Losing Faith Part 8

And so, rather than explain what was behind Judge Nichols's tirade, he says, "I know I can, Rachel. But don't worry about me. Worry about getting Garkov out of jail."

FAITH SPENDS THE REST OF the afternoon at home, drinking wine and channel surfing. Stuart comes home at seven and is still annoyed with her apparently, because he doesn't engage her at all, which is the first bright spot in her day.

Faith's normal routine is to be at the gym at eight, but when she pours herself the last of the wine, she realizes that she's not in any condition to work out. At the same time, she can't stomach the idea of spending any more time in Stuart's company. The horrifying specter of the fact that he might want to have s.e.x tonight pushes her over the edge.

"I'm going to the gym," she announces.

"Okay," he says. He obviously hasn't been keeping track of how much wine she's consumed. "I'm kind of tired anyway. I may just call it a night early."

Good. There's nothing she wants more than for Stuart to be asleep when she comes back.

About five minutes later, while Stuart is in the bathroom, she calls out that she's leaving. She doubts he even noticed that she never changed into her gym clothes.

ALONG FIFTY-SIXTH STREET, A row of black Lincoln Town Cars line up starting at 6:00 p.m. The Cromwell Altman version of ma.s.s transit. Every night Aaron gets into the first one and simply tells the driver where he wants to go. Somehow a client is always billed for the ride, but Aaron has no idea how that's determined.

Tonight, however, even though the air has a strong chill, a reminder that winter is hanging on, he walks past the cars without stopping and proceeds north to Madison Avenue. The various designer clothing boutiques in the Sixties give way to the art galleries that populate the Seventies.

If he were heading home, he would turn west on Seventy-Fifth, toward Fifth Avenue, but he keeps walking uptown. He enters Central Park at Ninety-Seventh, and when he reaches the West Side, he walks up to 102nd before going farther west to Amsterdam.

In the middle of the block on 102nd and Amsterdam is a convenience store that Aaron has never before entered. He steps inside and, after determining that it has no other customers, approaches the counter, where an older man of Indian descent greets him.

"Do you sell prepaid phones?" Aaron asks.

The man points to a few hanging on the wall behind him, beside the rows of cigarettes. "How much time do you want?" he asks.

"Twenty-five bucks' worth," Aaron says.

Aaron looks nervously over his shoulder. He wants the sale to be completed before any other patrons come in.

The man behind the counter fumbles around for a phone. "No twenty-five. I got a ten and a fifty."

"The ten is fine," Aaron says. He slaps a ten-dollar bill on the counter, then realizes that there's going to be tax and pulls out two singles, laying them on top. He doesn't want to wait for the change, but he knows he shouldn't do anything out of the ordinary, even if the entire transaction is nothing but unusual.

Once he's out of the store, Aaron moves as quickly as he can without breaking into a sprint back toward the park. Right before entering, he tears open the packaging and discards the cardboard and plastic in a garbage can on the corner.

When he's smack in the middle of the park, he activates the phone. Then he dials Faith's mobile number.

His heart rises and falls with each ring, until the fourth one, which he knows will lead directly to voice mail. He waits to hear her recorded voice. "This is Faith Nichols and you've reached my personal voice mail. If this is related in any way to a court proceeding, please do not leave a message, and instead call my chambers at-"

He hangs up and instantly calls again, hoping Faith might recognize the quick succession as some type of signal. When the second call also goes to voice mail, he realizes that his reasoning might be sound but his conclusion off-she might already know it's him, and that's precisely why she isn't answering.

Leaving a message is out of the question. A voice mail from him would be all Faith needed for his disqualification. Sending a text would be less risky, however. Particularly if it is vague enough that he could later deny he was the sender, if it came to that.

He types into the phone: It's me. Urgent that I speak to you right away. He knows at once that sounds too desperate, and so he deletes it. For his second effort, Aaron tries: Faith, please call me at this number as soon as you can. Very important.

After reading it over twice, he hits the send b.u.t.ton.

Aaron comes out of the park on the East Side and considers waiting for Faith's response in the Dunkin' Donuts on the corner of Ninety-Seventh and Madison, or the pizza place across the street. He concludes that the fewer people who see him in this neighborhood, the better, however, so he starts to walk, very slowly, back toward his building.

