A Conflict of Interest (7 page)

“We’re putting in a personal appearance to tell Michael Ohlig that everything is going to be okay. Even though we know it’s not.”

I
’ve been in more than my share of clients’ twenty-million-dollar Hamptons’ estates and duplex apartments on Park Avenue, so I’m somewhat jaded when it comes to ostentatious real estate. New York money, at least in my experience, tends either to be old money or to try to look that way. Even the guy who struck it rich yesterday more often than not ends up buying a pre-war apartment and a country home that was built by robber barons in the 1920s, or that’s brand new construction designed to look like it was built by robber barons in the 1920s.

Ohlig’s house doesn’t fit at all within this paradigm. The exterior is starkly modern, glass and steel coming together at harsh angles. It reminds me more of an airport terminal than a residence, and Abby makes the somewhat obvious joke about whether he throws stones.

“Welcome,” says the tall, thin man who opens the large front door. He’s dressed in what must be the tropics version of a butler’s uniform—a tan suit, white shirt, and black tie. “My name is Carlos,” he tells us. “Mr. Ohlig asked me to bring you to the study. He will join you there momentarily. Coffee is already out, but please tell me if there is anything else I can get for either of you. Some breakfast, perhaps?”

“Thank you,” I tell him. “I’m fine.”

“Me too,” Abby says.

Carlos leads us past the entry hall and through the living room until we arrive at what he announces is the study. The room overlooks the Atlantic through large picture windows on two sides, while the far wall is lined with a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. The room’s center is dominated by a long white marble table surrounded by eight black leather chairs. Like all the other rooms I’ve seen so far, this space reminds me of the lair of a Bond villain.

I’m about to make a joke about whether the chairs are equipped to
deliver electric jolts when Abby says, “Do you have a bat pole behind the bookshelves in your apartment?”

I laugh. “I do, but when I slide down it, instead of a mask and cape, it puts me in an Armani suit.”

She laughs too. Unlike most beautiful women I’ve encountered, including my wife, Abby has a way of making you feel as if she is happiest when in your company. Somehow she conveys that every gesture is for you, and you alone. Her laugh is no exception.

“What’s so funny?” Ohlig says from behind me. Despite this morning’s turn of events, he looks like a man without a care in the world.

“Nothing,” I say. “An inside joke.” I turn to Abby. “Michael, this is—”

“The one and only Abigail Sloane,” he interrupts. He’s wearing a particularly wolfish grin. “I’m so glad to be able to put such a beautiful face to the voice.”

For a moment I’m startled, forgetting that Abby’s been talking to Ohlig more than I have as of late. She’s been the point person haranguing him about documents or asking him what something means. Ohlig most likely looked Abby up on the Cromwell Altman website, so he knew to expect that she is attractive, but the picture is a headshot only, and it doesn’t do her justice.

“Thank you,” Abby says, smiling broadly. She doesn’t seem offended; rather, it seems clear to me that Abby is well aware of the effect she has on men and considers Ohlig’s remark to be par for the course.

“You seem to be holding up well,” I say. “All things considered.”

“It’s not like you didn’t warn me this might happen.”

“I called the guys right after your phone call.” The “guys” is the shorthand we use for the lawyers in the joint defense group. “So far, not a peep out of the U.S. Attorney’s Office. Jane McMahan said she might reach out to the Assistant U.S. Attorney handling this case, but I asked her to wait a few days to see how everything shakes out.”

“Who do I pay her to represent?”

“Your secretary. Allison Shaw.”

Ohlig doesn’t show much emotion at my disclosure that Shaw may
soon be breaking bread with the government. “Anything we have to worry about there?” I ask.

“I’ve told you before, no. Allison and I are not—” he looks at Abby, and then, apparently thinking better of the term he was initially going to use, says, “we’re not romantically involved. And as for the business, she doesn’t know much, but she knows enough to know I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Okay, good. I expect some of the other lawyers will also go in and meet with Pavin. I’d prefer that there be a total cone of silence, but so long as it’s only the lawyers going in, we’ll be okay. Besides, it will give us some idea of what they’ve got.”

“I want to meet with him,” Ohlig says matter-of-factly.

