Authors: John Grisham
Baxter's wallet, cash fold, and watch were untouched. The police inventoried his pockets and found nothing but a few coins, his car keys, and a tube of lip balm. The lab would later report that there was no trace of alcohol or illegal drugs in his system, on his clothing, or in his car.
The pathologist did note a remarkable degree of liver damage for a twenty-five-year-old.
Robbery was immediately ruled out for the obvious reasons-- nothing was taken, unless the victim was carrying something valuable that no one knew about. But why would an armed thief leave behind $513 in cash and eight credit cards? Wouldn't a thief consider stealing the Porsche while he had the chance? There was no evidence that the crime had anything to do with sex. It could've been a drug hit, but that seemed unlikely. Those were usually much messier.
With sex, robbery, and drugs ruled out, the investigators began scratching their heads. They watched the bagged body disappear into the rear of an ambulance for the ride back to Pittsburgh, and they knew they had a problem. The apparent randomness of the act, plus the silent gunshot and the clean getaway, led them to conclude, at least at the scene, that they were dealing with professionals.
THE CONFIRMATION that a member of such a noted family had met such a strange and brutal end brightened up a dull news day in Pittsburgh. Television crews scampered to the Tate estate in Shady-side, only to be met by private security personnel. For generations the Tate family had offered “No comment” to every inquiry, and this tragedy was no different. A family lawyer issued a terse response and asked for prayers, consideration, and respect for privacy. Uncle Wally once again took charge and issued orders.
Kyle was at his cube, chatting with Dale about their plans for the evening, when the call came from Joey. It was almost 5:00 p.m. on Friday. He had eaten a pizza with Baxter late on Tuesday night, then chatted with him a few hours later, but had not spoken to him since. As far as he and Joey could tell, Baxter had disappeared, or at least he was ignoring his phone.
“What's the matter?” Dale asked as she noticed the look of shock. But Kyle did not respond. He kept the phone to his ear and began walking away, down the hall, past the front desk, listening as Joey
unloaded all the details now being splashed across the television. He lost him in the elevator, and once outside the building he called Joey back and kept listening. The sidewalks along Broad were packed with the late-afternoon rush. Kyle plodded along, without a coat to layer against the chill, without a clue as to where he might be going.
“They killed him,” he finally said to Joey.
“Who?”
“I think you know.”
The Associate
Chapter 28
A funeral lasts for two hours,“ Doug Peckham was saying as he glared at Kyle. ”I don't understand why you need to take two days off."
“The funeral is in Pittsburgh. I have to fly there, then fly back. He was a fraternity brother. I'm a pallbearer. I'll need to see the family. Come on, Doug.”
“I've done funerals!”
“For a twenty-five-year-old roommate shot in the head?”
“I get all that, but two days?”
“Yes. Call it vacation. Call it personal time. Don't we get a few personal days a year?”
“Sure, it's somewhere in the handbook, but no one takes them.”
“Then I'm taking them. Fire me, I don't give a damn.”
A deep breath on both sides of the desk, and Doug said calmly, “Okay, okay. When is the funeral?”
“Two o'clock, Wednesday afternoon.”
"Then leave late tomorrow afternoon, and meet me here at five-thirty Thursday morning.
I gotta tell you, Kyle, this place is a powder keg. This Toby Roland split is getting nastier, and larger, and those of us who stay behind are about to get dumped on."
“He was my roommate.”
“And I'm sorry.”
“Oh, thank you.”
Doug waved off the last comment, picked up a thick file, and thrust it across the desk. “Can you read this on the airplane?” While phrased like a question, it was an outright command.
Kyle took the file and locked his jaws to keep from saying, Sure, Doug, I'll give it a look on the plane and I'll sneak a peek at the wake and I'll analyze the damned thing during the service and review my thoughts at the burial when they lower Baxter into his grave, and then, when I'm flying back to LaGuardia, I'll flip through it again, and for every minute I'm even remotely thinking about this file, I'll bill, or double bill, or maybe even triple bill the poor client who made the mistake of selecting this full-service sweatshop for its legal needs.
“You okay?” Doug asked.
“No.”
“Look, I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say.”
“There's nothing to say.”
“Any clue as to who pulled the trigger?” Doug shifted his weight as he attempted a bit of small talk. He feigned, badly, interest in what had happened.