If Faith is going to respond, she'll do it in the time it'll take him to get back to Seventy-Fifth and Fifth. If she doesn't call or text by then, she isn't going to.

Even though the phone is set to vibrate, Aaron checks it at least three times on every block: once when he crosses the street, again midblock, and a third time when he's about to cross again. But as he gets closer to his apartment, the realization begins to sink in that Faith is not going to answer.

Every year, as part of the orientation for the first-year a.s.sociates, Aaron gives a speech t.i.tled "The New York Times Test." He tells the newly minted lawyers that everything they do professionally should be governed by one simple question: How would they feel if their actions ended up on the front page of the New York Times? Could they look their spouses, significant others, friends, or parents in the eye and defend their conduct? Because if the answer is no, then they shouldn't do it. Under any circ.u.mstances.

Aaron knows he's a complete hypocrite, having failed miserably at the New York Times test. Numerous times. When he began his affair with Faith. When he didn't disclose it to Eric Matthews or the prosecutors or the firm. When he entered his appearance on behalf of Nicolai Garkov.

Now he's going to pay the price. His transgressions will literally be splashed across the paper of record. He's going to bring shame to his wife and children, and Donald Pierce will have all the ammunition he needs to complete his coup.

In other words, life as he knows it is about to end.

17.

During the week, Jorge and Julio work the front door of Aaron's building from 6:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m. Someone once told Aaron that they're cousins, and there's a certain resemblance in that they're both Hispanic men with shaved heads, goatees, and somewhat sullen expressions. They're in full uniform, gray suits with red ties and dark double-breasted overcoats. And, of course, white gloves.

Julio opens the door for Aaron, but they both greet him in unison. "Good evening, Mr. Littman."

At exactly that moment, Aaron feels his pocket vibrate. He pushes the door back open himself and races against the traffic across Fifth Avenue, so as not to be overheard, without even turning back to see how the cousins have reacted.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Who is this?"

"Faith, it's Aaron."

"Oh . . . what the h.e.l.l, Aaron?! You know-"

"I need to talk to you."

"Absolutely not. Even this discussion is extremely improper."

"Faith, be quiet for a minute and just let me say what I need to tell you." He doesn't wait for her a.s.sent. "Garkov knows about us. And he's going to use it to get what he wants. I need to see you. Right away."

"Aaron-no. I can't be seen with you. I shouldn't even be talking to you."

"Faith, I wouldn't ask if it weren't absolutely critical. And I just can't do it over the phone. Please. No one will see us, I promise. I'm begging you."

There's a long pause, during which all Aaron can hear is his own heart pounding.

"Where?" she finally says.

Thank G.o.d, he thinks to himself.

"The Alice in Wonderland statue."

"Of course," she mutters.

They met there once before, spending the evening necking like high schoolers. "No one will see us there," he says by way of explaining his choice of venue.

"If I can get away, I'll be there in a half hour. Maybe forty minutes. If I'm not there by then, I'm not coming, and if I get there and there are people around you, I'll leave."

He can't even thank her before the phone goes dead.

WHEN AARON'S DAUGHTERS WERE in grade school, the Alice in Wonderland statue in Central Park was just about their favorite place on earth. Even though there's a full-fledged playground closer to their apartment-complete with slide, swings, and a large sandbox-the girls never wanted to play there, always running toward the bronze statue and then jumping on top of the mushrooms in a race to be the first to climb to the top of Alice's head.

After nine on a cold school night in March, however, the area around the statue is empty, as are the nearby benches. Fifty or so yards to the south is the duck pond, where a couple sits tossing bread crumbs into the water, but they're far enough away not to be of any concern.

It isn't until nine thirty that Aaron first becomes concerned Faith might not show. But ten minutes later, she emerges from under one of the streetlamps as if she's an apparition. He expected her to be in gym clothes, but she looks like she's just left a party-high heels and what appears to be a tight dress under her open coat.

"Thank you so much for coming-"

"I'm not going to stay long," she interrupts, "so tell me what's going on."

