Losing Faith (38 page)

“Mr. Littman, I’ve handed you the evidence previously submitted by the prosecution,” Rosenthal says, “that lists all of the phone calls to and from Judge Nichols’s cell phone. Let me ask you point-blank. Did you make or receive any of those calls?”

“No, I did not.”

“Have you ever purchased a prepaid phone?”

“No,” Aaron says with a head-shake. “I use the cell phone that my law firm provides me.”

It’s time for Rosenthal to head for home. The night of the murder.

“Mr. Littman . . . did you see Judge Nichols on the night she was murdered?”

“No.”

“Where were you that evening?”

“I was at the office all night. Other than a few minutes here and there, I was in a conference room with Rachel London. She called it the war room.”

“Ms. London testified that she left before you that night, though. Is that true?”

“That is my recollection, although I did leave shortly thereafter.”

There’s one problem with this story. There is no evidence of how Aaron got home that night.

His usual practice, like all the Cromwell Altman partners, was to use the firm car service and charge a client for the ride. But that created a paper trail, like the voucher Rachel relied upon to show she
had been in the office until a little after midnight. On a few occasions, Aaron walked home, so at least it was not the case that every night was accounted for with a voucher, but he could not plausibly claim that he walked home on a cold evening after midnight.

Rosenthal decided that it was better to bring the point out on direct than to leave Aaron floundering to explain during Donnelly’s cross-examination. That way, when she did go after him about it, it would seem like old news. At least that was the hope.

“Mr. Littman, how did you get home that evening?”

“Frankly, at first I didn’t remember. It was just another late night at the office, and that’s pretty much my regular practice. Even when I heard the next day that Judge Nichols had been killed, I didn’t think I’d have to account for my whereabouts. Of course, when the charges were filed, we went back to the vouchers but didn’t see one for that night. That could mean the voucher was lost, or that I grabbed a taxi that night.”

“Why would you take a taxi rather than the firm’s car service?”

“Any number of reasons. There might not have been a car available and a taxi pulled right up. The yellow cabs hover around the area all the time, trying to steal business from the car service. It’s also possible I needed to get something from the Duane Reade, which is a block or two from the office, and it’s open twenty-four hours. Sometimes after leaving the office, I’ll walk a few blocks just to unwind a bit and then hail a cab. Honestly, I just don’t remember what I did on that particular night. I wish I did, but I don’t.”

It’s the best he can do with what they have. Rosenthal looked into creating a false voucher, but the risks outweighed the benefits. The car service would likely have complied, given that Cromwell Altman is their biggest client. And a driver might have been paid off too, swearing that he took Aaron from work that night. But it was Aaron who ultimately thought they were going too far out on a limb for a minor point. Putting his trust in Cynthia or Rachel was one thing, but putting it in a limo driver was quite another. Plus those yellow
cabs really were like sharks anyway, which made plausible each of the scenarios he had laid out.

And so, after establishing Aaron’s alibi as best as lying can do, Rosenthal ends the examination with a closing flurry.

“Mr. Littman, did you kill Judge Nichols?”

“No.”

“Just no?”

“What else can I say beyond
no
?”

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

59

F
ederal prosecutors don’t cross-examine many witnesses. Partly this is because trials in federal court are rare as a general matter, with well over 90 percent of defendants pleading out. And, at least in New York City, the defendants who do go to trial are usually drug dealers and organized-crime figures, and they don’t call many witnesses on their own behalf because their associates tend to be criminals as well.

As she prepares to ask her first question, however, Victoria Donnelly doesn’t seem the least bit apprehensive. On the contrary, she looks like a predator eyeing prey.

“Mr. Littman,” she says as if his name is an epithet, “let me get straight here what you’re asking this jury to believe. First, you claim that you never had an affair with Judge Nichols, even though her husband provided sworn testimony that he saw the two of you holding hands as you left the Ritz-Carlton hotel. Do I have that right?”

“I never had an affair with Judge Nichols and I was never with her at the Ritz-Carlton—other than the one time I spoke about, during a banquet that was attended by hundreds of others. Needless to say, that also means that I never held hands with her at any time.”

