issue the sentence, but I will consider your opinion seriously.”

He pauses, surveying the mosaic of people in the jury box. “All right then,” he says, “I’m going to give everyone the day off tomorrow,
so the lawyers can prepare for the sentencing phase and so all of you in the jury can reconnect with your employers or families. But you continue to be under my jurisdiction, and you must return back to this courtroom on Monday at 9:30
A.M
. And, of course, while you’re away the same instructions that I’ve given you throughout this trial still apply. No talking to media or each other about the sentence.”

The jurors begin their single-file procession out of the courtroom. When the very last of them has receded from view, Broden calls out, “Your Honor, we request that Mr. Ohlig be permitted to remain free on bail pending sentencing.”

I can tell from the way Judge Rodriguez sighs that he’s not even going to consider the request. “Mr. Ohlig,” he says looking down from the bench, “as I’m sure your able counsel has already discussed with you, the presumption of innocence no longer applies to you. In the eyes of the law, you are now a murderer. As a result, I’m immediately revoking your bail.”

This pronouncement causes the first sound to come from Pamela, a loud gasp, even though this can’t truly be a surprise to her. As Judge Rodriguez said, Broden must have advised Ohlig that he’d be immediately taken into custody if he were found guilty.

During the trial, there have been one, sometimes two, court officers in the room. Now four uniformed guards approach Ohlig at counsel table, one of whom I can see reaching for handcuffs.

It’s yet another moment of déjà vu. Michael Ohlig’s pirouette as he’s being placed into custody. The last time he looked at me with an expression which, at the time, I thought was contrition. This time, as he’s being led from the courtroom in handcuffs, Ohlig stares at me with nothing but dead coldness in his eyes.

“This has got to be the worst celebratory dinner I’ve ever attended,” I say to Robertson. Elizabeth has joined us at an Irish bar called Mick Michaelson, which is across the street from the courthouse. It’s the kind of place with only burgers on the menu, but over a hundred different beers on tap.

“Sorry, the county of Palm Beach doesn’t spring for lobster and Dom Pérignon every time we put a murderer behind bars.”

I raise my beer mug. “Thank you,” I say. “To a successful prosecution.”

“I prefer to drink to justice being done,” Robertson says.

“To that then,” I say, taking a sip of my beer.

“I meant in the future sense. Like the judge said, we’re not done yet.”

I look at Elizabeth before saying anything. She nods, ever so slightly, telling me it’s okay to respond as we’d discussed I would.

“I know you’re not, Morgan, but I’m afraid I am. We’re heading home tomorrow morning, and I’m not coming back.”

“Alex, I need you for the sentencing phase.”

“I’m sorry,” I say in a flat voice, one that I hope gets across that she won’t be able to change my mind.

“I don’t understand. Family members are usually climbing over one another to give an impact statement. I need you to be at the hearing to speak for your mother. But more than that, I’m sure she’d want you there to see that Ohlig pays for what he did.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell her again. “My mother would understand that I’ve already done enough.”

T
rue to my word, I returned to New York with Elizabeth before the penalty hearing began. Robertson called when it ended. “Dueling experts,” she said, making a point to note that Ohlig didn’t return to the stand. That wasn’t surprising. Given that Ohlig wasn’t going to admit to the murder, his testifying would only make the jury think that he lacks remorse. Robertson told me that Judge Rodriguez said he’d pronounce the sentence today at five. She promised to call me as soon as she could.

It’s now a little after six, and I still haven’t heard from Robertson. At 5:30 I started obsessively checking the internet for news of the result, but to no avail.

“Any news?” Elizabeth asks when I look up from the laptop.

“Not yet.”

“Should we have dinner? Or do you want to wait?”

“No, let’s have dinner. I think it’s better if I pull myself away from the refresh button for a while.”

“Charlotte, dinner,” Elizabeth calls toward the Pink Palace.

Charlotte runs into the dining room. Climbing onto her chair, she asks what we’re having for dinner.

“Noodles,” Elizabeth tells her. “Your father and I are having salmon. You can taste it if you want.”

“Blech,” Charlotte says.

“That’s not very polite,” I tell her.

“Daddy, tell me again why Papa thought the Scary Lady looked like Grandma.”

Like most small children, Charlotte likes repetition. She asks to play the same games, watch the same television shows, and hear the same stories over and over again. For the last few weeks, she’s become fixated on the Scary Lady and asks about her nearly every time we sit down for dinner.