He exhales deeply. "Like I said, Garkov knows about us. He hired me to get to you. He said that if you don't reverse yourself on the bail . . . I don't know what he's going to do exactly, but I'd just as soon not wait to find out."

Aaron thought Faith would share his concern, but he immediately knows by the angry way she's looking at him that she does not see them as common allies in this fight. She looks disgusted by the very sight of him.

"Garkov's your problem, Aaron. Get Sam Rosenthal to fix it. That's what he does, right? But whatever you do . . . just leave me out of it." She shakes her head in abject disgust. "I don't know what I was thinking by meeting you, Aaron. But I . . . I'm warning you to stay the h.e.l.l away from me. If you contact me again, I'm going to remove you as counsel and file a formal complaint with the bar a.s.sociation."

She gets up, but he grabs her arm. "Please, Faith," he pleads.

"Let go of me," she snarls. "Coming here was a mistake."

She yanks her arm away from his grasp and then turns her back on him.

THE LAST THING AARON wants when he returns to his apartment is for Cynthia or the girls to see him in this state. His initial plan is to dart straight downstairs to their bedroom, but then he realizes that might be where Cynthia is, and so he calls out her name.

"Cynthia?"

No answer. Thank G.o.d.

One or both of the twins might be home, but they're likely holed up in their rooms. That gives him the opportunity to hurry downstairs to his bedroom without being seen.

Aaron takes off his suit and hangs it up, placing his s.h.i.+rt in the bin with the dry cleaning to go out the next day. Then he takes a shower, feeling the need to wash away the insanity of the last hour.

Before leaving the bedroom, he calls out for Cynthia again. Still no answer. He walks into Samantha's room, where he sees his daughter in her usual pose, staring into her laptop.

"Where's Mom?"

"IDK-wait, that's a total lie. She's at the hospital."

"Is your sister home?"

"Yuppers."

Aaron has a similarly abbreviated conversation with Lindsay and then heads to the kitchen, where he pulls a tumbler out of the cupboard and pours himself a generous amount of scotch. He takes his new best friend into the living room and tries to calm his nerves.

Shortly before 1:00 a.m., when Aaron is midway through his third drink, Cynthia finally appears. She looks a bit harried, which is not uncommon after she finishes a long night on call.

"Sorry I'm so late. There was this first-time mom," she says as she's taking off her coat, "and I'm told she's at eight centimeters, but when I got there, she was only at two, and so I was stuck at the hospital . . . you got my text, right?"

Cynthia has said this without even looking at Aaron. But when they make eye contact, her expression changes dramatically.

"Aaron, what's wrong? You look . . . like death."

"I'm not feeling particularly well," he says.

"And I see you're self-medicating."

She walks over and puts her hand to his head, checking if he has a fever the way she does with their daughters. She hesitates for a moment and then says, "You feel normal."

During his affair with Faith, Aaron always showered before returning home, and then worried whether the clean scent would be as incriminating as the s.e.xual one he'd washed away. For a moment he has that same fear again, wondering if Cynthia can ascertain that he's lying by the sweet floral smell that clings to him.

"Why don't you just crawl into bed?" she continues. "I'll join you in a few minutes. You'll feel better tomorrow. I promise."

Aaron nods that he'll follow the doctor's orders, but he knows she couldn't be more wrong. Tomorrow will undoubtedly be the very worst day of his entire life.

18.

Aaron feels like a man dressing for his own execution. Part of him wants to run. Run and never turn back. But he knows that the only thing he can do is go about his business as usual.

He puts on his favorite Brioni suit, a crisp white s.h.i.+rt, and a solid blue tie, and then heads out the door. Twenty minutes later, he steps into his office and sees Sam Rosenthal sitting there.

"What, are they painting the conference room?" Aaron asks.

Rosenthal doesn't smile.

"Judge Nichols . . . her body was found last night in Central Park. She was murdered. It's all over the news."

The lawyer in him knows that he should stay quiet, but Aaron can't help himself. "Sam . . . I saw her last night. In the park. I was trying to talk her out of staying on the case. Garkov must have someone following her . . . If he took pictures of Faith and me together . . ." Aaron shakes his head, as if he's in disbelief.

"Sam, I didn't kill her," he says.