Authors: John Grisham
A quick dismissive nod. Nothing.
“Has it been filed yet?” Kyle asked. “Why can't you tell me about it?”
Bennie cleared his throat and sipped his water. “Next week. Let's meet next week when you're in New York, and I'll walk you through the lawsuit.”
“Can't wait.”
Another hefty bite and they chewed for a while.
“When do you take the bar exam?” Bennie asked.
“July.”
“Where?”
“New York. Somewhere in Manhattan. It's not something I'm looking forward to.”
“You'll do fine. When do you get the results?”
Bennie knew the dates and places the exam was given in New York. He knew when the results were posted online. He knew what
happened to young associates if they flunked the bar. He knew everything.
“Early November. Did you go to law school?”
A smile, almost a chuckle. “Oh, no. I've always tried to avoid lawyers. Sometimes, though, well, that's what the job requires.”
Kyle listened carefully for the accent. It tended to come and go. He thought of the Israelis and their talent for languages, especially among the Mossad and the military.
Not for the first time, he wondered whom he would be spying for and against.
THEY MET five days later at the Ritz-Carlton in lower Manhattan. Kyle asked Bennie if he had an office in the city, or whether he did all of his work in hotel suites. There was no response. Before the meeting, Kyle had looked at four apartments, all in SoHo and Tribeca. The cheapest was $4,200 a month for an eight-hundred-square-foot walk-up, and the most expensive was $6,500 a month for a thousand square feet in a renovated warehouse. Whatever the rent, Kyle would be handling it himself because he did not want a roommate. His life would be complicated enough without the strains of living with someone else. And besides, Bennie did not like the idea of a roommate.
Bennie and company had followed Kyle and the broker around lower Manhattan and knew precisely where the apartments were located. By the time Kyle arrived at the hotel, operatives were calling the same realtor, inquiring about the apartments, and making plans to visit them. Kyle would indeed live where he chose, but the place would be infested by the time he moved in.
Bennie had some thick files on the small table in the suite. “The lawsuit was filed last Friday,” he began, “in federal court here in Manhattan. The plaintiff is a company called Trylon Aeronautics. The defendant is a company called Bartin Dynamics.”
Kyle absorbed this with no expression. His file on the case and the litigants now comprised three four-inch spiral notebooks, over two thousand pages, and was growing by the day. He was sure he didn't know as much as his pal Bennie here, but he already knew a hell of a lot.
And Bennie knew he knew. From his comfortable office on Broad Street, Bennie and his tech guys kept close tabs on Kyle's laptop and his desk computer in his office at the law journal. They monitored nonstop, and when Kyle opened his laptop in his apartment to send a note to a professor, Bennie knew it. When he was working and editing a case note, Bennie knew it. And when he was monitoring the court filings in New York and digging through the dirt on Trylon and Bartin, Bennie knew it.
Sit there and play dumb, son. I'll play along, too. You're smart as hell, but you're too stupid to realize you're in way over your head.
The Associate
Chapter 11
As springtime reluctantly arrived in New England, the campus came to life and shook off the lingering chill and gloom of winter. Plants bloomed, the grass showed some color, and as the days grew longer, the students found more reasons to stay outside. Frisbees flew by the hundreds. Long lunches and even picnics materialized when the sun was out. Professors became lazier; classes grew shorter.
For his last semester on campus, Kyle chose to ignore the festivities. He kept himself in his office, working feverishly to finish the details for the June edition of the Yale Law Journal. It would be his last and he wanted it to be his best. Work provided the perfect excuse to ignore virtually everyone else. Olivia finally got fed up, and they parted amicably. His friends, all of them third-year students and about to graduate, fell into two groups. The first concentrated on drinking and partying and trying to savor every last moment of life on campus before being evicted and sent into the real world. The second group was already thinking about their careers, studying for the bar exam,
and looking for apartments in large cities. Kyle found it easy to avoid both.
On May 1, he sent a letter to Joey Bernardo that read:
Dear Joey: I graduate from law school on May 25. Any chance you could be here? Alan can't do it and I'm afraid to ask Baxter. It would be great fun to hang out for a couple of days. No girlfriend, please. Correspond by regular mail at this address. No e-mails, no phones. I'll explain later.
Best, Kyle
The letter was handwritten and mailed from the law journal office. A week later, the reply arrived:
Hey, Kyle: What's with the snail mail? Your handwriting really sucks. But it's probably better than mine. I'll be therefor graduation, should be fun. What the hell is so secretive that we can't talk on the phone or use e-mail? Are you cracking up? Baxter is. He's gone. He'll be dead in a year if we don't do something. Oh, well, my hand is aching and I feel like such an old fart writing with ink. Can't wait to get your next sweet little note.
