Losing Faith (16 page)

Of course, Garkov had both in spades, which made him the perfect client as far as Broden was concerned. The fact that it also meant Broden got to personally fire the high and mighty Aaron Littman was just icing on the cake.

“Nicolai,” Broden says, “sorry to be meeting under such circumstances, but my hope is that your stay here will be short.”

Garkov didn’t look any worse for wear. He had no bruises or other telltale signs that he wasn’t making friends inside. Of course, Broden figured that even the toughest guy in lockup would think twice before tangling with a seven-foot-tall terrorist connected to the Russian mob.

“How was the funeral?” Garkov asks.

“Do you really care?” Broden says quickly.

“No, not really. So long as she’s dead, I’m good.”

Broden ignores the comment. “I ran into Aaron Littman at the memorial. Short conversation, just what we talked about.”

“And what did he say?”

“Not much. He wasn’t surprised you were making the switch. Told me that he never wanted to represent you in the first place.”

“So, who’d we get?” Garkov asks.

“The honorable Milton Koletsky.”

“Jew?”

“African-American.”

“Same thing. Just as long as it’s not some bitch again.”

“Well, without endorsing your broad view of racial and gender generalizations, I will say that Koletsky is very good for us. I’ve already filed an application that house arrest be reinstated, and there’s a hearing set for this afternoon. No guarantees, but my guess is that you’ll be spending tomorrow night back on your twelve-hundred-thread-count sheets.”

The news that he’ll be home soon doesn’t change Garkov’s expression. It’s as if he already assumed as much.

Believing that Aaron Littman was sleeping with Faith Nichols and Garkov’s being a blackmailer was one thing, but Broden was far more skeptical about Garkov’s protestation that he was innocent of Faith Nichols’s murder. Not only was it readily apparent to Broden that Garkov was a man devoid of any conscience whatsoever, but Garkov was smart, and unlike some of the stupid actions clients have been known to undertake while awaiting trial—little things like trying to bribe FBI agents and lying about assets that are easily found—killing the judge was a very smart move.

A law-and-order devotee like Faith Nichols was almost certainly going to find Garkov guilty and then sentence him to the max. And if a superseding indictment were filed with a murder charge, it was a lethal-injection situation. But with Judge Koletsky, Garkov probably had an even-money shot at acquittal. Even if Garkov were convicted, a bleeding heart like Koletsky might sentence him to less than ten years. Garkov could probably do that standing on his head.

Broden takes a good long look at his client. Nicolai Garkov’s smug expression suggests that it’s entirely possible he’s actually orchestrated everything from the get-go.

23

F
elidia occupies the bottom two floors of a narrow town house just around the corner from Bloomingdale’s. It’s as close to a New York City institution as restaurants get, given that a five-year stint is considered noteworthy and Felidia has survived for a quarter-century.

Rachel knows that Felidia is one of Aaron’s favorite dining spots, reminding him of a restaurant he loves in Rome, with its rich dark-paneled room juxtaposed with the lit garden in the rear. He took her here two years ago to celebrate her ascension to the partnership. The memory of that dinner—and the three drinks too many she consumed—rushes back to her as she enters the restaurant.

Rachel feels good being out of her work clothes. For tonight, she’s opted for her favorite little black dress and three-inch Manolo Blahniks that a dominatrix might wear.

When she arrives, the hostess, a stick-skinny Asian woman with hair almost to her waist, tells Rachel that Aaron has already been seated. She follows the hostess upstairs, where she sees Aaron occupying a table against the window.

Aaron stands when she approaches, a gesture Rachel’s always enjoyed. Very few of her dates do that.

The table is for four, and after a moment’s hesitation, Rachel takes the seat next to Aaron, rather than across. Aaron signals for the waiter to come over and quickly orders a bottle of wine. When she takes the first sip, Rachel assumes the wine must be very expensive by virtue of the fact that it tastes so good.

Rachel mentions the news of the day, which is that Judge Koletsky
reversed the bail decision, and Garkov is back under house arrest in Trump Tower. “Not quite a profile in courage,” she says.

“Probably the right decision,” Aaron says with a shrug. “Anyway, not our problem anymore, right?”

