John Grisham - The Associate

Once the tank was full, he began to ponder other ways to score points. A quick car wash? A quick lube job? When he passed the courthouse for the seventh or eighth time, a street vendor selling soft pretzels looked at him, spread his arms, and said something like “Are you crazy, man?” But Kyle was unperturbed. He decided against a wash or oil change.

Now confident in traffic, he picked up his phone and called Dale. She answered on the third ring and in a hushed voice said, “I’m in the library.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not what I hear.”

A pause. “I haven’t slept in two nights. I think I’m delirious.”

“You sound terrible.”

“Where are you?”

“Right now I’m on Leonard Street, driving Noel Bard’s wife’s new Jaguar. What do you think I’m doing?”

“Sorry I asked. How was the funeral?”

“Terrible. Let’s do dinner tonight. I need to unload on someone.”

“I’m going home tonight, to bed, to sleep.”

“You have to eat. I’ll grab some Chinese, we’ll have a glass of wine, then sleep together. No sex whatsoever. We’ve done it before.”

“We’ll see. I gotta get out of here. Later.”

“Are you gonna make it?”

“I doubt it.”

At 11:00 a.m., Kyle congratulated himself because he could now bill the client $800 for driving in circles. Then he laughed at himself. Editor in chief of the Yale Law Journal behind the wheel here, making perfect turns, clean stops and goes, taking in the sights, dodging the cabs, ah, the life of a big-time Wall Street lawyer.

If his father could see him now.

The call came at 11:40. Bard said, “We’re leaving the courtroom. What happened to you?”

“I couldn’t find a parking space.”

“Where are you?”

“Two blocks from the courthouse.”

“Pick us up where you dropped us off.”

“My pleasure.”

Minutes later, Kyle wheeled to the curb like a veteran driver, and his two passengers jumped into the rear seat. He pulled away and said, “Where to?”

“The office,” came the terse reply from Peckham, and for several minutes nothing was said. Kyle expected to be grilled about what he’d been doing for the past few hours. Where were you, Kyle? Why did you miss the hearing, Kyle? But nothing. Sadly, he began to realize that he had not been missed at all. To create some noise, he finally asked, “So how’d the hearing go?”

“It didn’t,” said Peckham.

“What hearing?” said Bard.

“What have you been doing since 9:00 a.m.?” Kyle asked.

“Waiting for the Honorable Theodore Hennessy to shake off his hangover and grace us with his presence,” Bard said.

“It was postponed for two weeks,” Peckham said.

AS THEY STEPPED off the elevator on the thirty-second floor, Kyle’s phone vibrated. A text message from Tabor read: “Hurry to cube. Problem.”

Tabor met him at the stairs. “So how was court?”

“Great. I love litigation. What’s the problem?” They were walking quickly through the hall, past Sandra the secretary.

“It’s Dale,” Tabor whispered. “She fainted, collapsed, passed out, something.”

“Where is she?”

“I’ve hidden the body.”

At the cube, Dale was lying peacefully on a sleeping bag partially hidden under Tabor’s desk. Her eyes were open, she seemed alert, but her face was very pale.

“She woke up at five Tuesday morning, and she hasn’t slept since. That’s about fifty-five hours, which might be a record.”

Kyle knelt beside her, gently took her wrist, and said, “You okay?”

She nodded yes, but was not convincing.

Tabor, the lookout, glanced around and kept talking: “She doesn’t want anyone to know, okay. I say we call the nurse. She says no. What do you say, Kyle?”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Dale said, her voice low and raspy. “I fainted, that’s all. I’m fine.”

“Your pulse is good,” Kyle said. “Can you walk?”

“I think so.”

“Then the three of us will slip out for a quick lunch,” Kyle said. “I’ll take you home, and you’re going to rest. Tabor, call a car.”

With a hand under each arm, they slowly pulled her up. She stood, took deep breaths, and said, “I can walk.”

“We’re right beside you,” Kyle said.

They caught a curious glance or two as they left the building — one petite, well-dressed young associate, with very pale skin, arm in arm with two of her colleagues, off for a quick lunch, no doubt, but no one cared. Tabor helped her into the car, then returned to the cube to cover their trails if necessary.

Kyle half-carried her up the three flights to her apartment, then helped her undress and tucked her in. He kissed her forehead, turned off the lights, and closed the door. She did not move for hours.

In the den, he took off his coat, tie, and shoes. He covered the small kitchen table with his laptop, FirmFone, and a file full of research for a memo he’d been neglecting. Once he was fully situated, his eyelids became heavier and heavier until he walked to the sofa for a quick nap. Tabor called an hour later and woke him up. Kyle assured him Dale was sleeping well and would be fine after a long rest.

“There’s an announcement coming at 4:00 p.m.,” Tabor said. “Big news about the split. Watch your e-mails.”

At exactly 4:00 p.m., Scully & Pershing sent an e-mail to all of its lawyers announcing the departure of six partners and thirty-one associates from its litigation practice group. The names were listed. The departures were effective as of 5:00 p.m. that day. The bulletin then proceeded with the standard drivel touting the greatness of the firm and assuring everyone that the split would have no impact on the firm’s ability to fully service the needs of its many wonderful and valuable clients.

Kyle peeked through the bedroom door. The patient was breathing nicely and had not changed positions.

He dimmed the lights in the den and stretched out on the sofa. Forget the memo, forget the billing. To hell with the firm, at least for a few stolen moments. How often would he have the chance to relax like this on a Thursday afternoon? The funeral seemed like a month ago. Pittsburgh was in another galaxy. Baxter was gone but not forgotten. He needed Joey, but Joey was gone, too.

The vibration of the phone woke him again. The e-mail was from Doug Peckham, and it read: “Kyle: Major realignment in litigation. I’ve been added to the Trylon case. So have you. Office of Wilson Rush, 7:00 a.m. sharp tomorrow.”

For the senior litigation partner, and member of the firm’s management committee, the cost of square footage was not a concern. Wilson Rush’s office was spread over a large corner on the thirty-first floor, an area at least four times larger than any Kyle had yet seen. Mr. Rush evidently liked boats. His polished and gleaming oak desk was mounted on four rudders from old sailing yachts. A long credenza behind it held a collection of intricate models of sleek clippers and schooners. Every painting depicted a grand vessel at sea. As Kyle walked in and did a quick scan, he caught himself almost waiting for the floor to rock and the salt water to splash across his feet. But he forgot about the decor when Mr. Rush said, “Good morning, Kyle. Over here.”

The great man was rising from a large conference table at the far end of his office. A crowd had already gathered there and heavy lifting was under way. Kyle sat next to Doug Peckham. Quick introductions were made. There were nine others present, excluding Mr. Rush and Mr. Peckham, and Kyle recognized most of the faces, including that of Sherry Abney, the senior associate Bennie had been shadowing. She smiled. Kyle smiled back.