Losing Faith (3 page)

“This is your call, Joe,” Hahn continues. “No one can make it for you. If you’re ready to stand up in open court and admit your guilt, then we’ll call the prosecutor right now and see what kind of deal we can get. But if you want to prove your innocence, there’s only one way to do that, and that’s by winning at trial.”

Joe Malone turns back to the conversation. Rachel thinks she sees uncertainty in his face about what to do, but then he says, “I told you guys from the very beginning, I’m innocent.” And then, as if to convince himself, he adds, “I swear that I am.”

I didn’t do it. You have to believe me
.

That’s enough for Peter Hahn to declare victory. He nods at Malone and flashes Rachel a self-satisfied smirk before saying, “I guess that settles it, then.”

Nothing is settled for Rachel, though. She’s not going to let Hahn’s ego be the reason that Joe Malone rots in jail for the next ten years. At least not while she has one more card to play.

“I’m going to get my witness folders,” Rachel says, and scurries out of the room. Once in her office, she calls Aaron Littman.

Rachel knows that calling Aaron to come to her rescue will only add to the gossip about them, even if she is actually asking Aaron to rescue the client and not her. Still . . . every so often, someone, usually a guy who’s been flirting with her, will lean in and whisper conspiratorially that people say she’s sleeping with Aaron. The guy will make it seem as if he’s imparting some top-secret information she needs to know in order to avoid embarrassment. Sort of like telling her that there’s a stain on her blouse.

Years ago, she heard Kevin Bacon mention on a talk show that it never ceases to amaze him when people come up to him and say, “Do you know there’s a game called Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon?” She feels just like that. Of course she knows. How could she not?

She tells herself that it’s not her fault, and the gossip stems from the fact that she doesn’t look the part of a big-firm law partner. Most people who ventured a guess at Rachel’s profession would guess model, given that she’s five foot ten with a slender figure and golden-blond hair that falls to the middle of her back. But she knows that’s not the only reason. She brings some of it on herself. The way she looks at Aaron, as if he’s the only man on earth.

Aaron’s assistant, Diane, tells Rachel that he’s behind closed doors with a client.

“Can you tell him that I need his help as soon as possible?” Rachel says. “I’m with Peter Hahn in conference room B on fifty-six, and we’re meeting with Joe Malone. Peter’s pressing to go to trial, but I think that will end badly, and there’s a chance we can still get a sweetheart plea deal out of this.”

Rachel returns to the conference room clutching the witness folders that were the pretext for her absence. Hahn and Malone barely acknowledge her return, and she sits quietly, waiting for the cavalry to arrive.

Within a few minutes, there’s a knock on the door.

“Hi, I’m sorry to interrupt,” Aaron says, entering the room. “I understand that you’re on the verge of trial, and so I wanted to stop in and see if I can lend some support.”

Rachel doesn’t have to look at Hahn to know he’s absolutely furious. She can’t blame him; nobody likes being undermined. But her primary duty is to the client, and Hahn was clearly giving Malone some bad advice. Besides, Malone’s smile tells her that he’s more than happy to have an audience with the firm’s chairman. Joe Malone originally came to Cromwell Altman for Aaron, but he was farmed out to Peter Hahn when the one-million-dollar retainer Aaron requires proved beyond reach.

Before Hahn can leap in, Rachel says: “Aaron, you’ll recall the fifty-thousand-foot overview. Joe was until recently the studio assistant to Robert Attias, who I’m sure you know is, in many people’s opinion, the greatest living American abstract expressionist master. The position of studio assistant is an extremely close one with the artist. Basically, Joe handled not only Attias’s professional life but his entire life, for the last ten years. During the course of that relationship, Attias made eight gifts to Joe of his artwork. None were the serious types of paintings that sell at auction for tens of millions. These were more like sketches . . . but each still has considerable value because it’s virtually impossible to buy an original Attias unless it’s a fifty-million-dollar painting. There’s a dispute about the value of these gifts, but we peg the sketches as worth somewhere between three million and five million. That’s a lot of money for Joe, so he wanted to sell some of them, but Attias is the kind of guy who expects blind loyalty, and he would have fired Joe if he got wind that Joe had sold off the sketches.”

