Losing Faith (11 page)

Everything Rachel had been working toward was coming to pass. And then she was completely blindsided when it all came crashing down around her.

Unlike the prior episodes, this one didn’t all hit at once but built steadily over several weeks. The first sign was when she heard that Ellice Schwab, a senior associate who was very easy on the eyes, had been assigned to a new case that Aaron was handling. Rachel felt it like a stab to her heart. Each day that passed she missed Aaron that much more, as if she were withdrawing from an addiction. Rather than that feeling dissipating, the intensity of her emotions increased, to the point where she couldn’t bear to wake up if there wasn’t a reason to see Aaron that day.

When she started fantasizing about how much he would really miss her if she suddenly died, she checked herself into a private facility. The diagnosis was like before—acute depression—but her shrink, a little man with a white mustache, said that it was more than that. She was repeating the same pattern from Stanford: pursuing an idealized man who was unattainable and being unable to accept that her feelings were unrequited.

Rachel hadn’t wanted to tell anyone at the firm that she was in a mental ward, but she couldn’t go AWOL for a month, not right before she came up for partner, and so she told Aaron because . . . because she was in love with him. She didn’t share that he’d played a role in putting her there, of course. Instead, she said that she had experienced a bad reaction to her meds, explaining that she suffered from depression and that every few years there needed to be an adjustment, although she had always previously seen it coming and was therefore able to avoid hospitalization.

“I’m so embarrassed,” Rachel had said.

“There’s no need,” Aaron had answered. “This is a medical thing, Rachel. I get that.”

“I’m not sure every partner is as enlightened.”

“No one knows about this except me,” Aaron said. “I told the partners that your father had taken ill and you were spending some time with your family. Don’t worry about anything except getting better, and when you do, there’ll be a partner’s office waiting for you at Cromwell Altman.”

She and Aaron never again discussed the episode. And at year’s end, just as he’d promised, Rachel made partner.

15

T
he Metropolitan Correctional Center, or as it is more commonly called, the MCC, opened in 1975. Among its most famous residents have been Mafia don John Gotti, Ponzi schemer Bernard Madoff, and the Blind Sheikh, Omar Abdel Rahman, who was the mastermind behind the 1993 World Trade Center bombing. Given that Nicolai Garkov is something of a blend of all three, Aaron imagines that he’ll fit right in.

The building itself is a particularly ugly brown, squat structure located in lower Manhattan. It is attached to the U.S. courthouse by an elevated bridge, which enables inmates to be shuttled back and forth without going outside. The facility houses approximately eight hundred inmates. Some, like Garkov, are awaiting trial. Others have already been convicted and are serving their sentences elsewhere, and are housed at the MCC during a court proceeding.

Attorney visits at the MCC can occur twenty-four hours a day and take place on the third floor. Aaron’s been here enough times that he knows the schedule, which probably hasn’t changed since the place opened. Inmates are awakened at six a.m., and breakfast is over by seven. At eight thirty, each inmate has to be back in his nine-by-seven cell (which he shares with another inmate) for the morning count, which occurs at nine.

It takes Aaron twenty minutes to go through security, and he arrives on the third floor a little after seven. He’s directed into the visitors’ room, a large space with ten tables, none of which are presently occupied.

Garkov arrives shortly before eight. He’s wearing the orange prison jumpsuit, which is too short around the wrists and ankles. The MCC must not get many seven-foot-tall inmates. The guard who has accompanied him into the room unlocks Garkov’s handcuffs but leaves the ankle shackles.

Aaron expected to see a seething-mad Nicolai Garkov. Instead, the man before him looks relaxed and confident.

“Well . . . you look good, Nicolai,” Aaron says.

“American prisons are like fancy hotels compared to the places I’ve been in.”

Aaron doesn’t doubt that’s true. That being said, they still aren’t places where he’d spend an extra minute that he didn’t have to.

“Do you remember what we discussed when we first met?” Garkov says.

Ever since law school, Aaron always hated the Socratic method. No useful information was ever imparted by asking questions you already knew the answer to.

“My recollection is that we discussed a great many things,” he says.

“I asked that you not try to bluff me, because I always have the winning hand.”

