Authors: John Grisham
Bronson was rattling on about being the hub of a wooden wheel, with spokes running down and out to the seven associates below him, and several running upward to Mr. Roland and the other litigation partners. At the hub, he, Bronson, would direct traffic between the big boys and the rookies. He would organize the work, supervise the research,
and handle correspondence with the partners. Everything crossed his desk.
Time was crucial. If word leaked, the Dutch firm and its lawyers might do all sorts of evil things. The nation's oil supply hung in the balance, perhaps even Western civilization.
Off they went to the library.
The Associate
Chapter 18
After a series of phone calls that became more and more tense, a deal was finally reached. Dr. Boone and Uncle Wally acquiesced, but managed to keep one string attached. Baxter would leave early, but spend three nights in a halfway house in Reno before “reentry” into the real world. A hundred and five days after arriving sloppy drunk, with a blood alcohol content of 0.28, and with significant residues of cocaine in his system, Baxter rode through the gates and left behind the safety of the Washoe Retreat. He was squeaky-clean and ten pounds lighter, and not only had he kicked booze and drugs, he had also quit smoking. He was fit, tanned, and clearheaded and thoroughly believed he had conquered his demons and would henceforth live the sober life. He was armed for battle with the teachings of Dr. Boone and the other counselors. He had confessed his sins and surrendered to a higher power, whatever and whoever that was. At the age of twenty-five, he was beginning a new life, and Baxter was both proud and apprehensive, even frightened. As the miles passed,
he found himself more uncomfortable. His confidence was rapidly disappearing.
He had failed so many times in so many ways. It was a family tradition. Was it in his DNA?
An orderly drove him from the clinic in the Nightingale Mountains into Reno, a two-hour drive in which little was said. As they approached the city, they passed a splashy billboard advertising an imported beer in a cold green bottle. The slinky young woman holding it could entice any man to do almost anything. Fear hit Baxter harder. It consumed him, and beads of sweat lined his forehead. He wanted to turn around, to run back to the clinic, where there was no alcohol and no temptations. But he said nothing.
Hope Village was in a run-down section of Reno--abandoned buildings, cheap casinos, and bars. It was the domain of Brother Manny, the founder, pastor, and leader of Hope Village. He was waiting at the curb outside the church's front door when Baxter stepped onto the hot sidewalk. He grabbed Baxter's hand and shook it violently. “Mr. Tate, may I call you Baxter?”
The question suggested its own answer. He was Baxter, not Mr. Tate.
“Sure,” Baxter said, his spine stiffened from this physical assault.
“I'm Brother Manny,” he said, placing his thick left arm on Baxter's shoulder, completing a rather rough howdy do. “Welcome to Hope Village.”
He was about fifty, Hispanic, bronze skin, gray hair pulled back tightly into a long ponytail that fell to his waist, warm eyes, big toothy smile, a small scar beside his left nostril and a larger one on his right cheek. His face was adorned with a soft white goatee that had been pampered for many years.
“Another escapee from Washoe Retreat,” he said with a deep, melodious voice. “How is the good Dr. Boone doing up there?”
“Fine,” Baxter said. Brother Manny's nose was about five inches from his. Close contact obviously did not bother him, but it made Baxter uncomfortable. “He sends his regards.”
“A fine man. Come, I'll show you around. We have you for just three nights, as I understand.”
“That's right.”
They began walking slowly. Brother Manny kept one arm across Baxter's shoulders. He was a large man, with a thick barrel chest, and he wore dungarees and a white linen shirt--top two buttons open-- with a long tail left out so that it swept behind him. Sandals, no socks.
The church had once belonged to an affluent white congregation that fled to the suburbs. As Baxter shuffled through the tour, he also got the backstory. Manny Lucera had found the Lord during his second term in prison--armed robbery, the proceeds from which were meant to buy drugs for personal consumption--and upon his parole he was led by the Spirit to Reno to start his ministry. Seventeen years ago, and the Lord had blessed him mightily. The church had grown and now housed a shelter for the homeless in the basement, a soup kitchen that fed anyone who showed up, a community center for the poor kids in the neighborhood, an intake center for women and children fleeing abusive men, and there were plans for an orphanage. The old buildings next door had been purchased and renovated. The complex was crawling with people--employees, volunteers, street people-- and they almost bowed in deference when they saw Brother Manny.