“So, Mr. Christensen, Judge Nichols’s widower . . . he’s a liar. That’s your testimony?”

Aaron knows this is the most precarious part: to maintain his innocence and yet not appear as someone asking the jury to disbelieve everyone but him.

“I don’t know why Mr. Christensen testified as he did. Perhaps he’s mistaken. Perhaps he lied to you so that he wouldn’t be considered a
suspect. I don’t know. What I do know is that I did not have an affair with Judge Nichols.”

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

“But you did frequent the hotel, didn’t you? You’re not claiming that the Ritz-Carlton’s records are also lying, are you?”

Donnelly’s clearly trying to get a rise out of Aaron, to show the jury that he’s a man prone to outbursts. His job, therefore, is to remain cool, no matter what she hurls at him.

“As my wife and I both previously testified, we went to the hotel about once a week. It was part of our date nights.”

“So just a coincidence, is that your testimony? A clerk at the Ritz-Carlton says that Judge Nichols was often there. Her widower says he saw you hand in hand with his wife at the hotel, and you admit that you were there but claim that you were there with your wife. Do I have all of that right? It’s all just one big coincidence?”

“My experience in criminal practice is that the prosecution often takes a fact—for example, my presence at the Ritz-Carlton from time to time—and pressures witnesses to conform their recollection to such facts. So, a clerk at the Ritz-Carlton might be pressured to say that she remembered Faith being there on multiple occasions when the truth could be that she saw her once for a business meeting . . . and like I said, Judge Nichols was at the hotel for the George Vanderlyn banquet. As for Mr. Christensen, all I can say is that a spouse is often a suspect when the wife is murdered, and therefore he might say just about anything to save his own skin.”

“Well, finally, something we can agree on, Mr. Littman,” Donnelly says. “Some people would say anything to save their own skin. Is Roy Sabato also lying to save his own skin when he says that he told you that Nicolai Garkov would make public some very incriminating information about you if you did not agree to meet with him?”

Aaron’s already conceded this, so he’s got no choice but to take it on the chin.

“Yes, that is what Roy said.”

“And the information he was talking about—the information he claimed Mr. Garkov would make public if you didn’t meet with him—that was your affair with Judge Nichols, wasn’t it?”

“No. That’s not the case. As I testified, I did not have an affair with Judge Nichols.”

“But you admit that Mr. Sabato said that Mr. Garkov had information that would be extremely damaging to you?”

“As I’ve said repeatedly now, Mr. Garkov didn’t have any information. He was bluffing when he told Mr. Sabato to say that.”

“Yes, yes. That’s your story and you’re sticking to it.”

Aaron doesn’t answer, and Donnelly appears content to have the silence permeate the courtroom. When she’s played out the theatrics to their fullest extent, she fires off another question.

“Mr. Littman, on the night Judge Nichols was killed, she received two phone calls from the same phone number, and she made a phone call to that number. Is it your testimony that you didn’t make those calls or receive a call from her?”

“Yes, it is.”

Donnelly pulls a piece of paper from the pile of exhibits that have already been introduced. Then she reads: “
Faith, please call me at this number as soon as you can. Very important.
Are you also telling this jury that you did not send that message?”

“That is correct. I did not send that message.”

“If Mr. Garkov was blackmailing you by, let’s just say . . . by threatening to reveal your affair with Judge Nichols unless Judge Nichols helped him in his case, that is the kind of text you would have sent, correct?”

Aaron looks across the courtroom at Rosenthal. The question is way out of bounds, but Rosenthal doesn’t object. Instead he offers Aaron a slow nod, his way of conveying that Aaron’s got to sink or swim on his own, lest the jury believe Rosenthal is trying to obstruct them from hearing the truth.

“The question is based on a false premise,” Aaron says calmly. “I can’t answer it because I wasn’t having an affair with Judge Nichols,
and Mr. Garkov was not blackmailing me, and because I didn’t send that text.”

“And according to you, Mr. Littman, you were in the office the night of the murder with Rachel London?”

