Authors: John Grisham
It was a twelve-by-twelve square room, with a glass desk, leather chairs, handsome rug, and a window that faced south and allowed real sunlight to pass through. Kyle was overwhelmed. Why me? he wanted to ask. But he pretended to take it in stride.
“Compliments of Wilson Rush,” she said.
“Nice,” Kyle said, stepping to the window.
“You share a secretary with Cunningham next door. I'm just down the hall if you need anything. I'd get myself moved in because Mr. Rush might stop by for a quick inspection.”
Moving took fifteen minutes. Kyle made four trips back and forth, and during his last one Dale carried his sleeping bag and laptop. She was genuinely happy for him, and even passed along a few decorating ideas. “Too bad you don't have a sofa,” she said.
“Not at the office, dear.”
“Then where and when?”
“I take it you're in the mood.”
“I need to be loved, or at least lusted after.”
“How about dinner, then a quickie?”
“How about a marathon, then a quick dinner?”
“Oh, boy.”
They sneaked out of the building at 7:00 p.m. and took a cab to her apartment. Kyle was unbuttoning his shirt when his FirmFone buzzed with an e-mail sent by an unknown partner to about a dozen grunts. All hands were needed on deck immediately for an urgent orgy of work that was absolutely critical to the future of the firm. Kyle ignored it and turned off the lights.
The Associate
Chapter 32
For no reason other than sheer obstinacy, Kyle arrived forty-five minutes late for the Tuesday night meeting at the Four Seasons. He expected to see Nigel, so he was not surprised when Bennie's sidekick met him at the door and pretended to be pleased to see him. “Kyle, old boy, how have you been?” he chirped with a fake smile.
“Marvelous. And your name is?”
“Nigel.”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot. Last name?”
“Sorry, old boy.”
“Do you have a last name, or do you have so many you can't remember which one fits right now?”
“Good evening, Kyle,” Bennie said, rising to his feet, folding a newspaper.
“So nice to see you, Bennie.” Kyle placed his briefcase on the bed but did not remove his trench coat. “Now, who called this meeting?” he asked.
“Tell us about the room on the eighteenth floor,” Bennie said, abandoning any more preliminaries.
“I've already described it.”
Nigel fired away: “Ten monitors on ten tables, right, Kyle?”
“Yes.”
“And where are the computers themselves?”
“On the tables, next to the monitors.”
“The computers, Kyle, tall and thin, short and fat? Give us a hint here!”
“More of a square box, to the right of each monitor.”
On the dresser next to the television there was a thin notebook, already opened. Nigel lunged for it and said, “Take a look at these computers, Kyle. All shapes and sizes, various makes from around the world. See anything remotely similar?”
Kyle methodically flipped through it. Each page had color photos of eight computers, ten pages in all, eighty machines that varied wildly in design and construction. He settled on one that looked more like a color jet printer than a computer.
“Yes, rather square,” Nigel observed. “How many disc drives?”
“None.”
“None? Are you certain, Kyle?”
“Yes. These were custom built for maximum security. There are no disc drives, no ports, no way to transfer the data.”
“Control panel? Switches, buttons, lights, anything, Kyle?”
“Nothing. Plain-vanilla box.”
“And the server?”
“Locked up next door. Out of sight.”
“Interesting. And the monitors, Kyle?”
“Basic LCD flat screens.”
“Let's take a peek,” Nigel said as he opened the notebook to another section, this one filled with an assortment of monitors. “Size, Kyle?”
“Fourteen inches.”
“Full-color display I'm sure?”
“Yes.” Kyle stopped on the third page and pointed. “This one is very close.”
“Excellent, Kyle.”
“And printers?”
“None.”
“Nowhere in the room? Not a single printer?”
“None.”
Nigel paused to scratch his face and ponder this. “Suppose you're working on a brief or a memo. When it's time to produce it, what happens?”