He comes to a full stop. As if that clarifies everything.

“We’re asking Judge Nichols to reconsider her decision,” Aaron says. “Rachel is making the application as we speak. Beyond that, I’m not certain what you expect me to do to get you out of here.”

Garkov gives a theatrical sigh. “Aaron . . . you see, that’s
exactly
what I’m talking about. I think you
do
know what I expect you to do. You are to tell Judge Nichols that if she doesn’t put me back home tomorrow . . . well, I don’t like to make threats, but as I’m sure you can appreciate, we’re no longer talking about my going public with your indiscretions. She’s increased the stakes by her little stunt, and so I’m not only calling that bet but raising. Public humiliation—the end of your careers—that’s nothing compared to what I will do to the two of you. And don’t kid yourself. I can get to you both just as easily from in here.”

Aaron has never kidded himself about that fact. Nor is he anything but certain that he’s quickly running out of time.

WEDNESDAY IS ONE OF
two motion days in Faith’s court, Friday being the other. Faith likens it to the theater. Everyone dresses up and plays their parts: the lawyers in their fancy pinstripe suits and Hermès ties get to stand in front of a judge and try to persuade, and she wears the robes and makes judicial pronouncements.

And like a play, it’s all scripted. The lawyers often read their arguments, and Faith has already decided how she’ll rule on 99 percent of the cases before she hears a single word. As she often tells her clerks, it’s the bad lawyer, not the good one, who says something persuasive in a five-minute oral argument, because it means that point didn’t get through in a twenty-page written brief she’s already reviewed.

This morning’s smattering of cases is particularly mundane. Six motions to dismiss regarding pleading deficiencies, two discovery disputes, and a request for summary judgment on a trademark case that she already denied, but for some reason the plaintiff saw fit to make it again.

At half past noon, the last of the arguments is completed, and Faith hurries off the bench. She immediately goes into her office and shuts the door behind her.

Finally, some alone time
, she thinks.

It’s short-lived, however.

Two quick knocks on her door are followed by Sara’s opening it and sticking her head in. “Judge, there’s a lawyer from Cromwell Altman here on an order to show cause on Garkov.”

Damn. Faith expected Aaron to make this filing, but she was hoping it would come at the end of the day—preferably after she’d left.

“Okay. Come in, Sara.”

Sara enters clutching a stack of papers a foot high, which she drops on Faith’s desk with a loud thud. On top is the legal brief, fifty pages,
VeloBound, with a clear cover. The title shows through:
Motion to Reconsider Bail Revocation
. Underneath that is another VeloBound volume, this one twice as thick. By the more than one hundred side tabs, Faith knows it’s the compendium of the cases cited in the brief.

“My God, what a waste,” Faith says. “A dozen lawyers must have worked all night on papers that I’m not even going to give a second thought.”

Faith realizes a beat too late that she shouldn’t have said this out loud. In front of her clerks, she likes to project that she’s always open-minded.

“Okay, Sara, I guess you should send Mr. Littman back.”

“It’s not him,” Sara says. “It’s the woman lawyer from Cromwell Altman. Rachel London.”

Faith can feel the heat rise in her. It was bad enough that Aaron showed up with Rachel in court yesterday, but now she can’t help but feel that he’s truly rubbing her face in the fact that she was quickly replaced by a younger model. She knows that her jealousy is misplaced—Faith was the one who ended the affair, not him.

“Have Ms. London come back then,” Faith says, trying her best not to let on to Sara that anything is amiss.

When she enters chambers, Rachel London seems even younger to Faith than she did in court. Faith knows that, as a junior partner, Rachel must be older than thirty, but forty-two has never seemed as old to her as it does right now.

Close-up, Rachel appears more striking than she did at a distance in court. She’s wearing a body-hugging black dress, no doubt from some high-end designer, like the clothes Faith wore back when she was buying them with her law firm partnership money. Smooth skin, not a wrinkle on her, and undyed hair, both of which Faith knows will undoubtedly change in the coming decade. She glances down at Rachel’s left hand, trying not to be so obvious about it. No ring. Maybe Aaron finds having an affair with a single woman to be less trouble.

“Sara,” Faith says, “can you give us a moment?” Sara looks crestfallen, but Faith doesn’t care. “And shut the door on your way out, please.”

