A Conflict of Interest (17 page)

I make coffee and read the paper, enjoying the quiet at home, which I rarely experience. It is somewhat short-lived, however. Even though Charlotte went to bed late last night, she’s up by a quarter after eight. Thankfully, she goes straight into our bedroom to crawl into bed with Elizabeth.

At eight-thirty, Charlotte comes bounding out of the bedroom screaming “Happy birthday, Daddy!” Elizabeth is a few steps behind her, undoubtedly having just reminded Charlotte.

“Can I give you your present now, Daddy?”

“Let’s do this, Charlotte,” Elizabeth answers, “why don’t you watch some television in Mommy’s room, while Daddy and I have coffee. Then, when it’s time for breakfast, we’ll do presents.”

This is more than a fair compromise for Charlotte and she runs into the bedroom. Elizabeth and I share a laugh, and then Elizabeth goes to the coffeepot.

“Can I warm yours up?” she asks.

“Sure.”

When Elizabeth walks over to pour my cup, she kisses me on the top of my head. “Happy birthday, Alex. I’m so glad we’re going to spend the day together.”

I take a deep breath, which Elizabeth knows is a non-verbal cue that I’m withholding. I’m sure she also knows that it means I’m considering going into the office, but she pretends otherwise.

“What?” she asks.

“Nothing. We’re going to spend today together, but I’m going to have to go into the office for a little bit. That’s all.”

“You promised, Alex.”

“I promised that I’d spend the day with you and Charlotte, and I will. It’s not going to matter if I show up at the office for an hour. I’ll meet with the team, make sure that they’re not doing anything that’s a waste of time, and then I’ll come right home.”

Now it’s her turn to sigh deeply. I understand what she means, just as clearly as she did with me. She can’t believe that I’m going to go into the office today, and she knows that she’s not going to be able to change my mind.

I take advantage of the momentary silence to change the subject. “Last week, it was James Winters’s fiftieth birthday,” I say. “He’s a partner in the real estate group, and the firm had a little party for him. When I wished him a happy birthday, I told him that it was my birthday in a week, but it wasn’t a big birthday like fifty—instead I was only turning thirty-five. He looked at me and said, ‘I’ll let you in on a little secret. Thirty-five is the only birthday that really matters.’ I laughed and asked him why, and he said, ‘Because after you’re thirty-five, people expect you to know what you’re doing.’”

Elizabeth smiles politely at the punch line, which I’m sure she anticipated from the beginning of the story. “So, do you think what he said is true?” I ask.

“I don’t know, Alex. I guess I’ll find out in two years if people expect me to know what I’m doing.”

“Fair enough.”

“I’ll tell you one thing, though.”

I know by the fact that she’s requiring me to ask her what the one thing is that I’m not going to like the answer.

“What?”

“If the first few hours of your thirty-sixth year are any indication, I don’t think you know what you’re doing yet.”

When the phone rings, Elizabeth says I should let it go to voicemail. I check the caller ID before answering. It’s not Abby, but it’s still a call I need to take.

“It’s my mother,” I say to Elizabeth, and then, after picking it up, “Hi Mom.”

“Happy birthday.”

“Thanks. How are you?”

“Not so good.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Well, I just heard some very disturbing news.”

“What?”

“I just heard from a friend that Michael Ohlig is about to go on trial for securities fraud, and that you’re his lawyer. Alex, how could you keep something like that from me?”

“I’m sorry, Mom. He asked me not to tell you.”

“Alex, I’m your mother.”

“I know. But I’ve got professional obligations, and one of them is that I can’t break a client’s confidences. I thought about turning the case down, just so I wouldn’t have any secrets from you, but I thought you’d be more upset if I did that. And, even if I didn’t represent him, I still wouldn’t be able to tell you about his situation. Besides, I thought that it would make Dad happy that I was doing it and, in a weird way, it makes me feel closer to Dad when I’m with Michael.”

“I’m very hurt that you didn’t tell me, Alex.”

“I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad at me about this.”

“When my friend told me about it, she was just flabbergasted that I didn’t already know. I felt like such a fool.”

I wonder how many times I can say “I’m sorry” in one conversation, but I do it again.