“You notify your supervisor, who then enters the room, pulls it up, reviews it, and so on. If it is to be submitted to the court, or to the opposing attorneys, it's printed.”
“Where? I thought there were no printers.”
“There's a machine in a room next door with a paralegal who monitors the printing. Every sheet of paper that's printed is coded and duplicated. It's impossible to print anything without leaving a trail.”
“Quite nice, really.” With that, Nigel took a sharp step back and relaxed. Bennie took over. “Kyle, how many times have you entered the room?”
“Once a day for the last five days.”
“And how many people are normally in the room?”
“It varies. Sunday afternoon I was alone for about an hour. This morning there were five or six others.”
“Have you been there late at night when they close the room?”
“No, not yet.”
“Do it, okay. Be there at ten one night.”
“I can't go there just to hang out, Bennie. It's not a coffee room. Surveillance is constant, cameras watching and all that. There has to be a reason to be there, other than casing the joint.”
“Does anyone notice when you come and go?”
“There's not a guard at the door. The key makes a record of each entry and exit, and I'm sure it's all recorded by closed circuit.”
“Do you take your briefcase in with you?”
“No.”
“Are briefcases forbidden?”
“No.”
“Do you wear your jacket?”
“No. Jackets are not required around the office.”
Bennie and Nigel studied each other for a minute or so, both minds hard at work.
“Will you go there tomorrow?” Bennie asked.
“Maybe. I'm not sure right now. It depends on what I'm asked to do in the morning.”
“I want you to enter the room tomorrow, carrying your briefcase and wearing your jacket. As soon as you're settled in, take off your jacket. Keep the briefcase under the table.”
“Will this work, Kyle?” Nigel piled on quickly.
“Oh, sure. Why not? Anything else? And what if I haul in a box of tacos and drop cheddar crumbs on the keyboard? Where is this going?”
“Just trust us here, Kyle,” Nigel said gently. “We know what we're doing.”
“You're the last person I'd trust.”
“Now, Kyle.”
“Look, I'm tired. I'd really like to go--”
“What are your plans for the next few days?” Bennie asked.
“I'll work tomorrow, leave the office around five, take the train to Philly, rent a car, and drive to York. I'm having Thanksgiving dinner with my father on Thursday. I'll be back in the city late Friday afternoon, and back at the office early Saturday. Good enough?”
“We'll meet Sunday night,” Bennie said.
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“Your place or mine?”
“I'll pass along the details.”
“Happy Thanksgiving, boys,” Kyle said as he left the room.
ON HIS NEW office door, Kyle hung two waterproof, all-purpose trench coats, one black and the other one a light brown. The black one he wore every day, to and from work and when moving around the city. The brown one was used rarely, only on those occasions when Kyle really didn't want to be followed. At 2:30 on Wednesday, he draped it over his arm and rode the elevator to the second floor. From there, he took a service elevator to the basement, put on the trench coat, and ducked through the rows of thick plumbing pipes and electrical cables and heating units until he came to a metal stairway. He spoke to a technician, one he'd spoken to on several occasions. He saw daylight in a narrow alley that barely separated his building from the fifty story edifice next door. Ten minutes later, he walked into the office of Roy Benedict.
They had chatted briefly on the phone, and Kyle was uneasy about the plan.
Roy was not at all uneasy. He had studied the file, analyzed the facts and issues, weighed the predicament, and was ready to move. “I have a friend with the FBI,” he began. “A friend I trust completely. We worked together years ago before I became a lawyer, and even though we are now on opposite sides of the street, I trust him even more. He's a heavyweight here in the New York office.”
Kyle flashed back to his last encounter with the FBI. Fake names, fake badges, a long night in a hotel room with Bennie. “I'm listening,” Kyle said with skepticism.
“I want to meet with him and lay everything on the table. Everything.”
“What will he do?”
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“Crimes have been committed. Crimes are in process. Crimes are being planned. And not small crimes. I suspect he will be as shocked as i am. I suspect the FBI will get involved.”