Lawyers don’t speak until judges ask them to, and so Rachel just stands there. Faith doesn’t even offer her a seat. The power imbalance between them is further accentuated by Faith when she turns away, pretending to be reading something, solely to make Rachel wait.

Well past the time when Faith assumes that Rachel has become uncomfortable, Faith reestablishes eye contact. A half-dozen snide comments cross Faith’s mind before she decides on: “So, I see that Mr. Littman has you doing his dirty work now, Ms. London?”

Rachel offers the awkward smile of someone who doesn’t get the joke. “Mr. Littman apologizes for not making this application in person, Your Honor,” she says. “Unfortunately, there was an emergency at the last moment that required his attention.”

Bullshit
, Faith wants to retort so very badly.
Aaron’s just too much of a coward to face me.

“What makes you—or Mr. Littman, for that matter—think that I’m going to reconsider my decision regarding Mr. Garkov’s bail?”

“Your Honor, my purpose here is not to argue the merits, but to set the earliest possible date for oral argument. Our grounds are set forth in our papers. Stated succinctly . . .”

Faith has already tuned her out. She doesn’t want to hear a legal argument. Interrupting Rachel, she says, “Stop right there. I don’t care one bit about your application, Ms. London. You go back and tell Aaron that I said he’s making a very serious mistake here.
Very
serious.”

It surprises Faith that she’s said this—the one-two punch of denying a motion without any consideration, followed by her not-so-thinly-veiled threat. Even her reference to Aaron by his first name was not something an impartial judge would ever do.

The shock on Rachel’s face drives the point home.

“Excuse me, Your Honor . . . ?” Rachel says. “I-I don’t think I understand.”

“Oh, I think you probably understand very well, Ms. London.”

Faith stares at Rachel, almost daring her to say something. It’s an unfair fight. Faith is a federal judge, empowered to put Rachel in jail for contempt at her whim, and Rachel is still hoping to get Faith to consent to the application before her.

As if she just remembered the reason for this visit, Faith reaches for the briefs Sara delivered. Without saying a word, or even reading the papers, Faith reaches for a pen, and across the signature block writes: “DENIED.”

“You go back and you tell Aaron what we discussed, Ms. London.”

Then Faith hands Rachel the rejected order-to-show-cause application.

SARA MUST HAVE STARTED
toward Faith’s office the moment Rachel passed by her desk, because she’s knocking on the open door before Faith has had a chance to get up to close it.

“What is it, Sara?” Faith barks.

“Uh . . . nothing . . . I wanted to know when I should calendar the motion.”

Faith realizes that she has to get this part over with, and so as much as she wants to be alone, she says, “Never. I denied the application.”

Sara doesn’t say anything, which is the clearest indication of how unnerving she finds Faith’s action. It’s a rare judge who doesn’t even give a litigant an opportunity to be heard.

“Judge . . . is everything okay?”

“I’m fine, Sara,” Faith says coldly, a clear signal that Sara should back off.

Reading signals is not Sara’s strong point, however, and so she continues: “You’ve seemed a little distracted lately.”

Faith isn’t listening. She just wants to leave.

“I’m going home,” she says. “Please don’t bother me with anything else, Sara. Whatever comes up can keep until tomorrow.”

With that, Faith picks up her purse and then grabs her coat out of the closet. She walks by her law clerk without uttering another word.

16

L
et’s just say that Nicolai Garkov is not happy about his present circumstances,” Aaron says to Sam Rosenthal.

They’re in Aaron’s office, with the door shut. Diane has been told not to allow anyone entry and to hold all of Aaron’s calls.

“I’ve reached out to Senator Kheel,” Rosenthal says. “He tells me that if Garkov’s convicted and she sentences him to life, she’s got the nomination locked.”

“I don’t think Garkov is bluffing,” Aaron says, “and he’s not a patient man, either. He wants out of there right now. Rachel’s at Faith’s chambers now on an order to show cause, trying to get a hearing date tomorrow on a motion to reconsider the bail. But I have no reason to believe that’s going to succeed, and every reason to believe that when it doesn’t, Garkov will take matters into his own hands.”