Losing Faith Part 18

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 relations.h.i.+p.

The fantasy shatters the moment Rachel sees out of her peripheral vision three men wearing identical clothing-long black overcoats, dark gray suits, white s.h.i.+rts, nondescript dark ties-enter the room. Men dressed like that, walking with such purpose, can only have one of two occupations-FBI agent or a.s.sa.s.sin.

37.

Sam Rosenthal raises his gla.s.s 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, pus.h.i.+ng 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.

Rosenthal makes a beeline to Donald Pierce. Stepping between Greenberg and Singleton, Rosenthal says, "I need a moment with you, Don."

Pierce doesn't even make his apologies to the others. He follows Rosenthal to a corner of the room, away from everyone.

When they're alone enough not to be overheard, Pierce says, "What the h.e.l.l just happened?!"

"Aaron was arrested for murdering Judge Nichols."

"Oh my G.o.d. Did you know anything about this?"

"Now's not the time to play who knew what and when, Don."

"So what is this the time to do, Sam?"

"Protect our firm, of course. To do that, you need to go up to that microphone and make an announcement that the party is over. Under the circ.u.mstances, I'm sure no one will disagree. Get the car service to send every G.o.dd.a.m.ned car they have. I don't care if they have to hire pedicabs, just make sure everyone goes straight home. And that goes double for anyone working in the office tonight instead of being here-I'm going down there right now and throwing everybody out. I don't want anyone except the cleaning people there this weekend. Tell everybody that on Monday, the firm will issue a statement. And make it clear that no one is to talk to the press. I mean no one. Not one person is to say a word about this until we've thought this through."

"The partners are going to want to know what just happened, Sam."

"For Christ's sake, look around you, Don. They already know."

SURE ENOUGH, THERE ARE a dozen or so reporters in front of Cromwell Altman's building, and each one shouts at Sam Rosenthal as he enters.

"Did Aaron Littman kill Judge Nichols?"

"Was he having an affair with her?"

"Was it going on while he was representing Eric Matthews?"

"Did Nicolai Garkov hire him to influence Judge Nichols?"

Rosenthal doesn't even say no comment as he pushes past them. When he enters the lobby, there's an odd silence, broken only by the rhythmic clacking of his cane against the marble floor. The lone security guard seems oblivious to the commotion outside, saying h.e.l.lo to Rosenthal as he pa.s.ses, without even a reference to the fact that Rosenthal's entering the building at 10:00 p.m. on a Sat.u.r.day night wearing a tuxedo.

When Rosenthal steps off the elevator on the fifty-seventh floor, Margaret, the firm's weekend receptionist, is not so in the dark. She looks positively panicked.

"Mr. Rosenthal, thank G.o.d you're here! The phones have been ringing nonstop. Not just the general number, either-I can hear the office phones ringing too. It's like someone is calling every lawyer in the firm. I've seen online that Mr. Littman . . ." She doesn't finish the thought, as if saying it out loud would be some type of offense.

"Did you say anything to anyone?" Rosenthal asks.

"No, of course not."

"Good. I need you to go office by office and tell anyone who's here to go home immediately. No exceptions. I don't care what they're working on. Tell them those are my orders, on penalty of immediate termination. Also tell them that I said they are not to talk to the press, but to go straight home and come back on Monday morning. The same goes for you, Margaret. As soon as you've finished your rounds, go straight home. There are some reporters outside, but I want you to just walk right past them without saying a word. If they follow you, just ignore them and keep going. Thank you . . . good night."

Rosenthal leaves the stunned receptionist in his wake, knowing she will do his bidding without question. A minute later, he's behind the closed door to his office, ready to spring into action, battle to the death as he's done so many times behind this desk, when he realizes that there really isn't anything for him to do.

Aaron will be booked, and then he'll be sent to a holding facility for the night, all of which means the earliest Rosenthal can see him is tomorrow morning. Rosenthal could work the phones right now, hara.s.s a judge to hear Aaron's application for bail tomorrow, but he already knows that's not going to yield success. None of his buddies on the bench are going to go out of their way to spare Faith Nichols's accused murderer at least a night in jail.

Rosenthal dials Fitz's cell number. He's not surprised when it goes directly to voice mail. Fitz is probably working on his remarks for tomorrow's press conference and doesn't want to be disturbed.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n you, Fitz!" Rosenthal shouts after the beep. "It's Sam! If you have any decency at all, you'll call me back tonight! Do you hear me?! So help me G.o.d, if I don't get a call back from you, I'll do everything I can to make sure that this is the last f.u.c.king job you ever have in this city!"

After slamming down the phone, Rosenthal sits in silence. His heart goes out to Aaron. He can only imagine what must be going through his mind.

And then he realizes there is something he can do. He dials Elliot Dalton.

38.

It takes Rachel less than ten minutes to walk from the Met to the Littmans' building, but when she arrives, there's already a large police presence erecting a barricade to hold back the press. The reporters must think that Rachel's a resident because they shout: "Did you ever see Judge Nichols in the building?" and "What's your reaction to the news that one of your neighbors might be a murderer?"

