John Grisham - The Associate

Unknown to Kyle and the others, Elaine Keenan had attempted to enter the church but was turned away because her name was not on the list.

No one from Hollywood made it to the funeral. Not a single soul from L.A. Baxter’s C-list agent sent flowers. A former female roommate e-mailed the rector a brief eulogy that she insisted be read by someone in attendance. She was “on the set” and couldn’t get away. Her eulogy made references to the Buddha and Tibet and was not well received in Pittsburgh. The rector tossed it without a word to the family.

Brother Manny managed to talk his way into the church, but only after Joey Bernardo convinced the family that Baxter had spoken highly of his pastor in Reno. The family, along with all the other mourners, eyed Brother Manny with some suspicion. He wore his standard white uniform — baggy bleached dungarees and flowing shirttail — and layered it with a garment that was probably a robe of some variety but looked more like a white bedsheet. His only concession to the solemnity of the occasion was a black leather beret that adorned his tumbling gray locks and gave him an odd resemblance to an aging Che Guevara. He wept throughout the service, shedding more tears than the rest of the hidebound and stoic collection combined.

Kyle shed no tears, though he was deeply saddened by such a wasted life. As he stood next to the grave and stared at the oak casket, he was unable to dwell on the good times they had shared. He was too consumed with the raging internal debate over what he should have done differently. In particular, should he have told Baxter about the video, about Bennie and the boys, about everything? If he had done so, would Baxter have appreciated the danger and behaved differently? Maybe. Maybe not. In his zeal to clean up his past, Baxter might have gone nuts if he knew he’d actually been filmed doing whatever he did to Elaine. He might have confessed under oath and said to hell with everybody else. It was impossible to predict because Baxter was not thinking rationally. And it was impossible to second-guess now, because Kyle did not foresee the extent of the danger.

But he certainly saw it now.

There were about a hundred mourners huddled around the grave site, all pressing close together to hear the final words from the rector. A few cold raindrops hurried things along. A crimson tent provided shelter for the casket and the family seated near it. Kyle glanced away, at the rows of tombstones where the old money was buried, and beyond them to the stone gate at the cemetery’s entrance. On the other side of the entrance was a large pack of media types, waiting like vultures for a glimpse of something newsworthy. Ready with cameras, lights, and microphones, they had been kept away from the church by the police and private guards, but they had dogged the procession like kids at a parade, and now they were desperate for a shot of the casket or the mother collapsing as she said goodbye. Somewhere in their midst was at least one of Bennie’s boys, maybe two or three. Kyle wondered if they had a camera, not for a shot of the casket but to record which of Baxter’s friends had bothered to attend. Useless information, really, but then so much of what they did made no sense.

They knew how to kill, though. There was little doubt about that. The state police had nothing to say so far, and as the days passed, it was becoming evident that their silence was not necessarily of their choosing. There was simply no evidence. A clean hit, a silent bullet, a quick getaway, and no motive whatsoever.

Brother Manny wailed loudly from the edge of the tent, and this rattled everyone else. The rector missed a beat, then droned on.

Kyle stared at the horde in the distance, too far away for any one face to be recognized. He knew they were there, watching, waiting, curious about his movements and those of Joey and Alan Strock, who’d driven in from med school at Ohio State. The four roommates, now reduced to three.

As the rector wound down, a few sobs could be heard. Then the crowd began backing away from the crimson tent, inching away from the grave site. The burial was over, and Baxter’s parents and brother wasted no time in leaving. Kyle and Joey held back, and for a moment stood near the tombstone of another Tate.

“This will be our last conversation for a long time,” Joey said softly but firmly. “You’re messing around with the wrong people, Kyle. Just leave me out of it.”

Kyle looked at the pile of fresh dirt about to be packed on top of Baxter.

Joey kept on, his lips barely moving as if bugs were close by. “Count me out, okay? I’ve got my hands full here. I’ve got a life with a wedding and a baby in the future. No more of your silly spy games. You keep playing if you want, but not me.”

“Sure, Joey.”

“No more e-mails, packages, phone calls. No more trips to New York. I can’t keep you out of Pittsburgh, but if you visit here, don’t call me. One of us will be next, Kyle, and it won’t be you. You’re too valuable. You’re the one they need. So for our next mistake, guess who gets the bullet.”

“We didn’t cause his death.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“No.”

“These guys are around for a reason, and that reason is you.”

“Thanks, Joey.”

“Don’t mention it. I’m going now. Please keep me out of it, Kyle. And be damned sure nobody sees that video. So long.”

Kyle allowed him to walk ahead, then he followed.

At 6:30 on Thursday morning, Kyle walked into Doug Peckham’s office and reported for duty. Doug was standing at his desk, which resembled, as always, a landfill. “How was the funeral?” he asked without looking up from whatever he was holding.

“It was a funeral,” Kyle said. He handed over a single sheet of paper. “Here is an estimate of your hours on the Ontario Bank case.” Doug snatched it, scanned it, disapproved of it, and said, “Only thirty hours?”

“At the most.”

“You’re way off. Double it and let’s call it sixty.”

Kyle shrugged. Call it whatever you want. You’re the partner. If the client could pay $24,000 for work that wasn’t performed, then the client could certainly pay another $24,000 on top of that.

“We have a hearing in federal court at nine. We’ll leave here at eight thirty. Finish the Rule 10 memo and be here at eight.”

The prospect of a litigation associate getting near a courtroom during his or her first year was unheard-of, and for Kyle a gloomy day suddenly improved. Of the twelve in his class, no one, at least to his knowledge, had seen live action. He hurried to his cube and was checking e-mails when Tabor appeared with a tall coffee and a haggard look. Since flunking the bar, he had slowly managed to put himself back together, and though he was initially humbled, the cockiness was returning.

“Sorry about your friend,” he said, flinging his overcoat and briefcase.

“Thanks,” Kyle said. Tabor was still standing, slurping coffee and anxious to talk.

“Have you met H. W. Prewitt, litigation partner two floors up?” he asked.

“No,” Kyle answered, still pecking away.

“He’s about fifty, big Texan. They call him Harvey Wayne behind his back. Get it? Harvey Wayne, from Texas, double first name?”

“Got it.”

“They also call him Texas Slim because he weighs about four hundred pounds. Mean as hell. Went to a community college, then A&M, then Texas Law and hates anybody from Harvard. He’s been stalking me, caught me two days ago and gave me a project that any part-time secretary could handle. I spent six hours Tuesday night taking apart exhibit binders for a big deposition yesterday. Took them apart, then reconfigured them just the way Harvey Wayne wanted. There were a dozen binders, couple of hundred pages each, a ton of paperwork. At nine yesterday morning I put them on a cart, raced them down to a conference room where about a hundred lawyers are gathering for this depo, and what did Harvey Wayne do?”