A Conflict of Interest by Adam Mitzner Page B

breaking bread with the government. “Anything we have to worry about there?” I ask.
    “I’ve told you before, no. Allison and I are not—” he looks at Abby, and then, apparently thinking better of the term he was initially going to use, says, “we’re not romantically involved. And as for the business, she doesn’t know much, but she knows enough to know I’ve done nothing wrong.”
    “Okay, good. I expect some of the other lawyers will also go in and meet with Pavin. I’d prefer that there be a total cone of silence, but so long as it’s only the lawyers going in, we’ll be okay. Besides, it will give us some idea of what they’ve got.”
    “I want to meet with him,” Ohlig says matter-of-factly.
    “That just isn’t smart, Michael. A prosecutor ready to indict is simply not going to be persuaded by you telling him that you’re innocent. The only beneficiary of such a meeting is him—he gets to hear your defense and locks you into a story. And, to make life that much better for him, he could easily charge you with the felony of lying to him in the interview.”
    “I can explain what happened in a way no one else can,” Ohlig says, as if he hadn’t heard what I just said. “They’re not going to drop this unless they’re convinced I’m innocent. The only way that’s ever going to happen is if I do the convincing.”
    “We’ll have our opportunity to put on our defense. It’s just that now is not the right time.”
    “And when is the right time?”
    “When you take the witness stand at trial. And not a second before that.”
    Ohlig again shakes his head at me, this time seemingly more in disgust than disagreement. “So you’ve already conceded an indictment?”
    “Michael, part of my job is to be realistic about the state of play. It doesn’t mean I don’t believe in your innocence.”
    A look of utter contempt comes over him, and for a moment I actually think he might lose his temper completely. Then, as if somewhere he’s flipped an internal switch, he smiles broadly instead. “What are the odds?” he asks.
    “The what?” I say, not understanding his question.
    “You believe I’m going to get indicted, right?”
    I nod.
    “So, what are the odds I won’t be? What are the odds I walk on this? No indictment.”
    I hate giving a client odds of any potential occurrence. Odds always reflect a likelihood of an event happening or not, and in reality it happens or it doesn’t. Tell a client the odds are 90 percent of something occurring and then it happens, he says you were too conservative in your estimation. And God forbid you tell a client that there’s a 60 percent likelihood and then it doesn’t occur.
    “Haven’t we been over this already?” I say. His expression tells me that I’m not going to get off that easily, and he wants to hear it again. “As we’ve discussed, the U.S. Attorneys’ Office in New York loves to prosecute bankers. So, you’re a very attractive defendant for Pavin to go after. In addition, these things often take on a momentum of their own. Once they devote the resources to review millions of pages of documents, if they don’t indict, it’s like it was a wasted effort. All of that, I’m afraid, makes it far more likely than not that they’re going to indict you.”
    Ohlig looks like I’ve insulted him. “I know it’s
likely
I’m going to be indicted, Atticus Finch. What I’m asking you is, what are the odds that I
won’t
be? Ten to one? Hundred to one? Million to one? Give me your best guess.”
    “Fifty to one,” I say, only fixing the odds there because I think any worse would sound as if I’d lost all hope.
    A canny smile comes to Ohlig’s face; he’s gotten from me what he wanted. “Fifty to one,” he repeats. “You and I both know you think the odds are more like fifty thousand to one, right? But you’re the house for our purposes here, and you say fifty to one, so I’ll respect that. Okay. I’ll put up ten grand that I’m