“So Bennie gets nabbed by the feds?”
“Sure. Don't you want him locked up?”
“For life. But he has a vast network out there in the shadows.”
“The FBI knows how to lay its traps. They screw up occasionally, but their record is very good. I deal with them all the time, Kyle. I know how smart these guys are. If I talk to them now, they'll move in quietly and lay the groundwork. When they want to, they can throw a whole army at the enemy. Right now you need an army.”
“Thanks.”
“I need your permission to talk to the FBI.”
“Is there a chance they'll take a look and let it pass?”
“Yes, but I doubt it.”
“When will you talk to your friend?”
“Maybe as early as this afternoon.”
Kyle barely hesitated. “Let's do it,” he said.
The Associate
Chapter33
It was almost midnight when Kyle quietly slipped through the unlocked kitchen door of his family home in York. All lights were off. His father knew he would be arriving late, but John McAvoy let nothing interfere with a night's sleep. Zack, the ancient border collie who'd never met an intruder he didn't like, managed to rouse himself from his pillow in the breakfast nook and say hello. Kyle rubbed his head, thankful to see the dog one more time. Zack's age and exact lineage had never been clear. He was a gift from a client, partial payment on a fee, and he liked to spend his days under the desk of John McAvoy, sleeping through all sorts of legal problems. He usually ate lunch in the firm's kitchen with one of the secretaries.
Kyle kicked off his loafers, sneaked up the stairs to his bedroom, and within minutes was under the covers and dreaming.
Less than five hours later, John practically kicked in the door and boomed, “Let's go, knucklehead. You can sleep when you're dead.”
In a drawer, Kyle found an old set of his thermal underwear and a pair of wool socks, and in the closet, among a collection of dusty old
clothes that dated back to high school, he pulled out his hunting overalls. Without a woman in the house, the dust and spiderwebs and unused garments were accumulating. His boots were precisely where he'd left them a year earlier, last Thanksgiving.
John was at the kitchen table preparing for war. Three rifles with scopes were laid out, next to several boxes of ammo. Kyle, who'd learned the art and rules of hunting as a child, knew his father had thoroughly cleaned the rifles the night before.
“Good morning,” John said. “You ready?”
“Yep. Where's the coffee?”
“In the thermos. What time did you get in?”
“Just a few hours ago.”
“You're young. Let's go.”
They loaded the gear into the late-model Ford pickup, four-wheel drive, John's preferred means of transportation in and around York. Fifteen minutes after crawling out of bed, Kyle was riding through the darkness of a frigid Thanksgiving morning, sipping black coffee and nibbling on a granola bar. The town was soon behind them. The roads became narrower.
John was working a cigarette, the smoke drifting through a small crack in the driver's window. He usually said little in the mornings. For a man whose day was spent in the midst of a busy small-town law office, with phones ringing and clients waiting and secretaries scurrying about, John needed the solitude of the early hours.
Kyle, though still sleepy, was almost numb with the shock of open spaces, empty roads, no people, the great outdoors. What, exactly, had been the attraction of a big city? They stopped at a gate. Kyle opened it and John drove through, then they continued deeper into the hills. There was still no trace of sun in the east.
“So how's the romance?” Kyle said, finally attempting conversation. His father had mentioned a new girlfriend, a serious one.
“Off and on. She's cooking dinner tonight.”
“And her name is?”
“Zoe.”
“Zoe?”
“Zoe. It's Greek.”
“Is she Greek?”
“Her mother is Greek. Her father is an Anglo mix. She's a mutt, like the rest of us.”
“Is she cute?”
John thumped ashes out the window. “You think I'd date her if she wasn't cute?”
“Yes. I remember Rhoda. What a dog.”
“Rhoda was hot. You just didn't appreciate her beauty.” The truck hit a rough section of gravel road and bounced them around.
“Where's Zoe from?”
“Reading. Why all the questions?”
“How old is she?”
