Losing Faith (24 page)

Aaron nods that he’s on board for the strategy, but he also knows exactly how Rosenthal’s message will be translated by the prosecutors.

Aaron Littman has something to hide.

36

T
he prom is always held at some over-the-top locale, and an early topic of conversation for the attendees is how the current space compares to that of previous years. The conventional wisdom is that the best one so far was the whale room at the Museum of Natural History, but that was six months before the economic collapse. Since then, the prom has been held in more understated spaces, although that was entirely for show. Like organized crime and Hollywood, Cromwell Altman Rosenthal and White is recession-proof. Clients need even more legal advice in bad times, and the more serious the trouble they’re in, the more they’re willing to pay for it through the nose.

With the economy finally back on track, the COC (Rosenthal, primarily) decided that it was time for a blowout party again. And it doesn’t get any more over-the-top than the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

More than four hundred people are in attendance tonight. Nearly all the first- and second-year associates are present—the lure of an open bar and the opportunity to don formal wear too much of a siren song for them to resist—but the midyear associates largely send regrets, either because they have to work (even though the prom is held on a Saturday night) or they so thoroughly hate their colleagues that they can’t bear to spend another minute with them. Those who are still on partnership track by their eighth year make their inevitable return, working the room like candidates at a nominating convention. Of course, the partners never miss any opportunity to strut around like cocks of the walk, and so they’re out in full force.

The Egyptian Room, where the cocktail hour takes place, is as large as a football field. A narrow reflecting pool runs nearly its full length, and for tonight’s party, the water is framed by candles flickering in paper bags, each approximately a foot from the next.

A sixteen-piece band plays from a stage running along the long side of the room, while each of the shorter sides has a fully stocked bar manned by four bartenders. The food is designed to appeal to every conceivable taste—Kobe beef tacos, yellowtail sashimi, vegetable dumplings for the vegetarians, and roasted-pepper skewers for the vegans—all served by a cadre of white-gloved waiters carrying silver trays.

In the corner farthest away from the band is a discussion circle led by Donald Pierce. He has a drink in one hand and his other clutches his date’s waist. She’s a twentysomething wannabe actress/model type. For the past ten years, Pierce has taken a different woman to each prom, each of whom bore a striking resemblance to the last and looked nothing like the ex–Mrs. Pierce. Like a twisted version of
The Picture of Dorian Gray
, Donald Pierce gets older each year, but his dates do not.

Two junior partners, Roland Singleton and Ira Greenberg, are laughing at Pierce’s jokes as if they’ve never heard anything so funny in their lives. They’re each wearing a twenty-five-hundred-dollar tux, which does nothing to camouflage that they were given wedgies on a daily basis back in middle school. They’re both pasty complexioned, vampirish almost, the fluorescent tan that many of the Cromwell Altman lawyers sport.

As is the case with nearly every Cromwell Altman partner, their dates are several notches above them in looks, but unlike Donald Pierce, who is almost salivating at the prospect of what’s going to happen after he pours enough alcohol down the throat of this year’s chippie, Singleton and Greenberg seem completely uninterested in their female companions.

They’re talking about work, which is pretty much all they ever
discuss. For more than a month, they’ve been going 24/7 on a merger involving two giant telecommunications conglomerates. They speak in pronouns and coded phrases, ostensibly so as not to disclose nonpublic information, but a casual observer would likely conclude it’s because they enjoy pretending to be spies, just like an eleven-year-old might.

“I put up a fight for close to a week,” Greenberg says with obvious relish, “and then I said, ‘Okay, okay, you win. Your guy can be the chairman of the board, but only if our guy is CEO.’ ” Greenberg begins laughing at his own triumph but still feels the need to dot that
i
, just in case someone missed it. “I think he actually thought
he
pulled a fast one on
me
.”

“Who’s the GC?” Pierce asks.

“Who do you think?” Singleton replies.

They laugh as one, while the women look on with bored expressions. Pierce takes it upon himself to explain the joke.

