Authors: John Grisham
“I agree. Baxter was in New York three weeks ago today to see my client. In the course of a long discussion about what happened, he told my client that he believed that he had forced himself on Elaine. The guilt was heavy. Maybe there was a sexual assault.”
“And the rapist is dead.”
“Exactly. However, my client was there when it happened. It was his apartment, his friends, his party, and his booze. He wants this thing off his back, Mike.”
“How much?”
John managed a nervous laugh. Such bluntness. She, however, did not crack a smile.
He made a note and asked, “Is it possible to reach a financial settlement and have your client release all civil claims and agree not to prosecute?”
“Yes, assuming the settlement is sufficient.”
A pause as John made some more notes, then, “My client does not have a lot of money.”
“I know how much your client earns. I've been practicing law for twenty years, and he earns more than me.”
“And me, after thirty-five years. But he has student loans, and it's not cheap living in New York City. I'll probably need to chip in a little, and I'm not a wealthy man. I don't owe anything, but a busy street practice in downtown York is not the road to riches.”
His honesty disarmed her for a moment, and she smiled and seemed to relax. They enjoyed a nice diversion swapping stories about the challenges of practicing law in small-town America. When the time was up, John said warmly, “Tell me about Elaine. Job, salary, finances, family, and so on.”
“Well, as I said, she works part-time here for peanuts. She makes $24,000 a year as an assistant director of parks and rec for the city, not exactly a career job. She rents a modest apartment that she shares with her companion, Beverly, and drives a Nissan with a monthly note. Her family is from Erie, and I don't know how prosperous they once were, but things have taken a bad turn. She's on her own, twenty-three years old, surviving. She still has dreams of something beyond where she is now.”
John made a few notes, then said, “Yesterday, I spoke with an attorney for the Tate family, big firm in Pittsburgh. Baxter had a trust that sent him six thousand a month, which was never enough. That sum would increase over time, but all the Tate trusts are now tightly controlled by an uncle who has a rather heavy hand. Baxter's trust folded when he died. There's very little in his estate, so any contribution from his family would fall under the category of charitable giving. These people are not known for their charity, and it's hard to imagine them entertaining notions of writing checks to Baxter's old girlfriends.”
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Mike was nodding in agreement. “What about Joey?” she asked.
“He's working hard, trying to provide for a growing family. He's probably strapped, and will be for the rest of his life. My client would like to keep both Joey and Alan Strock out of this.”
“That's admirable.”
“We propose two payments. One now, and one in seven years, when the statute of limitations expires on the rape charge. If your client puts this behind her, gives up the idea of pursuing these guys, then she gets a nice payment at the end. Twenty-five thousand now, and for the next seven years my client will add ten grand to an investment account that will render $100,000 when Elaine is thirty years old.”
Same poker face. “Twenty-five up front is ridiculous,” she said.
“He doesn't have twenty-five thousand. It'll come from me.”
“We're not too concerned about where it comes from. We're much more interested in the amount.”
“Well, right now you have zero, and if we don't reach an agreement, then it's very likely you'll stay at zero. Your chances of recovery are slim at best.”
“Then why are you offering anything?”
“Peace of mind. Mike, come on, let's put this baby to sleep so these kids can get on with their lives. Kyle had almost forgotten the incident, hell, he's working a hundred hours a week, then Joey bumps into Elaine, then Baxter shows up all consumed with guilt because he remembers more now than he did before. This is crazy. They were just a bunch of drunk kids.”
Yes, they were, and Mike couldn't argue the point. She recrossed her legs, and John was compelled to glance at the high heels, just a quick down and up, but she noticed it.
“Let me talk to Elaine, and we'll make a counteroffer,” she said.
"Fine, but there's not much wiggle room here, Mike.
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The upfront money will be a loan from me to my client, and he is obviously nervous about taking on a seven-year obligation. He's twenty-five and can't see three years down the road."
“I'll call Elaine, and she'll probably want to run over and discuss this face-to-face.”
“I'm not leaving town until we have a deal. I'll just walk down to the coffee shop and kill some time.”
AN HOUR LATER he was back. They took their same positions, picked up their pens, and continued the negotiations.
“I assume you're not taking our offer,” John said.