“No.” If you only knew, Kyle thought.
“I'm sorry,” Doug said again, and his effort at showing interest was gone.
Kyle started for the door, but stopped when he heard, “I asked you to estimate my hours for the Ontario Bank case, didn't I? Over lunch, remember? I need the hours.”
Estimate your own damned hours, Kyle ached to say, or, better yet, Just keep up with your time like everybody else.
“Almost done,” Kyle said and made it through the door without further abuse.
THE INTERMENT of Baxter Farnsworth Tate took place on a damp and overcast day at the family burial plot in Homewood Cemetery, in central Pittsburgh. It followed a staid and by-the-book Episcopal service that was closed to the public and especially closed to the media. Baxter left a brother, who attended the service, and a sister, who did not. Over the weekend the brother made a gallant effort to restructure the funeral into a “celebration” of Baxter's life, an idea that fell flat with the ultimate realization that there was so little to celebrate. The brother yielded to the rector, who led them through the standard rituals of remembering someone whom he, the rector, had never met. Ollie Guice, a Beta from Cleveland who had lived with Baxter for two of their years at Duquesne, struggled through a eulogy that evoked a few smiles. Of the eight surviving members of their pledge class, seven were present. There was also a respectable showing from old Pittsburgh--some childhood friends and those required to attend because they came from the upper crust. There were four long-forgotten pals from the second-tier boarding school the Tates had shipped Baxter to when he was fourteen years old.
Unknown to Kyle and the others, Elaine Keenan had attempted to enter the church but was turned away because her name was not on the list.
No one from Hollywood made it to the funeral. Not a single soul from L.A. Baxter's C-list agent sent flowers. A former female roommate e-mailed the rector a brief eulogy that she insisted be read by someone in attendance. She was “on the set” and couldn't get away. Her eulogy made references to the Buddha and Tibet and was not well received in Pittsburgh. The rector tossed it without a word to the family.
Brother Manny managed to talk his way into the church, but only after Joey Bernardo convinced the family that Baxter had spoken highly of his pastor in Reno. The family, along with all the other mourners, eyed Brother Manny with some suspicion. He wore his standard white uniform--baggy bleached dungarees and flowing shirttail--and layered it with a garment that was probably a robe of some variety but looked more like a white bedsheet. His only concession to the solemnity of the occasion was a black leather beret that adorned his tumbling gray locks and gave him an odd resemblance to an aging Che Guevara. He wept throughout the service, shedding more tears than the rest of the hidebound and stoic collection combined.
Kyle shed no tears, though he was deeply saddened by such a wasted life. As he stood next to the grave and stared at the oak casket, he was unable to dwell on the good times they had shared. He was too consumed with the raging internal debate over what he should have done differently. In particular, should he have told Baxter about the video, about Bennie and the boys, about everything? If he had done so, would Baxter have appreciated the danger and behaved differently? Maybe. Maybe not. In his zeal to clean up his past, Baxter might have gone nuts if he knew he'd actually been filmed doing whatever he did to Elaine. He might have confessed under oath and said to hell with everybody else. It was impossible to predict because Baxter was not thinking rationally. And it was impossible to second-guess now, because Kyle did not foresee the extent of the danger.
But he certainly saw it now.
There were about a hundred mourners huddled around the grave site, all pressing close together to hear the final words from the rector. A few cold raindrops hurried things along. A crimson tent provided shelter for the casket and the family seated near it. Kyle glanced away, at the rows of tombstones where the old money was buried, and beyond them to the stone gate at the cemetery's entrance. On the other
side of the entrance was a large pack of media types, waiting like vultures for a glimpse of something newsworthy. Ready with cameras, lights, and microphones, they had been kept away from the church by the police and private guards, but they had dogged the procession like kids at a parade, and now they were desperate for a shot of the casket or the mother collapsing as she said goodbye. Somewhere in their midst was at least one of Bennie's boys, maybe two or three. Kyle wondered if they had a camera, not for a shot of the casket but to record which of Baxter's friends had bothered to attend. Useless information, really, but then so much of what they did made no sense.
They knew how to kill, though. There was little doubt about that. The state police had nothing to say so far, and as the days passed, it was becoming evident that their silence was not necessarily of their choosing. There was simply no evidence. A clean hit, a silent bullet, a quick getaway, and no motive whatsoever.