There’s enough silence for her to get her point across that she’s still upset, and then she says, “I don’t want to fight with you, Alex. Especially on your birthday. I can’t believe it’s been thirty-five years. When did that happen?”

“It certainly goes by quickly. I can’t believe Charlotte’s in kindergarten already.”

“How is she?”

“She’s great. She just gave me a bunch of pictures she drew as my gift.”

“That’s nice. What did Elizabeth give you?”

“Nothing yet. We’re going to lunch today at this place we all like, especially Charlotte. It’s kind of a birthday tradition and we all order milk shakes. And then we may go to the movies or something. There’s a new Disney movie Charlotte wants to see.” I chuckle. “It actually won’t be that different than Charlotte’s birthday, come to think of it.”

My mother doesn’t say anything in response and so there’s another long period of silence. “I miss Dad,” I say. “I miss him every day, but it’s sad not being able to talk to him on my birthday, you know?”

“I know. I get so mad at him sometimes because he should have taken better care of himself. I begged him to see a doctor and he just never would.”

“I’m not sure it mattered in the end. I mean, what could an annual physical have done for him anyway?”

“I know. That’s what I tell myself too. That once someone’s gone, it really doesn’t matter why, right?”

“Right,” I say. “So, have you reconsidered about Thanksgiving? You can still come up. It’s not too late, although by Thursday it will be.”

“No …” and then her tone changes, back to anger. “You know, Alex, I’m such an idiot. I just put it together. It’s Michael Ohlig’s case that’s keeping you in New York, isn’t it?”

“It is,” I say with a sigh. “The trial starts a week from Tuesday. He’s going to be in New York on Monday to work with us this week, but we’re definitely going to take off Thanksgiving.”

“Is Michael going to be with you for Thanksgiving?”

“No. It’s just Elizabeth’s family. And you, of course. Anyway, I think he’s going back to Florida to spend it with his family.”

“Can you do me a favor, please?”

“Sure, Mom.”

“Don’t tell him that I know. He obviously didn’t want me to know, so I don’t want to upset him. I imagine he’s got a lot on his mind right now.”

“Okay. I won’t tell him. We’ll invoke mother-son privilege.”

“Thanks,” she says with a weak chuckle. “Do you think he’s going to go to jail?”

Most people ask if my clients are innocent. My mother is much more practical, I guess.

“I hope not,” I say. “It’s my job to make sure he doesn’t.”

“No, really. Do you think he will?”

“Really, I don’t know, Mom. I think he’s innocent though, if that matters.”

“If he’s convicted, will he go to jail?”

There’s no reason to lie to her. “Yes,” I say flatly.

“For how long?”

“I don’t know.”

“Will it be like a year or a long time?”

“A long time.”

The day plays out almost exactly as I told my mother. We go out to lunch to EJ’s, a diner (although it proclaims itself a luncheonette) near our apartment that Charlotte calls her favorite restaurant in the entire world. And we all order milk shakes—black and white for Charlotte, peanut butter and jelly for me (which actually isn’t as bad as it sounds), and strawberry for Elizabeth.

Then on to the Disney movie, which turns out to be a Pixar film. I doze off slightly in the middle without missing any of the story, which has something to do with secret agent rodents and a plot to destroy all the cheese in France.

After the movie, Charlotte asks when we’re going to have cake. Elizabeth says she still needs to get it, as well as “some other things,” which I can only assume also includes a birthday gift for me.

“This sounds like a good time for us to separate then,” I say. “Why don’t you both run your errands, and I’ll put in a quick appearance at the office, and then we can meet back at the apartment. No later than six,” I add.

Elizabeth still doesn’t look happy about this plan, even though it’s clear she has an hour or so of things to do that I cannot attend, but I
understand that she’d prefer I sit in the apartment and watch television rather than go to the office. “Okay,” she finally relents.

I call the war room from the cab and tell Abby that I should be at the office in ten minutes.

“Let’s meet in the empty conference room next to the war room,” she says. “That way none of the temps will bother us and there’s no chance we’ll destroy something.”

“It sounds like this is going to be a messy celebration,” I say, clearly flirting.

“You never know,” she says in a similar tone.

I find her in the war room. She tells me to go next door while she gathers up some things.

When she walks into the conference room, she closes the door behind her. In one hand is a brown paper shopping bag and the other holds a wrapped gift about the size of a cell phone.

