I’ve pointed out to my father on more than one occasion that a lawyer’s obligation to a client has limits. For starters, you’re not allowed to suborn perjury or destroy evidence. But my father firmly believes that any qualification of his sweeping assertion sends the wrong message. So in his telling, a lawyer’s duty to his client is boundless.
“The best way to make sure that nothing bad happens to you is for you to hunker down and let the other side play their hand,” my father continues. “I’ve been doing this for a long time now, longer than you’ve been alive, so I know that clients hate the hunkering-down part. They want to go in there and tell their story. They want to prove their innocence. But under the laws of our great nation, the prosecution has to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, and you, Paul, don’t have to prove a goddamn thing. Don’t forget that. I’m emphasizing this point because, early in my career, I wasn’t so strident about it and I let a few clients try to prove their innocence to a prosecutor. And you know what? There’s not a single client I’ve had—not one—who talked a gung ho prosecutor out of filing charges. Of course we still beat them at trial all the time, but that’s before a jury. I hate to say it, but the sad truth is that prosecutors are in the business of prosecuting and if they don’t bring cases, they’re out of business. After all, nobody ever became famous not bringing a case. Bottom line is that there’s no way to convince a prosecutor that you’re innocent, and trying to do so always comes back to haunt you.”
My father takes a break from his narrative and turns to me. As the ex-prosecutor in the room, he expects me to vouch for his description of the inner workings of the DA’s office—even though I’ve told him repeatedly that his version isn’t even remotely true. When I was an ADA, many a person of interest convinced me not to prosecute. If they had an alibi or lacked motive or provided evidence pointing to someone else, I’d go in a different direction.
But now I play my role.
“That’s right. The mind-set over at One Hogan Place is that everyone is guilty until proven innocent.” Then I smile. “But of course that does not apply to former ADAs.”
Like every client to whom I’ve seen my father make his pitch, Paul takes it in hook, line, and sinker. “Clients are like children,” is one of my father’s many pithy expressions about the practice of law. “They just want to know that there’s a grown-up in the room who’s going to make sure they survive. And we’re that grown-up.”
“It all sounds good,” Paul says. “What do we do next?”
“Nothing,” my father says. “I don’t want to know any facts. Let the District Attorney’s office do its digging. If they have something worth telling us about, we’ll consider at that time whether to respond. What we will do now is shadow their investigation so we know where they’re going before they get there. That’s where Ella’s connections become invaluable. They’ll give her the straight skinny.”
I again nod to confirm the truth of my father’s assertion, even though, like his other pronouncements, it’s not true. My former colleagues will be courteous to me and they’ll listen to what I have to say, but they’re not going to give me any more information than they’d provide any other defense lawyer.
“I already feel better,” Paul says.
“Then this is a perfect time to discuss the terms of our engagement,” my father says with a smile.
5.
After the meeting ends, my father suggests that I walk Paul out. As we wait for the elevator, I resist the urge to assure him that everything is going to be fine, or even that I believe he’s innocent. I don’t know whether either is true.
I half expect him to kiss me good-bye. But when the elevator doors open, he extends his hand instead.
“Good seeing you again, Ella. You really look great.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry we’re not meeting under more pleasant circumstances.”
As the elevator doors close, blocking him from my sight, I consider whether Paul Michelson is the kind of man who could commit murder. The Paul I knew was a narcissistic womanizer to be sure, but most handsome, smart boys in college fell into that category. I don’t remember his having a temper—in fact, the few times I recall Paul even raising his voice, he did so to be heard over my screaming. But the one thing I know for certain is that the Paul Michelson from back then would do whatever was necessary to survive. I can’t rule out that it wouldn’t now include killing Jennifer Barnett if she threatened him in some way.
I head back to my father’s office. I need to know exactly how my ex-boyfriend from college ended up a client of the firm.
“Small world, isn’t it?” my father says even before I pose the question.
“A little odd, don’t you think?”
“No. Not really. He’s got a criminal issue—potential criminal issue, I should say—and he knows that your father is a criminal-defense lawyer. He claimed he didn’t even know you and I were working together until I told him.”
I had been secretly hoping that it wasn’t my father who Paul sought out, but me. My father’s version of events made more sense, however.
“He didn’t blink at the hundred-grand retainer,” my father says.
This is another one of my father’s theories: the degree to which a client pushes back on the retainer is inversely proportional to their guilt. Clients with nothing to fear try to limit the amount they have to pay. The guilty ones write you a check for whatever amount you want.
“So, what’s the story?” I ask.
My father knows that I’m asking whether he thinks Paul is guilty. Rather than answer, he shakes his head to suggest that I should know better than to pose the question in the first place.
“You heard me tell him. I really don’t want to know the story. I don’t. All I know is that he called me this morning and asked to meet. I told him to come right in. Like I said before, it’s not even certain that there’s been any crime committed here. For all anyone knows, Jennifer Barnett may just be on vacation.”
My father is famous for downplaying the alleged crimes of his clients. He has been known to refer to a multi-million-dollar theft as “some type of bookkeeping issue.”
“No one’s heard from her in four days,” I say. “And there’s no activity on her credit card or her cell phone. She’s not soaking up the sun on a beach somewhere.”
“Fair enough, but it still doesn’t mean she was murdered. She could have . . . I don’t know, jumped off a bridge. Maybe that’s why her body hasn’t been found yet.”
“They haven’t found a suicide note.”