Losing Faith (20 page)

“Let’s see . . . ,” Samantha says. “So, Jason got mad at me today because I told him that I didn’t think his presentation in English was very good because . . . it really wasn’t. And he was telling me that I need to support everything he does and tell him it’s great, even if I think it’s crap, and so I told him that I thought
that
was crap, and just because we’re, you know, boyfriend-girlfriend doesn’t mean that I’ve had a lobotomy and can’t tell the difference between an insightful presentation about
The Stranger
and one that makes it seem as if he didn’t even read the book.”

“Camus,” Aaron says, because that’s all he can think to say.

“Yeah.
The Stranger.
Anyway, it turned into this whole big thing. You know, he apologized and all to me after, but I’d already had enough and I said, you know, whatever.”

“But you guys are okay now?”

“Yeah . . . but he’s such a jerk sometimes.”

Aaron smiles. He can only imagine his daughter will be saying that about the men in her life for a long time to come.

“I’m glad you’re home, Dad,” Samantha says. “Can I call Jason back now?”

“Yeah, sure,” Aaron says, and kisses his daughter on the head.

AARON SPENDS THAT EVENING
in the guest room. He’s done this before a handful of times in his marriage, but usually out of some sense of pique, and always under circumstances where he knew he could grant himself dispensation to return to his bedroom.

Tonight he takes a moment to reflect on how lucky he is to be
living this life. He wonders why he’s so rarely stopped to consider his good fortune, although he assumes that few people ever do, and it’s probably even rarer for those on top of the world to consider how fleeting their success might be.

And now, with all of it coming apart around him, he spends these sleepless moments trying to figure out a way to salvage what’s important. It doesn’t take him very long at all to realize that the professional repercussions are meaningless to him. All that matters is that he make things right with Cynthia and his daughters.

29

T
he Viand is not the most upscale meeting place that Thomas J. Fitzpatrick—Fitz, as he’s known to friends and those who like to pretend they’re closer to the U.S. attorney than they actually are—could have chosen. The restaurant’s official name is the Viand Café, but other than the fact that a chef’s salad costs twenty-two dollars, it’s like any diner anywhere—right down to the vinyl booths, linoleum floors, and breakfast that can be ordered anytime.

Sam Rosenthal arrives early and takes a seat in the last booth in the back. It’s a habit he’s adopted since the accident, so as not to look frail by entering a room with the use of a cane. Rosenthal’s always viewed litigation as combat, and so even though he’s twice as fit as Fitz, he doesn’t want to show his adversary the slightest trace of weakness.

The meeting was set for eight o’clock, but at eight fifteen, Fitz still hasn’t arrived. Three years as U.S. attorney have made Fitz accustomed to people running on his schedule.

Rosenthal sits there, nursing a pretty bad cup of coffee, until Fitz finally enters the diner at eight twenty. He offers Rosenthal a wave to signify his arrival and then takes a good five minutes to make it the twenty-five feet from the door to the back of the restaurant, stopping at each booth to shake some hands.

Since getting the U.S. attorney gig, Fitz has dropped twenty pounds, shaved off his beard, and stepped up his wardrobe. But even with the makeover, he’s still far from a handsome man—his jowls hang like saddlebags on his face and his chin is almost nonexistent.

When Fitz finally makes it to Rosenthal’s table, he slides into the
booth and smiles at the waitress, a young woman in her twenties who’s wearing too much makeup. The smile is all it takes for her to bring a cup of coffee to the table.

“Thanks, Sylvie,” Fitz says to her. “This here is my good friend Sam Rosenthal. Sam, meet Sylvie, the finest waitress in the city.”

Rosenthal smiles. “Do you want a warm-up, hon?” Sylvie asks.

“No, I’m still good,” Rosenthal says.

Fitz pours a splash of milk and mixes in two teaspoons of sugar in the time it takes Sylvie to pull her order pad from her apron pocket. “What can I get you, gentlemen?” she says with a smile.

“You should have the waffles, Sam. Second to none.”

“I’m game if you are.”

“I truly wish I could, but I can’t. I got a fire raging back at the office, so I’m afraid this is going to be an in-and-out thing for me.”

Rosenthal’s first impulse is to tell Fitz off. First he’s almost half an hour late, and now he’s only allotted a few minutes? Rosenthal stifles the impulse, however. Even five minutes with Fitz is better than nothing.

