Authors: John Grisham

The Associate (7 page)

“Secrets. Technology.”

“Great. Thanks. Do these companies have names?”

“Fortune 500. I'll give you more information as we progress.”

“So you're going to be part of my life for a while?”

“I'm your official handler. You and I will spend a lot of time together.”

"Then I quit. Go ahead and shoot me. I'm not spying and I'm not stealing. The moment I walk out of Scully & Pershing with a document or a disc I'm not supposed to have and give it to you or anybody else,

I've broken the law and violated half the canons of ethics. I will be disbarred and convicted of something."

“Only if you get caught.”

“I'll get caught.”

“No. We're much too smart, Kyle. We've done this before. It's our business.”

“Your firm specializes in stealing documents?”

“Let's call it corporate espionage. We do it all the time and we're very good at it.”

“Then go blackmail someone else.”

“No. It's all you, Kyle. Think about it. You take the job you've always wanted, at an obscene salary, living the fast life in the big city. They try to work you to death for a few years, but they reward you. By the time you're thirty, you're a senior associate making four hundred grand a year. Nice apartment in SoHo. A share of a weekend house in the Hamptons. A Porsche. A circle of friends who are all smart and rich and moving up as fast as you are. Then one day the lawsuit is settled. We disappear. The statute runs out in Pittsburgh. The video is finally forgotten, and at the age of thirty-two or thirty-three you're asked to join Scully & Pershing as a full equity partner. A million or two per year. The pinnacle of success. A great career ahead of you. Life is great. And no one there will ever know about the transferring of information.”

A headache that had been smoldering for the past hour finally matured and hit hard in the middle of his forehead. Kyle stretched out on the bed and massaged his temples. He closed his eyes, but in the blackness managed to keep talking. “Look, Bennie, I know you don't care about morals or ethics and such things, but I do. How, exactly, am I supposed to live with myself if I betray the confidences of my firm and its clients? Trust is the most important thing a lawyer has. I learned that from my father when I was a teenager.”

“All we care about is getting the information. We don't spend too much time pondering morality.”

“That's about what I figured.”

“I need a commitment, Kyle. I need your word.”

“Do you have any Tylenol?”

“No. Do we have an agreement, Kyle?”

“Do you have anything for a headache?”

“No.”

“Do you have a gun?”

“In my jacket.”

“Let me have it.”

A minute passed without a sound. Wright's eyes never left Kyle, who was motionless except for his fingers pressing gently on his forehead. Then Kyle slowly sat up and asked in a whisper, “How much longer are you planning to stay here?”

“Oh, I have lots of questions.”

“I was afraid of that. I can't keep going. My head is splitting.”

“Whatever, Kyle. It's up to you. But I need an answer. Do we have an agreement, a deal, an understanding?”

“Do I really have a choice?”

“I don't see one.”

“Neither do I.”

“So?”

“If I have no choice, then I have no choice.”

“Excellent. A wise decision, Kyle.”

“Oh, thank you so much.”

Wright stood and stretched as if a long day at the office were finally over. He reshuffled some papers, fiddled with the video camera, closed the laptop. “Would you like to rest, Kyle?”

“Yes.”

“We have several rooms. You're welcome to take a nap if you'd like, or we can continue tomorrow.”

“It's already tomorrow.”

Wright was at the door. He opened it and Kyle followed him out of the room, across the hall, and into room 222. What had once been an FBI command center had now been converted back to a regular $89-a-night motel room. Ginyard and Plant and the other fake agents were long gone, and they had taken everything--files, computers, enlarged photos, tripods, briefcases, boxes, folding tables. The bed was back in the center of the room, perfectly made up.

“Shall I wake you in a few hours?” Wright asked pleasantly.

“No. Just leave me alone.”

“I'll be across the hall.”

When Kyle was alone, he pulled back the bedspread, turned off the lights, and soon fell asleep.

The Associate

Chapter 6

Contrary to his best intentions, Kyle awoke several hours later. He desperately wanted to sleep forever, to simply drift away and be forgotten. He awoke in a warm, dark room on a hard bed, and for a second wasn't sure where he was or how he had managed to get there. His head was still hurting and his mouth was dry. Soon, though, the nightmare returned, and he had the urgent desire to get away, to get outside, where he could look back at the motel and convince himself that the meeting with Detective Wright had not really happened. He needed fresh air, and maybe someone to talk to.

