John Grisham: The Associate

“Your mother is an artist of some variety?” Kyle heard him say.

“Yes, and where is the football right now?”

“You’ve gained about ten yards. What kind of artist?”

“She’s a painter.”

They probed the life of Patty McAvoy for ten minutes.

Finally, the detective finished with the family and settled on the suspect. He served up a few easy ones about his childhood, but didn’t dwell on the details. He already knows it all, Kyle told himself.

“Honors from Central York High, star athlete, Eagle Scout. Why did you select Duquesne University?”

“They offered me a basketball scholarship.”

“Were there other offers?”

“A couple, from smaller schools.”

“But you didn’t play much at Duquesne.”

“I played thirteen minutes as a freshman, then tore an ACL in the final minute of the final game.”

“Surgery?”

“Yes, but the knee was gone. I quit basketball and joined a fraternity.”

“We’ll get to the fraternity later. Were you invited back to the basketball team?”

“Sort of. Didn’t matter. The knee was shot.”

“You majored in economics and made near-perfect grades. What happened in Spanish your second year? You didn’t make an A?”

“I should’ve taken German, I guess.”

“One B in four years is not bad.” Wright flipped a page, made a note about something. Kyle glanced at his face on the laptop and told himself to relax.

“High honors, a dozen or so student organizations, intramural softball champs, fraternity secretary then president. Your academic record is impressive, yet you managed to also maintain a pretty active social life. Tell me about your first arrest.”

“I’m sure you have the records in your file there.”

“Your first arrest, Kyle.”

“Only one. A first, not a second. Not until now, I guess.”

“What happened?”

“Typical frat stuff. A loud party that didn’t stop until the cops showed up. I got caught with an open container, a bottle of beer. Nitpicking stuff. Misdemeanor. I paid a fine of three hundred bucks and got six months’ probation. After that, the record was expunged and Yale never knew about it.”

“Did your father handle it?”

“He was involved, but I had a lawyer in Pittsburgh.”

“Who?”

“A lady named Sylvia Marks.”

“I’ve heard of her. Doesn’t she specialize in stupid fraternity stunts?”

“That’s her. But she knows her stuff.”

“I thought there was a second arrest.”

“No. I was stopped by the cops once on campus, but there was no arrest. Just a warning.”

“What were you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why were you stopped?”

“A couple of fraternities were shooting bottle rockets at each other. Smart boys. I was not involved. Nothing went in my file, so I’m wondering how you heard about it.”

Wright ignored this and wrote something on his legal pad. When he finished scribbling, he said, “Why did you decide to go to law school?”

“I made that decision when I was twelve years old. I always wanted to be a lawyer. My first job was running the copier in my father’s office. I sort of grew up there.”

“Where did you apply to law school?”

“Penn, Yale, Cornell, and Stanford.”

“Where were you accepted?”

“All four.”

“Why Yale?”

“It was always my first choice.”

“Did Yale offer scholarship money?”

“Financial incentives, yes. So did the others.”

“Have you borrowed money?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“Do you really need to know?”

“I wouldn’t ask the question if I didn’t need to know. You think I’m talking just to hear myself talk?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“Back to the student loans.”

“When I graduate in May, I’ll owe about sixty thousand.”

Wright nodded as if he agreed that this was the correct amount. He flipped another page, and Kyle could see that it, too, was covered with questions.

“And you write for the law journal?”

“I’m the editor in chief of the Yale Law Journal.”

“That’s the most prestigious honor in the school?”

“According to some.”

“You clerked last summer in New York. Tell me about it.”

“It was one of those huge Wall Street firms, Scully & Pershing, a typical summer clerkship. We were wined and dined and given easy hours, the same seduction routine all the big firms use. They pamper the clerks, then kill them when they become associates.”

“Did Scully & Pershing offer you a position after graduation?”

“Yes.”

“Did you accept or decline?”

“Neither. I have not made a decision. The firm has given me some additional time to decide.”

“What’s taking so long?”

“I have a few options. One is a clerkship for a federal judge, but he might get a promotion. Things are in limbo there.”

“Do you have other job offers?”

“I had other offers, yes.”

“Tell me about them.”

“Is this really relevant?”

“Everything I say is relevant, Kyle.”

“Do you have any water?”

“I’m sure there’s some in the bathroom.”

Kyle jumped to his feet, walked between the king-sized bed and the credenza, switched on the light in the cramped bathroom, and ran tap water into a flimsy plastic cup. He gulped it, then refilled. When he returned to the table, he placed the cup somewhere around his own twenty-yard line, then checked himself on the monitor. “Just curious,” he said. “Where’s the football right now?”

“Third and long. Tell me about the other job offers, the other firms.”

“Why don’t you just show me the video so we can skip all this bullshit? If it really exists, and if it implicates me, then I’ll walk out of here and go hire a lawyer.”

Wright leaned forward, adjusted his elbows on the table, and began gently tapping his fingertips together. The lower half of his face eased into a smile while the upper half remained noncommittal. Very coolly, he said, “Losing your temper, Kyle, could cost you your life.”

Life as in dead body? Or life as in brilliant future? Kyle wasn’t so sure. He took a deep breath, then another gulp of the water. The flash of anger was gone, replaced by the crush of confusion and fear.

The fake smile widened, and Wright said, “Please, Kyle, you’re doing fine here. Just a few more questions and we’ll move into rougher territory. The other firms?”

“I was offered a job by Logan & Kupec in New York, Baker Potts in San Francisco, and Garton in London. I said no to all three. I’m still kicking around a public-interest job.”

“Doing what? Where?”

“It’s down in Virginia, a legal aid position helping migrant workers.”

“And how long would you do this?”

“Couple of years, maybe, I’m not sure. It’s just an option.”

“At a much lower salary?”

“Oh, yes. Much.”

“How will you pay back your student loans?”

“I’ll figure that out.”

Wright didn’t like the smart-ass answer, but decided to let it slide. He glanced at his notes, though a quick review wasn’t necessary. He knew that young Kyle here owed $61,000 in student loans, all of which would be forgiven by Yale if he spent the next three years working for minimum wage protecting the poor, the oppressed, the abused, or the environment. Kyle’s offer had been extended by Piedmont Legal Aid, and the clerkship was funded by a grant from a mammoth law firm in Chicago. According to Wright’s sources, Kyle had verbally accepted the position, which paid $32,000 a year. Wall Street could wait. It would always be there. His father had encouraged him to spend a few years out in the trenches, getting his hands dirty, far away from the corporate style of law that he, John McAvoy, despised.