The Associate (9 page)

The same was said about every freshman class at every major firm.

“Thanks. And I’d love to work in the litigation practice group.”

“Got it, Kyle. Consider it done.” And with that Peckham glanced at his watch—meeting over. His phone was ringing, there were hushed voices just outside his door. As Kyle shook his hand and said goodbye, he decided he did not want to become another Doug Peckham. He had no idea what he wanted to become, or if he would in fact become anything other than a disbarred lawyer, but selling his soul to become a partner was not in the plans.

Associates were waiting at the door, sharply dressed young men not much older than Kyle. Smug, harried, nervous, they stepped into the lion’s den, and as the door closed, Doug was raising his voice. What a life. And this was an easy day in litigation. The real pressure was in the courtroom.

On the elevator down, Kyle was struck by the absurdity of what he was expected to do. Upon leaving the offices of Scully & Pershing, and riding the elevator like hundreds of others, he was expected to have hidden somewhere upon his person or within his effects top secret information that belonged not to him but to the firm and especially to its client. And he would give this valuable data to Bennie with the hairy hands, or whatever his real name was, who would then use it against the firm and its client.

Who am I kidding? he said to himself. There were four others on the elevator. Sweat popped out above his eyebrows.

So this is what my life boils down to. A chance of
prison for rape in Pennsylvania or a chance of prison in New York for stealing secrets. Why not a third option? Four years of college, three years of law school, seven rather successful years, all the potential in the world, and I’ll become a highly paid thief.

And there was no one to talk to.

He wanted out. Out of the elevator, the building, the city. Out of this predicament. He closed his eyes and talked to himself.

But there was evidence in Pennsylvania, and none in New York. Yet. He was certain he would get caught, though. Months before any crime was committed, he knew he would get caught.

Two blocks away, he found a coffee shop. He sat on a bar stool in the window and for a long time looked rather forlornly at 110 Broad, at the tower that would soon become his home, or his prison. He knew the numbers, the statistics. Scully & Pershing would hire 150 new associates worldwide, 100 in the New York office alone. They would pay them a nice salary that would amount to about $100 an hour, and the firm would in turn bill their well-heeled clients several times that rate for the associates’ work. Kyle, like all rookie grunts on Wall Street, would be expected to bill a minimum of two thousand hours a year, though more would be required to make an impression. Hundred-hour workweeks would not be uncommon. After two years, the associates would begin dropping out and looking for more sensible work. Half would be gone in four years. Ten percent of his freshman class would survive, claw their way to the top, and be awarded with a partnership after seven or eight years. Those who didn’t drop out along the way
would be squeezed out by the firm if they were not deemed partnership material.

The work had become so awful that the trend was for firms to market themselves as “quality of life” firms. The associates were expected to bill fewer hours, have more vacation, and so on. More often than not, though, it was simply a recruiting gimmick. In the workaholic culture of every big firm, the greenest associates were expected to bill almost as much as the partners, regardless of what the recruiters mentioned over lunch months earlier.

Sure the money was great. At least $200,000 to start with. Double that in five years as a senior associate. Double it again in seven years as a junior partner. Well over a million bucks a year at the age of thirty-five as a full partner with a future filled with even higher earnings.

Numbers, numbers. Kyle was sick of the numbers. He longed for the Blue Ridge Mountains and a nonprofit’s salary of $32,000 without the stress and pressure and hassle of life in the city. He yearned for freedom.

Instead, he had another meeting with Bennie Wright. The cab stopped in front of the Millenium Hilton on Church Street. Kyle paid the driver, nodded at the doorman, then took the elevator four floors up to a room where his handler was waiting. Bennie motioned to a round table with a bowl of bright green apples in the center, but Kyle refused to sit or remove his jacket.

“The offer is still good,” he said. “I’ll start in September with the other associates.”

“Good. I’m not surprised. And you’ll be in litigation?”

“Peckham thinks so.”

Bennie had a file on Doug Peckham, as well as files on all of the litigation partners and many of the firm’s other lawyers.

“But there’s no guarantee,” Kyle added.

“You can make it happen.”

“We’ll see.”

“Have you thought about an apartment here in Manhattan?”