He eased from the room and tiptoed down the hall, down the stairs. In the lobby some salesmen were gulping coffee and talking rapidly, anxious for the day to start. The sun was up, the snow had stopped. Outside the air was cold and sharp, and he inhaled as if he'd been suffocating. He made it to his Jeep, started the engine, turned on the heater, and waited for the defrost to melt the snow on the windshield.

The shock was wearing off, but the reality was even worse.

He checked his cell phone messages. His girlfriend had called six times, his roommate three. They were worried. He had class at 9:00 a.m. and a pile of work at the law journal. And nothing--girlfriend, roommate, law school, or work--held the slightest interest at the moment. He left the Holiday Inn and drove east on Highway 1 for a few miles until New Haven was behind him. He ran up behind a snow-plow and was content to putter along at thirty miles an hour. Other cars lined up behind him, and for the first time he wondered if someone might be following. He began glancing at the rearview mirror.

At the small town of Guilford, he stopped at a convenience store and finally found some Tylenol. He washed it down with a soft drink and was about to drive back to New Haven when he noticed a diner across the street. He had not eaten since lunch the day before and was suddenly famished. He could almost smell the bacon grease.

The diner was packed with the local breakfast crowd. Kyle found a seat at the counter and ordered scrambled eggs, bacon, hash browns, toast, coffee, and orange juice. He ate in silence as the laughter and town gossip roared around him. The headache was fading fast, and he began plotting the rest of his day. His girlfriend might be a problem: no contact in twelve hours, a night spent away from his apartment-- highly unusual behavior for someone as disciplined as Kyle. He certainly couldn't tell her the truth, could he? No, the truth was a thing of the past. The present and the future would be a life of lies, cover-ups, thieveiy, espionage, and more lies.

Olivia was a first-year law student at Yale, a Californian, UCLA graduate, extremely bright and ambitious and not looking for a serious commitment. They had been dating for four months, and the relationship was far more casual than romantic. Still, he did not look forward to some stuttering tale of a night that simply vanished.

A body closed in from behind. A hand appeared with a white business card. Kyle glanced to his right and came face-to-face with the man he had once known as Special Agent Ginyard, now wearing a

camel hair sport coat and jeans. “Mr. Wright would like to see you at 3:00 p.m., after class, same room,” he said, then disappeared before Kyle could speak. He picked up the card. It was blank except for the handwritten message: “3:00 p.m., today, room 225, Holiday Inn.” He stared at it for a few minutes as he quickly lost interest in the remaining food in front of him.

Is this my future? he asked himself. Someone always watching, following, waiting in the shadows, stalking, listening?

A crowd was waiting by the door for seating. The waitress slipped his bill under his coffee cup and gave him a quick smile that said “Time's up.” He paid at the cash register and, outside, refused to scan the other vehicles for signs of stalkers. He called Olivia, who was sleeping.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Yes, I'm fine.”

“I don't want to know anything else, just tell me you're not hurt.”

“I'm not hurt. I'm fine, and I'm sorry.”

“Don't apologize.”

“I'm apologizing, okay. I should have called.”

“I don't want to know.”

“Yes you do. Do you accept my apology?”

“I don't know.”

“That's better. I expect some anger here.”

“Don't get me started.”

“How about lunch?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I'm busy.”

“You can't skip lunch.”

“Where are you?”

“Guilford.”

“And where might that be?”

“Just down the road from New Haven. There's a great little place for breakfast. I'll bring you here sometime.”

“Can't wait.”

“Meet me at The Grill at noon. Please.”

“I'll think about it.”

He drove back to New Haven, refusing every half mile to glance at his mirror. He slipped quietly into his apartment and took a shower. Mitch, his roommate, could sleep through an earthquake, and when he finally staggered out of his bedroom, Kyle was sipping coffee at the kitchen counter and reading a newspaper online. Mitch asked a few vague questions about last night, but Kyle deflected them nicely and gave the impression that he had bumped into a different girl and things went extremely well. Mitch went back to bed.

COMPLETE FIDELITY had been agreed to months earlier, and once Olivia was convinced Kyle had not cheated, her attitude thawed a little. The story he'd been working on for several hours went like this: He'd been struggling with his decision to pursue public-interest law instead of taking a big job with a big firm. He had no plans to make public-interest law a career, so why go there to begin with? He would eventually work in New York, so why delay the inevitable? And so on. And last night, after his basketball game, he decided he had to make a final decision. He turned off his phone and took a long drive, east for some unknown reason, on Highway 1, past New London and into Rhode Island. He lost track of time. After midnight, the snow picked up and he found a cheap motel where he slept for a few hours.

He had changed his mind. He was going to New York, to Scully & Pershing.