“Yes and no. The seven-year scheme is okay, but Elaine needs more up front. She is two years away from her degree at the University of Scranton. Her dream is law school, and without some help it will be impossible.”
“How much help?”
“A hundred thousand now.”
Shock, disbelief, amazement, rejection. John grimaced and squirmed and allowed a lungful of air to whistle over his teeth. It was all an act, the long-practiced pretense of utter incredulity when the other side puts its first demand on the table. Exasperation, near defeat. “Look, Mike, we're trying to reach an agreement here. You guys are trying to rob a bank.”
“In two years, Elaine will still be earning $24,000 a year. Your client, on the other hand, will be earning about $400,000, with guaranteed increases. This is not a stretch for him.”
John stood as if he were leaving, end of negotiations. “I need to call him.”
“Sure. I'll wait.”
John walked outside the building, put a cell phone to his head,
and called no one. The amount they would pay had less to do with what Elaine needed and much more to do with keeping her quiet. A hundred thousand dollars was a bargain, under the circumstances.
“We'll go seventy-five grand, and that's it,” John said, back at the table.
Her right hand rattled pleasantly as it came across. “Deal,” she said. They shook on their agreement, then spent two hours haggling over the paperwork. When it was finished, he offered to buy lunch and she readily accepted.
The Associate
Chapter 37
Nigel's latest workstation had been hastily assembled on a fine mahogany desk in the center of the sitting room in a spacious suite at the Waldorf-Astoria on Park Avenue. The computer was a six-teen-by-twenty-inch exact replica of the ten models on the eighteenth floor. The monitor, too, was a perfect match. Next to it was an ominous navy blue box the size of a larger laptop.
As Nigel proudly went through a detailed description of the various cords and cables, the spaghetti, as he called it, Bennie and Kyle watched without a word. There was a power cord, audio, monitor, and printing cables. “Audio, Kyle? Do we have noise from these bad little boys?”
“No, no audio,” Kyle replied, and Nigel carefully rolled up the audio cable and put it away. He bent low behind the computer and pointed to the magic spot. “Here we are, Kyle, the promised land, the USB port. Almost hidden, but I know it's there because I have a contact with Fargo. It has to be there, trust me.”
Kyle grunted but said nothing.
“Here's the plan, Kyle,” he said excitedly, thoroughly enthralled
by his work. From his neat little hacker's high-tech tool kit he produced two small devices, identical in shape and length, three-quarters of an inch wide and about an inch and a half long. “This is the wireless USB transmitter, hot off the press, state of the art, not yet available to the public, no sir,” he said, then quickly plugged it into the port that was under the power inlet. Once it was inserted, about a half an inch could be seen. “You plug it in just so, and, presto, we're in business. It's virtually invisible.” He waved the other and explained, “And this little bugger is the USB receiver that goes in the blue box there. With me, Kyle?”
“Got it.”
“The blue box goes inside your briefcase. You park the briefcase on the floor, directly under the computer, flip a switch, and the docs get themselves downloaded in a jiffy.”
“How fast?”
“Sixty megabytes per second, about a thousand documents, assuming you get the receiver within three meters of the transmitter, which should be easy. The closer, the better, Kyle. Are you with me?”
“Hell no,” Kyle said as he sat in the chair in front of the monitor. “I'm supposed to somehow reach behind the computer, plug in the transmitter, leave it there, download, et cetera, while there are other people in the room and the video cameras are watching. How, exactly, do I pull that off?”
“Drop a pen,” Bennie said. “Spill some coffee. Throw some papers around. Create a diversion. Go when the place is empty, and keep your back to the camera.”
Kyle was shaking his head. “It's too risky. These people are not stupid, you know. There's a security tech on duty in a room next door. Name's Gant.”
“But does he work sixteen hours a day?”
“I don't know when he works. That's the point. You never know who's in there watching.”
“We know security, Kyle, and the grunts who are paid to watch closed-circuit screens all day are usually half-asleep. It's terribly boring work.”
“This is not a coffee room, Bennie. I'm supposed to be working in there. Stealing may be a priority for you boys, but the firm expects me to be plowing through the documents. I'll have a project due and a partner waiting on it.”
Nigel charged in. “It could be over in two hours, Kyle, assuming you can find the documents quickly.”