Brother Manny wailed loudly from the edge of the tent, and this rattled everyone else. The rector missed a beat, then droned on.
Kyle stared at the horde in the distance, too far away for any one face to be recognized. He knew they were there, watching, waiting, curious about his movements and those of Joey and Alan Strock, who'd driven in from med school at Ohio State. The four roommates, now reduced to three.
As the rector wound down, a few sobs could be heard. Then the crowd began backing away from the crimson tent, inching away from the grave site. The burial was over, and Baxter's parents and brother wasted no time in leaving. Kyle and Joey held back, and for a moment stood near the tombstone of another Tate.
“This will be our last conversation for a long time,” Joey said softly but firmly. “You're messing around with the wrong people, Kyle. Just leave me out of it.”
Kyle looked at the pile of fresh dirt about to be packed on top of Baxter.
Joey kept on, his lips barely moving as if bugs were close by. “Count me out, okay? I've got my hands full here. I've got a life with a wedding and a baby in the future. No more of your silly spy games. You keep playing if you want, but not me.”
“Sure, Joey.”
“No more e-mails, packages, phone calls. No more trips to New York. I can't keep you out of Pittsburgh, but if you visit here, don't call me. One of us will be next, Kyle, and it won't be you. You're too valuable. You're the one they need. So for our next mistake, guess who gets the bullet.”
“We didn't cause his death.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“No.”
“These guys are around for a reason, and that reason is you.”
“Thanks, Joey.”
“Don't mention it. I'm going now. Please keep me out of it, Kyle. And be damned sure nobody sees that video. So long.”
Kyle allowed him to walk ahead, then he followed.
The Associate
Chapter 29
At 6:30 on Thursday morning, Kyle walked into Doug Peckham's office and reported for duty. Doug was standing at his desk, which resembled, as always, a landfill. “How was the funeral?” he asked without looking up from whatever he was holding.
“It was a funeral,” Kyle said. He handed over a single sheet of paper. “Here is an estimate of your hours on the Ontario Bank case.” Doug snatched it, scanned it, disapproved of it, and said, “Only thirty hours?”
“At the most.”
“You're way off. Double it and let's call it sixty.”
Kyle shrugged. Call it whatever you want. You're the partner. If the client could pay $24,000 for work that wasn't performed, then the client could certainly pay another $24,000 on top of that.
“We have a hearing in federal court at nine. We'll leave here at eight thirty. Finish the Rule 10 memo and be here at eight.”
The prospect of a litigation associate getting near a courtroom during his or her first year was unheard-of, and for Kyle a gloomy day
suddenly improved. Of the twelve in his class, no one, at least to his knowledge, had seen live action. He hurried to his cube and was checking e-mails when Tabor appeared with a tall coffee and a haggard look. Since flunking the bar, he had slowly managed to put himself back together, and though he was initially humbled, the cockiness was returning.
“Sorry about your friend,” he said, flinging his overcoat and briefcase.
“Thanks,” Kyle said. Tabor was still standing, slurping coffee and anxious to talk.
“Have you met H. W. Prewitt, litigation partner two floors up?” he asked.
“No,” Kyle answered, still pecking away.
“He's about fifty, big Texan. They call him Harvey Wayne behind his back. Get it? Harvey Wayne, from Texas, double first name?”
“Got it.”
“They also call him Texas Slim because he weighs about four hundred pounds. Mean as hell. Went to a community college, then A&M, then Texas Law and hates anybody from Harvard. He's been stalking me, caught me two days ago and gave me a project that any part-time secretary could handle. I spent six hours Tuesday night taking apart exhibit binders for a big deposition yesterday. Took them apart, then reconfigured them just the way Harvey Wayne wanted. There were a dozen binders, couple of hundred pages each, a ton of paperwork. At nine yesterday morning I put them on a cart, raced them down to a conference room where about a hundred lawyers are gathering for this depo, and what did Harvey Wayne do?”
“What?”
"There's this door that leads to another conference room and it won't stay shut, sort of swings back and forth, and so Harvey Wayne, fat ass, tells me to stack the binders on the floor and use them as a
doorstop. I do what he tells me, and as I'm leaving the room, I hear him say something like 'Those Harvard boys make the best paralegals."'
“How hnuch coffee have you had?”
“Second cup.”
“I'm on my first, and I really need to crank out this memo.”