Love, Joey
Kyle's reply was longer and filled with details. Joey's response was just as sarcastic and filled with even more questions. Kyle threw it away as soon as he read it. They swapped letters once more, and the weekend was planned.
PATTY McAVOY could not be coaxed from her loft for her son's graduation, not that any real effort was made. Indeed,
both John McAvoy and Kyle were pleased with her decision to stay at home, because her presence at Yale would complicate things. She had skipped the diploma service at Duquesne three years earlier just as she had skipped the commencements for both of her daughters. In short, Patty didn't do graduations, regardless of how important they might be. She had managed to attend both daughters' weddings, but had been unable to take part in the planning of either. John simply wrote the checks, and somehow the family survived both ordeals.
Joey Bernardo arrived in New Haven Saturday afternoon, the day before the law school's ceremonies, and, as directed by the written word carried by the U.S. Postal Service, he proceeded to a dark and cavernous pizza parlor called Santo's, a mile from campus. At precisely 3:00 p.m. on Saturday, May 24, he slid into a booth in the far-right corner of Santo's, and began to wait. He was amused and quite curious, and he was still wondering if his friend was losing his mind. One minute later, Kyle appeared from the back and sat across from him. They shook hands, then Kyle glanced at the front door, far away and to the right. The restaurant was almost empty, and Bruce Springsteen was rocking through the sound system.
“Start talking,” Joey said, now only slightly amused.
“I'm being followed.”
“You're cracking up. The pressure is getting to you.”
“Shut up and listen.”
A teenage waitress paused at the table just long enough to see if they wanted anything. Both asked for diet colas, and Kyle ordered a large pepperoni pizza.
“Wasn't really that hungry,” Joey said when she was gone.
"We're in a pizza place, and so we need to order a pizza. Otherwise, we'll look suspicious. In a few minutes, a thug wearing faded jeans, a dark green rugby shirt, and a khaki golf cap will walk through the door, completely ignore us, and probably go to the bar. He'll hang
around for less than ten minutes, then he'll leave. Though he'll never look at us, he'll see everything. When you leave, either he or one of his teammates will follow you and check your license plates, and within minutes they'll know that I had a semisecret meeting with my old pal Joey Bernardo."
“These guys are friends of yours?”
“No. They are professional operatives, but because I'm just me and not some highly trained thug myself, they're assuming that I have no clue that they're following me.”
“Great. That clears things up. Why, old buddy, are they following you?”
“It's a very long story.”
“You're not drinking again, are you? Not back on the smack?”
“I never did smack and you know it. No, I'm not drinking and I'm not losing my marbles. I'm dead serious and I need your help.”
“You need a shrink, Kyle. You're spooky, man. There's a glow in your eyes.”
The door opened and the thug walked in. He was dressed precisely as Kyle had said, but with the addition of a pair of round tortoise-shell eyeglasses. “Don't stare,” Kyle whispered as Joey's jaw dropped. The diet colas arrived, and they took a drink.
The thug went to the bar, ordered a draft beer, and from his stool could see their table in the long mirrors behind the racks of booze, but he could not possibly hear what they were saying.
“He just put on the eyeglasses,” Kyle said with a large smile as if they were telling jokes. “Sunglasses would be too conspicuous in here. He added the big round ones so he can look around and not get caught. Please smile. Please laugh. We're just two old chums reminiscing here. Nothing serious.”
Joey was flabbergasted and could manage neither a smile nor a laugh. So Kyle erupted in a loud cackle, then pulled off a slice of thin
pizza as soon as it arrived. He was animated and smiling, and with his mouth full he said, “Eat, Joey, and smile and please utter a few words.”
“What have you done? Is that guy a cop or something?”
“Or something. I've done nothing wrong, but it's still a complicated story. You're involved in it. Let's talk about the Pirates.”
“The Pirates are in last place, and they'll be in last place come September. Pick another subject, or another team.” Joey finally took a slice and bit off half of it. “I need a beer. I can't eat pizza without a beer.”
Kyle flagged down the lazy little waitress and ordered one beer.
There was a large screen in one corner. ESPN was running baseball highlights. For a few minutes, they ate pizza and watched the footage. The guy in the rugby shirt was working on a twelve-ounce draft, and after about ten minutes it was gone. He paid in cash and left. When the door closed behind him, Joey said, “What the hell is going on?”
“That's a conversation the two of us must have, but not here. It'll take an hour or two, and then the first conversation will lead to another and another. If we do it here this weekend, we'll get caught. The bad guys are watching, and if they see us engaged in serious talk, they'll know. It's important for us to finish the pizza, walk out the front door, and not be seen together alone, until you leave town tomorrow.”
“Thanks for inviting me up.”
“I didn't invite you for the graduation, Joey. Sorry about that. The reason you're here is to give you this.” Kyle slid across a folded sheet of paper. “Put it in your pocket, and quick.”