Bennie shook off all concerns. “Priority one is the air-breathing engines that Trylon and Bartin developed together. The technology is so sophisticated that the Pentagon is still orgasmic. Priority two is the fuel mix. Do a search for 'cryogenic hydrogen fuel' and follow it up with one for 'scramjet.” There should be a ton of research in the files. Priority three is called 'waveriders.“ Do a search. These are aerodynamic designs used to increase the B-10's lift-to-drag ratio. Here's a memo.” Bennie handed over a two-page summary.
“Any of this sound familiar, Kyle?” Nigel pleaded.
“No.”
“It's there,” Bennie insisted. “It's the heart of the research, the crux of the lawsuit, and you can find it, Kyle.”
“Oh, thank you.”
For practice, Nigel withdrew the transmitter and handed it to Kyle. “Let's see you do it.” Kyle slowly got to his feet, leaned over the computer, shoved away some cables, and with some effort finally managed to insert the transmitter into the USB port. He sat down and said, “There's no way.”
“Of course there is,” Bennie scoffed. “Use your brain.”
“It's dead.”
Nigel bounced around to the blue box. "The software is some of my home brew. When you have inserted the transmitter, you reach down and flip this little switch, and the script automatically locates
the computer and begins downloading the database. It will happen very quickly, Kyle, and if you like, you can take a break, leave the room, go for a pee, act like nothing at all is happening, and all the while my little gizmo is sucking up the documents."
“Bloody brilliant,” Kyle said.
Bennie produced a black Bally briefcase identical to Kyle's, a stand-up model with a short leather flap that latched on one side. There were three compartments, with the middle one padded for a laptop. The substitute was complete with a few scuff marks and Kyle's Scully & Pershing business card firmly in the leather tag. “You'll use this,” he said as Nigel carefully lifted the blue box and placed it in the center compartment of the briefcase. “When you unzip this divide,” Nigel said, “the receiver will already be in place. If for some reason you need to abort, just close the case and punch this button, and it locks automatically.”
“Abort?”
“Just in case, Kyle.”
“Let me get this straight. Something goes wrong, somebody notices me, maybe some alarm goes off in a supercomputer we know nothing about as soon as I start dickering with the database, and your plan is then for me to lock the flap on the briefcase, grab the transmitter that's almost hidden, and then do what? Sprint from the room like a shoplifter who's been caught? Where do I go, Nigel? Any help here, Bennie?”
“Relax, Kyle,” Bennie said with a fake smile. “This is a piece of cake. You'll do fine.”
“No alarms, Kyle,” Nigel said. “My software is too good for that. Trust me.”
“Would you please stop saying that?”
Kyle walked to a window and looked out at the Manhattan skyline. It was almost 9:30 on Tuesday night. He had not eaten since he and Tabor had enjoyed a fifteen-minute lunch in the firm cafeteria at 11:30.
Hunger, though, was only a minor concern on a long, sad list.
“Are you ready, Kyle?” Bennie called from across the room. Not a question, but a challenge.
“As ready as I'll ever be,” he answered without turning around.
“When?”
“As soon as possible. I want to get it over with. I'll stop by the room a few times tomorrow, check the traffic. My best guess is that it'll be about eight tomorrow night, late in the day but with enough time to download, assuming I don't get shot.”
“Any questions about the equipment, Kyle?” Nigel asked.
Kyle walked stiffly back to the workstation and stared at the machines. He finally shrugged and said, “No, it's pretty straightforward.”
“Super. One last thing, Kyle. The blue box has a wireless signal so that I know precisely when you're downloading.”
“Why is that necessary?”
“Monitoring. We'll be very close by.”
Another shrug. “Whatever.”
The blue box was still in the center compartment, with Nigel handling it as if it were a bomb. Kyle then added the materials from his own briefcase, and when he grabbed the handle and lifted it off the table, he was surprised at the weight.
“A bit heavier, Kyle?” Nigel quizzed, watching every move.
“Yes, quite a bit.”
“Not to worry. We've reinforced the bottom of the Bally. It's not going to drop out as you're walking along Broad Street.”
“I like the other one better. When do I get it back?”
“Soon, Kyle, soon.”
Kyle pulled on his trench coat and made his way to the door. Bennie followed and said, “Good luck, Kyle. It's all come down to this. We believe in you.”
“Go to hell,” Kyle said, and left the room.