“Sorry. Look, have you seen Dale?”
“No. I left Tuesday afternoon for the funeral yesterday. Something the matter?”
“She got nailed with some heinous project Tuesday night, and I don't think she's slept at all. Let's keep an eye on her.”
“Will do.”
At 8:30, Kyle left the office with Doug Peckham and a senior associate named Noel Bard. They walked hurriedly to a parking garage a few blocks away, and when the attendant pulled up in Bard's late-model Jaguar, Peckham said, “Kyle, you drive. We're going to Foley Square.”
Kyle wanted to protest but said nothing. Bard and Peckham climbed into the rear seat, leaving Kyle, the chauffeur, alone in the front.
“I'm not sure of the best route,” Kyle admitted, with a flash of fear at what would happen if he got lost and the two big shots in the back were late for court.
“Stay on Broad until it becomes Nassau. Take it all the way to Foley Square,” Bard said, as if he made the drive every day. “And be careful. This little baby is brand-new and cost me a hundred grand. It's my wife's.”
Kyle could not remember being so nervous behind the wheel. He finally found the mirror-adjustment scheme and eased into traffic, cutting his eyes in all directions. To make matters worse, Peckham wanted to talk. “Kyle, a couple of names, all first-years. Darren Bartkowski?”
Without glancing at Peckham in the rearview mirror, Kyle waited and finally said, “So?”
“You know him?”
“Sure. I know all of the first-year litigation associates.”
“What about him? Have you worked with him? Good, bad, talk to me, Kyle. How would you evaluate him?”
“Uh, well, nice guy, I knew him at Yale.”
“His work, Kyle, his work?”
“I haven't worked with him yet.”
“The word is he's a slacker. Ducks the partners, late with projects, lazy with the billing.”
I wonder if he estimates his hours, Kyle thought but kept his concentration on the yellow cabs passing, darting, turning abruptly, violating every known rule of the road.
“Have you heard he's a slacker, Kyle?”
“Yes,” Kyle said reluctantly. It was the truth.
Bard decided to help thrash poor Bartkowski. “He's billed the fewest hours so far of anyone in your class.”
Talking about colleagues was a contact sport at the firm, and the partners were as bad as the associates. An associate who cut corners or ducked projects was labeled a slacker, and the tag was permanent. Most slackers didn't mind. They worked less, got the same salary, and ran almost no risk of being fired unless they stole money from a client or got caught in a sex scandal. Their bonuses were small, but who needs a bonus when you have a fat paycheck? Career slackers could slide for six or seven years at a firm before being informed they would not make partner and shown the door.
“What about Jeff Tabor?” Doug asked.
“I know him well. Definitely not a slacker.”
“He has the reputation of being a gunner,” Doug said.
“Yes, and that's accurate. He's competitive, but he's not a cutthroat.”
“You like him, Kyle?”
“Yes. Tabor's a good guy. Smart as hell.”
“Evidently not smart enough,” Bard said. “That bar exam problem.”
Kyle had no comment, and no comment was necessary because a yellow cab swerved in front of them, cutting off the Jaguar and forcing Kyle to slam on the brakes and hit the horn at the same time. A fist shot out from the driver's window, then an angry middle finger, and Kyle received his first bird. Be cool, he said to himself.
“You gotta watch these idiots,” Doug said.
The sound of important papers being extracted crackled from the backseat, and Kyle knew something was being reviewed. “Will we get Judge Hennessy or his magistrate?” Doug asked Bard. Kyle was shut out of the conversation, which was fine with him. He preferred to concentrate on the street in front of him, and he had no interest in assessing the performance of his colleagues.
After ten minutes of downtown traffic, Kyle was wet under the collar and breathing heavy. “There's a lot at the corner of Nassau and Chambers, two blocks from the courthouse,” Bard announced. Kyle nodded nervously. He found the lot but it was full, and this caused all manner of cursing in the rear seat.
Peckham took charge. “Look, Kyle, we're in a hurry. Just drop us off in front of the courthouse at Foley Square, then circle the block until you find a spot on the street.”
“A spot on which street?”
Doug was stuffing papers back into his briefcase. Bard suddenly had business on the phone. “I don't care. Any street, and if you can't find a spot, then just keep making the block. Let us out here.”