“No, not yet.”

“Well, we’ve done some homework, looked around.”

“Funny, I don’t recall asking for your help.”

“And we’ve found a couple of places that will be ideal.”

“Ideal for who?”

“For you, of course. Both places are in Tribeca, fairly close to the office.”

“What makes you think I would even remotely consider living where you want me to live?”

“And we’ll cover the rent. Pretty pricey real estate.”

“Oh, I see. You’ll find an apartment for me, and pay for it, so I won’t need a roommate. Is that it, Bennie? One less person for you to worry about. Helps to keep me isolated. Plus the rent means that we’re financially joined at the hip. You pay me, I give you secrets, just a couple of shrewd businessmen, right, Bennie?”

“Apartment hunting is a bitch in this city. I’m just trying to help.”

“Thanks so much. No doubt these are places that can easily be watched, maybe even wired or bugged or compromised in ways I can’t even imagine. Nice try, Bennie.”

“The rent is five thousand bucks a month.”

“Keep it. I can’t be bought. Evidently I can be blackmailed, but not bought.”

“Where are you planning to live?”

“Wherever I choose. I’ll figure it out, and I’ll do so without any involvement on your part.”

“As you wish.”

“Damned right. What else do you want to talk about?”

Bennie walked to the table, picked up a legal pad, and studied it as if he didn’t know what he’d already written on it. “Have you ever seen a psychiatrist?” he asked.

“No.”

“A psychologist?”

“No.”

“A counselor or therapist of any type?”

“Yes.”

“Details please.”

“It was nothing.”

“Then let’s talk about nothing. What happened?”

Kyle leaned against the wall and folded both arms across his chest. There was little doubt in his mind that Bennie knew most of what he was about to explain. He knew far too much. “After the incident with Elaine, and after the police finished their investigation, I talked to a counselor in student health services. She referred me to a Dr. Thorp, a specialist in drug and alcohol addiction. He roughed me up, got under
my skin, forced me to take a long hard look in the mirror, and he convinced me the drinking would only get worse.”

“Were you an alcoholic?”

“No. Dr. Thorp didn’t think so. I certainly didn’t either. But there was too much drinking, especially of the binge variety. I seldom smoked pot.”

“You’re still sober?”

“I quit drinking. I grew up, found some different roommates, and have never been tempted. I’ve yet to miss the hangovers.”

“Not even an occasional beer?”

“Nope. I never think about it.”

Bennie nodded as if he approved of this. “What about the girl?” he asked.

“What about her?”

“How serious is the relationship?”

“Not sure where you figure into this, Bennie. Can you help me here?”

“Your life will be complicated enough without a romance. A serious relationship could pose problems. It’s best if you postpone it for a few years.”

Kyle laughed in frustration and disbelief. He shook his head and tried to think of an appropriate retort, but nothing came to mind. Sadly, he agreed with his tormentor. And the relationship with Olivia was going nowhere fast. “What else, Bennie? Can I have some friends? Can I visit my parents occasionally?”

“You won’t have the time.”

Kyle suddenly headed for the door, yanked it open, then slammed it as he left.

T
here is a student lounge on the first floor of the Yale Law School, and on the walls outside its door are posters and notices advertising internships and even careers in public-interest law. The students are encouraged to consider spending a few years helping battered women, neglected children, death row inmates, immigrants, runaway teens, indigent defendants, the homeless, asylum seekers, Haitian boat refugees, Americans sitting in foreign jails and foreigners sitting in American jails, First Amendment projects, innocence projects, conservation groups, environmental activists, and on and on.

A belief in public service runs deep at Yale Law. Admission is often determined by the applicant’s record of volunteerism and his or her written thoughts about using a law degree to benefit the world. First-year students are inundated with the virtues of public-interest law and are expected to get involved as soon as possible.

And most do. Around 80 percent of all freshmen
claim that they are attracted to the law by a desire to help others. At some point, though, usually about halfway through the second year, things begin to change. The big firms arrive on campus to interview and begin their selection process. They offer summer internships, with nice salaries and the prospect of ten weeks of fun and games in New York, Washington, or San Francisco. Most important, they hold the keys to the lucrative careers. A divide occurs at Yale Law, as it does at all prestigious schools. Many of those so enamored with righteous dreams of aiding the downtrodden suddenly switch gears and begin dreaming of making it to the major leagues of American law, while many are turned off by this seduction and cling to their idyllic notions of public service. The divide is clear, but civilized.