She rushes past them but is stopped by the doorman at the threshold. "No press!" he screams at her. "I'll get a cop in here right now!"

"I'm a friend of the Littmans," Rachel says. "I'm here to visit Cynthia. I'm also their attorney. Call upstairs, and tell Mrs. Littman that Rachel London from her husband's office is here."

The doorman makes the call, although he mangles the message. "Let me talk to her," Rachel says, and reaches for the phone.

"Mrs. Littman, this is Rachel London. I'm a partner at Cromwell Altman. Sam Rosenthal asked that I come over. It's very important that we talk."

Rachel hands the phone back to the doorman. He nods a few times before saying, "Of course," into the receiver, and then telling the second doorman, "Take her up."

The elevator has no b.u.t.tons, only a lever that the second doorman operates. When they reach the ninth floor, the doors open into the apartment, and Rachel is face-to-face with Cynthia Littman. She's wearing sweatpants and a man's white T-s.h.i.+rt, is without makeup, and looks as if she's been crying. At least that means she already knows what happened, Rachel thinks.

Rachel has met Cynthia a handful of times. She came away from each interaction with the distinct impression that Aaron's wife was not at all pleased to be in her company. Rachel didn't begrudge Cynthia her suspicions. She understood all too well the threat she posed.

"Mrs. Littman, thank you for seeing me. I don't know if you remember me. I worked with Aaron on the Eric Matthews trial."

"I know who you are, Rachel."

Rachel decides not to read too much into Cynthia's harsh tone. Her husband has just been arrested for murdering his mistress, after all. That is more than enough to make any woman angry.

"Sam Rosenthal asked me to come over right away. He wanted someone from the firm to tell you what happened, which I gather you already know."

"The phone started ringing about twenty minutes ago," Cynthia says in a slow voice. "The first reporter, somebody from CNN, I think, said that Aaron had been arrested and would I care to comment. I just hung up on him and turned on the TV. There was nothing about Aaron, and so I went online . . . and it was everywhere."

"Did you talk to anyone?"

"No. And I unplugged the phone. It started ringing nonstop pretty quickly. The girls are out tonight at a friend's house. I called over there and explained it to them . . ." She shakes her head, fighting back tears. "I thought it was better if they stayed there for the night. There were already reporters downstairs."

Rachel nods, having pa.s.sed that gauntlet herself. "Can I sit down?" she asks.

"I'm sorry," Cynthia says, actually sounding contrite. "Of course."

The Littmans' living room is enormous, maybe fifty feet long, with at least ten windows looking west onto Central Park. There are two separate seating areas, and Cynthia shows Rachel to the one closest to the fireplace.

Once seated, Rachel is about to continue, but Cynthia's eyes are shut tight, as if she's trying to block out everything around her. When she opens them, she stares hard at Rachel, almost as if she's trying to bore into her thoughts.

"So. Were you also f.u.c.king my husband?"

Cynthia has said this without emotion. Not an accusation as much as a simple question. Like, Can I get you something to drink?

"Excuse me, Mrs. Littman?"

"I believe you heard me. The least you can do is give me an answer."

For as long as she could remember, Rachel wished it to be so, and yet she's suddenly glad that she can answer Aaron's wife honestly. "No, ma'am," Rachel says.

"Please don't call me ma'am. It's not flattering to either of us. You're not married, are you?"

"No, I'm not."

"And you're what . . . thirty?"

"Thirty-three."

Cynthia shakes her head with a look of disgust. "My my, you must have really turned some heads tonight in that dress. I bet the partners' wives thought you were this year's arm candy with that a.s.shole Donald Pierce, and then they find out, oh no, she's a partner. She's with our husbands every day."

Cynthia laughs, and right then, Rachel realizes what she didn't before. Cynthia Littman is very drunk.

"Are you okay, Mrs. Littman?"

"Mrs. Littman is hardly better than ma'am. If you are f.u.c.king my husband, the least you can do is not to refer to me like I'm some G.o.dd.a.m.n old lady."

"Cynthia," Rachel says with a soft voice, looking into her eyes in an effort to ascertain just how inebriated she is, "there's nothing going on with me and Aaron. I don't know what happened between him and Judge Nichols, but Aaron needs you now." She pauses, and even though there's nothing she wants to say less, Rachel adds, "Cynthia, I think you've had a little too much to drink."

"Of course I've had too much to drink. Wouldn't you?"

Rachel laughs. "Yeah, I guess I would."

This coaxes a smile from Cynthia, and Rachel decides not to let the shared moment between them go to waste. "Sam Rosenthal thinks that the FBI might try to execute a search warrant, and he wanted me to-" Rachel catches herself. Not knowing where Cynthia is going to come out in all of this, she doesn't want to say what she's there to do. The irony isn't lost on Rachel that while she's certain of her own loyalty to Aaron, she's looking at his wife with suspicion.