Rachel raises her wineglass. “To it not being our problem,” she says, touching her glass against Aaron’s.

The waiter is very attentive, refilling their glasses so often that the first bottle is finished before the entrées arrive. Aaron orders a second bottle, although Rachel is already beginning to feel a buzz taking hold.

“So, the COC tomorrow?” Rachel says. “What’s on the agenda—world domination?”

“Besides me being handed my ass over Garkov? Something even more serious.” He waits a beat. “The prom.”

The derisive reference is to the annual Cromwell Altman black-tie gala, held every spring.

She laughs. “Will Cynthia be coming?” Aaron’s smile drops, and Rachel realizes that she must have inadvertently touched a nerve. “I’m sorry, Aaron. Did I say something wrong?”

“No. No.” Aaron’s eyes circle the room, as if he’s looking for the right words. “Cynthia and I . . . I’m staying at the Pierre for a few days while Cynthia and I give each other a little breathing room.”

The news sends a jolt through Rachel. She’s actually out on a romantic evening with a single Aaron Littman, or at least a separated Aaron Littman.

“I’m sorry, Aaron,” she says, hoping it sounds sincere. “When did this happen?”

“Just a few days ago. This too shall pass,” Aaron says with a taut smile.

As if the wine has taken over her judgment, Rachel places her hand on top of Aaron’s and gently massages his thumb with her own. At the moment where things might escalate further, Aaron slides his hand away.

“What’s going on in your life, Rachel?” Aaron asks. “Are you
taking anyone to the prom?”

Rachel hesitates, wondering if she should say what she’s thinking. But that rarely works in such settings, and so she plays along as if the last thirty seconds never transpired.

“God, no,” she says. “Nobody in my life at the moment.”

“I thought you were seeing that foreign banker guy. Paolo? Giovanni?”

“Alessandro,” Rachel says.

“Right. So what happened there?”

“What always happens,” she says. “One of us wanted more, and I didn’t.”

They don’t finish the second bottle, but Rachel’s still drunker than she’s been in a while and in need of some air, and so when the waiter asks if they’d like any dessert, she suggests that it’s time to go. Once outside, Aaron offers to hail Rachel a cab, but she doesn’t want the evening to end, and she proposes to walk with Aaron the few blocks to the Pierre. As soon as she says it, she worries that she’s being obvious, but Aaron doesn’t protest, and they begin south down Lexington Avenue.

Three doormen stand in front of the Pierre, getting taxis for the guests. “Welcome back,” one of them says to Aaron.

“This is me,” Aaron says to Rachel. “Home sweet home.” He motions to the first cab lined up in front of the hotel. “Your chariot, my lady.”

The Manolos make it easier for Rachel to kiss Aaron on the lips. It lasts a second, maybe even two, before the seal is broken.

“Good night, Rachel,” he says when they separate.

She hesitates for a moment, searching his face for a sign of whether he’s playing hard to get or he means to end the evening like this. She so hoped that things would take a very different turn, but the look in Aaron’s eyes leaves little room for doubt that, at least tonight, he’s not ready for things between them to escalate beyond that
one kiss.

FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS A
night at the Pierre gets you a king-size bed, an armoire that hides a forty-two-inch flat-screen, and a marble bathroom. The first few nights, Aaron was pleased to come back to this place. He knew all too well the contempt and disappointment that would have awaited him with Cynthia, and so he considered it something of a gift to be alone. A vacation from his life, from his mistakes.

Rachel’s clumsy advance only crystallizes to him how much he loves his wife and how lonely he is without his family. He wants nothing more than to go back in time and not slide over that empty chair to chat with Faith. Then why did he in the first place? Because he could? Out of boredom? For the sheer thrill of it? How could any of those motivations have carried the day, especially when the danger was so great?

The answer, sadly, is the age-old one. He thought he could do both. That he could enjoy his time with Faith without risk to his family.

How wrong he was.

24

T
he Committee on Committees meeting begins promptly at 7:30 a.m., in the conference room between Aaron’s and Rosenthal’s offices. As is the case whenever the COC meets, there is no written agenda and no one is permitted to take notes.

