Losing Faith (27 page)

After Rosenthal leaves, Cynthia says, “Aaron absolutely adores Sam, but I swear, the man is something of a stranger to human emotion. It’s as if the empathy bone just isn’t in him.”

Even though Rachel feels the same way, for some reason she feels the need to defend Rosenthal. “I think this is hitting him pretty hard. It always seemed to me that Aaron was like a son to him.”

Before Cynthia can respond the guard says, “Mrs. Littman. You can go in now.”

AARON CAN’T SAY THAT
he’s pleased to see his wife enter the visitors’ room. The pain in her face is so blinding that Aaron has to turn away. It’s as if she’s become disfigured by her suffering.

“I’m so sorry, Cynthia,” he says.

Cynthia places her hand on top of his. Aaron wonders if such physical contact between inmates and visitors is permitted, but none of the guards at the corners of the room tell him otherwise, and so he takes refuge in the warmth of Cynthia’s touch.

“How are the girls doing?”

Cynthia’s expression falls even lower. “Honestly, I’m not sure. They must be terrified. But they’re trying to hold it together. They told me to tell you that they love you.”

Aaron can’t recall the last times the girls told him that they loved him. As he’s wondering if they actually said that or Cynthia is being kind, she removes her hand from Aaron’s and her posture stiffens.

“Can you answer one question for me, Aaron? And do it honestly?”

“Okay,” he says tentatively. He’s already declared his innocence to Cynthia, but he knows that she’s not going to ask him anything about Faith.

“Do you still love me?”

“Of course I do. I love you, Cynthia.”

As much as Aaron knows anything anymore, he knows that’s true. He loves his wife, and believes he always will.

He only fears that this realization has come too late. That his love will also be a prisoner in this cell forever.

41

I
n the nearly fifty years that Sam Rosenthal has been associated with Cromwell Altman, he does not recall there ever being an emergency meeting of the COC. But on the Sunday morning after the prom, the entire COC is assembled around the conference room table, with the exception of Aaron Littman, of course.

Rosenthal feels his age, which is unusual for him. Most of the time, his limp notwithstanding, he feels stronger than he did twenty years before, but this morning every movement seems labored. He barely slept last night and then awoke before dawn to go see Aaron. Worse still, he knows that there will be many sleepless nights to follow.

Sitting across from Aaron’s empty chair, Rosenthal calls the meeting to order. There is usually considerable cross talk among the members of the COC before the meeting gets under way, but today you can hear a pin drop. To a person, they’re waiting to hear what Rosenthal has to say.

“Thank you for coming this morning,” he begins. “There are two things I want to do today. First, I want to tell you about what’s going on, as best as I know, and as best I can share consistent with the attorney-client privilege.”

“Wait a second,” Pierce says, interrupting. “What privilege do you have that we don’t?”

“I’m acting as Aaron’s counsel. As such, there are communications between us that I cannot share with the rest of you.”

“When was this decided?” Pierce says. “I don’t remember a conflict check going around the firm. And there was no new matter opened to indicate that Aaron was seeking representation by the firm.”

Abby Sloane comes to Sam’s defense. “Donald, let Sam say what he brought us here to say,” she snaps. “Then you can make whatever points you want, but I’m telling you right now that it would be a huge mistake if the firm did
not
represent Aaron. He’s our partner, for God’s sake. The one thing we most certainly don’t want to do is send the message to our clients that our own partner—the head of the firm—chose another law firm to represent him.”

That’s enough to quiet Pierce down, at least for the moment.

“How is Aaron doing?” Jane Cleary asks.

“He’s fine, under the circumstances,” Rosenthal says. “Obviously, he’s looking forward to clearing his name. There is no doubt in my mind that Aaron is innocent and will be vindicated. Tomorrow we will appear before a magistrate judge and ask for bail.”

“What’s the likelihood of his making bail?” Gregg Goldman asks.

“Realistically . . . it’s even money,” Rosenthal says. “A lot depends on which magistrate judge gets assigned, but this type of situation—the murder of a fellow judge—makes it difficult to handicap how even the most lenient judge will rule.”

