Authors: John Grisham
Chapter 35
Now that he was an official member of Team Trylon, Kyle had the honor of beginning each week with a 7:00 a.m. Monday chalk talk in a huge conference room he'd never seen before. After three months in the building, he still marveled at the meeting areas and balconies and tucked-away mezzanines and small libraries he was stumbling upon for the first time. The firm needed its own guidebook.
The room was on the forty-first floor and large enough to house many smaller law firms. The table in the center seemed as long as a bowling alley. Forty lawyers, give or take a few, crowded around it, gulping coffee and settling in for another long week. Wilson Rush stood at the far end and cleared his throat, and everyone shut up and froze. “Good morning. We'll have our weekly session. Keep your comments brief. This meeting will last for one hour only.”
There was no doubt that they would leave at exactly 8:00 a.m.
Kyle was as far from Rush as possible. He kept his head low and took furious notes that no one, not even himself, could have read afterward. Each of the eight partners stood in turn and gave succinct
updates on such gripping topics as the latest motions filed in the case, the latest haggling over documents and experts, the latest moves by APE and Bartin. Doug Peckham presented his first report on a complicated discovery motion. It almost put Kyle and the others to sleep.
But Kyle stayed awake, and while scribbling on a legal pad, he kept telling himself not to smile at the absurdity of the moment. He was a spy, perfectly planted by his handler, and now within reach of secrets that were so important he could not comprehend their value. They were certainly valuable enough to cause men to commit murder.
Kyle glanced up as Isabelle Gaffney took her turn on the floor, and ignoring her words, he looked at the far end of the bowling lane, where Wilson Rush seemed to be glaring at him. Maybe not, there was so much distance between them, and the old man was wearing reading glasses, so it was hard to tell exactly whom he was frowning at.
What would Mr. Rush do if he knew the truth? What would Team Trylon and the hundreds of other Scully partners and associates do when they learned the truth about young Kyle McAvoy, former editor in chief of the Yale Law Journal?
The consequences were horrifying. The magnitude of the conspiracy caused Kyle's heart to hammer away. His mouth became dry and he sipped lukewarm coffee. He wanted to leap for the door, sprint down forty-one flights of stairs, and run through the streets of New York like a madman.
DURING LUNCH he used the basement exit ploy and hustled over to the office of Roy Benedict. They chatted for a minute or two, then Roy said there were two people Kyle should meet. The first was his contact in the FBI, the second was a senior lawyer in the Department of Justice. Kyle nervously agreed, and they walked next door to a meeting room.
The FBI supervisor was Joe Bullington, an affable sort with a big toothy smile and hearty handshake. The man from Justice was Drew Wingate, a sour-faced sort who acted as though he preferred not to shake hands at all. The four sat at a small conference table, Kyle and Roy on one side, the government guys on the other.
It was Roy's meeting, and he took charge. “First of all, Kyle, how much time do you have?”
“About an hour.”
“I've laid it all on the table. I've had a dozen conversations with Mr. Bullington and Mr. Wingate, and it's important now for us to review where we are. Joe, talk about the background on Mr. Bennie Wright.”
Always smiling, Bullington squeezed his hands together and began, “Yes, right, well, we ran the photo of this guy through our system. I won't bore you with the details, but we have some very sophisticated computers that store facial images of millions of people. When we feed in a suspect, the computers search and scan, and in general do their thing. With Mr. Wright, or whoever he is, we came up with nothing. No hit. No clue. We then sent it to the CIA, and they conducted a similar search, different computers, different software, same result. Nothing. We're surprised, frankly. We were pretty confident we could identify this guy.”
Kyle was not surprised, but he was disappointed. He'd read about the supercomputers used by the intelligence services, and after a lifetime of living with Bennie, he really wanted to know who he was.
Bullington brightened a bit and went on: “Nigel might be a different story. We placed your composite of him into our system and came up empty. But the CIA got a probable hit.” Bullington opened a file, pulled out an eight-by-ten black and white, and handed it to Kyle, who immediately said, “That's him.”
"Good. His real name is Deny Hobart, born in South Africa, raised in Liverpool, trained as a techie in the British intelligence services,
got bounced ten years ago for hacking into the confidential files of some rich folks in Switzerland, generally regarded as one of the most brilliant hackers in the world. Brilliant, but a real rogue, a hired gun, warrants outstanding in at least three countries."
“How much have you told these people?” Wingate asked. It was more of an accusation than a question. Kyle looked at his lawyer, who nodded and said, “Go ahead, Kyle. You're not under any type of investigation. You've done nothing wrong.”
“I've given them the layout of the computer room, general stuff like that. Enough to keep them happy, but no data whatsoever.”
