A Conflict of Interest (45 page)

Knowing my mother, I wasn’t shocked at her plan for revenge. As she said in the note, since it was Ohlig’s fault she was going to end her life, she might as well take him down with her.

At first I regarded the note with almost Talmudic reverence, trying to parse the meaning behind the selection of every word, the nuance of each sentiment. Soon enough, however, I realized that even the most carefully drafted parts were not constructed with such fine attention to detail, and therefore my efforts to see more than the plain meaning were fruitless.

My mother’s note left no doubt that her affair with Ohlig began shortly after they first met at the Central Park tennis courts, and continued, off and on, for the next thirty-six years. Even my father’s meeting Ohlig at that bookstore, the one that supposedly triggered their reunion, was not a chance encounter.

No matter how it actually played out, it’s an inescapable conclusion that Michael Ohlig was responsible for the death of my parents. His urging my mother to confront my father must have induced his heart attack, and then Ohlig’s cavalier treatment of my mother caused her to take her own life.

He didn’t act alone, of course. My mother was at least as culpable, if not more so, in both deaths, but as she wrote, she was suffering the ultimate punishment for her actions. Judge Rodriguez spared Ohlig that fate. Even if he is not guilty of murder, that seems to me to be much more of a technicality than an excuse.

I called Clint Broden last week, telling him that I’d be going to Raiford, at which time I also explained the purpose of my visit. He originally asked if he could meet me there, about a four-hour drive from
his Miami office, but seemed relieved when I told him I wanted to do it alone. I’d told him I’d send him a copy of my mother’s suicide note, and he said he’d immediately begin the process of freeing Ohlig.

I explained to Broden that I had only recently found the note, careful to reveal only as much as necessary so as to provide a sufficient shield against the possibility of perjury charges stemming from my testimony at Ohlig’s trial. If Broden doubted the chronology I was suggesting, he didn’t say it, apparently willing to leave to Ohlig, or maybe to karma, whether further payback was warranted.

It often takes more than a week for any news from the outside world to reach an inmate, so it’s very possible that Ohlig has not been told anything about my visit. It’s even likely Ohlig didn’t know he had a visitor until the guards got him from his cell ten minutes ago, and didn’t know it was me until he saw my face. But even if Ohlig had been surprised, I know him well enough not to expect him to show it.

I press the first page of my mother’s note up against the glass. “They said that I could leave it for you, but I can’t pass it to you now, and you likely wouldn’t actually get it for a day or two.”

He nods, indicating that he’s fully aware of the prison procedures. “I’m sorry, Alex,” he says. “My eyes aren’t so good and I don’t have my glasses. You know that scene from
Godfather III
….” His voice trails off. I take it as a good omen that he’s made a joke, even if it’s a grim one about a murder at the end of the movie perpetrated by jamming eyeglasses into someone’s throat.

I read him the entire letter in a slow and steady voice. I practiced it out loud in the hotel this morning so I could make it through without breaking down. Ohlig didn’t need the dry run. He’s stoic throughout, staring straight ahead, looking like a passenger on a long flight.

“How long will it take?” he asks.

By his tone he could be asking about anything, but I know what he means. “It’s not as easy as it should be, but Clint Broden has already started the process. He said he can’t promise anything, but he hopes you’ll be released within six months, maybe a year. But it could be longer.”

I can almost see Ohlig’s thoughts. Six more months, maybe more. If all goes well for him, his total prison sentence will be less than a year, but it will probably have taken ten years off his life.

“I don’t know if you read my letters, Alex….” I nod to indicate I had, but it doesn’t seem to register with him. “I meant everything I wrote. I am very, very sorry for the suffering I caused you and your parents. I never wanted to be the person I became, and for the life of me, I just don’t know how it happened. I did love your mother, but …”

He doesn’t finish the thought, and I don’t ask him to. There is no “but” that will explain away all that’s transpired.

“Why now?” he asks. “Do you want something?”

Shortly after Ohlig’s sentencing, Broden offered to pay me for providing proof that my mother took her own life. He phrased it in a lawyerly way, of course, so there could be no claim that he was bribing me, if such a charge could apply to paying someone to come forward with the truth. I told Broden I was insulted by the suggestion I was withholding such critical evidence of a man’s innocence.

Ohlig’s query reveals he’s already surmised the most important piece of information—the part that I’m not going to admit—that I’ve known for some time that he was not guilty of murder. He’s questioning why I’m changing that position now, and his logical deduction is that it must be for money.

“I want to be rid of you, Michael. To have nothing to do with you ever again. To leave you to live with what you’ve done, and without your sins becoming my own.”

“I understand,” he says quietly, leaving it at that. We stare at each other in silence, the same way we did when he first entered the room.

Of course, it has occurred to me. Seeing that photograph of my father and Ohlig as younger men first put the thought in my head. That’s why I showed it to Abby in the first place, I suppose, even if it was subconscious: to get a second opinion. Once I considered Ohlig’s paternity a possibility, it led me to various other connections—my height, my hair, and maybe most tellingly of all, my mother’s life-long insistence that, at my core, none of my father could be found.

I can easily envision the drama of my mother’s courtship, each of the three parties playing their roles to perfection. My father thinking that he had been truly blessed to find someone as beautiful as my mother, her playing both ends against the middle, hoping for Ohlig, but keeping my father interested as an insurance policy. And Ohlig, unable to resist being the cad, betraying his best friend for the affections of a woman who, despite what he claims now, probably meant little to him, at least at the time.