“And just so you know, Bob once gave a painting to Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie,” Malone says. “And they donated it to some charity, and Bob was just livid. I swear. He couldn’t see the big picture about how that canvas probably built a school somewhere in Africa. All he kept ranting about was what complete ingrates Brad and Angelina were.”

“So to protect himself against Attias’s finding out that Joe was selling the gifts,” Rachel continues, “Joe sold them in private sales and
required the buyers to execute confidentiality agreements and agree not to resell the works until after Attias’s death. The buyers naturally demanded a cut in the price in exchange for agreeing to those restrictions, and so the works were sold at what we think was a thirty percent discount. The government is claiming it was more like fifty percent. And of course, somehow Attias found out about the sales. He got so pissed off that he called the FBI and claimed he never made any gifts to Joe and that Joe had stolen them. The prosecutor thinks that they have a winning hand here because Joe’s selling the works at a discount, and in a private sale with confidentiality restrictions, and that could be deemed to indicate Joe was trying to avoid anyone knowing that these works were on the market, which is the typical MO for stolen art.”

Hahn is now finally about to say something, but Aaron waves him off. Rachel wonders if Hahn’s head is going to explode right here in the conference room. He’s spent a thousand hours on the Malone defense, but Aaron’s content to rely upon the two-minute recap he’s just heard from the recently assigned junior partner on the case.

“What’s the bid and the ask regarding plea negotiations?” Aaron asks.

“Um . . . we haven’t really had any, but I figure that conviction on all counts likely means ten years, give or take,” Hahn says. “The Assistant U.S. Attorney on the case is a woman named Stephanie Kessler and she’s a . . .” He looks at Rachel and must decide not to use the term
bitch
,
but says, “. . . tough one. I don’t have a real feel for where she’s going to land on this. Maybe three years is doable. I doubt we’d end up doing much better, though. The main issue is that there’s no way Joe can allocute his guilt because . . . because it’s not true.”

Rachel’s eyes meet Aaron’s in a tacit
See what I’m dealing with
moment. Aaron’s response is an almost imperceptible nod, reinforcing in Rachel’s mind that she and Aaron share telepathy.

“I didn’t do it, Mr. Littman,” Malone says. “I know you must hear that all the time, but I swear, I’m innocent.”

“Yes, I do hear that all the time,” Aaron says. “And this may surprise you, but it’s been my long-held view that when you’re contemplating whether to take a plea, guilt and innocence are largely beside the point.”

Malone looks as if he’s just heard the Pope deny the existence of God, but Rachel knows exactly where Aaron is heading. She’s seen him perform this particular bit of magic before: getting a man who has heretofore shouted his innocence from the mountaintop to do a one-eighty-degree turn and consider pleading guilty—for the right price, of course.

“Mr. Malone, are you married?” Aaron asks.

“Yeah.”

“Kids?”

“Two kids. A nine-year-old girl and an eleven-year-old boy.”

Aaron nods. “So, in three years, they’ll be twelve and fourteen. I’m not saying that the next three years don’t matter, because every day matters . . . but you need to think about not seeing your son again until he’s twenty-one. And you need to think about the possibility that the worst case here
isn’t
ten years, but say you get sentenced to fifteen. Or twenty. Now you’re in territory of not seeing your grandchildren being born. What a plea does for you is, in many ways, more important than vindication. It assures you a future. Peter here thinks three years is doable . . . but what if he can get you two? So now you’re looking at the certainty of being back at home before your daughter is interested in boys. On top of that, you’ve got to consider the financial cost of a trial. Conservatively, you’re looking at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and more if you lose, what with post-trial briefing and appeals. That’s college tuition for your kids, security for your wife. And while we win our fair share of cases, and Peter’s as damn good a trial lawyer as there is, the sad truth is that the prosecution wins many more than they lose. I’m talking something
like a ninety percent conviction rate. Those odds should give even the most innocent man something to think about.”