“In that case, I think I’ll stick with the coffee,” Rosenthal says.

Sylvie closes her pad and briskly moves back to the counter to wait on a newly arrived patron. When she’s far enough away from the booth that Rosenthal assumes they won’t be overheard, he says, “I appreciate you making time to see me, Fitz.”

“My pleasure, Sam. What can I do for you?”

“Well, I’m sure you know the FBI agent on the Judge Nichols investigation has reached out to Aaron Littman and also to one of my junior partners, a woman named Rachel London. She was second-seating Aaron on the Garkov case. We’re going to give your office our fullest cooperation, of course, but we also have to be concerned about our client confidences. And, to be frank . . . it seems like overkill to make two lawyers tell you the same thing. I think one should suffice, and based just on billable rate, we’d rather it be Rachel. If you need Aaron at trial later, that’s fine,
but for information-gathering purposes, Rachel can give all you need on Garkov, consistent with our professional obligations, of course.”

Fitz takes a long sip of coffee. “How long have we known each other, Sam?”

“Twenty-five years, I’d guess.”

“I thought about it on my way over here. I met you when I was the number two guy prosecuting state senator what’s his name, the guy in the Bronx. I remembered because it was 1984 and that guy wouldn’t shut up about how everything that was happening was like from the George Orwell book.”

“Okay. I stand corrected. We’ve known each other since 1984.”

“So . . . that type of longevity requires that we dispense with the bullshit, don’t you think?”

“If you’ve got some non-bullshit to share, Fitz, please, by all means, let’s hear it.”

“All right, I will. For starters, don’t sit there with a straight face and tell me that you don’t understand why we’d want to talk to Aaron. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t already know that he’s in a shitload of trouble.”

“C’mon, Fitz,” Rosenthal says, leaning closer. “This is Aaron we’re talking about.
Aaron Littman.
Do you really think he murdered a federal judge, for chrissakes?”

“Look, I know how you feel about the man. Surrogate son and all that, but . . . facts are facts, Sam. I’m sure I’m not telling you anything you don’t know, but we have evidence of the affair, and that it was going on during the Eric Matthews case. I mean . . . what the hell was Aaron thinking?”

Damn. They know about the affair. At least that means Rosenthal can stop maintaining the façade with Fitz that he has no idea what’s going on.

“That’s for the bar association to deal with,” he says. “Not the fucking United States Attorney’s Office.”

“Ordinarily I’d agree with you, Sam. But, you see, I got a dead federal judge on my hands. Somebody killed her. You want to tell me whodunit?”

“Yes. Not Aaron. You know as well as I do that you have a terrorist with a pretty goddamned good motive sitting under house arrest this very moment over at Trump Tower. And from what I hear, everything wasn’t paradise in Judge Nichols’s marriage, either. That’s two good places where you should be looking instead.”

“We’re running down every direction, Sam. But one of those paths leads to Aaron. You’d do him a lot of good if you bring him in to talk to us.”

“Like I said, we’re going to cooperate with you as best as we can, but not if you’re engaging in some kind of witch hunt.”

The battle lines have now been drawn, and they can both read into what the other is saying. Fitz is telling his old buddy Rosenthal that his protégé Aaron Littman is a prime suspect in a federal judge’s murder, and Rosenthal is telling his good friend Fitz to go straight to hell.

Fitz reaches into his breast pocket for his phone and quickly scrolls through a few messages. “I’m really sorry, Sam . . . but like I said, I got an emergency back at the ranch. Look, it’s your call whether you bring Aaron in, and I don’t need to tell you that his silence says a lot. But you need to represent him as you see fit. I just don’t see why either you or he would want to play it that way. If he’s not the guy, okay, come on in and tell us that. Otherwise, how can you blame us if we reach the opposite conclusion?”

Rosenthal rises with Fitz. He’s tempted to show his annoyance by refusing to shake Fitz’s hand but thinks better of acting out in such a juvenile fashion.

“Thanks for meeting with me, Fitz. You’ll be making a big mistake if you focus on Aaron. Believe me on that.”

“Good seeing you too, Sam. You think about bringing him in, so I don’t make that mistake.”

The moment Fitz leaves the booth, Rosenthal sees that whatever
emergency requires his immediate attention is not so great as to delay him from shaking some more hands and slapping a few backs on his way out of the diner.

