Free A Conflict of Interest by Adam Mitzner Page B

I’m grateful I’ll never know.
    Despite the fact that nothing untoward happened, she has begun calling me “boss.” I’m concerned that it’s an effort to set boundaries, but vaguely recall that the practice began early last night at the bar, and so I conclude she’s just doing it to be funny.
    At least I hope that’s it.
    The flight ends up being delayed and we don’t land until two. As we’re taxiing to the gate, I send an email to the joint defense team, asking them to meet us at Cromwell Altman at three. Even with the short notice, everyone emails back that they’ll be there, a further testament to how beholden this group is to future referral business.
    We hit traffic on the way back from JFK, and all the members of the joint defense team other than Charles Eastman are already in the Cromwell Altman reception area when Abby and I arrive. I make a quip about being late to my own party, and they each chuckle politely,the way I do when Aaron Littman makes a joke, more out of deference to his power over me than because I think it’s funny.
    The receptionist is telling me that we’re in Conference Room E when Eastman comes off the elevator. “Are we going to meet here?” he says with a chuckle, and then looking down at Abby and my luggage, he adds, “This isn’t one of those two-day meetings, is it?”
    The group gives him a more sincere laugh than I got.
    “We just came in from visiting with Michael,” I say. “Follow me to the conference room and we can get started right away.”
    As we assemble, there are the usual gripes about the food (cookies, fruit, soft drinks, and coffee are the Cromwell Altman selections after 2 P.M ., but the cookies are oatmeal raisin and the consensus among the joint defense team is that chocolate chip should be included for the next time). When everyone has filled their plates and is seated, I begin the meeting just as I had the previous one, by going around the room asking for any new developments. This time Joe Freeman goes first, and when I call on him he thanks me, as if he’s been given the floor to make a wedding toast.
    “I called Pavin earlier in the week,” he says. “After some phone tag, I reached him on Wednesday. I think we sent an email to everyone about that call.” He turns to his associate, a woman whose head is buried in her legal pad as she scribbles furiously. “Michelle, we sent everyone an email, right?”
    Michelle looks up for a second and nods. “Okay,” Freeman continues. “So you all know what happened. I did the usual dance, telling Pavin that my guy is a Boy Scout and I’d hate for the government to get the wrong idea, so if he had any questions or legal theories that he could discuss with me, I’m all ears. This guy doesn’t just follow the book, I think he’s memorized it. Just like he said to Jane, he told me, quote, It’s a one-way street, closed quote. Then I offered to come in myself and give him the lay of the land. He wasn’t too interested in that either.”
    Matthew Trott breaks into Freeman’s narrative. “Pavin told me that’s now the Office’s policy.” Former AUSAs, as Trott and McMahan both are, refer to the U.S. Attorneys’ Office simply as “the Office.”Sometimes, when the non-AUSAs of the group want to be especially annoying, one of us will ask if they plan on taking the issue up with Michael Scott in the Scranton branch. “They don’t allow attorney proffers anymore,” he adds.
    “Proffers” is one of those terms of art that lawyers bandy about but is almost never used in the real world. It’s about telling the prosecutor what happened. Of course, lawyers prefer that they do the telling, because that way the government can’t use what’s said as evidence later on against the client—which is exactly the reason the government frowns on the practice.
    The group looks to Eastman for confirmation that he, too, was not given permission to make an attorney proffer. “Same here,” he says, realizing