A Conflict of Interest (5 page)

“The client ran a boutique brokerage house down in Florida. Apparently a hot stock he was promoting went south, and now the investors want his scalp.”

“I see you’ve already drunk the Kool Aid,” Paul says with a laugh.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I worked at one of those”—and he air quotes—“boutique brokerage firms between college and law school. They’re the ninth circle of hell. I lasted about four months and by the time I left, I was the second most senior guy in the whole place. I swear to you, they handcuffed—actually handcuffed—some poor schmo to his desk until he made a sale. They wouldn’t let him go to the bathroom or eat or anything. Sixteen hours. Imagine the worst frat house you can think of, and then imagine stealing money from senile retirees, and you’re about halfway there.”

“My guy says his shop wasn’t like that.”

“Of course not. How could I forget, all of your clients immediately admit whenever they’ve done something wrong.”

“Wait just a second,” I say with a laugh. “He’s not just
my
client. Mike Ohlig and OPM are clients of Cromwell Altman Rosenthal & White, which makes them your clients too.”

“OPM, huh?”

“You’ve heard of them?”

I’m not at all happy that Ohlig apparently has a reputation that precedes him. I had googled Ohlig, as I do with all my clients, but the search provided only hits to charity functions he attended and some
campaign contributions. The legal databases confirmed what Ohlig told me—OPM had only a handful of complaints against it, and none was within the last five years, which is a pretty good record considering how heavily securities firms are regulated and how litigious investors can be, especially in down markets.

“Well … I had a college buddy who worked for them—for three weeks—before he got the hell out of there.”

I think Paul’s going to say more, but he’s uncharacteristically silent.

“And?”

“Ohlig’s a family friend, right?”

“Not really. I mean, he was a friend of my father’s, but I don’t know him at all. He’s just a client to me. And by this point, I’ve got to know whatever there is to know about him. So, if you’ve got something, let’s hear it.”

“Well, sorry to tell you, but remember what I said about these guys living in the ninth circle of hell? That wouldn’t apply to your guy—he’s pretty much the devil himself.”

“Oh c’mon. He can’t be that bad. And anyway, how can you be sure it’s OPM where this friend of yours worked? That was like fifteen years ago, right?”

“Not quite,” he says, “more like thirteen, but I remember OPM because of the whole other people’s money thing.”

“Other people’s money?”

“Yeah. What did you think OPM stood for?”

I’m embarrassed that it never occurred to me to ask. I’d rather not share with Paul that I’ve missed something so obvious, so I sidestep the question.

“Let me get this straight. You’re telling me that you’re sure my client is now guilty of securities fraud because, during the first Clinton Administration, a buddy of yours didn’t like working at OPM, so he spent less than a month there. Do I have that right?”

“Waiter,” Paul calls out, gesturing with his hands. I turn around but there’s no waiter in sight, and so I realize he’s playing with me. “We need another glass of Kool Aid over here.”

First Abby, now Paul. Of course, they’re both probably right. It’s an almost inviolate rule of criminal defense work that clients lie to you.

For reasons I can’t yet articulate, however, I believe Ohlig is innocent. It’s not that his story rings particularly true. In fact, it’s one I’ve heard dozens of times before, but I take it on faith that my father’s closest friend is not a criminal.

W
hen I enter my apartment that evening, Charlotte literally leaps into my arms. I pull her close and twirl her around, as if we’re dancing in some 1940s Fred Astaire–Ginger Rogers movie, and then Elizabeth comes into view.

My father claimed that on the day he met my mother he went home and immediately told my grandmother he had met the woman he was going to marry. I had no such thunderbolt moment with Elizabeth. Rather, our relationship seemed to simply evolve until I asked her to marry me. I thought I had met the one, but I couldn’t say I really knew it, not beyond a reasonable doubt, anyway.

“Can you read me my story tonight, Daddy?” Charlotte asks, and then, playing the guilt card that children somehow learn very young, she adds, “You never do it and Mommy always does.”

I instinctively look up at Elizabeth, who narrows her eyes and purses her lips. It’s a gesture I know all too well, and it’s not one of my favorites. It says—See, even your daughter knows you’re never home.