“That just isn’t smart, Michael. A prosecutor ready to indict is simply not going to be persuaded by you telling him that you’re innocent. The only beneficiary of such a meeting is him—he gets to hear your defense and locks you into a story. And, to make life that much better for him, he could easily charge you with the felony of lying to him in the interview.”

“I can explain what happened in a way no one else can,” Ohlig says, as if he hadn’t heard what I just said. “They’re not going to drop this unless they’re convinced I’m innocent. The only way that’s ever going to happen is if I do the convincing.”

“We’ll have our opportunity to put on our defense. It’s just that now is not the right time.”

“And when is the right time?”

“When you take the witness stand at trial. And not a second before that.”

Ohlig again shakes his head at me, this time seemingly more in disgust than disagreement. “So you’ve already conceded an indictment?”

“Michael, part of my job is to be realistic about the state of play. It doesn’t mean I don’t believe in your innocence.”

A look of utter contempt comes over him, and for a moment I actually think he might lose his temper completely. Then, as if somewhere he’s flipped an internal switch, he smiles broadly instead. “What are the odds?” he asks.

“The what?” I say, not understanding his question.

“You believe I’m going to get indicted, right?”

I nod.

“So, what are the odds I won’t be? What are the odds I walk on this? No indictment.”

I hate giving a client odds of any potential occurrence. Odds always reflect a likelihood of an event happening or not, and in reality it happens or it doesn’t. Tell a client the odds are 90 percent of something occurring and then it happens, he says you were too conservative in your estimation. And God forbid you tell a client that there’s a 60 percent likelihood and then it doesn’t occur.

“Haven’t we been over this already?” I say. His expression tells me that I’m not going to get off that easily, and he wants to hear it again. “As we’ve discussed, the U.S. Attorneys’ Office in New York loves to prosecute bankers. So, you’re a very attractive defendant for Pavin to go after. In addition, these things often take on a momentum of their own. Once they devote the resources to review millions of pages of documents, if they don’t indict, it’s like it was a wasted effort. All of that, I’m afraid, makes it far more likely than not that they’re going to indict you.”

Ohlig looks like I’ve insulted him. “I know it’s
likely
I’m going to be indicted, Atticus Finch. What I’m asking you is, what are the odds that I
won’t
be? Ten to one? Hundred to one? Million to one? Give me your best guess.”

“Fifty to one,” I say, only fixing the odds there because I think any worse would sound as if I’d lost all hope.

A canny smile comes to Ohlig’s face; he’s gotten from me what he wanted. “Fifty to one,” he repeats. “You and I both know you think the odds are more like fifty thousand to one, right? But you’re the house for our purposes here, and you say fifty to one, so I’ll respect that. Okay. I’ll put up ten grand that I’m not indicted. But you owe me half a million if I walk.”

My discomfort with this line of discussion must be obvious. I want to look over at Abby to see how she’s reacting to this showdown, but I’m pretty sure I know.

“I’d love to take your action,” I tell him, “but I don’t have that kind of money.”

He chuckles, a condescending gesture if ever there was one. “Two minutes ago, my getting indicted was as certain as the sunrise. But now, when you’ve got something at stake, you’re suddenly not so sure.”

“I’m sorry, Michael. I think I missed your point.”

“It’s actually pretty simple,” he says, all evidence of good humor having vanished. “Nothing is certain when you’re the one at risk.”

M
y mother is waiting for me on her front lawn. The guard at the front gate must have called her when I passed that checkpoint, even though my name is on the permanent “let through” list.

“This is such a wonderful surprise,” she calls out as I walk up to greet her.

“I called you this morning to say I was coming,” I say, embracing her.

“I know, but before you called, I wasn’t expecting a visit from you until Thanksgiving. So it’s still a surprise. Are you here on a case?”

“Yes. I told you. I have a client down here.”

My mother leads me into her house, the first time I’ve been back since my father’s death. Oddly, it seems larger than the last time, although that may be because it was filled with people then, and before that it had always been occupied by my father too.

