John Grisham - The Associate

Their client was a major oil company that was about to be sued by a Dutch firm over some disputed reserves in the Gulf of Mexico. The lawsuit was expected to be filed in New Orleans, but Mr. Roland had decided to file a preemptive lawsuit in New York. The plan was to file it first thing Monday morning. It was an ambush, a daring tactic that could backfire, the type of risky maneuver that Toby was famous for.

After a few minutes of listening to a lawsuit described in terms reminiscent of the D-day invasion, Kyle realized that his Saturday and Sunday were shot to hell and would be spent researching jurisdictional issues in the law library. He glanced at his FirmFone, scrolled down through the e-mails, and something caught his eye. At 7:30 on a Saturday morning, the firm was sending an e-mail to all lawyers announcing the resignation of Gavin Meade, a fourth-year associate in litigation. No details. No comments. Nothing but a quiet and quick exit.

Everybody has secrets, Bennie said. How did he do it? Perhaps an anonymous package mailed to someone in Human Resources. Affidavits, police records, the works. Poor Meade, ten years removed from his crime and hustling through the grind at $400,000 a year, when suddenly he gets a summons to a meeting with closed doors.

Bronson was rattling on about being the hub of a wooden wheel, with spokes running down and out to the seven associates below him, and several running upward to Mr. Roland and the other litigation partners. At the hub, he, Bronson, would direct traffic between the big boys and the rookies. He would organize the work, supervise the research, and handle correspondence with the partners. Everything crossed his desk.

Time was crucial. If word leaked, the Dutch firm and its lawyers might do all sorts of evil things. The nation’s oil supply hung in the balance, perhaps even Western civilization.

Off they went to the library.

After a series of phone calls that became more and more tense, a deal was finally reached. Dr. Boone and Uncle Wally acquiesced, but managed to keep one string attached. Baxter would leave early, but spend three nights in a halfway house in Reno before “reentry” into the real world. A hundred and five days after arriving sloppy drunk, with a blood alcohol content of 0.28, and with significant residues of cocaine in his system, Baxter rode through the gates and left behind the safety of the Washoe Retreat. He was squeaky-clean and ten pounds lighter, and not only had he kicked booze and drugs, he had also quit smoking. He was fit, tanned, and clearheaded and thoroughly believed he had conquered his demons and would henceforth live the sober life. He was armed for battle with the teachings of Dr. Boone and the other counselors. He had confessed his sins and surrendered to a higher power, whatever and whoever that was. At the age of twenty-five, he was beginning a new life, and Baxter was both proud and apprehensive, even frightened. As the miles passed, he found himself more uncomfortable. His confidence was rapidly disappearing.

He had failed so many times in so many ways. It was a family tradition. Was it in his DNA?

An orderly drove him from the clinic in the Nightingale Mountains into Reno, a two-hour drive in which little was said. As they approached the city, they passed a splashy billboard advertising an imported beer in a cold green bottle. The slinky young woman holding it could entice any man to do almost anything. Fear hit Baxter harder. It consumed him, and beads of sweat lined his forehead. He wanted to turn around, to run back to the clinic, where there was no alcohol and no temptations. But he said nothing.

Hope Village was in a run-down section of Reno — abandoned buildings, cheap casinos, and bars. It was the domain of Brother Manny, the founder, pastor, and leader of Hope Village. He was waiting at the curb outside the church’s front door when Baxter stepped onto the hot sidewalk. He grabbed Baxter’s hand and shook it violently. “Mr. Tate, may I call you Baxter?”

The question suggested its own answer. He was Baxter, not Mr. Tate.

“Sure,” Baxter said, his spine stiffened from this physical assault.

“I’m Brother Manny,” he said, placing his thick left arm on Baxter’s shoulder, completing a rather rough howdy do. “Welcome to Hope Village.”

He was about fifty, Hispanic, bronze skin, gray hair pulled back tightly into a long ponytail that fell to his waist, warm eyes, big toothy smile, a small scar beside his left nostril and a larger one on his right cheek. His face was adorned with a soft white goatee that had been pampered for many years.

“Another escapee from Washoe Retreat,” he said with a deep, melodious voice. “How is the good Dr. Boone doing up there?”

“Fine,” Baxter said. Brother Manny’s nose was about five inches from his. Close contact obviously did not bother him, but it made Baxter uncomfortable. “He sends his regards.”

“A fine man. Come, I’ll show you around. We have you for just three nights, as I understand.”

“That’s right.”

They began walking slowly. Brother Manny kept one arm across Baxter’s shoulders. He was a large man, with a thick barrel chest, and he wore dungarees and a white linen shirt — top two buttons open — with a long tail left out so that it swept behind him. Sandals, no socks.

The church had once belonged to an affluent white congregation that fled to the suburbs. As Baxter shuffled through the tour, he also got the backstory. Manny Lucera had found the Lord during his second term in prison — armed robbery, the proceeds from which were meant to buy drugs for personal consumption — and upon his parole he was led by the Spirit to Reno to start his ministry. Seventeen years ago, and the Lord had blessed him mightily. The church had grown and now housed a shelter for the homeless in the basement, a soup kitchen that fed anyone who showed up, a community center for the poor kids in the neighborhood, an intake center for women and children fleeing abusive men, and there were plans for an orphanage. The old buildings next door had been purchased and renovated. The complex was crawling with people — employees, volunteers, street people— and they almost bowed in deference when they saw Brother Manny.

They parked themselves on a picnic table in the shade and sipped canned lemonade. “What’s your drug?” Manny asked.

“Coke, booze, but I didn’t say no to anything,” Baxter admitted. After fifteen weeks of baring his soul to people who already knew everything, he did not hesitate to tell the truth.

“For how long?”

“Started slow when I was about fourteen. Picked up steam as I got older. I’m twenty-five now, so eleven years.”

“Where are you from?”

“Pittsburgh, originally.”

“Background?”

“Privileged.”

Brother Manny issued the questions and absorbed the answers with such ease that after fifteen minutes together, Kyle felt as though he could chat for hours and tell him everything.

“First rehab?”

“Second.”

“I did every drug you can imagine, and some you’ve never heard of, for twenty years. I bought, sold, smuggled, and manufactured drugs. I got knifed four times, shot three, and went to prison twice for drugs. I lost my first wife and two children because of drugs and alcohol. I lost my chance for an education. I lost eight years because of prison. I almost lost my life. I know all about addictions because I’ve been there. I’m a certified drug and alcohol counselor, and I work with addicts every day. Are you an addict?”

“Yes.”

“Bless you, brother. Do you know Christ?”

“I guess. My mother took me to church every Christmas.”

Brother Manny smiled and slowly wiggled his large rear end off the table. “Let me show you your room. It’s not the Ritz, but it’ll do.” The homeless shelter was a large basement room with a temporary partition dividing it — women on one side, men on the other. It was open, with rows of Army surplus cots in neat lines. “Most of these people work during the day. They’re not bums,” Brother Manny was saying. “They’ll start drifting in around 6:00 p.m. Here’s your room.”