“First,” she says, reaching into the bag, “a toast.”

She pulls out a full-sized bottle of champagne.

“La Fleur,” I say. “Fancy.”

“Only the best for you, Alex. You know that.” She hands me the bottle to open. “This was the part I thought might get messy,” she says nodding at the champagne bottle. “I don’t know what you were thinking, Mr. Mind-in-the-Gutter.”

I laugh. “You would think my mind was in the gutter only if your mind was in the gutter.”

The champagne bottle opens with a loud pop, but I catch the cork without allowing it to shoot across the room. I’m not able to stop the champagne from spilling out of the top, and Abby grabs the bottle from my hand and drinks the overflow.

“Nice catch,” I say.

“I hate when even a drop goes wasted.”

She reaches back into the bag and pulls out two plastic champagne flutes and hands them to me. After I pour each of us a glass, she raises hers to eye level and says, “To the birthday that changes everything.”

I told Abby about Winters’s comment right after, maybe even during, the party. “You remembered?” I say.

“Of course, I remembered. What, you don’t think I’m listening to you when you talk?”

I touch my glass to hers, and we both take a sip.

She pulls out two white-and-white cookies along with two candles—one in the shape of the number 3, and the other in the shape of the number 5. Then she pushes the cookies together, so that they form a figure eight, and places a candle in each cookie.

“I have to tell you, I was a little worried about running afoul of the fire code if I went all out with the candles, so I thought that this would do the trick. Oh, I forgot …” She reaches back into her bag a second time and pulls out a lighter.

She carefully lights both candles and then favors me with a full-on smile. “Get ready now because I’m going to sing again.” She sings “Happy Birthday,” this time channeling Marilyn Monroe, and when she’s finished I’m applauding as if I’ve never heard anything so beautiful.

“Time to make a wish and blow,” she says. “You know how to do that, right?”

I’m tempted to tell her that she’s morphed from Marilyn to Mae West, but I’m preoccupied by the request. My normal go-to wish is the health and happiness of my family. Perhaps I should include myself in the equation this year. Maybe I should wish that thirty-five is when I finally do know what I’m doing. Then again, part of me just wants to wish that Abby and I make love soon. Without consequences, of course.

I don’t settle on any one wish but blow out the candles anyway. “But wait, there’s more,” she says excitedly, like the infomercial barkers. “The present.”

The box is light, and I have no idea what it might be. “Can I open it now?” I ask.

“Of course.”

They’re cufflinks. But more than that, they’re cufflinks in the shape of the Batman symbol.

“I love them.”

“Really?”

“Really. I now know what I’m wearing on the first day of the trial.”

We eat the cookies and finish the champagne in our glasses. Abby begins to pour me another glass, but I stop her.

“I can’t go home drunk. I told Elizabeth that duty called, which is why I was coming in.”

“That means we’re still going to have to celebrate your birthday for real. Okay?”

“Okay,” I say.

“Promise?”

“Yes, I promise.”

My day ends in bed with Elizabeth. “Did you have a nice birthday?” she asks.

“I did. Thank you.”

“No need to thank me, Alex. Not until I give you your present, anyway.”

She reaches under her pillow and hands me a tie box with the Barney’s logo on the front, and a white satin ribbon around the corners. Inside is a blue and white striped tie.

“I thought you could use a new lucky tie for the trial,” she says. “I didn’t want to get you anything too flashy. I hope you like it.”

“I do,” I say to her, but can’t help thinking that I like the cufflinks more.

T
he Wednesday before Thanksgiving, Cromwell Altman lets everyone go at 2
P.M
. to get a jump on the long weekend. Michael Ohlig, however, had another idea. It’s now close to five, and Abby and I are still in the war room with him, no end in sight.

Some clients don’t want to be involved in their defense and treat their lawyers the way they do their auto mechanics—they don’t need to know what’s broken or how to fix it, so long as when they get the car back everything runs properly. Others want to be active participants, talking over strategy, scribbling questions during cross-examination.

It came as no surprise to me that Ohlig fell into the latter camp, but he brought it to an entirely new level by demanding to hear my draft opening statement. I’ve done it twice already this afternoon, with Ohlig offering critiques on everything from the word choice to the cadence of my voice.