A Conflict of Interest by Adam Mitzner Page B

court, which is not surprising given he’s very formal out of court too. He ends nearly every statement with the phrase
your Honor,
which is just as annoying as ending every phrase with the name of the person you’re addressing.
I agree, Bill. We’ll meet at two, Bill. At that restaurant on Madison, Bill
.
    “The government has discussed the issue of bail with defendant’s counsel, your Honor, and we jointly make the following recommendation: that your Honor impose bail in the amount of $15 million, to be satisfied by a bond of at least ten percent cash or its equivalent in real estate. Mr. Ohlig has agreed to surrender his passport and we request your Honor impose, as a condition of bail, that he not be permitted to travel outside his home state of Florida, other than to come to New York to meet with his counsel. Thank you, your Honor.”
    “What’s that, Mr. Paylin?” Judge Liebman squeaks.
    Pavin doesn’t correct the judge’s mispronunciation of his name, and instead goes through the same speech as before, nearly word for word, which tells me he’s the kind of lawyer who doesn’t leave much to chance in the courtroom, right down to scripting what he’s going to say. I don’t say that as a criticism; I do the same thing.
    “Is that acceptable to the defense?” the judge asks in my direction after Pavin finishes his repeat performance.
    “It is.” I deliberately leave off calling him your Honor to make Pavin’s sucking up seem more pronounced.
    “If you’re both happy, then I’m happy. Thank you, gentlemen.”
    I look over at Pavin and he’s looking at me. I make a gesture to indicate that he should be the one to tell Judge Liebman that he’s forgotten to pull a name from the wheel, and he either understands it or reaches that conclusion on his own, because he’s standing again.
    “Your Honor, I believe you need to assign a trial judge,” Pavin says.
    “Oh, I thought we’d done that. We haven’t? Okay.” Liebman looks over to his deputy. “Rod, could you please spin the wheel?”
    I’m sure no one intended for the selection of a United States district judge to resemble the lottery drawings on television before the evening news, but that’s exactly what it looks like. There’s a big wire mesh case with a crank on the side and inside are thirty-six white tiles, each about the size of a domino, with a judge’s name written in black.
    The wire mesh case makes several turns around before coming to a stop. Rod reaches in and pulls out a single tile. “The Honorable Nicole Sullivan,” he calls out, and holds out the tile for everyone to see.
    “Good or bad?” Ohlig asks in a loud whisper.
    “Bad,” I whisper back, much more quietly. “Very bad.”

Part 3

15
    J ust like the dormancy between the convening of the grand jury and the indictment, the month after the indictment has also resembled a calm before the storm. Nothing of note happened until the date the government was ordered to turn over its Brady material.
    So named for the Supreme Court decision,
Brady v. Maryland, Brady
material is the evidence the government has collected that could be considered exculpatory, plus any statements given by witnesses who the government intends to call at trial. As with all procedural rules, there are ways to end-run it so that it’s quite often the case that the
Brady
material contains very little the defense doesn’t already know.
    Had that been the case here, I would have been supremely relieved.
    No such luck, however. That’s why I summoned Ohlig up to New York to meet with us. He’s perfected his Mr. Cool persona to such an extent that he didn’t even ask why.
    “I can’t believe the Four Seasons in this city charges eight hundred bucks a night and the rooms are like shoeboxes,” Ohlig says. “You know who I blame for this, don’t you?”
    I know the answer—he blames me. After the indictment, I told him to sell the three vacation homes he owned. He protested, of course, but