The committee’s seven members are charged with everything from approving firm expenditures to setting the compensation for the partners. The heads of the firm’s five departments—litigation, corporate, tax, antitrust, and real estate—are members, as well as one partner at large, selected every two years by the chairman. Sam Rosenthal has an ex officio position as the former chairman of the firm.

Although the seating is not assigned, it never varies. Aaron is at the head of the table and Rosenthal across from him, which lends the meeting an air that they are the parents at a family dinner. Donald Pierce is stationed between Gregg Goldman and Jane Cleary on one side of the table, with Elliot Dalton and Abby Sloane across from them.

Abby Sloane is Aaron’s own addition to the COC, and so he assumes her support for his continued leadership is a given. Not only because she owes Aaron her seat at the table, but because she owes him her partnership as well. A few years back, when she was an associate, she was involved in a somewhat messy sexual-harassment issue that ended with the ouster of the partner she worked with and her subsequent elevation at Cromwell Altman. Abby knows that it could have easily gone the other way, and might have but for Aaron’s
backing.

Goldman is head of the tax group and Cleary leads real estate, which puts both of them outside of Aaron’s direct sphere of influence. Aaron had always assumed that they both saw through Pierce’s act, but if Pierce’s threat of having a fourth vote is true, and Aaron can count on Abby’s support, that means both Goldman and Cleary have gone over to the dark side and are now in league with Pierce.

That leaves Dalton. Antitrust lawyers tend to be cerebral types, and Elliot Dalton certainly looks the part of the absentminded professor, with his half reading glasses perched atop his nose and the white tufts of hair that dust his scalp. What makes Dalton truly a wild card, however, is that unlike virtually every other Cromwell Altman partner, he doesn’t outwardly appear to have any greater ambition than what he’s already achieved. And that means Dalton can be counted on to vote for what he thinks is best for the firm.

Aaron calls the meeting to order and then asks Dalton to remind everyone about the prom. Dalton does not look amused by the reference to its colloquial name.

“Well, the annual Cromwell Altman
Spring Gala
,” he says,
“will take place at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The cocktail reception is going to be in the same gallery as the Temple of Dendur, which is commonly called the Egyptian Room. Dinner will be in the main hall. Attendees will be able to roam the museum, at least on the first floor. Of course, that requires covering the costs of about twenty guards and a hell of a lot of insurance.”

“Can I ask what this little soiree is going to run us?” Goldman asks.

“Ballpark, about a million, maybe a little bit more,” Dalton says. “But, I remind you all, my marching orders were for this to be a true
event
, and it will most definitely be that. To that end, we expect a full turnout from the partners, and at least a fifty percent turnout from the associates. Please get the word out and do whatever you can to
strong-arm your people to show up.”

The prom issue now put to rest, the COC’s next order of business is
actual business. Aaron distributes the firm’s monthly financials, which include several top-ten lists identifying clients in various categories: amount paid to date; hours billed; WIP, the abbreviation for
work in progress
; and firm investment, which identifies the clients with the highest unpaid bills. Although the order sometimes varies, the same ten clients appear on nearly every list.

The final page has the heading “Unapplied Retainers.” Below it are nine of the names that appear on the other lists. The one exception occupies the top spot: Nicolai Garkov, who, according to this document, placed two million on retainer, of which $150,000 has been billed to date.

“How did the Garkov bill get to a hundred and fifty thousand dollars?” Cleary asks. “Didn’t we just take that on a few days ago?”

“There was an up-front bonus of a hundred thousand dollars,” Aaron says. “We only have fifty thousand dollars in the matter—”

Aaron is about to explain that they wouldn’t be billing any time in the future, when Pierce interrupts. “I want to be on record that I expressed to Aaron my very vehement opposition to the firm taking on this client. Putting aside the moral aspect of representing a terrorist, this client will cost the corporate department dearly. I’m only sorry that I wasn’t prescient enough to realize it was going to hurt the entire firm. I’ve already heard from headhunters that their phones are ringing off the hook from associates looking to jump ship, now that Cromwell Altman is the law firm of choice for judge killers.”