He spilled this over lunch, over a sandwich at The Grill. Olivia listened with skepticism but did not interrupt. She seemed to believe the story about last night, but she was not buying the sudden change in

career plans. “You must be kidding,” she blurted when he hit the punch line.

“It's not easy,” he said, already on the defensive. He knew this would not be pleasant.

“You, Mr. Pro Bono, Mr. Public Interest Law?”

“I know. I know. I feel like a turncoat.”

“You are a turncoat. You're selling out, just like every other third-year law student.”

“Lower your voice, please,” Kyle said as he glanced around. “Let's not have a scene.”

She lowered her voice but not her eyebrows. “You've said it yourself a hundred times, Kyle. We all get to law school with big ideas of doing good, helping others, fighting injustice, but along the way we sell out. Seduced by big money. We turn into corporate whores. Those are your words, Kyle.”

“They do sound familiar.”

“I can't believe this.”

They took a couple of bites, but the food was not important.

“We have thirty years to make money,” she said. “Why can't we spend a few years helping others?” Kyle was on the ropes and bleeding.

“I know, I know,” he mumbled lamely. “But timing is important. I'm not sure Scully & Pershing will defer.” Another lie, but what the hell. Once you start, why quit? They were multiplying.

“Oh, please. You can get a job with any firm in the country, now or five years from now.”

“I'm not so sure about that. The job market is tightening up. Some of the big firms are threatening layoffs.”

She shoved her food away, crossed her arms, and slowly shook her head. “I don't believe this,” she said.

And at that moment Kyle couldn't believe it either, but it was important, now and forever more, to give the impression that he'd

carefully weighed the issues and had arrived at this decision. In other words, Kyle had to sell it. Olivia was the first test. His friends would be next, then his favorite professors. After he'd practiced the routine a few times and the lying was finely tuned, he would somehow muster the courage to visit his father and deliver the news that would lead to an ugly fight. John McAvoy detested the idea of his son working for a corporate firm on Wall Street.

Kyle's selling job, though, did little to convince Olivia. They traded barbs for a few minutes, then forgot about lunch and went their separate ways. There was no goodbye peck on the cheek, no hug, no promise to call each other later. He spent an hour in his office at the law journal, then reluctantly left and drove back to the motel.

THE ROOM HAD changed little. The video camera and laptop were gone, no sign of electronics anywhere, though Kyle was certain every word would be recorded in some fashion. The folding table was still ground zero, but it had been moved closer to the windows. Same two folding chairs. The setting was as stark as a police interrogation room somewhere deep in the basement.

The headache was back.

Kyle flipped the card Ginyard left behind onto the table and began with a pleasant “Please tell this son of a bitch to stop following me.”

“We're just a little curious, that's all, Kyle.”

“I'm not going to be followed, Bennie, do you understand?”

Bennie gave a smart-ass smile.

"The deal's off, Bennie. I'm not going to live my life with a bunch of goons watching everything I do. Forget the surveillance, forget the wiretaps and hidden mikes and e-mail snooping, Bennie. Are you listening? I'm not walking down the streets of New York wondering who's behind me. I'm not chatting on the phone while thinking

some bozo might be listening. You've just wrecked my life, Bennie, the least you can do is allow me some degree of privacy."

“We have no plans--”

“That's a lie and you know it. Here's the new deal, Bennie. We agree right now that you and your goons stay out of my life. You don't eavesdrop, you don't follow, you don't hide in the shadows or stalk or play your little cat-and-mouse games. I'll do what you want me to do, whatever the hell that is, but you have got to leave me alone.”

“Otherwise?”

“Oh, otherwise. Otherwise, I'll take my chances with Elaine and her bogus rape charge. Look, Bennie, if my life is going to be ruined, then what the hell? I get to pick my poison. I have Elaine on the one hand, and I have your goons on the other.”

Bennie exhaled slowly, cleared his throat, and said, “Yes, Kyle, but it is important for us to keep up with you. That is the nature of our work. That is what we do.”

“It's blackmail, pure and simple.”

“Kyle, Kyle, none of that now. That doesn't move the ball.”

“Please, can we forget about the ball? That's so tiring now.”

“We can't just turn you loose in New York.”

“Here's my bottom line--I will not be stalked or watched or followed. Do you understand this, Bennie?”

“This could pose a problem.”

“It's already a problem. What do you want? You'll know where I live and where I work--they're basically the same place for the next five years anyway. I'll be at the office eighteen hours a day, if not more. Why, exactly, will it be necessary to keep me under surveillance?”