They parked themselves on a picnic table in the shade and sipped canned lemonade. “What's your drug?” Manny asked.
“Coke, booze, but I didn't say no to anything,” Baxter admitted. After fifteen weeks of baring his soul to people who already knew everything, he did not hesitate to tell the truth.
“For how long?”
“Started slow when I was about fourteen. Picked up steam as I got older. I'm twenty-five now, so eleven years.”
“Where are you from?”
“Pittsburgh, originally.”
“Background?”
“Privileged.”
Brother Manny issued the questions and absorbed the answers with such ease that after fifteen minutes together, Kyle felt as though he could chat for hours and tell him everything.
“First rehab?”
“Second.”
“I did every drug you can imagine, and some you've never heard of, for twenty years. I bought, sold, smuggled, and manufactured drugs. I got knifed four times, shot three, and went to prison twice for drugs. I lost my first wife and two children because of drugs and alcohol. I lost my chance for an education. I lost eight years because of prison. I almost lost my life. I know all about addictions because I've been there. I'm a certified drug and alcohol counselor, and I work with addicts every day. Are you an addict?”
“Yes.”
“Bless you, brother. Do you know Christ?”
“I guess. My mother took me to church every Christmas.”
Brother Manny smiled and slowly wiggled his large rear end off the table. “Let me show you your room. It's not the Ritz, but it'll do.” The homeless shelter was a large basement room with a temporary partition dividing it--women on one side, men on the other. It was open, with rows of Army surplus cots in neat lines. “Most of these people work during the day. They're not bums,” Brother Manny was saying. “They'll start drifting in around 6:00 p.m. Here's your room.”
Near the showers, there were two small private rooms with nicer cots and portable fans. Brother Manny opened the door to one and said, “You can have this one. It's for a supervisor. To get a private room, you must have a job, so you'll help with the dinner preparation, then later, when everybody's tucked in, you'll help with security.”
He uttered these definitive statements in such a way that any thought of protest was immediately cut off and out of the question.
Baxter's world was spinning. He'd begun the day in the cushy confines of a four-star rehab ranch, and done so with giddy thoughts of finally leaving. Now he was in the hot basement of an old church that was home to fifty-two of the poorest souls in America, and he was expected to live with them for the next three days. And to cook their meals and break up their fights.
Baxter Tate, of the Pittsburgh Tate dynasty. Bankers, blue bloods who lived in mansions handed down from one miserable generation to the next, proud and arrogant people who married into other, similar clans, thus producing even shallower gene pools.
How had he reached this point in his young life?
Legally, he could leave anytime he wanted. Hit the door, find a cab, never look back. There was no court order restraining him. Uncle Wally might be disappointed, but that would be the extent of Baxter's worries if he fled.
“Are you okay?” Brother Manny asked.
“No.” It was refreshing to be so honest.
“Take a nap. You look pale.”
HE COULDN'T SLEEP because of the heat. After an hour, he sneaked away and found himself roaming downtown Reno. He had a late lunch in a diner--his first burger and fries in months. He had the money to get a hotel room for a day or two, and that plan consumed him as he zigzagged through the streets. He passed and repassed the casinos. He'd never been a gambler, but every casino had a bar, didn't it? Of course the bars were off-limits, but he couldn't stomach the thought of returning to Hope Village, at least not now.
At a blackjack table he pulled out five $20 bills, got some green chips, and played the $5 game for a few minutes. An aging cocktail
waitress swept by, asked what he wanted to drink. “A bottle of water,” he said without hesitation, then patted himself on the back. The only other player at the table was a cowboy, black hat and all, with a bottle of beer in front of him. Baxter drank his water, played his hands, and occasionally glanced at the bottle of beer. It looked so harmless. So beautiful.