Joey grabbed it, glanced around as if assassins were moving in, and shoved it in a jeans pocket. “What is it, Kyle?”
“Trust me, Joey, please. I'm in trouble and I need help. There's no one else but you.”
“And I'm involved, too?”
“Maybe. Let's finish the pizza and get out of here. Here's the plan. The Fourth of July is just around the corner. You come up with this wondeiful idea for a rafting trip down the New River in West Virginia, three days on the river, two nights camping out. Me and you and some of the old gang from Duquesne. A boys' weekend while we can still do it. The list there has ten names and e-mails, stuff you already have. It also has the name of an outfitter in Beckley, West Virginia. I've done all the homework.”
Joey nodded as if nothing made sense.
Kyle pressed on. “The purpose of the trip is to shake the surveillance. Once we're on the river and in the mountains, there's no way they can follow me. We can talk and talk and not have to worry about being watched.”
“This is crazy. You're crazy.”
“Shut up, Joey. I'm not crazy. I'm dead serious. They watch me around the clock. They listen to my phone calls, and they've bugged my laptop.”
“And they're not cops?”
“No, they're much scarier than cops. If we spend too much time together now, they'll become suspicious, and your life will get complicated. Eat some pizza.”
“I'm not hungry.”
There was a long gap in the conversation. Kyle kept eating. Joey kept watching the ESPN highlights. Springsteen kept singing.
After a few minutes, Kyle said, “Look, we need to go. I have a lot to tell you, but I can't do it now. If you'll plan the rafting trip, we can have some fun and I'll give you the full story.”
“You ever been rafting?”
“Sure. You?”
“No. I don't like the water.”
“They provide life jackets. Come on, Joey, have some fun. A year from now you'll be married and your life will be over.”
“Thanks, pal.”
“It's just a boys' trip down the river, a bunch of old friends from college. Shoot the e-mails and put it all together. Whatta you say?”
“Sure, Kyle. Whatever.”
“But when you e-mail me, use the diversion.”
“The diversion?”
“Yes, it's written down. In your e-mails to me we're headed for the Potomac River in western Maryland. We can't give these thugs too much notice.”
“What are they gonna do, follow us down the river in a speedboat?”
“No. It's just a precaution. I don't want them anywhere around me.”
“This is real strange, Kyle.”
“It gets stranger.”
Joey suddenly slid the pizza aside and leaned forward on his elbows. He glared at Kyle and said, “I'll do it, but you gotta give me a clue.”
“Elaine's back, with her rape scenario.”
Just as quickly as he had leaned forward, Joey shrunk back to his side of the booth and limply recoiled. Elaine who? He'd forgotten her last name, if in fact he'd ever known it. That was five, maybe six years ago, and the cops had not only closed the file but slammed the damned thing shut. And why? Because nothing happened. There was no rape. Intercourse maybe, but with that girl everything was consensual. He had a December wedding planned with the woman of his dreams, and nothing, absolutely nothing could screw it up. He had a career, a future, a good name. How could this nightmare be alive?
With so much to say, he managed to say nothing. He stared at Kyle, who couldn't help but feel sorry for him.
Is she awake? Joey asks.
No response from Baxter Tate. No response from the girl.
“This is something we can deal with, Joey. It's frightening, but we can handle it. We need to talk, for hours, but not here, not now. Let's get away.”
“Sure. Whatever you say.”
THAT NIGHT, Kyle met his father for dinner at a Greek place called the Athenian. They were joined by Joey Bernardo, who'd had a few drinks in preparation for the evening and was so mellow he was quite dull. Or maybe he was just stunned or scared or something else, but he was certainly preoccupied. John McAvoy downed two martinis before he touched a menu and was soon telling war stories about old trials and old cases. Joey matched him martini for martini, and the gin thickened his tongue but did not lighten his mood.
Kyle had invited him because he did not want his father to launch into a last-ditch effort to persuade him to resist the evils of corporate law and do something productive with his life. But after the second martini, and with Joey barely coherent, John McAvoy made such an effort. Kyle chose not to argue. He ate garlic crackers and hummus and listened. Red wine arrived, and his father told another story about representing some poor soul with a good case but no money, and of course he won, as is true with the vast majority of lawyers' tales. John McAvoy was the hero of all of his stories. The poor were saved. The weak were protected.
Kyle almost missed his mother.
Late that night, long after dinner, Kyle walked the Yale campus for the last time as a student. He was stunned at the speed at which the last three years had gone by, yet he was also tired of law school. He was tired of lectures and classrooms and exams and the meager existence on a student's budget. At twenty-five, he was now a fully grown man, nicely educated and all in one piece with no bad habits, no permanent damage.