When an editor of the
Yale Law Journal
takes a low-paying job with legal services, he is a hero to those on his side and to most of the faculty. And when he suddenly caves in to Wall Street, he is viewed less favorably by the same people.

Kyle’s life became miserable. His friends on the public-interest side were in disbelief. Those on the corporate side were too busy to care. His relationship with Olivia was reduced to sex once a week and only because they needed it. She said he had changed. He was moodier, gloomier, preoccupied with something, and whatever it was he couldn’t tell her.

If you only knew, he thought.

She had accepted a summer internship with an anti-death-penalty group in Texas; thus she was full of zeal and big plans to change things down there.

They saw less and less of each other but somehow managed to bicker more.

One of Kyle’s favorite professors was an old radical who’d spent most of the 1960s marching for or against something, and he was still the first one to organize a petition against whatever he perceived to be the latest injustice on campus. When he heard the news that Kyle had flipped, he called and demanded lunch. Over enchiladas at a taco bar just off campus, they argued for an hour. Kyle pretended to resent the intrusion, but in his heart he knew he was wrong. The professor railed and hammered and got nowhere. He left Kyle with a disheartening “I’m very disappointed in you.”

“Thanks,” Kyle retorted, then cursed himself as he walked to campus. Then he cursed Bennie Wright and Elaine Keenan and Scully & Pershing and everything else in his life at that moment. He was mumbling and cursing a lot these days.

After a few rounds of ugly encounters with his friends, Kyle finally found the courage to go home.

_________

The McAvoys drifted into eastern Pennsylvania in the late eighteenth century, along with thousands of other Scottish settlers. They farmed for a few generations, then moved on, down to Virginia, the Carolinas, and even farther south. Some stayed behind, including Kyle’s grandfather, a Presbyterian minister who died before Kyle was born. Reverend McAvoy led several churches on the outskirts of Philadelphia before being transferred to York in 1960. His only son, John,
finished high school there and returned home after college, Vietnam, and law school.

In 1975, John McAvoy quit his job as a lowly paid pencil pusher in a small real estate law firm in York. He marched across Market Street, rented a two-room “suite” in a converted row house, hung out his shingle, and declared himself ready to sue. Real estate law was too boring. John wanted conflict, courtrooms, drama, verdicts. Life in York was uneventful enough. He, an ex-Marine, was looking for a fight.

He worked very hard and treated everyone fairly. Clients were free to call him at home, and he would meet them on Sunday afternoons if necessary. He made house calls, hospital calls, jail calls. He called himself a street lawyer, an advocate for clients who worked in factories, who got injured or discriminated against, or who ran afoul of the law. His clients were not banks or insurance companies or real estate agencies or corporations. His clients were not billed by the hour. Often, they were not billed at all. Fees were sometimes delivered in the form of firewood, eggs and poultry, steaks, and free labor around the house. The office grew, sprawled upstairs and down, and John eventually bought the row house. Younger lawyers came and went, none staying more than three years. Mr. McAvoy was demanding of his associates. He was kinder to his secretaries. One, a young divorcée named Patty, married the boss after a two-month courtship and was soon pregnant.

The Law Offices of John L. McAvoy had no specialty, other than representing low-paying clients. Anyone could walk in, with an appointment or without, and see John as soon as he was available. He handled
wills and estates, divorces, injuries, petty criminal cases, and a hundred other matters that found their way to his office on Market Street. The traffic was constant, the doors opened early and closed late, and the reception area was seldom empty. Through sheer volume, and an innate Presbyterian frugality, the office covered its expenses and provided the McAvoy family with an income that was in the upper-middle class for York. Had he been greedier, or more selective, or even a bit firmer with his billing, John could have doubled his income and joined the country club. But he hated golf and didn’t like the wealthier folks in town. More important, he viewed the practice of law as a calling, a mission to help the less fortunate.