In the nearly fifty years that Sam Rosenthal has been associated with Cromwell Altman, he does not recall there ever being an emergency meeting of the COC. But on the Sunday morning after the prom, the entire COC is assembled around the conference room table, with the exception of Aaron Littman, of course.
Rosenthal feels his age, which is unusual for him. Most of the time, his limp notwithstanding, he feels stronger than he did twenty years before, but this morning every movement seems labored. He barely slept last night and then awoke before dawn to go see Aaron. Worse still, he knows that there will be many sleepless nights to follow.
Sitting across from Aaron’s empty chair, Rosenthal calls the meeting to order. There is usually considerable cross talk among the members of the COC before the meeting gets under way, but today you can hear a pin drop. To a person, they’re waiting to hear what Rosenthal has to say.
“Thank you for coming this morning,” he begins. “There are two things I want to do today. First, I want to tell you about what’s going on, as best as I know, and as best I can share consistent with the attorney-client privilege.”
“Wait a second,” Pierce says, interrupting. “What privilege do you have that we don’t?”
“I’m acting as Aaron’s counsel. As such, there are communications between us that I cannot share with the rest of you.”
“When was this decided?” Pierce says. “I don’t remember a conflict check going around the firm. And there was no new matter opened to indicate that Aaron was seeking representation by the firm.”
Abby Sloane comes to Sam’s defense. “Donald, let Sam say what he brought us here to say,” she snaps. “Then you can make whatever points you want, but I’m telling you right now that it would be a huge mistake if the firm did not represent Aaron. He’s our partner, for God’s sake. The one thing we most certainly don’t want to do is send the message to our clients that our own partner—the head of the firm—chose another law firm to represent him.”
That’s enough to quiet Pierce down, at least for the moment.
“How is Aaron doing?” Jane Cleary asks.
“He’s fine, under the circumstances,” Rosenthal says. “Obviously, he’s looking forward to clearing his name. There is no doubt in my mind that Aaron is innocent and will be vindicated. Tomorrow we will appear before a magistrate judge and ask for bail.”
“What’s the likelihood of his making bail?” Gregg Goldman asks.
“Realistically . . . it’s even money,” Rosenthal says. “A lot depends on which magistrate judge gets assigned, but this type of situation—the murder of a fellow judge—makes it difficult to handicap how even the most lenient judge will rule.”
Rosenthal makes direct eye contact with each of his fellow COC members before going on to the next point. Other than Pierce, he has their attention.
“But I understand that we need to do more than just protect our partner. We also need to protect the firm. And that leads me to the second matter for which I called this meeting. Given Aaron’s incarceration, we need to elect a new chairman.”
Like clockwork, Pierce says, “And let me guess. You propose that you will—with a heavy heart, of course—take on the mantle of leadership. Do I have that right?”
Rosenthal and Pierce stare hard at each other, like two gunslingers in the Old West.
Elliot Dalton breaks the silence. “I know that you’ve been patiently waiting, Donald, but this is not the time for a new direction.”
“I couldn’t disagree more, Elliot. Now is precisely the time for new leadership. We need to do everything we can to distance ourselves from Aaron. To tell our clients that his transgressions have nothing to do with the way we conduct business at Cromwell Altman. We should cut him loose and make it crystal clear it wasn’t that he went outside the firm for counsel but that we didn’t want to represent him.”
Rosenthal is ready to spit fire. “That is never going to happen!” he shouts. “I am going to do everything in my power to protect Aaron. End of discussion. And, Don, I’ll either do it here or I’ll do it somewhere else—and make no mistake about it, I’ll take my fucking name off the door on my way out!”
“There’s no reason to prolong this,” Sloane says. “Let’s just vote. I’m with Sam.”
“Me too,” Dalton says.
“My vote and Aaron’s proxy makes four,” Rosenthal says.
Donald Pierce looks angry enough to split in half, but there’s nothing he can do. Samuel Rosenthal has the votes to become the chairman of Cromwell Altman Rosenthal and White for the second time.
AARON’S SECOND INCARCERATED NIGHT is far worse than the first.
No longer does it feel like a curiosity that will someday make a good story, to be told in the comfort he’s always known. Now it seems he might well have to live out his days in an eight-by-ten windowless room with three other men.
It is a common narcissism that people view their lives like novels in which they are the protagonist. It’s a comforting thought, because it means that even when the story twists and all looks lost, there remains the unshakeable belief that a happy ending awaits.
Part of Aaron clings to that belief like it’s a life raft. It’s simply unfathomable for him to imagine being taken from his family. And yet he knows all too well that the unthinkable sometimes occurs. Faith, of course, being the prime example. She undoubtedly thought that her story’s next chapters took place at the Supreme Court. How wrong she was.
Of all the insincere gestures known to man, prayer by an agnostic has to rank right up there. And yet, that’s what Aaron does. Silently, he asks for forgiveness and pledges to be a better man, a better father, a better husband, if only he’s given the chance.