Faced with the likelihood that he might well be convicted and sentenced to serious jail time—something that Peter Hahn has been soft-selling—Malone’s barely keeping it together, which is exactly what Rachel had hoped this tête-à-tête with Aaron Littman would produce: abject fear. When Rachel previously tried to articulate the risk Malone faced by going to trial, Hahn belittled her concerns, at one point actually calling her a nervous Nelly. But when Aaron Littman tells you there’s a very real possibility of conviction and a long prison term, that means in no uncertain terms that you have every right to be afraid. Very afraid.

“Now I’m going to tell you something else, which hits home for me,” Aaron continues. “I’m sure you’ve heard, I just lost a very big trial for Eric Matthews, and he’s now serving fourteen years. That was
twice
the sentence we thought he’d get. And I’m telling you that so you can see that no one has a crystal ball on these sorts of things. But to me, when it comes right down to it, this decision that you have to make—whether to plead guilty or go to trial—is likely the most important decision you’ll ever make. For you and your family. And like any decision of that magnitude, you need to have all the available information. And part of that information is whether a guilty plea means five years or three years or, maybe, something less. That’s just plain common sense, Joe.”

Two knocks on the door and Diane steps inside. “Mr. Littman,” she says, “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but there’s someone here to see you.”

“I’m very sorry that I have to go,” Aaron says, “but let me make one last point. There’s one thing I never say to my clients: that I’m with them all the way. The reason I don’t is that I know it’s just not true. The truth is that I’m with them until the verdict. If after that they go to prison . . . that’s something they have to do on their own. Which is why only
you
can make this decision. But I’ll tell you
this—if someone offered me three years in jail to eliminate the risk of serving ten or fifteen, I’d think very hard about it. And whether or not I was innocent or guilty wouldn’t be the only consideration, because the sad truth is that innocent men do get convicted.” Aaron smiles at Malone and extends his hand. “It was very nice seeing you again, Joe. I know you’ll make the right choice.”

Malone shakes Aaron’s hand and then puts his other hand on top, forming a handshake sandwich. “Thank you so much, Mr. Littman,” he says.

Over Malone’s shoulder, and out of Hahn’s still-infuriated sight line, Rachel mouths: “Thank you.”

4

W
hen Aaron steps outside the conference room, he says, “Thanks for getting me, Diane. Right on time, too.”

“You’re welcome,” she replies, “but there really is someone here to see you. Roy Sabato. He doesn’t have an appointment, but he says it’s a matter of some urgency.”

At its highest echelon, the criminal defense bar in New York is fairly small and divided into factions. Roy Sabato and Aaron Littman are not members of the same clique, not by a long shot. Aaron and his ilk represent multinational corporations and CEOs involved in complex securities crimes, while Sabato’s clients are by and large mobsters, drug dealers, and other allegedly misunderstood, albeit very wealthy, citizens from the lowest strata of society.

In the same way that owners sometimes end up looking like their dogs, from appearances alone you’d assume Roy Sabato was a client. Everything from his stocky build to his shiny suits to his pinky ring suggests he’s a made man.

It’s Aaron’s usual practice to hold introductory meetings in the conference room. But something tells him maintaining a power advantage will be to his benefit, and so he directs Sabato into his office.

Sabato looks around the room. The chairman’s office at Cromwell Altman Rosenthal and White isn’t the Oval Office, but for lawyers it’s a seat of power like no other. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame Central Park on two sides, while the main wall is blanketed with pictures of Aaron with A-list movie stars, national political figures, and corporate
chieftains.

Aaron takes his position behind a desk that costs as much as a Mercedes. It’s more than three feet long, entirely made of stone, and held upright by a single pedestal positioned so far to one end that it creates something of an optical illusion that the structure is about to topple over.

After they’re both seated, Aaron waits a beat, then two, assuming Sabato will come right out and state the reason for his visit. Sabato seems ill at ease, however; it’s as if he’s not looking forward to saying why he’s here. It’s the demeanor clients have when they fire you, but Aaron hasn’t even been hired yet, and so he’s at a loss as to the reason behind Sabato’s hesitancy.

Finally, Aaron says, “So, Roy, what can I do for you?”

“I have a client who wants to retain your services.”

“And who might that be?”

Sabato exhales and says: “Nicolai Garkov.”