“Well,” I say, staring up at my former nemesis, now peacefully hanging on the wall looking down at our dining room table, “Papa was in a flea market one day and he saw a picture on one of the tables. Do you know what picture he saw?”

“Was it the Scary Lady?”

“It was. And he looked at it and he thought it looked like the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. The woman in the picture had dark hair and beautiful blue eyes, just like the woman Papa loved.”

“But Grandma had yellow hair.” This is a point Charlotte always makes at this juncture of the story—that the picture doesn’t look like my mother.

“When I was a little boy Grandma had dark brown hair, just like in the picture.”

“But why did Papa think all those lines on her face was like Grandma? Grandma didn’t have different colored lines on her face when you were little, right, Daddy?”

“That’s right, sweetie. The picture
reminded
Papa of Grandma even though it didn’t look exactly like her. What type of picture looks exactly like someone?”

“A photograph.”

“Right.”

“But sometimes a painting can too,” she says. “We saw a picture in school of a lady who was kind of smiling and it looked just like a lady.”

“That’s also right. But sometimes you draw a picture of me or Mommy or even yourself and it doesn’t look exactly like us, right? It may not have hands or a nose, but I still know it’s me.”

The phone rings. It’s a family rule not to answer the phone during mealtime, but Elizabeth jumps up at the first ring.

“Hello? Yes, he’s right here,” she says, and hands the phone to me, mouthing, “It’s Morgan.”

I walk into the bedroom for privacy. I don’t even say hello into the phone until after I’ve shut the door behind me and am seated on the corner of our bed.

“Hi, Morgan.”

“Did you hear?”

“I didn’t. What did he get?”

“Life. No parole.” She sounds halfhearted, to say the least.

“Congratulations.”

“For what? It’s losing, Alex. In Florida, that’s the only other sentence that can be given in a capital case.”

“I know. But it’s a good result. You did a great job on this case, Morgan. I’ll be eternally grateful to you.”

“I wanted the death penalty,” she says. “Maybe someday you’ll tell me why you didn’t.”

By the time I return to the dining room, Charlotte’s gone.

“I said she could eat in front of the television,” Elizabeth explains. “I thought you might want to talk.” Elizabeth places her hand on top of mine. “Is it what you thought?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you—” she searches for the right word—I can almost follow her thought pattern. Happy? Pleased? “Satisfied” is the one she settles on.

“I think so. Most of all, I’m just relieved it’s finally over.”

Elizabeth draws closer to me and kisses me on the cheek, which is followed by a meaningful hug. As is her usual practice, she doesn’t say what she’s thinking, instead leaving it to me to decipher her thoughts. Sometimes I think of it like learning a foreign language—if I continue to practice, someday I’ll be fluent.

I suspect she’s questioning whether it’s truly over, which, to misquote our former president, depends on what the meaning of the word “it” is. The Ohlig trial is over, but only in the sense that a verdict has been rendered and a sentence imposed.

T
he moment I walk through the large doors, the irony hits me. I’ve probably spent more time in courtrooms over the last year than I ever had before, and yet this is the first time I’m doing it as a lawyer in nearly a year. And the surroundings are anything but familiar.

New York Supreme Court, the majestic name notwithstanding, is actually a lower trial court (the highest court is the Court of Appeals). Cromwell Altman’s cases were almost always in federal court, which has jurisdiction over federal crimes such as insider training, securities fraud, and money laundering.

The distinction between state and federal courts is one that I didn’t even know existed until I took federal procedure in law school. I remember Professor Thalstein telling us on that first day:
All the legal training in the world isn’t worth a damn if you don’t know what building to go to.

Although there are juridictional differences, it’s the stark difference in comfort level between the two venues that matters most to me. Federal courthouses were built by the United States government and a finer example of pork spending by Congress would be hard to find, right down to the fact that the two newer federal courthouses in New York are named after the United States senators that made possible a billion-dollar expenditure on a single building. No expense was spared in either of them, from the high-tech audio and computer linkages to the leather chairs and twenty-foot ceilings. By contrast, the state courthouses serving Manhattan couldn’t be less impressive. They’re spread among several buildings, none of which appear to have been renovated in the last fifty years. The courtrooms themselves are poorly lit, and even more poorly ventilated, freezing in the winter and like ovens in the summer. Behind each state court judge’s bench is some type of quote—like
In God We Trust
or
And Justice For
All
—and I’ve never been in a courtroom in which every letter was still affixed to the wall.