A Conflict of Interest by Adam Mitzner

booking,” I say, even though I told Ohlig only minutes before that wasn’t going to happen.
    “Afraid not, counselor. Booking is one of those things that’s done alone.”
    “Like death,” Ohlig says.
    Agent Cole smiles at Ohlig’s quip and presses a buzzer that unlocks another steel, windowless door of equal size and depth as the one we entered through. When they’re out of sight, the door slams shut, making a loud clanking sound.
    Twenty minutes later, Ohlig emerges back into the reception area, a different FBI agent now accompanying him. This one is a man, but just as short as Agent Cole, if not shorter.
    As usual, Michael Ohlig looks completely unfazed, so much so it takes me a moment to realize he’s now handcuffed.
    “Mr. Miller,” the FBI agent says to me, “I’m Special Agent Gregory McNiven. You can have a moment to talk to your client, but you’ll have to stay in the reception area. Mr. Ohlig is now officially in federal custody. We’ll take him down to Part One when the judge is ready for us. You can meet him there.”
    “Can you take the handcuffs off, Agent McNiven?” I ask.
    “Sorry, it’s policy. We’ll take them off when we’re in the courtroom.”
    “Seriously?” Ohlig says, despite the fact I told him it was going to go exactly like this.
    “Seriously,” McNiven replies, and you’ve never heard the word spoken like that until you’ve heard it from an FBI agent.
    The Part One judge handles arraignments and other matters that are not yet assigned to another judge, such as discovery disputes from cases pending in other jurisdictions and emergency matters in cases not yet filed. The judges rotate in the position, and although they’re each supposed to take a turn, it always seems to me that a judge on senior status has the job whenever I’m making an application.
    The Part One judge today is Milton Liebman, a barely living symbol to both the Constitutional framers’ wisdom and short-sightedness in bestowing lifetime appointments on federal judges. In his day, Liebman was one of the finest minds in the federal judiciary and the author of several seminal opinions protecting Constitutional liberties. It’s very possible that without the guarantee of lifetime tenure, Liebman wouldn’t have felt free to stake his job on the backs of such unpopular causes. On the other hand, Liebman is now over ninety, nearly completely deaf, and can barely hold a pen to sign an order.
    There isn’t a specifically designated Part One courtroom, so the venue rotates too. Just like Air Force One’s the call sign for whateverplane carries the president, the Part One courtroom is wherever the Part One judge sits.
    As the oldest member of the court, Judge Liebman has the courthouse’s ceremonial courtroom. It’s a massive space, capable of seating over two hundred spectators, darkly paneled, and boasting a double-height ceiling with stained-glass windows. Some of the most celebrated trials in American history have occurred in this room, but now it’s mainly used for citizenship ceremonies, and on the rare occasions when Liebman is on the bench.
    Pavin walks over to our table and hands me a sheaf of papers. “The indictment,” he says casually.
    This is the first time I’ve actually seen Christopher Pavin. Based on the fact that no one had heard of him, I’d assumed he was only a few years out of law school, but he’s clearly older than me, and likely more than forty. He moves with a military bearing, and I seize upon that as the explanation for where he spent the period between college and law school, even though I know that’s probably not the case. Nevertheless, he certainly looks like a former military man—broad shoulders, short-cropped sandy colored hair, and a strong chin. He’s handsome, which is never good for the defense, with clear blue eyes and an easy smile.
    “Thanks,” I tell him, and immediately regret it, like you do when you thank a cop for handing you a speeding ticket.
    The