John Grisham - The Associate

Kyle’s mouth actually dropped open, and his shoulders slumped. He could think of no quick response, but the one thought that hit him hard was that of being shot. Mr. Wright here was a ruthless little cutthroat who worked for some group with unlimited resources and great determination. They would ruin him. They might even kill him.

As if reading his mind, Wright leaned in a little closer and said, “Kyle, we’re not Boy Scouts. And I’m tired of this bantering back and forth. I’m not here to negotiate. I’m here to give orders. Either you follow my orders, or I call the office and tell my pals to destroy you.”

“I despise you.”

“So be it. I’m just doing my job.”

“What a miserable job.”

“Can we talk about your new one?”

“I didn’t go to law school to become a spy.”

“Let’s not call it spying, Kyle.”

“Then give it a name, Bennie.”

“Transferring information.”

“Oh, bullshit. It’s nothing but spying.”

“I really don’t care what you call it.”

“What kind of information?”

“Once the lawsuit gets cranked up, there will be a million documents. Maybe ten million, who knows? Lots of documents and lots of secrets. We expect each of the two law firms to commit fifty lawyers to the case — maybe as many as ten partners, the rest associates. You’ll be in the litigation section of Scully & Pershing, so you’ll have access to a lot of material.”

“Security at these firms is extremely tight.”

“We know that. Our security experts are better than theirs. We wrote the book, Kyle.”

“I’m sure you did. May I ask what these two big companies are fighting over?”

“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.

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 defroster 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.