“I was in the Garkov war room with Ms. London, yes.”

“You and Ms. London are very close, aren’t you, Mr. Littman?”

“I’m close to a great many of my partners at Cromwell Altman. I don’t know what you mean by
very close
, though.”

He knows as soon as he’s said it that he should have let Donnelly have that one. But cross-examination is a bit like drowning in that way—when you start to go under, none of your senses work and your actions are often counterproductive.

“Yes, Mr. Littman, I should have known that you
love
all two hundred of your partners equally and completely,” Donnelly says. “C’mon, let’s be honest with the jury, shall we? There’s only one partner that you asked to assist you on the Eric Matthews case. Who was that?”

“Rachel London.”

“And there was only one that you asked to assist you on the Garkov case. Who was that?”

“Again, Ms. London.”

“Right. And, in fact, Ms. London owes her partnership to you, doesn’t she?”

Aaron pauses, contemplating whether he can credibly push back on the assertion. Donnelly takes advantage of the silence to deny him that path.

“Mr. Littman, if I called to the stand any number of your partners, wouldn’t they tell me that your blessing alone is enough to elevate an associate to that brass ring, and the millions of dollars in compensation that come with it?”

Aaron feels like he can no longer struggle against the current. “As the chairman of the firm . . . my vote has considerable weight, yes.”

“Thank you, Mr. Littman. It wasn’t so hard to tell the truth, now,
was it?”

Judge Siskind looks over to defense counsel table, apparently expecting Rosenthal to object. But when he says nothing, she takes it upon herself.

“Dial it down a notch, Ms. Donnelly,” she says.

Donnelly, however, continues the onslaught. “And you claim that you just don’t remember how you got home the night Judge Nichols was murdered. Is that your story?”

“It’s not a story, Ms. Donnelly. That’s my sworn testimony.”

Donnelly smiles at him with contempt. “And it’s also your
sworn testimony
that you might have—after midnight on a cold winter night—decided to take a little stroll in midtown Manhattan and then look for a cab, rather than just get inside one of the limousines your law firm has parked right in front of its building to shuttle the partners to and from work. Do I have that part of your
sworn testimony
right?”

“As I testified before, I sometimes do walk for a block or two. Just to clear my head. It’s quite easy to find a taxi in midtown Manhattan at that time of night.”

“But you didn’t submit for the expense, did you, Mr. Littman? So, you have a free ride with the car service, but you’re claiming that you decided to pay for the ride yourself.”

“That’s also not uncommon. A taxi from the office to my apartment is probably six or seven dollars. I don’t mean to be cavalier about it, and when I remember to ask for a receipt, I will sometimes seek reimbursement, but given that I’m charging the client fifteen hundred dollars an hour for my time, I don’t feel like I have to get reimbursed every time I spend a couple of dollars out of my own pocket.”

Donnelly comes to a full stop. Like an athlete psyching herself up, she appears to be preparing for a final onslaught.

Aaron knows that means she’s going to question him about the 9:48 phone call to his office. Her smoking gun.

“Mr. Littman, you claim you never spoke to Judge Nichols on the
night she was murdered, but you admit, do you not, that there was a call made from Judge Nichols’s phone to your office at 9:48 p.m. on the evening she was killed.”

“I have seen the records that indicate that, yes.”

Aaron can hear in his voice the defensiveness that juries hate. Of greater concern is the fact that he knows it’s about to get worse.

“Mr. Littman, you are not suggesting, are you, that the phone company is also lying?”

“No.”

“So, Judge Faith Nichols—a judge before whom you were defense counsel—called you from her personal cell phone at nearly ten o’clock at night.”

As damaging as the statement is, it’s not a question, and so Aaron stays mute.

“Mr. Littman, correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you testify that you were in the office that night? Your story is that you and Ms. London were side by side all night. But you also admit that maybe . . . just maybe . . . you left her side for . . . I don’t know . . . three minutes and three seconds here and there. Enough time for you to be in your office to be on that phone call.”

Having put forth this lie, Aaron has no choice but to perpetuate it. “I was in the office at that time, yes.”