When his chips had been taken by the dealer, he left the table and wandered around the casino floor. It was a dreadful place, sparsely filled with people who had no business being there, gambling with money they could not afford to lose. He walked by a sports bar, with wide screens showing old football games. The weekend's point spreads were posted. The bar was empty. He settled onto a stool and ordered water.
What would Dr. Boone say about this? Not six hours into “reentry” and he was already at a bar. Relax, Dr. Boone. It's just water. If I can resist the urge here at ground zero, then the next place will be easy. He sipped water and occasionally glanced at the rows of liquor bottles. Why were there so many different shapes and sizes? So many different types of spirits? One entire row was taken by flavored vodkas, delicious liquids he had consumed by the barrel back in the days when he was a drunk.
Thank God those days were over.
In the distance, across the floor somewhere, a siren squealed and bells erupted. A lucky slot player had hit a jackpot, and the racket was to remind everyone just how easy it was to win. The bartender filled a glass with a draft beer, then slammed it in front of Baxter. “On the house!” he proclaimed. “Super Slot Jackpot!”
Free drinks for everyone at the bar, which was nobody but Baxter. He almost said, “Hey, pal, take it away. I don't drink anymore.” But the bartender was gone, plus it would sound silly. How many non-drinkers sidle up to a casino bar at three o'clock in the afternoon?
The glass was frosty, the beer ice-cold. It was darker in color,
and Baxter looked at the tap. Nevada Pale Ale. One he'd never tried. His mouth was dry, so he sipped water. For 105 days he'd been hammered by Dr. Boone and the other pros at Washoe Retreat into believing that another drink would eventually lead him back to his addictions. He'd watched and listened as other patients, or guests as they were called, struggled through detox and told their stories of repeated failures. Don't ever be fooled, they warned repeatedly, you cannot handle a single drink. Total abstinence is required.
Maybe so.
Small bubbles of water formed on the glass, then began to run down to the napkin under it.
He was twenty-five years old, and he never truly believed, not even in his purest moment back at Washoe, that he would live the rest of his life without a drink. Somewhere deep down in his soul he knew he could find the willpower to have a drink, maybe a couple, then stop for the night before things got out of hand. If he planned to drink, why not start now? The last time he tortured himself for fourteen days before breaking down. For two weeks he lied to himself and especially to his friends about loving the life of sobriety, and every single moment he craved a drink. Why go through the misery again?
The beer was getting warm.
He heard the voices of his counselors. He remembered the tears and confessions of the other guests. He heard himself proclaim the gospel of the sober--“I am an alcoholic, weak and powerless, in need of strength from a higher being.”
And they were weak, those other losers back at Washoe Retreat. But not Baxter. He could handle a few drinks because he was stronger. He rationalized that he would, under no circumstances, succumb to the romance and horror of cocaine. Nor would he indulge in hard liquor. Just a little beer, occasionally, and he might get serious about wine.
No big deal.
Still, he could not make himself reach forward and touch the glass. It was eighteen inches away, well within his grasp, just standing there like a coiled rattler ready to kill. Then it was a luscious treat that delivered a pleasant buzz. Back and forth, back and forth. Evil versus good.
“You need to make new friends,” Dr. Boone had said repeatedly. “And you can't go back to your old haunts. Find some new places, new friends, new challenges, a different place to live.”
Well, how about this, Dr. Boone? Sitting here for the very first time in a run-down Reno casino he couldn't remember the name of? Never been here before? Ha-ha.
Both hands were free, and at some point Baxter realized his right hand was shaking slightly. And his breathing was labored and heavy.
“You okay, buddy?” the bartender asked as he walked by.
Yes, no. Baxter nodded something but couldn't speak. His eyes were locked on the glass of beer. Where was he? What was he doing? Six hours after leaving rehab he was in a bar brawling with himself over whether he should take another drink. He was already a loser. Look where he was.