Who knows what happened when my mother found out she was pregnant. I’m sure she would have hoped this would cause Ohlig to marry her, but if she did, she didn’t know him very well. That left her with my father, adoption, or abortion, and I suppose I should be pleased with her choice. Of course, it’s also possible that she never told Ohlig, anticipating his likely response without having to ask. Even if this were the case, the timing of my birth would still have put Ohlig on notice of the distinct possibility that he was my father. I sometimes think that’s why, of all the lawyers in New York City, he picked me to represent him. A last chance at some father-son bonding, perhaps.

There’s at least one flaw in this scenario—Ohlig must have known that I was withholding evidence that would exculpate him for murder and yet he never once suggested I was committing a form of patricide. A cynic might say that he didn’t know that I’d discovered her suicide note, or that he didn’t tell me about the possibility of his parentage because he thought I wouldn’t believe him, or that even if I did, it would anger me enough to ensure that I’d turn my back on him. It’s also possible he assumed that I had already figured it out on my own, or that my mother had told me, and therefore there was nothing for him to add.

I even have one other theory—that Ohlig withheld the truth because after all he had done, he wanted to do the right thing, for once.

I could find out, of course. His DNA is now on file, and so it wouldn’t take more than a scrape of my inner cheek to confirm whether we share a gene pool. But I don’t want to know. I meant what
I told him—I don’t want to have any attachment to him whatsoever. Even more fundamentally, whether he contributed the sperm that fertilized my mother’s egg has no real significance to who I am.

Of course, that only raises a more troubling question—Who am I? The man who cheated on Elizabeth? The man who violated my fiduciary duty to my partners by sleeping with a subordinate? The man who committed perjury to see Michael Ohlig go to prison for a crime he didn’t commit?

I’m all of them, I know. But I take solace in, of all things, the phrase found in every securities prospectus, even the one for Salminol—
past performance is not indicative of future results
—to mean that I don’t have to be only that man.

Although I recognize that our actions are not comparable, there’s a symmetry to it all that I find comforting. Like when you first discover that every circle’s radius is Pi squared, and with that realization comes the belief that there’s greater order to the world than you can see. Elizabeth and I both have reason to be angry, and yet we’re both optimistic about the future. I do not forgive Elizabeth for what she did as much as I understand why she did it, and love her despite her worst deeds because I know that they do not define her. I’m almost certain she’d say the same thing about her feelings toward me.

Whether that’s enough for a happy marriage remains to be seen, but it seems to be a good place to start. As Elizabeth said on the day Hope was born, we’ll be whatever we’re going to be, but at least we’re both committed to our being whatever we’re going to be together, to facing our difficulties instead of looking for an escape from them.

So far, I think we’re on the right track. I recall how difficult the first weeks of Charlotte’s life were, the sleep deprivation among other reasons that Elizabeth and I seemed to be forever sniping at each other, but during Hope’s first three months Elizabeth and I are more in sync, and more forgiving of each other when we’re not. Most importantly, when our children are asleep, and it’s just the two of us, I remember why I fell in love with Elizabeth, and hold on to that thought like a life preserver, knowing what I saw then is still there.

Like my infidelity to Elizabeth, I can never absolve myself of the role I played in sending Michael Ohlig to Raiford, but I’m here now to limit the damage as best I can. And, like with Elizabeth, I don’t forgive Ohlig for his betrayals as much as I understand them, and hope that he’s committed to a different path now. Perhaps in time he’ll feel that way about what I did to him, but that will be his decision.

I return the phone to its holder, and begin to step away from the glass divider when I hear a tapping. It’s Ohlig, asking me for a final word.

“Your father,” he says after I’ve put the receiver back to my ear, “he would be proud. Your mother always said how much you were like her, but in many ways, Alex, I think you are more your father’s son.”

My sincerest thanks to all the people at Simon & Schuster for making what I thought would always be just a dream into a reality. Ed Schlesinger took what I considered to be a finished product and made it better in more ways than I could have imagined, even improving upon my knowledge of Batman. Scott Miller of Trident Publishing has been a great advocate for my work. Without his help, my readership would have been limited to the friends and family listed two paragraphs below.

Ed Stackler was the very first person with any professional knowledge to suggest that I could someday see my work in print. I simply cannot credit him enough with not only shaping
A Conflict of Interest
to its present form, but giving me the encouragement to believe I could really be a writer. Although we’ve never met face-to-face (something I hope to remedy soon), I consider him a friend.

Heartfelt thanks also goes out to all my friends who read earlier versions of
A Conflict of Interest,
and whose comments and insights made it a much better book: Matt Brooks, John Firestone, Anna Grzymala-Busse, Allison Heller, Margaret Martin, Debbie Peikes, Ted Quinn, Elisa Chiara Reza, Ellice Schwab, Lisa Sheffield, and Marilyn Steinthal.

I must single out Clint Broden, who not only read the manuscript more than once, but helped me with certain criminal procedure issues and lent his name to the effort. Although the character Clint Broden is not based on the real Clint Broden, the real Clint Broden is the finest criminal defense lawyer I know.

I owe the greatest debt to my family for their support and encouragement. My daughter, Rebecca, was always interested in hearing plot developments and making suggestions, and her sister, Emily, would
often color pictures on the page opposite the one of what I was editing, making the process that much more enjoyable. Michael and Benjamin Plevin were both very good listeners and great promoters of my work to their friends’ parents. Jessica and Kevin Shacter (and Molly and Jack) helped by reminding me how lucky I am to have them as my family.

Above everyone else, this book would never have been written without Susan Steinthal’s support and encouragement. She read the manuscript more times than she could have imagined, correcting my grammar without making fun of me, and was always willing to talk about characters and plot, even when she would have preferred to play with the dog. For good measure, she even took my picture for the back cover. If it were just her contributions to the written words I would be forever grateful, but I am most appreciative of Susan’s contribution to my life because without her love, nothing else would matter.