“Anyway,” Bullington said, “the other two composites turned up nothing. If I understand things, these two boys are just part of the surveillance and not that important.”
“That's right,” Kyle said.
“Your composite of Mr. Hobert is remarkable, Kyle,” Bullington said.
“It's from a Web site. QuickFace.com. Anybody could do it.”
“What's your next step?” Wingate asked.
“We meet tomorrow night for an update. The plan is for me to somehow hack into the system, either download or divert the documents, and hand them over. I have no idea how this is supposed to be done. The computer system looks completely secure.”
“When is this supposed to happen?”
“They haven't told me, but I get the impression it will be soon. I have a question for you.”
Neither Bullington nor Wingate offered to take the question, so Kyle plunged ahead. “Who are these guys? Who are they working for?”
Bullington flashed all of his teeth and said with a boyish shrug, “We honestly don't know, Kyle. Hobart is a whore who travels the world selling himself. We have no clue where Bennie comes from. You say he's not American.”
“He doesn't sound like it.”
“Without an idea as to who he is, we can't even begin to guess who he's working for.”
“There were at least five agents involved in the first encounter, back in February, the night I first met Bennie. All five were definitely Americans.”
Bullington was shaking his head. “Probably hired guns, Kyle, thugs brought in for the job, paid, turned loose. There's a whole dark world out there of former cops and agents and former soldiers and intelligence types who got shoved out for a multitude of reasons. Most are misfits. They were trained in the shadows, and that's where they work. They'll hire on with anyone who'll pay them. Those five probably had no idea what Bennie was up to.”
“What are the chances of catching the ones who killed Baxter Tate?”
The smile went away for a moment. Both government faces looked sad and perplexed. Bullington finally said, “First we have to catch Bennie, then we work our way up to the big boys who are paying him, then we'll work our way down to the street thugs who do his dirty work. If he's a pro, though, and it's quite obvious that he is, the chances of squeezing him for names are pretty slim.”
“How do you catch Bennie?”
“That's the easy part. You'll lead us to him.”
“And you arrest him?”
“Oh, yes. We'll have enough warrants to arrest him ten times-- wiretapping, extortion, conspiracy, take your pick. We'll throw him under the jail, with Hobart as well, and no federal judge in the world will bond him out. We'll probably move him to a secured facility far away from New York so we can begin the interrogation.”
The image of Bennie chained to a chair as a couple of pit bulls screamed at him was rather pleasant.
Roy cleared his throat, glanced at his watch, and said, “If you'll excuse us, I need to talk to Kyle. I'll call you later.” And with that Kyle stood,
shook their hands again, and followed his lawyer back to his office. Roy closed the door and said, “What do you think?”
“You trust those guys?” Kyle shot back.
“Yes. You don't?”
“Would you trust them with your life?”
“Yes.”
“Try this scenario. Currently there are at least eighteen intelligence outfits in this country, and those are just the ones on paper. There are probably a few more we know nothing about. What if Bennie works for one of them? Suppose his project is just one of several to procure and protect all the secrets? What if the supercomputers couldn't find his face because they weren't supposed to?”
“That's a pretty ridiculous scenario, Kyle. A rogue operative working for the United States, spying on a U.S. law firm, killing U.S. citizens? I don't think so.”
“Sure it's ridiculous, but when your skull might be the next target, it does wonders for the imagination.”
“Take it easy. This is your only way out.”
“There's no way out.”
“Yes, there is. Let's take it one step at a time. Don't panic.”
“I haven't panicked in nine months, but I'm getting close.”
“No, you're not. Be cool. We have to trust those guys.”
“I'll call you tomorrow.” Kyle grabbed his brown trench coat and left the office.
The Associate
Chapter 36
The Cessna 182 was owned by a retired doctor who flew it only in clear weather and never at night. He had known John McAvoy for over forty years and had flown him several times around the state for legal matters. Their little trips were as much pleasure as business, with John wearing a headset and taking the controls and thoroughly enjoying his time as the pilot. They always haggled over the rate. John wanted to pay more than just the fuel costs, and the doctor demanded less because flying was his hobby and he didn't need the money. Once they agreed on the cost of the trip, $250, they met at the York airport early on Tuesday morning and took off in perfect weather. Seventy-one minutes later they landed in Scranton. John rented a car, and the doctor left in the Cessna to drop in on his son in Williamsport.
The law office of Michelin Chiz was on the second floor of an old building on Spruce Street in downtown Scranton. John walked in promptly at 9:00 a.m. and was greeted coolly by a secretary. He had never met Ms. Chiz, never heard of her, but that was not unusual in a state with over sixty thousand lawyers. A Scranton lawyer he did know
had told him that she ran an all-woman shop with a couple of associates, a couple of paralegals, and the usual assortment of secretaries and part-time help. No men need apply. Ms. Chiz specialized in divorce, custody, sexual harrassment, and employment discrimination, all from the female side, and had a busy practice. Her reputation was solid. She was a tough advocate for her clients, a good negotiator, and not afraid of the courtroom. Not bad looking either, the lawyer had informed John.