Kyle cut to the curb, and a horn erupted somewhere behind them. Both lawyers scrambled out of the rear seat. Peckham's final words were “Just keep moving, okay. You'll find something.”
Bard managed to tear himself away from his phone conversation long enough to say, “And be careful. It's my wife's.”
Alone, Kyle eased away and tried to relax. He headed north on Centre Street, drove four blocks, then turned left on Leonard and headed west. Every inch of available space was packed with vehicles and motorbikes. An amazing abundance of signs warned against parking anywhere near a potential space. Kyle had never noticed so many threatening signs. He passed no parking garages, but he did pass several traffic cops working the streets, slapping tickets on windshields. After a long, slow block, he turned left on Broadway, and the traffic was even heavier. He inched along for six blocks, then turned left onto Chambers. Two blocks later he was back at the courthouse in which he was supposed to be making his debut as a litigator, if only as a reserve.
Left on Centre, left on Leonard, left on Broadway, left on Chambers, back at the courthouse. Ever concerned about billing, he noted the time. The second loop ate seventeen minutes of the clock, and along the way Kyle again saw nowhere to park. He saw the same signs, same traffic cops, same street bums, same drug dealer sitting on a bench working his cell phone.
Nine o'clock came and went without a call from Peckham, not even a quick “Where the hell are you?” The hearing was under way, but without Kyle the litigator. Kyle the chauffeur, though, was hard at work. After three loops, he was bored with the route and added extra blocks to the north and west. He thought about stopping for a coffee to go, but decided against it out of fear of spilling something onto the fine beige leather of Bard's wife's new Jaguar. He had settled into the leather and was comfortable behind the wheel. It was a very nice car. A hundred thousand dollars and no doubt worth every penny. The gas tank was half-full, and this was worrying him. The stop-and-go driving was a strain on such a large engine. The hearing that he was missing was an important one, no doubt requiring the presence of many
high-powered lawyers, all anxious to plead their positions, and things might drag on for a long time. It was obvious that every legal parking spot in lower Manhattan was taken, and with clear instructions to “just keep moving,” Kyle accepted the fact that he had no choice but to burn fuel. He began to look for a gas station. He'd fill the tank, bill the client, and score a few points with Bard.
Once the tank was full, he began to ponder other ways to score points. A quick car wash? A quick lube job? When he passed the courthouse for the seventh or eighth time, a street vendor selling soft pretzels looked at him, spread his arms, and said something like “Are you crazy, man?” But Kyle was unperturbed. He decided against a wash or oil change.
Now confident in traffic, he picked up his phone and called Dale. She answered on the third ring and in a hushed voice said, “I'm in the library.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“That's not what I hear.”
A pause. “I haven't slept in two nights. I think I'm delirious.”
“You sound terrible.”
“Where are you?”
“Right now I'm on Leonard Street, driving Noel Bard's wife's new Jaguar. What do you think I'm doing?”
“Sorry I asked. How was the funeral?”
“Terrible. Let's do dinner tonight. I need to unload on someone.”
“I'm going home tonight, to bed, to sleep.”
“You have to eat. I'll grab some Chinese, we'll have a glass of wine, then sleep together. No sex whatsoever. We've done it before.”
“We'll see. I gotta get out of here. Later.”
“Are you gonna make it?”
“I doubt it.”
At 11:00 a.m., Kyle congratulated himself because he could now
bill the client $800 for driving in circles. Then he laughed at himself. Editor in chief of the Yale Law Journal behind the wheel here, making perfect turns, clean stops and goes, taking in the sights, dodging the cabs, ah, the life of a big-time Wall Street lawyer.
If his father could see him now.
The call came at 11:40. Bard said, “We're leaving the courtroom. What happened to you?”
“I couldn't find a parking space.”
“Where are you?”
“Two blocks from the courthouse.”
“Pick us up where you dropped us off.”
“My pleasure.”
Minutes later, Kyle wheeled to the curb like a veteran driver, and his two passengers jumped into the rear seat. He pulled away and said, “Where to?”
“The office,” came the terse reply from Peckham, and for several minutes nothing was said. Kyle expected to be grilled about what he'd been doing for the past few hours. Where were you, Kyle? Why did you miss the hearing, Kyle? But nothing. Sadly, he began to realize that he had not been missed at all. To create some noise, he finally asked, “So how'd the hearing go?”
“It didn't,” said Peckham.