Rosenthal makes direct eye contact with each of his fellow COC members before going on to the next point. Other than Pierce, he has their attention.

“But I understand that we need to do more than just protect our partner. We also need to protect the firm. And that leads me to the second matter for which I called this meeting. Given Aaron’s incarceration, we need to elect a new chairman.”

Like clockwork, Pierce says, “And let me guess. You propose that you will—with a heavy heart, of course—take on the mantle of leadership. Do I have that right?”

Rosenthal and Pierce stare hard at each other, like two gunslingers in the Old West.

Elliot Dalton breaks the silence. “I know that you’ve been patiently waiting, Donald, but this is not the time for a new direction.”

“I couldn’t disagree more, Elliot. Now is
precisely
the time for new
leadership. We need to do everything we can to distance ourselves from Aaron. To tell our clients that his transgressions have nothing to do with the way we conduct business at Cromwell Altman. We should cut him loose and make it crystal clear it wasn’t that
he
went outside the firm for counsel but that
we
didn’t want to represent him.”

Rosenthal is ready to spit fire. “That is never going to happen!” he shouts. “I am going to do everything in my power to protect Aaron. End of discussion. And, Don, I’ll either do it here or I’ll do it somewhere else—and make no mistake about it, I’ll take my fucking name off the door on my way out!”

“There’s no reason to prolong this,” Sloane says. “Let’s just vote. I’m with Sam.”

“Me too,” Dalton says.

“My vote and Aaron’s proxy makes four,” Rosenthal says.

Donald Pierce looks angry enough to split in half, but there’s nothing he can do. Samuel Rosenthal has the votes to become the chairman of Cromwell Altman Rosenthal and White for the second time.

AARON’S SECOND INCARCERATED NIGHT
is far worse than the first.

No longer does it feel like a curiosity that will someday make a good story, to be told in the comfort he’s always known. Now it seems he might well have to live out his days in an eight-by-ten windowless room with three other men.

It is a common narcissism that people view their lives like novels in which they are the protagonist. It’s a comforting thought, because it means that even when the story twists and all looks lost, there remains the unshakeable belief that a happy ending awaits.

Part of Aaron clings to that belief like it’s a life raft. It’s simply unfathomable for him to imagine being taken from his family. And yet he knows all too well that the unthinkable sometimes occurs. Faith, of course, being the prime example. She undoubtedly thought
that her story’s next chapters took place at the Supreme Court. How wrong she was.

Of all the insincere gestures known to man, prayer by an agnostic has to rank right up there. And yet, that’s what Aaron does. Silently, he asks for forgiveness and pledges to be a better man, a better father, a better husband, if only he’s given the chance.

42

U
nlike their more prestigious district court counterparts, who are nominated by the president, confirmed by the Senate, and serve for life, magistrate judges are appointed by a judicial panel and serve eight-year terms. They’re tasked largely with doing the busywork that district court judges would rather not be bothered with, which includes bail hearings.

Also befitting their lesser status, a magistrate judge’s courtroom is half the size of the palatial space where a district court judge presides. There are seats for twenty-five spectators, but twice that many cram the courtroom, many crowded together in the back or along the sides.

There’s something of an assembly-line feel to the proceedings. The bailiff calls out a case name and number, and then the side door to the courtroom opens, so that the court guards can escort in a man, usually of color, who’s wearing an orange prison-issued jumpsuit and in some state of dishevelment, handcuffed behind the back and about the ankles.

None of the prior cases are bail hearings. Two are pleas, and the other three are status conferences of one type or another.

When the clerk calls out, “United States v. Aaron L. Littman, criminal case number eight five five seven two,” the previously established rhythm breaks. The guards still enter, with Aaron in their wake, but unlike the men who preceded him, Aaron looks positively regal, dressed in a tuxedo.

THE FIRST FACES AARON
sees are in the back. Cynthia, flanked on either side by Lindsay and Samantha. For a moment he feels comforted by their presence, but that emotion quickly gives way to shame.

He always tells clients to wear to court what they’d wear to church, and apparently Cynthia has taken that advice literally because she’s wearing the navy blue suit she wore for the Jewish holidays earlier in the year. Lindsay is in a bright peach dress, and he appreciates the burst of color she brings to the room. Samantha, always the more serious of his daughters, is in all black, as if she’s in mourning.