And he was right about that. Ms. Chiz was waiting in her office when John walked in and said good morning. She was wearing a black leather skirt, not too short, with a tight purple sweater and a pair of black and purple spiked-heeled platform sling backs that most hookers would shy away from. She was in her mid-forties, with, according to John's source, at least two divorces under her belt. She wore a lot of jewelry and makeup, far too much for John's taste, but he wasn't there to evaluate the talent.
For his part, he was wearing a boring gray wool suit and a plain red tie, nothing anyone would remember.
They settled around a small worktable in a room adjacent to her office, and the secretary was sent for coffee. They played a few minutes of who-do-you-know, kicking around the names of lawyers from Philadelphia to Erie. After the coffee was served and the door was closed, Ms. Chiz said, “Let's get down to business.”
“Great idea,” Mr. McAvoy said. “Please call me John.”
“Sure, and I'm Mike. Don't know if that's the correct nickname for Michelin, but it stuck a long time ago.”
“Mike it is.” So far she had exuded nothing but charm and hospitality, but John could already tell that just behind the smile was a very tough lawyer. “Would you like to go first?” John asked.
“No. You called me. You traveled here. There's something you want, so let's have it.”
"Very well. My client is my son, not the best arrangement in the world,
but that's the way it is. As you know, he works for a law firm in New York. Law school at Yale, undergrad at Duquesne. I'm sure you know the details of the alleged rape."
“Indeed I do. Elaine works here part-time, and we're very close. She wants to go to law school someday.”
“I hope she succeeds. As you know, the police in Pittsburgh closed the investigation not long after they opened it. Frankly, I knew nothing about it until very recently.”
Her surprise was obvious, and John continued. “No, Kyle did not tell me when it happened. He was planning to, but the investigation was closed. This is upsetting because we are very close, but it's not important. I understand that you and Ms. Keenan met with Joey Bernardo here in Scranton a few weeks back, and the meeting did not go well, according to Joey's version. I also know that Baxter Tate contacted your client, and was evidently on his way here to talk to her when he was murdered.”
“That's correct.”
“They were planning to meet?”
“Yes.”
“So, it appears, Mike, that the episode five and a half years ago will not go away. My client would like to resolve things, to close this matter. It's a dark cloud hanging over these kids, and I'm here to explore ways to get rid of it. I'm representing only my son. The others know nothing of this meeting. The Tate family, of course, has no clue, and you can imagine what they're going through right now. Joey has a child on the way and is about to get married. Alan Strock, as far as we know, has forgotten the episode.”
Mike had yet to lift a pen. She listened intently as she softly tapped all ten fingertips together. Most fingers were adorned with rings, and both wrists were laden with inexpensive bangles. Her hard hazel eyes did not blink. “I'm sure you have something in mind,” she said, content to listen.
“I'm not sure what your client wants. She might be thrilled if all three surviving roommates admitted there was a rape, got themselves convicted, and were sent off to prison. She might be satisfied with a quiet apology. Or she might entertain the idea of a financial settlement. Perhaps you could help me here.”
Mike licked her lipstick and rattled some bracelets. “I've known Elaine for two years. She has a troubled past. She's frail, vulnerable, and at times subject to some very dark moods. It might be depression. She's been sober for almost a year, but she's fighting those demons. She has become almost like a daughter to me, and she has insisted from day one that she was raped. I believe her. She is convinced that the Tate family got involved, leaned on their friends, who leaned on the cops, who quickly backed off.”
John was shaking his head. “That's not true. None of the four boys told their parents.”
“Maybe, but we don't know that for sure. Regardless, many of Elaine's problems stem from that episode. She was a healthy, fun-loving, vibrant coed who loved college and had big plans. Shortly after the rape, she dropped out and has been struggling ever since.”
“Have you seen her grades from Duquesne?”
“No.”
“Her first semester, she flunked one course, dropped out of another, and made horrible grades in the other three.”
“How did you gain access to her student records?”
“She improved slightly the second semester and made straight Cs. She took all four exams after the alleged rape, then went home and never returned to Duquesne.”
Mike's eyebrows arched and her spine stiffened. “How did you gain access to her student records?” she snarled again. Ah, the woman had a temper after all.
“I didn't, and it's not important. How often do your clients tell you the entire truth?”
“Are you suggesting Elaine is lying?”
“The truth is a moving target here, Mike. But what's certain is that we'll never really know for sure what happened that night. These kids had been drinking and smoking pot for eight straight hours, and they were far more promiscuous than we'd like to believe. Your client was known to sleep around.”