“Forty-nine, and hot.”
“You gonna marry her?”
“I don't know. We've talked about it.”
The road went from gravel to dirt. At the edge of a field, John parked and turned off the lights. “Whose property is this?” Kyle asked softly as they gathered their rifles.
“It used to be owned by Zoe's ex-husband's family. She got it in the divorce. Two hundred acres, crawling with deer.”
“Come on.”
“True. All legal and aboveboard.”
“And you handled the divorce?”
“Five years ago. But I didn't start dating her until last year. Maybe it was the year before, I really can't remember.”
“We're hunting on Zoe's property?”
“Yes, but she doesn't care.”
Ah, the small-town practice of law, Kyle thought to himself.
For twenty minutes they hiked along the edge of the woods, without a word. They stopped under an elm tree just as the first hint of light fell across the valley before them.
“Bill Henry killed an eight-point last week just over that ridge there,” John said, pointing. “There are some big bucks in here. If he can get one, anybody can.”
A deer stand had been built in the elm, twenty feet up, with a rickety ladder leading to it. “You take this stand,” John said. “I'll be a hundred yards that way in another one. Nothing but bucks, okay?”
“Got it.”
“Is your hunting license current?”
“I don't think so.”
“No big deal. Lester's still the game warden. I kept his son out of jail last month. A drug head. Meth.”
John walked away, and as he disappeared into the darkness, he said, “You stay awake, now.”
Kyle tucked the rifle over his shoulder and crawled up the ladder. The deer stand was a small platform made of planks and two-by-fours anchored into the elm, and like all deer stands it was constructed with little thought to comfort. He twisted one way, then another, and finally situated himself with his rear on the planks, his back to the bark, his feet dangling. He'd been in deer stands since he was five years old, and had learned the lessons of complete stillness. A soft breeze rustled a few leaves. The sun was rising fast. The deer would soon quietly ease from the woods to the edge of the field in search of fescue and field corn.
The rifle was a Remington 30.06, a gift for his fourteenth birthday. He tucked it firmly across his chest and promptly dozed off.
The crack of a gunshot jolted him from his nap, and he swung the rifle around, ready to fire. He glanced at his watch--a forty-minute nap. To his left, in the direction of his father, he saw several white tails bouncing in a rapid getaway. Ten minutes passed with no
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word from John. He'd obviously missed with his first shot and was still in the stand.
An hour passed without a sighting, and Kyle fought to stay awake.
Thanksgiving Day. The offices of Scully & Pershing were officially closed, but he knew that a few of the gunners were there, casually dressed in jeans and boots and billing away. There were a few partners hard at work, all with deadlines screaming at them. He shook his head.
Sounds were approaching, footsteps unconcerned with making noise. John was soon near the elm. “Let's go,” he said. “There's a creek just beyond the field, a favorite watering hole.”
Kyle lowered himself carefully, and when his feet were on the ground, John said, “You didn't see that buck?”
“Nope.”
“I don't know how you missed it. It ran right in front of you.”
“The one you shot at?”
“Yeah, at least a ten-pointer.”
“I guess you missed it, too.”
They returned to the truck and went for the thermos. As they sat on the tailgate, sipping strong coffee from paper cups and finishing the last of the granola bars, Kyle said, “Dad, I don't want to hunt anymore. We need to talk.”
HIS FATHER LISTENED calmly at first, then lit a cigarette. As Kyle plowed through the rape investigation, he expected an eruption, a series of sharp and painful questions about why he had not called his father. But John listened intently without a word, as if he knew this story and had been expecting the confession.
The first flash of anger came when Bennie entered the narrative. “They blackmailed you,” he said, then lit another cigarette. “Son of a bitch.”