Rosenthal decides to salvage something positive from this meeting.

“Excuse me, Sylvie . . . I’ve changed my mind. Can I get an order of those waffles?”

30

T
he thing about being an architect is that there are very few pressure-packed moments. Every day is more or less the same. There might be a rush when pitching a new client or when a project is finally unveiled, but it’s not like there’s a point when you need to rise to the occasion or else all is lost.

Stuart remembers Faith telling him that being a lawyer is quite different. Although she always made clear it was far from the thrill-a-minute ride portrayed on television, with a different high-stakes trial every week, she said that there were occasions that rivaled the unfettered excitement of the most important athletic contest. Faith believed that was the most apt analogy: as in sports, in trial work you prepared for months and then entered the arena, where decisions you made on the fly would lead to victory or defeat.

Stuart has never played sports, but while waiting to be interviewed by Assistant U.S. Attorney Victoria Donnelly, he finally understands what Faith meant. His every sense is heightened, and nothing but adrenaline pulsates through his veins.

Jennifer Bennett sits on one end of the table with Ryan Oberlander, an associate at her firm, on Stuart’s other side. Stuart will end up paying twenty-five hundred dollars for the pleasure of Ryan’s company, but Jennifer explained it was necessary to have a designated note-taker present.

“Best case, it’s a waste of a few thousand dollars,” she said. “Worst case, he’s an insurance policy against a one thousand one.”

When Jennifer started to explain, Stuart told her that he understood
the lingo. Faith had talked enough about cases involving the charge of lying to a government official for him to know that it was simply referred to by its section number in the criminal code: 1001.

The other side enters the room en masse. Jennifer warned him that prosecutors often travel in packs, but Stuart doesn’t like the feeling of being so outnumbered.

Victoria Donnelly introduces her entourage. “This is FBI special agent Kevin Lacey, whom I believe you’ve already met, Mr. Christensen.” Stuart thinks she says this with snark, as if in that one meeting he already hurt his cause. “And also from the FBI is Special Agent Timothy Walker. Next to him is my colleague here at the U.S. Attorney’s Office, Leonard Stanton, and Christopher Covello, the head of the Criminal Division.” As if that weren’t enough people to sit in on a single interview, Donnelly adds, “We may be joined by the U.S. attorney at some point as well.”

There are things about Victoria Donnelly that might be considered attractive—her eyes are a deep blue, almost turquoise, and her hair is a long and luxurious chestnut, like out of a shampoo commercial—but her overall thickness overrules everything else, so that she’s one of those people of whom you say,
She has a pretty face
, and it’s understood to mean she might be attractive if she weren’t thirty to forty pounds overweight
.

“So, Fitz is now sitting in on witness interviews?” Jennifer says.

“He does when they involve the murder of a federal judge,” Donnelly replies curtly. “I would think Mr. Christensen would appreciate the U.S. attorney’s personal involvement in bringing his wife’s murderer to justice.”

In preparing for this interview, Jennifer told Stuart not to say anything unless it was in response to a direct question, but he assumes the instruction doesn’t apply now. “Of course,” Stuart says, “anything and everything you can do is greatly appreciated.”

Jennifer softly pats Stuart’s hand, her way of telling him that he’s now said enough. When he turns a quarter to catch her expression,
he sees a faint smile, which he interprets to mean that he’s done well.

Donnelly begins exactly the way Jennifer said she would. Nonetheless, it sounds significantly more frightening coming from her than it did when Jennifer said the same thing during prep.

“Mr. Christensen, I am going to ask you some questions this morning. As I’m sure your counsel has explained to you, even though you are not formally under oath, that makes no difference regarding your legal obligation to tell the truth. It is a felony pursuant to title eighteen, section one thousand one, of the U.S. criminal code to lie to a federal officer in the course of an investigation, and we are all federal officers for the purposes of that provision. So, if you lie to us today, you will be committing a crime for which you may be imprisoned. You are here voluntarily, and therefore you may end this interview at any time you choose. However, be advised that we will draw certain conclusions from your refusal to cooperate with our investigation, and we have the power to subpoena you to testify before a grand jury. If that were to occur, you can only refuse to answer if you elect to assert your Fifth Amendment privilege against self-incrimination.”