John Grisham - The Associate

“What do you want?” Kyle demanded at the door.

“I’ve brought you some coffee.”

Kyle unlocked and unchained the door, and Bennie walked by him quickly. He was holding two tall paper cups of coffee. He placed them on the counter and looked around. “What a dump,” he said. “I thought you were making some money.”

“What do you want?” Kyle snapped.

“I don’t like being ignored,” Bennie snapped back as he jerked around, ready to pounce. His face was taut and his eyes were hot. He pointed a finger that came within inches of Kyle’s face. “You do not ignore me, understand?” he hissed. It was the first real display of temper Kyle had seen from him.

“Be cool.”

Kyle brushed by him, their shoulders touching solidly, and walked to the bedroom, where he found a T-shirt. When he returned to the den, Bennie was removing the tops from the cups. “I want an update.”

The nearest weapon was a cheap ceramic table lamp Kyle had found at a secondhand store. He took the coffee without saying thanks. He glanced at the lamp and thought how nicely it would crack over Bennie’s bald head, how wonderful it would be to hear them break into pieces, both lamp and skull, and how easily he could pound away until the little bastard was dead but still bleeding on the cheap rug. Greetings from my old pal Baxter. Kyle took a sip, then took a breath.

Both men were still standing. Bennie was wearing his gray trench coat. Kyle was decked out in red boxers and a wrinkled T-shirt.

“I got assigned to the Trylon case yesterday. Big news, huh, or did you already know this?”

Bennie’s eyes revealed nothing. He took a sip, then said, “And the secret room on the eighteenth floor? Tell me about it.”

Kyle described it.

“What about the computers?”

“Manufacturer unknown. Basic desktop models but supposedly custom built for the project, all linked to a server locked away next door. Lots of memory, all the bells and whistles. Video cameras everywhere and a security expert next door monitoring everything. It’s a dead end if you ask me. There’s no way to steal anything.”

To which Bennie offered a grunt and a smart-ass smirk. “We’ve cracked much bigger vaults, I assure you of that. Everything can be stolen. Let us worry about that. Sonic is the software?”

“Yes.”

“Have you mastered it?”

“Not yet. I’ll go in later this morning for another lesson.”

“How many documents?”

“Over four million.”

That brought the only smile of the morning. “What about access to the room?”

“Open seven days a week but closed from ten at night until six in the morning. There’s only one door, and there are at least three cameras watching it.”

“Does someone check you in?”

“I don’t think so. But the key leaves a record of each entry and exit.”

“Let me see the key.”

Kyle reluctantly got the key from his room and handed it over. Bennie examined it like a surgeon, then gave it back. “I want you to visit the room as often as possible over the next few days, but don’t arouse any suspicions. Go at different hours, watch everything. We’ll meet at ten on Tuesday night, room 1780, Four Seasons Hotel on Fifty-seventh. Got it?”

“Sure.”

“No surprises.”

“Yes, sir.”

With seventy-eight thousand lawyers in Manhattan, the selection of one should not have been so difficult. Kyle narrowed his list, did more research, added names, and deleted names. He had begun the secret project not long after he arrived in the city, and had abandoned it several times. He was never sure he would actually hire a lawyer, but wanted the name of a good one just in case. Baxter’s murder changed everything. Kyle not only wanted protection; now he wanted justice.

Roy Benedict was a criminal defense lawyer with a two-hundred-man firm located in a tall building one block east of Scully & Pershing. The location of the chosen lawyer was crucial, given the attention paid to Kyle’s movements. Benedict measured up in other important areas as well. He had worked for the FBI before law school at NYU and after graduation spent six years with the Department of Justice. He had contacts, old friends, people on the other side of the street now, but people he could trust. Crime was his specialty. He was ranked in the top one hundred of the city’s white-collar defense specialists, but not in the top ten. Kyle needed solid advice, but he couldn’t afford an ego. Benedict’s firm was often listed as opposing counsel in lawsuits involving Scully & Pershing. The icing on the cake was his basketball career at Duquesne some twenty-five years earlier. On the phone, he seemed to have little time for small talk and said he wasn’t taking any new cases, but the basketball angle opened the door.

The appointment was at 2:00 p.m. on Monday, and Kyle arrived early. He found it impossible to walk through the law firm without comparing it with his. It was smaller, and it spent less trying to impress visitors with abstract art and designer furniture. The receptionists were not as cute.

In his briefcase he had a file on Roy Benedict — old stats and photos from Duquesne, bios from legal directories, newspaper stories about two of his more notorious cases. He was forty-seven, six feet six, and appeared to be in great shape, ready for a pickup game. His office was busy, smaller than most of the partners’ at Scully, but nicely appointed. Benedict was cordial and genuinely pleased to meet another New York lawyer who’d played for the Dukes.

Kyle explained that he didn’t play much. The basketball talk dragged on, and Kyle cut things off by saying, “Look, Mr. Benedict—”

“It’s Roy.”

“Okay, Roy, I can’t spend too much time here because I’m being followed.”

A few seconds passed as Roy allowed this to sink in. “And why is a first-year associate at the biggest law firm in the world being followed?”

“I have a few problems. It’s complicated, and I think I need a lawyer.”

“I do nothing but white-collar crime, Kyle. Have you screwed up in that area?”

“Not yet. But I’m being pressured to commit a whole list of crimes.”

Roy bounced a pencil on his desk, tried to think of how to proceed.

“I really need a lawyer,” Kyle said.

“My initial retainer is fifty grand,” Roy said and watched carefully for a response. He knew within $10,000 how much Kyle was earning as a first-year associate. His firm didn’t try to compete with Scully & Pershing, but it came close.

“I can’t pay that much. I have five thousand in cash.” Kyle yanked an envelope from his pocket and tossed it on the desk. “Give me some time, and I’ll get the rest.”

“What does this case involve?”

“Rape, murder, theft, wiretapping, extortion, blackmail, and a few others. I can’t give you the details until we reach an agreement.”

Roy nodded, then smiled. “There’s someone following you now?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve been under surveillance since early February, back at Yale.”

“Is your life in danger?”

Kyle thought for a moment. “Yes, I believe so.”

The air was thick with unanswered questions, and Roy’s curiosity got the best of him. He opened a drawer and withdrew some papers. He scanned them quickly — three sheets stapled together— added some notes with a pen, then slid them across. “This is a contract for legal services.”

Kyle read it hurriedly. The initial retainer had been reduced to $5,000. The hourly rate cut in half, from $800 to $400. Kyle had just recently accepted the fact that he charged $400 an hour. Now he would be the client paying that much. He signed his name and said, “Thanks.”

Roy took the envelope and placed it in the drawer. “Where do we begin?” he asked, and Kyle sank deeper into his chair. A huge weight was leaving him. He wasn’t sure if the nightmare was coming to an end or if he was digging a deeper hole, but the fact that he had someone to talk to was beyond comforting.