“Just listen, okay,” Kyle pleaded and went full speed ahead. The details came in torrents, and several times he raised his hand to keep from being interrupted. After a while, John became stoic, absorbing it all in disbelief but saying nothing. The video, Joey, Baxter, the murder, Trylon and Bartin and the secret room on the eighteenth floor. The meetings with Bennie, Nigel, the plan to filch the documents and hand them to the enemy. And finally, the hiring of Roy Benedict and the appearance of the FBI.
Kyle apologized repeatedly for not trusting his father. He admitted his mistakes, too numerous to recall at that moment. He laid open his soul, and when he finished, hours later it seemed, the sun was well into the sky, the coffee was long gone, the deer long forgotten.
“I think I need some help,” Kyle said.
“You need your ass kicked for not telling me.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Good Lord, son. What a mess.”
“I had no choice. I was terrified of the video, and the thought of another rape investigation was just too much. If you saw the video, you'd understand.”
They left the rifles in the truck and went for a long hike along a narrow trail through the woods.
THE FEAST OF turkey, dressing, and all the trimmings had been prepared by a deli that sold the whole package to those who preferred not to be troubled. As John set the dining room table, Kyle left to fetch his mother.
Patty answered her door with a smile and a long hug. She was up, and properly medicated. She escorted Kyle through her apartment and couldn't wait to show off her latest masterpieces. He eventually led her back to the door and down to his rental car, and they enjoyed a quick drive through York. She was wearing lipstick, makeup, and a
pretty orange dress that Kyle remembered from his teenage years, and her hair was clean, neat, and almost white. She chattered nonstop with news about locals she'd known years ago, bouncing from one subject to another with a randomness that would have been comical under other circumstances.
Kyle was relieved. There'd been an even chance she would be off her meds and out of her mind. His parents greeted each other with a polite hug, and the small struggling family worked its way through the gossip about the twin daughters, neither of whom had been back to York in over a year. One was in Santa Monica, the other in Portland. They called both and passed around the phone. The television was on in the den, muted, a football game waiting to be watched. At the dining table, Kyle poured three glasses of wine, though his mother wouldn't touch it.
“You're drinking wine these days,” John said to Kyle as he sat the small turkey on the table.
“Not much.”
The two men served Patty, fussed over her, worked hard to make her comfortable. She prattled on about her art and about events in York that happened years earlier. She managed to ask a few questions about Kyle and his career in New York, and he made his life sound enviable. The strain from events in New York was palpable, but Patty did not notice. She ate almost nothing, but her son and ex-husband devoured the lunch as quickly as possible. After pecan pie and coffee, she announced she wanted to go home, to her work. She was tired, she said, and Kyle wasted no time loading her up for the ten-minute drive.
ONE FOOTBALL GAME blurred into another. Kyle, on the sofa, and John, in a recliner, watched the games between naps, and said little.
The air was heavy with things unsaid, questions that came and went, plans that needed to be discussed. The father wanted to lecture and yell, but the son was too vulnerable, too dependent at that moment.
“Let's go for a walk,” Kyle said when it was almost dark.
“Walk where?”
“Around the block. I need to talk.”
“Can't we talk here?”
“Let's walk.”
They bundled up and put Zack on a leash. They were on the sidewalk when Kyle said, “I'm sorry, but I don't like to have serious conversations indoors.”
John lit a cigarette with the ease of a longtime smoker, perfect coordination without missing a step. “I'm almost afraid to ask why not.”
“Bugs, mikes, nasty little twerps listening to conversations.”
“Let me get this straight. You think that my house might be bugged by these thugs?”
They were strolling along the street Kyle had roamed as a child. He knew the owner of every home, at least the owners back then, and every home had a story. He nodded at one and asked, “Whatever happened to Mr. Polk?”
“Dead, finally. Lived in a wheelchair for almost fifty years. Very sad. Back to my question. We're not walking down memory lane here, okay?”
“No, I don't think your house is bugged, nor your office, but there's a chance. These guys believe in surveillance and have an unlimited budget. Bugging is easy. Ask me, I'm an expert. I could make a homemade listening device in half an hour with a few items from RadioShack.”