Rachel sits beside them and offers a pained smile when she catches Aaron’s eye. Aaron wonders why she’s not at counsel table, but this must have been Rosenthal’s decision, another indication that Rosenthal doesn’t trust her.

When Aaron reaches counsel table, Rosenthal puts his hand on Aaron’s shoulder. Aaron appreciates the gesture for its reminder he’s not completely alone.

“Appearances,” Judge Gruen calls out.

Jonathan Gruen has been a U.S. magistrate since before Aaron passed the bar. In that time, he’s developed a reputation for inconsistency, which makes it difficult to handicap how he’ll rule on any given issue. Most lawyers believed that whether he’s for you or against you could ride on something as irrelevant as whether his sciatica was acting up.

Victoria Donnelly stands and says, “Assistant United States Attorney Victoria Donnelly. Good morning, Your Honor.”

“And good morning to you, Ms. Donnelly,” Judge Gruen says. “Been a long time since I’ve seen you in for an arraignment, but you’re always welcome in my court. And for the defense?”

Rosenthal rises. “Samuel Rosenthal of the law firm Cromwell Altman Rosenthal and White. I represent my partner Aaron Littman.”

“Welcome to you too, Mr. Rosenthal. Now, before we begin, a disclosure is required. Judge Nichols and I were colleagues. Of course,
any magistrate in this courthouse would be in the same position, but, Mr. Rosenthal, if you see that as a basis for my stepping aside, please make that request on the record at this time.”

“Your Honor,” Rosenthal says, “the defense seeks to have Mr. Littman arraigned as soon as possible, especially given the fact that the government sought to arrest him on a Saturday evening, which means he’s already been incarcerated for thirty-six hours.”

Translated into non–lawyer speak, this means that the defense will not object to Judge Gruen’s presiding over the bail issue, despite his connection to Judge Nichols, but reserves the right to challenge a trial judge on the same grounds, if he or she isn’t to the defense’s liking.

“Very well,” Judge Gruen says. “Waive reading of the indictment, Mr. Rosenthal?”

Criminal defendants have the right to have the charges against them read aloud in open court. Exercising that right, however, is the fastest way to piss off a judge.

“We waive reading, Your Honor, but would nevertheless like a copy of the indictment.”

As Rosenthal is saying this, Donnelly’s second chair, Leonard Stanton, is already handing the indictment to him. Rosenthal immediately passes it to Aaron, who doesn’t even look at it before setting it down beside him.

“That solves that problem,” Judge Gruen says. “Mr. Rosenthal, would you like a few moments to review the charges against your client and discuss them with him, or is the defense now ready to enter a plea?”

It’s the usual practice at Cromwell Altman to have the lawyer enter the plea because clients can find any number of ways to screw up saying just two words. But with a nod, Rosenthal tells Aaron to do it. Even though there’s no camera in the courtroom, the press will still report that Aaron, and not his counsel, made the declaration.

“Not guilty,” Aaron says in a strong, clear voice. For a moment he sounds like a lawyer again. After which he and Rosenthal return to
their seats.

“Very well,” Judge Gruen says. “Which leads us to the issue of bail. Mr. Rosenthal, would you like to be heard on that issue?”

“Yes, thank you, Your Honor,” Rosenthal says, again coming to his feet. “As the court knows, Mr. Littman is a man who has devoted his life to a belief in the judicial system. There is nothing—
nothing
—that would keep him from appearing at trial because that is the only way he can ever be completely vindicated. In addition, Mr. Littman has extremely strong ties to the community, including a wife of twenty-four years, and his two teenage daughters attend school here. The Littman family is all present in the courtroom.”

Rosenthal turns to the gallery and gestures that Cynthia and the twins should stand. They do as requested, and sit down almost immediately after coming to their feet.

“Finally, Mr. Littman has the constitutional right to participate in his own defense,” Rosenthal continues, “and if he is incarcerated, that participation will be greatly restricted. For those reasons, Your Honor, we ask that the court release Mr. Littman on his own recognizance.”