John Grisham - The Associate

Mr. Rush, seated at the head of the table, launched into a quick review of the current upheaval. Two of the partners who’d mutinied with Toby Roland, and seven of the thirty-one associates, had been assigned to the Trylon versus Bartin case — “much more about that in a minute” — and it was imperative that the firm’s manpower be shuffled immediately because the client, Trylon, was important and demanding. Therefore, two partners, Doug Peckham and a woman named Isabelle Gaffney, were entering the fray, along with eight associates.

Mr. Rush was explaining how uneasy the in-house boys at Trylon were with the defections and how necessary it was to shore up the troops, to literally throw more lawyers at APE and Bartin Dynamics.

Isabelle, or Izzy behind her back, was somewhat notorious because she had once required two associates to wait in the delivery room while she was temporarily sidetracked giving birth to a child. Firm lore held that no one had ever seen her smile. And she wasn’t about to smile as Mr. Rush went on about the reshuffling and realigning and deft maneuvering of the unlimited legal talent at his disposal.

Two first-year associates were being added, Kyle and a mysterious young man from Penn named Atwater. Of the twelve litigation rookies, Atwater was by far the quietest and loneliest. Dale was a distant second, but she had warmed up nicely, at least in Kyle’s opinion. He’d spent the night on her sofa again, alone, while she was dead to the world. He’d slept little. There was too much to consider. The shock of being assigned to the Trylon case caused him to stare at the ceiling and mumble to himself. The horror of Baxter’s murder, the images of the funeral and burial, the harsh words of Joey Bernardo — who could sleep with such nightmares rattling around?

Late that night, Kyle had called Peckham and picked and probed to find out why he had been selected to a case he had been rather vocal in trying to avoid. Peckham had no sympathy and was not in the mood to talk. The decision had been made by Wilson Rush. End of conversation.

Mr. Rush was now going through the basics of the lawsuit, material Kyle had committed to memory weeks and months earlier. Binders were passed around. A half hour dragged by and Kyle began to wonder how a person as dull and methodical as Wilson Rush could be so successful in the courtroom. Discovery was under way, with both parties at war over the documents. At least twenty depositions had been scheduled.

Kyle took notes because everyone else was taking notes, but he was thinking about Bennie. Did Bennie already know that Kyle had landed the prize position? Bennie had known every member of the Trylon team. He knew that Sherry Abney supervised Jack McDougle. Was there another spy in the firm? Another victim of Bennie and his blackmail? If so, was this person watching Kyle and reporting to Bennie?

Though he hated every meeting with Bennie, their next encounter would be the biggest challenge. Kyle would go through the motions and engage in somewhat civilized conversation with the man responsible for the murder of Baxter Tate, and he would be forced to do so without a hint that he was remotely suspicious.

“Any questions?” Mr. Rush asked.

Sure, Kyle thought, more questions than you can possibly answer.

After a full hour of update and review, Kyle, Atwater, and the other six new associates were led by Sherry Abney to the secret room on the eighteenth floor. Secret to some, but Bennie and Nigel certainly knew about it. Along the way they were introduced to a non-lawyer named Gant, a security expert of some variety. Gant stopped them at the door and explained that it was the only door. One way in and one way out and a coded plastic strip smaller than a credit card was required for entry and exit. Each lawyer was given a card, and every time the lawyer came or went, it was recorded. Gant nodded at the ceiling and informed them that there were video cameras watching everything.

Inside, the room was about the size of Wilson Rush’s office. No windows, bare walls, drab olive carpet. There was nothing in the room but ten square tables with a large computer on each one.

Sherry Abney took charge. “This case now has over four million documents, and they’re all right here in our virtual warehouse,” she said, patting a computer like a proud mother. “The actual paperwork is in secured storage in a facility in Wilmington, but you can access it all from one of these. The main server is locked up in a room next door.” She kept patting. “These are pretty fancy computers, custom made by a company you’ve never heard of and never will. Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to repair, examine, or just plain fiddle with the hardware.

“The software is called Sonic, and it, too, is customized for this case. It’s really just some home brew that our computer folks put together, a variation of Barrister with some bells and whistles added for security reasons. Pass code changes every week. Password changes every day, sometimes twice a day. When it changes, you will receive a coded e-mail. If you try to access with the wrong code or password, then all manner of hell breaks loose. You could be fired.”

She looked around with as much menace as possible, then continued, “This system is self-contained and cannot be accessed anywhere else within the firm, or outside the firm. It’s online, you just can’t get to it. This is the only place, the only room in which you are able to access the documents, and this room is closed from 10:00 p.m. until 6:00 a.m. Sorry, no all-nighters in here, but it is open seven days a week.”

At her direction, each associate sat down before a computer and was given a pass code and password. There was nothing on the screen to indicate who manufactured the computer or who wrote the software.

Sherry walked from lawyer to lawyer, looking at the monitors and chatting like a college professor. “There’s an extensive tutorial at the beginning, and I strongly suggest you go through it today. Pull up the index. The documents are classified in three basic groups, with a hundred subgroups. Category A contains all the harmless junk that Bartin has already been given — letters, e-mails, office memos, the list is endless. Category B has important materials that are discoverable, though we have not handed all of them over. Category R, for ‘Restricted,’ is where you’ll find the good stuff, about a million documents dealing with the technological research that is the heart of this little dispute. It’s top secret, classified, and no one but the judge knows if it will ever be shown to Bartin. Mr. Rush thinks not. Category R is privileged, confidential, Attorneys’ Work Product. When you enter Category R, a record of your entry automatically registers with Mr. Gant’s computer right next door. Any questions?”

All eight associates stared at their monitors, all thinking the same thing — there are four million documents in there, and someone has to examine them.

“Sonic is amazing,” Sherry said. “Once you master it, you will be able to find a document or group of documents within seconds. I’ll be here for the rest of the day for a workshop. The sooner you learn your way around our virtual library, the easier your life will be.”

AT 4:20 ON Friday afternoon, Kyle received an e-mail from Bennie. It read: “Let’s meet tonight at 9:00. Details to follow. BW” Kyle responded: “I can’t.” Bennie responded: “Tomorrow afternoon, say 5:00 or 6:00?”

Kyle: “I can’t.”

Bennie: “Sunday night, 10:00 p.m.?”

Kyle: “I can’t.”

KYLE WAS SLEEPING when someone rapped on the door of his apartment at ten minutes after seven on Saturday morning. “Who is it?” he yelled as he stumbled through his cluttered den.

“Bennie,” came the reply.