“That sounds great, Charlotte,” I say. “I’d love to read to you tonight.”

I take Charlotte by the hand and lead her to her room, which we’ve christened the Pink Palace on account of the hot pink paint Charlotte selected. The wall opposite her bed is lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that hold as many volumes as a small bookstore, but Charlotte runs directly to the other wall, where an open cube serves as her night table. Within the opening sit no more than three books, which she has decreed the nightly rotation for her bedtime stories.

Charlotte grabs the one on top, without looking at the others. “This one,” she says thrusting the book toward me.

“An excellent choice,” I say, as if I’m the sommelier at a fancy restaurant and Charlotte has just selected the finest cabernet in the cellar.

I open the first page and begin. “Mr. Brown can—”

“Mooooooooooo,” Charlotte interrupts.

“Mooooooooooo,” I say back.

It continues like this through all of Mr. Brown’s talents—from his tick-tock, to his knock-knock, to his soft, soft whisper of the butterfly.

“Good night, my sweet Charlotte bear,” I say, pulling the blanket up to her shoulders when we’re done. I kiss the top of her head, taking in the floral scent of her shampoo, and tell her that I love her.

“She loves that book,” I say to Elizabeth when I enter our bedroom.

“I know. Her favorite part is the lightning sound. I can’t tell you how often she says, ‘But Mommy, lightning doesn’t make a sound, thunder does.’”

Like most couples viewed from afar, Elizabeth and I appear to be happy. I don’t think anyone would disagree too strenuously if I were to say that we’re both attractive, have excellent pedigrees, and a beautiful child. Of course, that doesn’t differentiate us in any way from nearly all of the other parents we know, but if you asked me, I’d say that the ones who are still married are also happy, basing my opinion on exactly the same criteria.

We met at a party in Cambridge during my second year of law school. When I first laid eyes on Elizabeth, the term that popped into my mind was “stunning.” She was far more than pretty, and even beautiful was too understated. She had fiery red hair and deep green eyes that gave her something of a feline quality. But it was her aloofness, oddly enough, that drew me in. There was something about her standing there alone that conveyed she’d be fine with or without you. For whatever reason, I took it as a challenge.

In the past few years, however, the independence I once found so attractive I have come to equate with distance. I wish that I could pinpoint what’s different now, if only to prove that
something
is different. At times I hope that it’s only some type of romantic fatigue, a malaise
that results from the sense that everything between us is as it always will be and all that there is to look forward to is more of the same, but in darker moments I fear that it’s something deeper, more fundamental than that.

Whatever the source, it often now seems that Elizabeth and I are at our best only in matters concerning Charlotte. There are moments when I think it’s still a strong enough foundation for a marriage, but at other times I fear we’re less lovers than business partners, tending to the joint venture of rearing our daughter.

“How’d it go today?” she asks when I join her in bed. “You met with your father’s friend, right?”

“Yeah. He’s paying a $2 million retainer, so that’s good.”

“He’s that guilty?” she says with a playful smile that was once a fixture in our banter, but now rarely appears.

“Not sure yet. At first I thought he was one of those pump-and-dump types who sells worthless securities to widows and retirees. But he swears he’s on the up and up.”

“And you believe him?”

“You say that like it’s unprecedented.”

“Well, isn’t it? Aren’t you the guy who had a foolproof system for figuring out which one of your clients was lying to you?” She pauses for dramatic effect, but I already know the punch line. It’s “whichever one is speaking, right?”

“That’s a joke. I’ve represented people who were innocent before.”

“Name one.”

I’m embarrassed I don’t have a name on the tip of my tongue. In fact, I’m scrolling back in my memory to before I made partner before I can recall someone who might fit the bill.

“What about that state senator? The guy who was charged in that bribery scheme. I thought he was innocent.”

She laughs. “Okay, you got me. I could, of course, point out that case was a long time ago, back before you became so cynical. And, if memory serves, you thought he was innocent, but he ended up getting convicted, right?”

I laugh with her. “All that means is that I’m due for another innocent one.”

