Donnelly’s closing argument seems overly strident to Aaron, but it’s not uncommon for defendants to feel that way. Hearing someone accuse you of committing an unthinkable act often sounds desperate to you but compelling to a jury.
Even Aaron has to admit, however, that the evidence against him is compelling. The affair is proven by the Ritz-Carlton records and the eyewitnesses. The blackmail by Nicolai Garkov. And the 9:48 call puts Aaron in contact with Judge Nichols right before she was killed.
“And what does the defense say in rebuttal?” Donnelly asks rhetorically. “That none of it is true. No affair. No blackmail. And that the call was made by someone else, someone trying to frame Mr. Littman, perhaps.” At this Donnelly pauses, as if she’s just thought of something, despite the fact that lawyers practice their closings for hours and almost never ad-lib. “But if there was no affair, as Mr. Littman and his wife claim, how would anyone know to call Mr. Littman to frame him?” Then she just shakes her head. “The defense makes no sense. None. The only reasonable conclusion consistent with the evidence is that Aaron Littman murdered his lover, Faith Nichols, so that Nicolai Garkov would not reveal that Mr. Littman and Judge Nichols were having an affair—news that would have destroyed the defendant’s marriage and his career.”
Rosenthal’s closing pokes holes in what the prosecution presented. As Aaron listens to Rosenthal do the best with what he has, he knows that the defense has not provided an alternative murderer for the jury to consider, which means that he’s asking them to reach a verdict in which no one will be held accountable for Faith Nichols’s murder.
At six o’clock, Judge Siskind completes her jury instructions. The jurors assemble out of the courtroom without making eye contact with Aaron, but he tells himself not to read anything into that and takes comfort in the fact that the trial is finally over.
All except the verdict, that is.
AARON ENTERS HIS HOME that evening with only one thought in mind: this might be the last night he ever spends here. The sad realization hits him that this will be the case every time he comes home until there’s a verdict.
Aaron and Cynthia make love for the third night in a row. Like coming home, he wonders if this, too, will be the last time.
WHEN ERIC MATTHEWS WAS sentenced, Faith read her decision from the bench, going on for ten minutes about the seriousness of the crime and how a message had to be sent to both Wall Street and Main Street that financial fraud was every bit as destructive to the fabric of society as violent crime. When she finally uttered the payoff line—“I sentence you to fourteen years in prison”—Matthews didn’t show the slightest emotion. He didn’t even turn around when his wife let out a bloodcurdling shriek.
After Faith struck the gavel, while the guards were grabbing Matthews’s arms to handcuff him, he turned to Aaron and said, “What happened?”
“She sentenced you to fourteen years,” Aaron replied. “We have strong arguments on appeal—”
“No. What did she say about me?”
Eric Matthews wasn’t even the worst Aaron had ever experienced. Robert Fox, who was at one time considered the most feared man on Wall Street, literally pissed himself when he was sentenced to eight years. And back in the day, when the sentencing guidelines were mandatory, Aaron had two clients commit suicide before sentencing.
Now it’s his turn. Above all else, Aaron’s determined to preserve some modicum of dignity if the worst is to occur.
CYNTHIA AND THE GIRLS are present in the courtroom to wait for the verdict. Aaron wanted to spare them, but Cynthia prevailed upon him that it was important for them to share the experience. Besides, she said, nothing was going to keep her out of the courtroom, and Lindsay and Samantha would be anxiously waiting wherever they were, and she preferred them all to be together.
Midmorning on the second day of deliberations, the jury delivers a note that they’ve reached a verdict. That most likely means that someone switched sides overnight, as juries usually vote before adjourning for the evening.
“It’s a good sign,” Rosenthal says.
Aaron knows this is just something lawyers tell their clients to keep them from jumping out of their skin as they wait. He’s said it to many a client himself, even as he knew that there is no way of knowing if the switch was from guilty to not guilty or the other way around. Or even if there was a switch at all. It’s also quite possible the jury reached a verdict last night and decided to sleep on it, just to make sure no one wanted to change their vote.
Aaron purposefully doesn’t make eye contact with any of the twelve jurors as they enter the courtroom. There’s no reason to be lulled into thinking that a smile is a vote for acquittal.
It’ll be over soon. Less than two minutes.