“After a merger is consummated,” he says slowly, like a second-grade teacher, “there’s a battle between the law firms that represented the two parties in the merger as to which one of them is going to get the legal work of the company
post
-merger. To ensure that it’s going to be us, we insist that our client’s head guy become the CEO of the new company, and that our client’s general counsel, or
GC
, becomes head of legal. They’re the two guys who are responsible for hiring law firms. In exchange for that, we’ll let the other side’s guy be the chairman of the board or president for life, or whatever title he wants to pump up his ego. All we care about is making sure that we keep the client’s business after the merger.”

Greenberg and Singleton laugh again, even though it’s the same joke as before. The women smile politely.

“Enjoying the party?” Sam Rosenthal’s disembodied voice asks the group.

He’s approached them so quietly that Greenberg and Singleton both are startled by the interruption. Pierce, however, remains
composed, staring right at Rosenthal, whom he clearly sees as his enemy.

“Very much so,” Pierce answers for the group.

“I remember the very first gala I ever attended,” Rosenthal says wistfully. “Nineteen seventy-four. Only the partners were invited.” He chuckles. “All sixteen of us. We went to dinner at La Côte Basque. We didn’t even have a private room, just a table in the back.” He looks out over the crowd like a proud parent. “My God. And now look at us.”

RACHEL COULDN’T HAVE BEEN
more pleased with her Dolce & Gabbana gown. As she anticipated, the plunging neckline has captured the attention of every man she’s spoken with this evening. Even Aaron had difficulty making eye contact.

Aaron’s avoided asking her more about her session with the government, but that doesn’t surprise Rachel. She knows that Rosenthal’s gotten the full download via Richard Leeds, and that he, in turn, passed on the information to Aaron, keeping it all within the attorney-client privilege.

Aaron has come alone tonight, claiming his wife had a headache. Rachel knows that’s code for all is not good in the Littman marriage, and she’s taken full advantage of Aaron’s being without a plus-one, not leaving Aaron’s side unless he’s getting them both a drink. She is in the midst of telling him a story about a recent dating disaster when it’s obvious she’s lost Aaron’s attention.

“Everything okay?” she asks.

“Yeah. I’m sorry. Over there, Sam’s talking to Pierce and his cronies,” Aaron says. “Did I ever tell you what Sam told me when I became chairman of the firm?”

“No,” Rachel says.

“After his accident, I ran the firm, but I fully expected him to return as chairman. When he came back to work, I offered to step aside, but he said no. I assumed it was because he was thinking about
retiring, devoting his time to other things, but when I said as much he gave me this look because I’d so completely missed the point. He said that he’d never been married, never had any children, and that he’d devoted his entire life to the firm. ‘I’m not stepping aside because I want to end my involvement here,’ he said. ‘I’m doing it because I’m trying to ensure that day never comes.’ ”

“And he was right,” Rachel says.

“Sometimes I wonder.”

Before Rachel can ask what Aaron means, Simon Fairbanks approaches. Fairbanks holds the title of Cromwell Altman’s director of operations, which basically means he’s the guy who handles everything that’s required to make a large New York City law firm run.

“Is it time?” Aaron asks.

Fairbanks nods back.

“Excuse me, Rachel,” Aaron says. “I’ve got to sing for my supper.”

Aaron strides toward the stage
.
As he approaches, the bandleader announces, “Ladies and gentlemen, may I please have your attention. It is now my honor to introduce the chairman of Cromwell Altman Rosenthal and White, Aaron Littman, to say a few words.”

There is a smattering of polite applause as Aaron takes the microphone.

“Thank you,” Aaron says as the applause dies down. “Today is a day for us to celebrate, and not for me to speechify . . . but I would be remiss if I didn’t thank you all for coming and for your dedication to our firm. The great philosopher Jerry Seinfeld once said that in the game of life, the lawyers are just the people who have read the rules on the inside of the top of the box.” He pauses to allow a few chuckles and then continues. “But not here at Cromwell Altman Rosenthal and White. No, my friends, here we are the masters of the game. And so, I ask that you all raise your glasses for a toast. To our continued success.”

“Hear, hear!” Rosenthal shouts.

Rachel favors Aaron with a broad smile, which she’s sure is received,
because he smiles back at her. Everything about tonight has been perfect, like a dream. Looking up at him on the stage, dressed in his formal wear and basking in the warmth of the applause of those he leads, she lets herself imagine that tonight will end up with their finally consummating their relationship.

