A Conflict of Interest by Adam Mitzner Page A

indictment is over twenty single-spaced pages. From my quick perusal, it seems that aside from listing the statutes the government claims Ohlig violated—which are the same seven counts that I would have guessed they’d go for—the indictment doesn’t give any clues as to the evidence they have on him. It’s based solely on Agent McNiven’s “information and belief” that the criminal statutes listed have been violated, which means that, based on the evidence McNiven’s reviewed—which is likely limited to the documents we produced and interviews with low-level OPM employees—he’s concluded Ohlig violated the law.
    Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ohlig enter the courtroom. Agent McNiven is a half step behind him, but because his head barely reachesOhlig’s shoulder blades, I don’t realize he’s there until they’re both well inside the room.
    I’ve always thought you can tell a lot about a man by the way he wears handcuffs, especially in public. Some appear like snarling animals, as if the moment they’re unshackled they’re going to go right for the throat of their captor. Others look exactly the opposite, like broken men; restrained or not, they couldn’t muster the strength to be dangerous.
    Ohlig acts as if he’s entering a charity benefit with the handcuffs as some exotic yet elegant accessory.
    As promised, McNiven uncuffs Ohlig as soon as he delivers him to counsel table. A second FBI agent—one much younger and much larger—is going to stand behind us during the proceeding. He’s the one charged with making sure Ohlig doesn’t try to escape. McNiven takes his place next to Pavin at the government’s table.
    The judge’s courtroom deputy, a man who looks a little like Eddie Murphy, knocks hard three times on the wood molding of the door leading to the judge’s chambers. “All rise,” he commands.
    I had forgotten just what a little man Judge Liebman is. In his robe, he looks like a kid wearing a Halloween ghost costume, except for the fact that he’s cloaked in black and as wrinkled as a sharpei. It takes him longer than I can ever recall a judge taking to walk the fifteen feet from the doorway to his chair. When he’s finally sitting, he allows everyone else to do the same.
    The deputy bellows: “The United States of America v. Michael Louis Ohlig. Counsel, please state your appearances, starting with the government.”
    “If it pleases the court, Assistant United States Attorney Christopher G. Pavin for the United States of America. With me at counsel table, your Honor, is Special Agent Gregory McNiven of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Thank you, your Honor.”
    Judge Liebman nods in my direction, signaling it’s my turn to rise. “Good morning. My name is Alexander Miller of the law firm Cromwell Altman Rosenthal and White. I am joined here today by my colleague, Abigail Sloane. We represent Michael Ohlig.”
    “Very good counsel. Please, both of you be seated. And welcome,Mr. Ohlig.” Judge Liebman speaks in a squeak that makes him almost impossible to hear. “Waive reading?” is what I think he says next.
    The defendant has the right to have his charges publicly aired, but all defendants waive reading of the indictment as a matter of course. The very idea of sitting through the clerk reading aloud a five-thousand word document is about as unbearable as any torture I can imagine.
    “The defense is willing to waive reading of the indictment,” I say.
    “Mr. Miller, would your client like to enter a plea at this time?” Judge Liebman asks next.
    Ohlig rises and we’re standing shoulder to shoulder. It’s time for him to say the only words I told him he could utter at this proceeding.
    “Your Honor,” Ohlig says in a strong voice. “I am not guilty.”
    Judge Liebman shows no reaction to this, nor would I expect him to. “Would the government like to be heard on the question of bail?”
    “We would, your Honor.” Pavin has a very formal way about him in