John Grisham - The Associate

Joey jumped to his feet, walked across the boardwalk, and spat at the rivers. He returned to the bench but didn’t sit down. Baxter hadn’t moved, but he was shaking his head.

“She wanted the sex, Baxter, and we were happy to accommodate her. You’re blowing this way out of proportion.”

“I’ve got to talk to her.”

“Hell no! You’re not going near her until the four of us — me, you, Kyle, and Alan — have a long discussion. That’ll be ugly, won’t it?”

“I need to talk to Kyle. He has more sense than the rest of us.”

“Yes, he does, but he has a crushing workload. Tremendous stress.” Joey tried to imagine such a meeting between the two. Kyle, thinking about the video, while Baxter and his amazing new memory confirm the details. It would be a disaster.

“I’ll go to New York,” Baxter said.

“Don’t do it.”

“Why not? I’d like to see Kyle.”

“Okay, but if you talk to Kyle, then talk to Alan, too. Everybody talks for a good long time before you go blundering into Scranton and screw up our lives. I’m telling you, Baxter, this girl is out for blood and her lawyer has a nose for it.”

Another long gap in the conversation. Joey finally sat down and thumped his pal on the knee. Just a couple of old frat brothers who still cared for each other. “You can’t do this, Baxter,” Joey said with as much conviction as he could muster. At the moment, he was thinking about his own skin. How would he tell Blair, who was now five months pregnant? “Hey, babes, just got a phone call. Seems they want me downtown, something about a rape charge. Could be serious. Might not be home for dinner. Someone said reporters are waiting. Catch it on Channel 4. Later. Hugs and kisses. ”

“I’m not sure about what happened, Joey,” Baxter said, softly and slowly as ever. “But I know what I did was wrong.”

“My uncle, the alcoholic, when he went through AA, he made a list, too. He had stolen a rifle from my father, and he saved his money until he could buy another one. Brought it to the house one night, big surprise, big scene. But if I remember correctly, you, as the alcoholic working your way through the Twelve Steps process, cannot make amends if doing so will harm others. Isn’t that right?”

“That’s correct.”

“Then there’s your answer. If you approach her and beg forgiveness, she and her lawyer will go nuts and drag in me and probably Kyle and Alan as well. You can’t do it, because it will harm us.”

“If you did nothing wrong, you have nothing to worry about. I’m confronting what I did, and what I did was wrong.”

“This is crazy, Baxter. Look, you’re clean and sober and full of the gospel, good for you. I’m very proud of you. The future looks great, yet you’re willing to throw it all away and risk twenty years in prison. Come on! This is madness.”

“Then what should I do?”

“Get your ass back to Reno or somewhere far away and forget about this. Go live a great life out there. Just leave us alone.”

Two policemen walked by, laughing, and Joey stared at the handcuffs on their belts.

“You can’t do this, Baxter,” he said. “Give it some time. Pray about it. Talk to your minister.”

“I have already.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said to be cautious.”

“Smart guy. Look, you’re in a state of transition right now. Everything is unsettled. You’re out of L.A., you’re clean and sober. All good stuff. Again, I’m proud of you. But it’s a mistake to rush off and do something foolish.”

“Let’s walk,” Baxter said and slowly rose to his feet. They strolled along the river, saying little, watching the boats.

“I really want to see Kyle,” Baxter finally said.

In the four and a half months Kyle had lived in his grim little apartment, he had managed to avoid having guests. Dale had asked about it a few times, then let the matter drop. Kyle described his place as a dump with almost no furnishings, lukewarm water, bugs, and uninsulated walls. He claimed to be looking for something much nicer, but then what first-year associate had time to look for an apartment? The truth was that he wanted a dump for that very reason — he could keep guests away, and in doing so avoid the risks of having their conversations listened to and recorded. Though he had not attempted to rid the place of mikes and electronic bugs, he knew they were there. He suspected there were cameras, always watching, and since he had lulled them into believing that he was clueless about their surveillance, he went through the motions each day of living pretty much like a hermit. Intruders came and went, at least one per week, but there were no invited guests.

Dale was content to meet at her place. She had a fear of bugs.

If you only knew, thought Kyle. My apartment has every kind of bug known to the covert world.

They eventually managed to sleep together without actually falling asleep beforehand. Both collapsed shortly afterward. They had violated firm policy on at least four occasions and had no plans to stop.

When Baxter called and asked if he could crash at Kyle’s for a few days, Kyle was ready with a string of lies that were mildly convincing. Joey had sent a Mayday call from his desk phone to Kyle’s just minutes after he’d said goodbye to Baxter. “We gotta do something,” Joey said over and over until Kyle told him to shut up.

The idea of Baxter lounging around his apartment and talking at length about the Elaine episode was almost too much to imagine. Kyle could see Bennie with his technicians, clutching his headphones, listening to Baxter preach about the need to confront the past, admit everything, and so on. If the Elaine episode blew up back in Pittsburgh, Kyle would be dragged into it at some level, and Bennie would risk losing his leverage in New York.

“Sorry, Bax,” Kyle said happily on his cell phone. “I have only one bedroom, if you can call it that, and my cousin has been sleeping on the sofa for a month. She’s in New York looking for a job, and, well, I gotta say, the place is cramped.”

Baxter checked into the Soho Grand. They met for a late pizza at an all-night joint on Bleecker Street in the Village. Kyle picked the place because he’d been there before and, as always, had taken notes on its suitability for future use. One door in and out, large front windows that faced the sidewalk, lots of noise, and it was too small for one of the bloodhounds to enter without being noticed. Kyle arrived at 9:45, fifteen minutes early so he could secure a booth and sit facing the door. He pretended to be engrossed in a thick document, the tireless associate ever dedicated to his work.

Baxter was wearing the same dungarees, sweater, and combat boots Joey had described. They embraced, then fell into the booth talking nonstop. They ordered soft drinks, and Kyle said, “I talked to Joey. Congrats on the rehab. You look great.”

“Thanks. I’ve thought about you a lot in the past few months. You quit drinking during our sophomore year, right?”

“Right.”

“I can’t remember why.”

“A counselor told me that the drinking would only get worse. I didn’t have a serious problem, but one was definitely foreseeable. So I quit. Didn’t touch a drop until a few weeks ago, when I had some wine. So far, so good. If I get worried, I’ll quit again.”

“I had three bleeding ulcers when they took me in. I thought about suicide, but I didn’t really want to do it because I’d miss the vodka and cocaine. I was a mess.”

They ordered a pizza and talked for a long time about the past, primarily Baxter’s. He unloaded story after story about the last three years in L.A.—trying to break into the movie business, the parties, the drug scene, the gorgeous young girls from every small town in America doing everything physically possible to either get a break or marry rich. Kyle listened intently while keeping an eye on the front door and the front windows. Nothing.