It’s strange to be back. I can’t shake the feeling that any moment my father will emerge from the bedroom wearing his red and blue pajama nightshirt, which was more of a dress, actually, and was his standard uniform at home, not unlike the one Scrooge wears.

“Have you eaten dinner?” I ask. “I’ll take you out.”

“Oh, thank you, but I just had some pasta. I can make you something if you’d like.”

“That’s okay. I’ll just have some cereal.”

We reassemble in her kitchen, me with a bowl of Frosted Flakes, while she has a glass of chardonnay.

“Are they stale?” my mother asks.

“No. They’re fine. I don’t think there’s an expiration date on Frosted Flakes.”

I take a visual inventory of my mother’s condition. She’s a very
attractive woman, always has been and, likely, always will be. She’s tall, five-nine she tells people, but I suspect she’s an inch or maybe two taller than that. Her hair is now blond, but it suits her, not at all brassy looking, and her only wrinkles are the crow’s-feet at the corner of her eyes, which most people think make her look more attractive. She’s always been extremely fit, even without adhering to any type of exercise regimen, so much so that she sometimes looks too thin, although she would say there’s no such thing.

There’s a part of me that would like her to appear more bereaved, but then I realize I’m being unfair. After all, I look the same as I normally do too, and it doesn’t mean that I’m not still in mourning.

“So, what’s your case about?” she asks.

The question surprises me. As I told Elizabeth, my mother almost never asks about my work. I hesitate for a moment to see if she’s going to say something to reveal she already knows Michael Ohlig is my client. When she doesn’t, I assume I’m just being paranoid and proceed to answer her question, although with as little detail as possible.

“It’s a stock trading case.”

“Did the guy do it?”

I laugh dismissively. “Sorry, no exception to the attorney-client privilege for moms.”

“Who am I going to tell?”

“That’s not the point. Let’s talk about something that won’t get me disbarred. Okay? So, how have you been?”

“I’m hanging in there. Everyone says you’ve got to take it one day at a time. So that’s what I’m doing.”

“Can’t argue with that advice. What are you doing each day at a time?”

“Same thing as always. Luckily for me, there always seems to be something to do. I play bridge with these other ladies on Wednesdays and Fridays, and I was just asked to help plan the Halloween party at the clubhouse. So, I’m keeping busy. I sometimes wonder how your father would have been without me if I was the one who died first.” Her eyes roll down and to the right, which I learned in a deposition
seminar is a sign of engaging in an internal monologue, but then she gives her head a slight shake, pushing whatever she was considering out of her mind.

“I know, Mom. I think about Dad all the time. Every time Charlotte does something, I can imagine how happy it would have made him, and then I feel this wave of sadness because I can’t tell him.”

“I just wasn’t prepared. Not that you’re ever prepared, but …” She chuckles, more to herself than to me. “You know, I don’t even know how to pump gas. That’s something your father always did.”

“I’ll show you,” I say, even though I know that wasn’t her point. “I know it doesn’t feel like this now, but you have a lot of life ahead of you. Dad would want you to be happy, to do the things you want to do.”

“Like what?” she says, almost as a challenge.

“You always said you wanted to travel, right? So, now you can.”

It was a constant complaint of my mother’s during my childhood—that she could never get my father to take a vacation. He was a one-man operation in the store and claimed he couldn’t trust anyone else to run it, even for a few days. Vacations were put on hold until “someday.”

My mother sits there, staring into her glass for a long time before finally saying, “Alex, do you think your father was happy?”

“Yes,” I say, out of reflex more than anything else. In truth, I always felt that my father was a difficult man to read. Some of that I attributed to sons never truly knowing their fathers, but her posing the question means that she also found him to be something of a mystery.

“No, really,” she presses me.

I sigh, signaling that I’ll take the question more seriously, although I’m still going to answer it the same way. “I know without a shadow of a doubt that he loved you very much. And me, too. He often said that was all that mattered in life. Loving your family. So, on the measure that he deemed most important, he was the happiest person I know.”

She shows a wan smile.

“I’m glad you think that,” she says.

“It sounds like you disagree.”

“I just don’t know. Can you imagine anything sadder than that? I was married to the man for more than thirty-five years, and I don’t know if he was happy.”