“If it makes you happy to think he’s innocent, then by all means. I just hope your professional judgment isn’t being clouded by his almost mythical status in Miller family lore.”

“I’ve actually been thinking about that,” I say, taking on a more serious tone. “It’s not as if I knew him growing up or anything. Or at least I can’t remember knowing him. But when he was in my office, every time I looked at him, I couldn’t help but think about my father.”

“It’ll get easier,” she says, taking my hand. “Your father would be glad that you’re helping out his friend, and he’s very lucky to have you representing him.”

“Thanks. I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

Elizabeth keeps hold of my hand, her signal that she wants to make love. I can’t recall the last time she initiated the act, and even the last time we had sex is a bit murky. At least two weeks, but maybe it’s been a month, or longer. My failure to recall within a thirty-day time span is even more disconcerting than the drought itself. As if she senses my hesitation, Elizabeth leans into me, pressing her lips against mine.

When I was in college, my then-girlfriend claimed she could tell everything she needed to know about a guy from the first kiss. I laughed and said something about her being jaded, but she held her ground. The first kiss tells you whether they are givers or takers. “Everything else flows from that, if they’re comfortable or uptight, romantic, good in bed, everything,” she explained.

Like so much else about her, Elizabeth’s kiss has always been somewhat enigmatic to me. It is tight and off-putting at first, as if she’s not sure she is fully committed. Sometimes, but not always, it dissolves into a softness that seems that much more enjoyable because of the effort it took to get there.

Our first kiss this evening has not yielded any insight, and I move toward her again. We begin to kiss more passionately, my hands moving under her pajama top.

As I kiss Elizabeth’s neck, she whispers into my ear that she loves me. I know that my line is to repeat the sentiment back to her, but at first I say nothing, fully absorbed in trying to understand what Elizabeth means when she says it, and what I’ll mean by saying it back.

“I love you too,” I finally say.

B
eing selected as joint defense counsel is a bit like finding a golden ticket in a Wonka Bar. It creates a scenario most lawyers can only dream about—your fee is paid by an unlimited deep pocket that is not your client’s.

The way it works is that the corporate entity—in this case OPM—provides legal counsel to its employees, at its expense. The theory is that the corporation denies wrongdoing, and therefore its employees, who also deny wrongdoing, are entitled to legal representation as part of their employment.

In reality, however, it’s little more than a legal bribe to keep employees from admitting criminal conduct because as soon as someone in the joint defense claims something illegal occurred, the company immediately stops paying for their attorney. The company justifies this conduct on the grounds that any employee admitting guilt must either be lying or a criminal, and there’s no reason for the company to pay legal bills in either case.

In the course of a year, Cromwell Altman doles out enough joint defense work to support a dozen or more lawyers. The firm keeps a roster of lawyers that are acceptable to receive this largesse, and the lucky few on that list share two main characteristics: personal connection to Cromwell Altman’s managing partner, Aaron Littman, and practices almost entirely dependent on receiving such referrals. Like any good mafia don, Aaron controls when work is being distributed so as to ensure the loyalty of the recipients. As a result, the lawyers retained view Aaron as their client much more than the person they’re actually representing.

For the Ohlig joint defense group, Aaron tapped George Eastman, an old-timer who’s seemingly known Aaron forever, to represent Ohlig’s number two, a guy named Eric Fieldston. Jason Sheffield, a former Cromwell Altman associate, was assigned Matthew Trott, OPM’s head
of trading. Jane McMahan represents Ohlig’s secretary, Allison Shaw. And, in recognition that it was my case, Aaron allowed me one pick, with which I selected Joe Freeman, who was my college roommate, to represent OPM’s chief compliance officer, Mark Ruderman.

After each of the members of the joint defense team was retained, it took ten days for us to negotiate the actual agreement that would govern the terms of the joint representation. The Joint Defense Agreement turned out to be twelve single-spaced pages but said little more than that we’d keep each other’s secrets. Given that we’d all entered into dozens of such agreements before, the drafting exercise was just a reason for everyone to goose up their billable hours.