John Grisham - The Associate

He didn’t make it.

The agent was leaning against the fender of a red Jeep Cherokee that was parked parallel on the street. The vehicle was titled to one John McAvoy of York, Pennsylvania, but for the past six years it had been the reliable companion of his son, Kyle, the true owner.

Though his feet suddenly felt like bricks and his knees were weak, Kyle managed to trudge on as if nothing were wrong. Not only did they find me, he said to himself as he tried to think clearly, but they’ve done their homework and found my Jeep. Not exactly high-level research. I have done nothing wrong, he said again and again.

“Tough game, Coach,” the agent said when Kyle was ten feet away and slowing down.

Kyle stopped and took in the thick young man with red cheeks and red bangs who’d been watching him in the gym. “Can I help you?” he said, and immediately saw the shadow of No. 2 dart across the street. They always worked in pairs.

No. 1 reached into a pocket, and as he said “That’s exactly what you can do,” he pulled out a leather wallet and flipped it open. “Bob Plant, FBI.”

“A real pleasure,” Kyle said as all the blood left his brain and he couldn’t help but flinch.

No. 2 wedged himself into the frame. He was much thinner and ten years older with gray around the temples. He, too, had a pocketful, and he performed the well-rehearsed badge presentation with ease. “Nelson Ginyard, FBI,” he said.

Bob and Nelson. Both Irish. Both northeastern.

“Anybody else?” Kyle asked.

“No. Got a minute to talk?”

“Not really.”

“You might want to,” Ginyard said. “It could be very productive.”

“I doubt that.”

“If you leave, we’ll just follow,” Plant said as he stood from his slouch position and took a step closer. “You don’t want us on campus, do you?”

“Are you threatening me?” Kyle asked. The sweat was back, now in the pits of his arms, and despite the arctic air a bead or two ran down his ribs.

“Not yet,” Plant said with a smirk.

“Look, let’s spend ten minutes together, over coffee,” Ginyard was saying. “There’s a sandwich shop just around the corner. I’m sure it’s warmer there.”

“Do I need a lawyer?”

“No.”

“That’s what you always say. My father is a lawyer and I grew up in his office. I know your tricks.”

“No tricks, Kyle, I swear,” Ginyard said, and he at least sounded genuine. “Just give us ten minutes. I promise you won’t regret it.”

“What’s on the agenda?”

“Ten minutes. That’s all we ask.”

“Give me a clue or the answer is no.”

Bob and Nelson looked at each other. Both shrugged. Why not? We’ll have to tell him sooner or later. Ginyard turned and looked down the street and spoke into the wind. “Duquesne University. Five years ago. Drunk frat boys and a girl.”

Kyle’s body and mind had different reactions. His body conceded — a quick slump of the shoulders, a slight gasp, a noticeable jerk in the legs. But his mind fought back instantly. “That’s bullshit!” he said, then spat on the sidewalk. “I’ve already been through this. Nothing happened and you know it.”

There was a long pause as Ginyard continued to stare down the street while Plant watched their subject’s every move. Kyle’s mind was spinning. Why was the FBI involved in an alleged state crime? In second-year Criminal Procedure they had studied the new laws regarding FBI interrogation. It was now an indictable offense to simply lie to an agent in this very situation. Should he shut up? Should he call his father? No, under no circumstances would he call his father.

Ginyard turned, took three steps closer, clenched his jaw like a bad actor, and tried to hiss his tough-guy words. “Let’s cut to the chase, Mr. McAvoy, because I’m freezing. There’s an indictment out of Pittsburgh, okay. Rape. If you want to play the hard-ass smart-ass brilliant law student and run get a lawyer, or even call your old man, then the indictment comes down tomorrow and the life you have planned is pretty much shot to shit. However, if you give us ten minutes of your valuable time, right now, in the sandwich shop around the corner, then the indictment will be put on hold, if not forgotten altogether.”

“You can walk away from it,” Plant said from the side. “Without a word.”

“Why should I trust you?” Kyle managed to say with a very dry mouth.

“Ten minutes.”

“You got a tape recorder?”

“Sure.”

“I want it on the table, okay? I want every word recorded because I don’t trust you.”

“Fair enough.”

They jammed their hands deep into the pockets of their matching trench coats and stomped away. Kyle unlocked his Jeep and got inside. He started the engine, turned the heat on high, and thought about driving away.

Buster’s Deli was long and narrow with red vinyl booths along the wall to the right. To the left was a bar and a grill behind a counter, and a row of pinball machines. All manner of Yale memorabilia was tacked haphazardly on the walls. Kyle had eaten there a few times during his first year in law school, many months ago.

The last two booths were properly secured by the federal government. Yet another trench coat stood at the last table, chatting with Plant and Ginyard, waiting. When Kyle made his slow approach, the agent glanced at him, then offered the standard smirk before sitting in the next booth. No. 4 was waiting there, sipping coffee. Plant and Ginyard had ordered sandwich platters with subs and fries and pickles, all of it untouched. The table was covered with food and cups of coffee. Plant climbed to his feet and moved around to the other side so that both agents could watch their victim. They were shoulder to shoulder, still in trench coats. Kyle slid into the booth.

The lighting was old and bad; the back corner was dark. Pinball racket mixed with a loud game on ESPN from the bartender’s flat screen.

“It takes four?” Kyle asked, nodding over his shoulder at the booth behind him.

“That’s just what you can see,” Ginyard said.

“Would you like a sandwich?” Plant asked.

“No.” An hour earlier he had been famished. Now his digestive system and his excretory system and his nervous system were on the verge of a meltdown. He was struggling to breathe normally as he desperately tried to appear unfazed. He removed a disposable pen and a note card, and with all the nerve he could summon, he said, “I’d like to see those badges again.”

The responses were identical — disbelief, insulted, then oh-what-the-hell as they slowly reached into their pockets and extracted their most prized possessions. They laid them on the table, and Kyle selected Ginyard’s first. He wrote down the full name — Nelson Edward Ginyard — then his agent number. He squeezed the pen hard and recorded the information carefully. His hand shook, but he thought it wasn’t noticeable. He rubbed the brass emblem carefully, not sure what he was looking for but still taking his time. “Could I see a photo ID?” he asked.

“What the hell?” Ginyard growled.

“Photo ID, please.”

“No.”

“I’m not talking until I finish the preliminaries. Just show me your driver’s license. I’ll show you mine.”

“We already have a copy of yours.”

“Whatever. Let’s have it.”

Ginyard rolled his eyes as he reached for his back pocket. From a battered billfold he produced a Connecticut license with an ominous snapshot of himself. Kyle examined it and jotted down the birth date and license data. “That’s worse than a passport photo,” he said.

“You wanna see my wife and kids?” Ginyard said as he removed a color photo and tossed it on the table.