The Viand is not the most upscale meeting place that Thomas J. Fitzpatrick—Fitz, as he’s known to friends and those who like to pretend they’re closer to the U.S. attorney than they actually are—could have chosen. The restaurant’s official name is the Viand Café, but other than the fact that a chef’s salad costs twenty-two dollars, it’s like any diner anywhere—right down to the vinyl booths, linoleum floors, and breakfast that can be ordered anytime.
Sam Rosenthal arrives early and takes a seat in the last booth in the back. It’s a habit he’s adopted since the accident, so as not to look frail by entering a room with the use of a cane. Rosenthal’s always viewed litigation as combat, and so even though he’s twice as fit as Fitz, he doesn’t want to show his adversary the slightest trace of weakness.
The meeting was set for eight o’clock, but at eight fifteen, Fitz still hasn’t arrived. Three years as U.S. attorney have made Fitz accustomed to people running on his schedule.
Rosenthal sits there, nursing a pretty bad cup of coffee, until Fitz finally enters the diner at eight twenty. He offers Rosenthal a wave to signify his arrival and then takes a good five minutes to make it the twenty-five feet from the door to the back of the restaurant, stopping at each booth to shake some hands.
Since getting the U.S. attorney gig, Fitz has dropped twenty pounds, shaved off his beard, and stepped up his wardrobe. But even with the makeover, he’s still far from a handsome man—his jowls hang like saddlebags on his face and his chin is almost nonexistent.
When Fitz finally makes it to Rosenthal’s table, he slides into the booth and smiles at the waitress, a young woman in her twenties who’s wearing too much makeup. The smile is all it takes for her to bring a cup of coffee to the table.
“Thanks, Sylvie,” Fitz says to her. “This here is my good friend Sam Rosenthal. Sam, meet Sylvie, the finest waitress in the city.”
Rosenthal smiles. “Do you want a warm-up, hon?” Sylvie asks.
“No, I’m still good,” Rosenthal says.
Fitz pours a splash of milk and mixes in two teaspoons of sugar in the time it takes Sylvie to pull her order pad from her apron pocket. “What can I get you, gentlemen?” she says with a smile.
“You should have the waffles, Sam. Second to none.”
“I’m game if you are.”
“I truly wish I could, but I can’t. I got a fire raging back at the office, so I’m afraid this is going to be an in-and-out thing for me.”
Rosenthal’s first impulse is to tell Fitz off. First he’s almost half an hour late, and now he’s only allotted a few minutes? Rosenthal stifles the impulse, however. Even five minutes with Fitz is better than nothing.
“In that case, I think I’ll stick with the coffee,” Rosenthal says.
Sylvie closes her pad and briskly moves back to the counter to wait on a newly arrived patron. When she’s far enough away from the booth that Rosenthal assumes they won’t be overheard, he says, “I appreciate you making time to see me, Fitz.”
“My pleasure, Sam. What can I do for you?”
“Well, I’m sure you know the FBI agent on the Judge Nichols investigation has reached out to Aaron Littman and also to one of my junior partners, a woman named Rachel London. She was second-seating Aaron on the Garkov case. We’re going to give your office our fullest cooperation, of course, but we also have to be concerned about our client confidences. And, to be frank . . . it seems like overkill to make two lawyers tell you the same thing. I think one should suffice, and based just on billable rate, we’d rather it be Rachel. If you need Aaron at trial later, that’s fine, but for information-gathering purposes, Rachel can give all you need on Garkov, consistent with our professional obligations, of course.”
Fitz takes a long sip of coffee. “How long have we known each other, Sam?”
“Twenty-five years, I’d guess.”
“I thought about it on my way over here. I met you when I was the number two guy prosecuting state senator what’s his name, the guy in the Bronx. I remembered because it was 1984 and that guy wouldn’t shut up about how everything that was happening was like from the George Orwell book.”
“Okay. I stand corrected. We’ve known each other since 1984.”
“So . . . that type of longevity requires that we dispense with the bullshit, don’t you think?”
“If you’ve got some non-bullshit to share, Fitz, please, by all means, let’s hear it.”
“All right, I will. For starters, don’t sit there with a straight face and tell me that you don’t understand why we’d want to talk to Aaron. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t already know that he’s in a shitload of trouble.”
“C’mon, Fitz,” Rosenthal says, leaning closer. “This is Aaron we’re talking about. Aaron Littman. Do you really think he murdered a federal judge, for chrissakes?”
“Look, I know how you feel about the man. Surrogate son and all that, but . . . facts are facts, Sam. I’m sure I’m not telling you anything you don’t know, but we have evidence of the affair, and that it was going on during the Eric Matthews case. I mean . . . what the hell was Aaron thinking?”
Damn. They know about the affair. At least that means Rosenthal can stop maintaining the façade with Fitz that he has no idea what’s going on.
“That’s for the bar association to deal with,” he says. “Not the fucking United States Attorney’s Office.”
“Ordinarily I’d agree with you, Sam. But, you see, I got a dead federal judge on my hands. Somebody killed her. You want to tell me whodunit?”
“Yes. Not Aaron. You know as well as I do that you have a terrorist with a pretty goddamned good motive sitting under house arrest this very moment over at Trump Tower. And from what I hear, everything wasn’t paradise in Judge Nichols’s marriage, either. That’s two good places where you should be looking instead.”
“We’re running down every direction, Sam. But one of those paths leads to Aaron. You’d do him a lot of good if you bring him in to talk to us.”
“Like I said, we’re going to cooperate with you as best as we can, but not if you’re engaging in some kind of witch hunt.”
The battle lines have now been drawn, and they can both read into what the other is saying. Fitz is telling his old buddy Rosenthal that his protégé Aaron Littman is a prime suspect in a federal judge’s murder, and Rosenthal is telling his good friend Fitz to go straight to hell.
Fitz reaches into his breast pocket for his phone and quickly scrolls through a few messages. “I’m really sorry, Sam . . . but like I said, I got an emergency back at the ranch. Look, it’s your call whether you bring Aaron in, and I don’t need to tell you that his silence says a lot. But you need to represent him as you see fit. I just don’t see why either you or he would want to play it that way. If he’s not the guy, okay, come on in and tell us that. Otherwise, how can you blame us if we reach the opposite conclusion?”
Rosenthal rises with Fitz. He’s tempted to show his annoyance by refusing to shake Fitz’s hand but thinks better of acting out in such a juvenile fashion.
“Thanks for meeting with me, Fitz. You’ll be making a big mistake if you focus on Aaron. Believe me on that.”
“Good seeing you too, Sam. You think about bringing him in, so I don’t make that mistake.”
The moment Fitz leaves the booth, Rosenthal sees that whatever emergency requires his immediate attention is not so great as to delay him from shaking some more hands and slapping a few backs on his way out of the diner.
Rosenthal decides to salvage something positive from this meeting.
“Excuse me, Sylvie . . . I’ve changed my mind. Can I get an order of those waffles?”