The fantasy shatters the moment Rachel sees out of her peripheral vision three men wearing identical clothing—long black overcoats, dark gray suits, white shirts, nondescript dark ties—enter the room. Men dressed like that, walking with such purpose, can only have one of two occupations—FBI agent or assassin.

37

S
am Rosenthal raises his glass and lets out a loud, “Hear, hear!” when he sees the dark-suited men enter the room. With the champagne flute still in one hand and his cane in the other, he limps over to the podium, a step behind the newcomers.

The light’s reflection focuses Rosenthal’s attention. He knows they’re feds, but somehow it doesn’t connect that they’re here to arrest Aaron until he sees the handcuffs.

The first thing Rosenthal does is call out: “Mr. Littman invokes his right to counsel and will not answer any questions put to him unless I’m present.”

No one answers him. Instead, one of the agents, not the oldest of the three, but the one clearly in charge, is in the process of clicking a cuff around Aaron’s wrist.

“Agent . . .”

“Lacey,” the man says, turning around after the cuffing is complete.

“Agent Lacey, I’d like you to acknowledge that you’ve heard my request.”

“I heard you. He won’t be questioned without you present. Now, if you’d please step aside, sir.”

“Are the handcuffs really necessary?” Rosenthal asks.

“Yes, they are. This man is under arrest for murdering a federal judge.”

“This man is one of the most respected lawyers in the country.”

“As I said, sir, please step aside.”

With that, Agent Lacey moves in front of Aaron. Another agent,
the oldest of the trio, gives Aaron a shove in the back, pushing him forward.

Aaron’s face, which was previously hanging low, comes into Rosenthal’s view. There’s a glaze in Aaron’s eyes, suggesting that all of this has not truly computed for him yet.

“Aaron,” Rosenthal says, “do not talk to
anyone
. Do you understand me?”

Aaron nods weakly, as if he has limited control of his body.

The FBI agents have by now grabbed Aaron by the elbows and are leading him out of the museum. Rosenthal is moving as fast as he can to follow them, but never before has he been so acutely aware of how damaged he’s become. With each clank of his cane, his distance from Aaron increases.

When Rosenthal finally makes it out the museum’s front door, he sees firsthand what he’s imagined: an out-and-out media circus. Fitz’s handiwork, no doubt. There are at least twenty vans parked along Fifth Avenue, most of which have antennas on top. Hordes of reporters are on the sidewalk, seemingly shouting questions at Aaron as he approaches, although Rosenthal is too far away to hear them, or to know if Aaron has offered a response.

Aaron and his FBI escorts approach the black SUV parked at the bottom of the museum’s steps, and Aaron is unceremoniously pushed into the back. One agent follows him, and the two others take their seats in the front.

Rosenthal watches the SUV recede from view. When it’s finally gone, he turns back and begins to ascend the steps to return to the museum, at which time he’s nearly knocked over by Rachel London racing the other way.

Rachel’s eyes are filled with tears. To Rosenthal, she looks like a lost child, almost begging him to tell her that everything’s going to be fine, which is the one thing he can’t do.

Rosenthal grabs her hand. “Go to Aaron’s apartment,” he says. “Right now. Hurry. Tell his wife what’s happened. Explain to her that
if the FBI has not already obtained a search warrant, it’s very possible they will do so in the next few hours.”

Rachel’s dazed expression suggests she doesn’t grasp that he’s asking her to destroy evidence. He looks around, making sure there’s no one to overhear, and then, looking Rachel squarely in the eye, says, “Rachel. You need to focus. Now
listen
. Aaron told me that he trusts you with his life. Do you understand what I’m asking?”

It takes her a few moments, but then everything clicks. “Yes. There won’t be anything there,” she says.

THE EGYPTIAN ROOM IS
quiet when Rosenthal returns. The band is still on the stage, but they’re not playing. People are talking, intermittently checking their phones, undoubtedly for the latest news of what they just witnessed. Far from the normal buzz you hear when entering a party, it feels like a wake.