He imagines he could hold his breath for that long, and a part of him feels like he’s doing just that. When everyone is in their place, Judge Siskind strikes her gavel to quiet the gallery.
The silence only adds to the grimness Aaron feels. He turns around to see Cynthia and the twins huddled together, as if they’re freezing and sharing bodily warmth.
“Will the defendant please rise?” Judge Siskind says.
Aaron and Rosenthal stand as one. Rosenthal takes Aaron’s hand in his and gives it a squeeze. Aaron suspects he means to convey that they’re in this together, and yet Aaron has never felt more alone.
“Madame Foreperson, please read the jury’s unanimous verdict,” Judge Siskind says.
A gray-haired African-American woman stands. She has reading glasses perched on her nose and is holding a piece of paper at arm’s length, as if she hasn’t memorized the verdict she’s about to deliver.
Aaron finally looks at the faces of the twelve jurors. None of them look in his direction. Not one.
He shuts his eyes, trying to tune out all sensory experiences. His complete and total focus is on whether he’s going to hear the word not.
The foreperson reads in a monotone: “We, the members of the jury, for our unanimous verdict, hereby declare, on the sole count of the indictment, murder in the second degree, that we find the defendant, Aaron L. Littman, to be . . .” And then she looks up for the briefest second and says, “Guilty.”
Aaron’s knees buckle, and he consciously has to plant his feet to keep himself upright. When his mind flashes on how Cynthia and the girls are reacting, he suddenly becomes faint and tumbles back into his chair.
The court officers converge on him, forming a wedge that makes it difficult for him to move more than a foot from the table. A single word has instantly transformed Aaron into a convicted murderer.
“Poll the jury,” Rosenthal says.
Aaron is thankful that someone has done something, even though he knows this will only make it worse. It was bad enough when the foreperson spoke for them, but now each one will declare Aaron guilty.
“Very well,” Judge Siskind says. “The defense has requested that each member of the jury state for the record how he or she voted. So, let’s go through the jury members, one at a time. Madame Foreperson, you may begin.”
The African-American woman stands again. “Guilty,” she says, and then she sits down. She’s followed by a middle-aged man with a mustache who does the same thing. A younger woman with curly hair, and then a younger man who has shaved his head, and then an older man who is balding all repeat the act. It has the look of a very feeble wave at a sporting event, the orderly rising and sitting, except instead of throwing their hands in the air, each one says, “Guilty.”
Midway through, Aaron summons the courage to swing around, and it’s even worse than he could have imagined. Cynthia is curled into herself, with Lindsay and Samantha draped over her on either side. Aaron can’t see any of their faces, but their bodies are convulsing in a way that indicates suffering.
“There you have it, Mr. Rosenthal,” Judge Siskind says when the last juror has spoken. “The jury’s verdict is unanimous. I’m going to—”
“Your Honor,” Rosenthal interrupts, “at this time, the defense moves for a judgment notwithstanding the verdict and requests to be heard in chambers immediately.”
This is the after-verdict equivalent of requesting a directed verdict, and it’s even more rarely granted. If judges are loath to take the decision out of the hands of a jury at the trial’s midpoint, they are twice as unlikely to overrule it after a verdict is rendered.
Judge Siskind uses her gavel to quiet the gallery. “Mr. Rosenthal, your motion is not unexpected, but I’m going to put this matter down for thirty days from today. In the next month, I expect both sides to review the transcript and prepare motion papers. When we reconvene, I will hear arguments concerning sentencing, in the event that I do not grant the defense’s Rule Thirty-Three motion to nullify the jury’s verdict.”
Rosenthal exhales loudly. It’s as if he’s expelling the shock of the guilty verdict.
“I know that what Your Honor just proposed is the standard procedure after a guilty verdict,” he says, “but there is something . . . something that the defense needs to bring to the court’s and the prosecution’s attention immediately. Accordingly, I renew my request that the court hear from the defense in chambers at this time.”
Judge Siskind looks lost. She likely carefully scripted the trial’s conclusion, perhaps even preparing both a guilty and a not-guilty speech, and now Sam Rosenthal is asking her to ad-lib.
“Okay,” she finally says. “Let’s do this now.”
Aaron can finally feel his brain function again. He looks for Rosenthal to provide some type of explanation.
“I would never let you go to jail, Aaron,” Rosenthal says.