“They were all sleeping around. That's no excuse for rape.”
“Of course not.”
Money was in the air. There were a few other obstacles to clear, but both lawyers knew they would eventually discuss the possibility of a “financial settlement.”
“What does your client say about the episode?” Mike asked, her tone cool again. The flash of anger was gone, but there was a lot more where that came from.
“They had been by the pool all afternoon, then the party moved indoors, into the apartment. There were about fifteen kids, more boys than girls, but Elaine was not in the group. Evidently, she was next door at a different party. Around eleven thirty, the cops showed up and the party ended. Nobody was arrested, the cops gave them a break.”
Mike nodded patiently. This was all in the police report.
“After the cops left,” John continued, "Elaine showed up. She and Baxter started making out on the sofa, and one thing led to another. My client was watching television in the same room, as was Alan Strock. My client was intoxicated, to say the least, and at some point he passed out. He is certain he did not have sex with Elaine that night, and at the time he was not certain if anyone else did either. He was too drunk to remember much the next morning, and, as you well know, no accusation was made by your client until four days later. The police investigated the matter. All four boys were on the verge of talking to their parents, but the investigators soon realized that they simply could not put together a case. In recent weeks, my client has talked to Baxter Tate and to Joey Bernardo, and both boys admitted to
having sex with your client on the evening in question. Both are, were, adamant that it was consensual."
“Then why was Baxter so anxious to apologize?”
“I can't answer that. I don't speak for Baxter.”
“Why did Joey apologize? He did so in my presence, you know?”
“Did Joey apologize for raping Elaine, or did he apologize for the misunderstanding?”
“He apologized. That's what's important.”
“There's still no case, and his apology adds nothing to the evidence. There's no way to prove rape occurred. There was sex, sure, but you can't prove anything else.”
She finally wrote something. Lavender legal pad, elegant strokes, noisy wrists. She took a deep breath and seemed to gaze out the window for a moment.
For Team McAvoy, it was time for the biggest gamble. They would never reveal every fact because successful negotiation does not hinge on full disclosure. But the one bomb that could wreck any deal had to be addressed.
“Have you talked to the detectives in Pittsburgh?” John asked.
“No, but I've read the entire file.”
“Anything mentioned about a video?”
“Yes, there were notes in the file. But the cops couldn't find one. Elaine even heard the rumor.”
“It's not a rumor. There is such a video.”
She took this without the slightest flinch. Nothing in her eyes, hands, or body registered surprise. What a great poker face, John admitted quickly. She simply waited.
“I haven't seen it,” he said. “But my client saw it in February of this year. Don't know where it is now and don't know how many others have seen it, probably very few. There's a chance it might surface, perhaps on the Internet, perhaps in your mailbox.”
“And what would this video prove?”
“It would prove that your client was drunk and smoking pot when she sat down on the sofa with Baxter Tate and began kissing and groping. The angle of the camera does not allow a full picture of the two engaged in sex, but it's obvious from the knees down that they're having a fine time. Baxter is followed by Joey. At times Elaine is not active; at other times she's obviously engaged. My client thinks it proves that she was in and out of consciousness, but he's not certain. Nothing is certain, except that neither he nor Alan Strock had sex with her.”
“Where is the video?”
“I do not know.”
“Does your client?”
“No.”
“Who has the video?”
“I do not know.”
“Okay, who showed it to your client?”
“He does not know the person's real name. He had never met the person until the person showed him the video.”
“Gotcha. I take it there's a complicated story behind this.”
“Extremely complicated.”
“A stranger pops up, shows your son the video, then disappears?”
“Right, except for the disappearance part. The stranger is still in contact.”
“Extortion?”
“Something close.”
“Is that why you're here? Your client is scared of the video? You wanna make peace with us so the extortion scheme goes away?”
“You're very astute.” She still had not blinked. She seemed to be reading his mind at this point.
“Must be a helluva video,” she said.
“My client found it troublesome, though he was not present during the sex portion of it. The video clearly shows your client happily getting involved in a good romp on a sofa. Whether she blacked out at some point is not clear, at least on the video.”
“She is seen walking and talking and moving around?”
“Clearly. These boys didn't drag her in off the street, Mike. She had been in their apartment many times, drunk and sober.”
“Poor thing,” Mike said, her first false move.
“Poor thing was having a wonderful time. She carried a purse full of drugs, along with her collection of fake IDs, and she was always looking for a party.”
Mike slowly stood and said, “Excuse me for a moment.” She walked into her office, and John admired the black leather every step of the way. He heard her low voice, probably on the phone, and then she was back with a forced smile.
“We could debate this for hours,” she said. “And not settle anything.”