John Grisham - The Associate

“And your phone?”

“I still have the old one from law school, and they’re listening. That’s why I haven’t switched. I know they’re listening, and so I give them enough harmless crap to make them happy. I installed a landline in the apartment, and I’m sure it’s bugged. I haven’t been able to inspect it, though, because the cameras are watching. I use it just for harmless stuff — ordering a pizza, bitching at my landlord, calling a car service.” Kyle pulled out the FirmFone and glanced at it. “This is one the firm gave us on day one. I’m pretty sure this one is bug-free.”

“The question is, why is it in your pocket on Thanksgiving Day?”

“Habit. It’s turned off. For serious stuff I use the desk phone in my office. I figure that if they can bug the office phones, then we’re all really screwed.”

“Oh, you’re screwed, there’s no doubt about that. You should’ve told me months ago.”

“I know. I should’ve done a lot of things differently, but I didn’t have the benefit of hindsight. I was scared. Still am.”

Zack stopped at a fire hydrant. John needed another smoke. The wind had picked up and leaves were blowing and landing around them. It was dark, and they still had dinner at Zoe’s.

They made the block and talked about the future.

The associates who’d dared to slack off by leaving for the short holiday break returned with a vengeance early Saturday morning. The time away was refreshing, though the strain of frenzied travel left them even more exhausted. And time off also meant no billing.

Kyle punched his clock at 8:00 a.m. sharp when he entered the secret room on the eighteenth floor and settled himself at one of the workstations. Four other members of Team Trylon were there, lost in a virtual world of endless research. He nodded to a couple, but no one spoke. He wore jeans and a wool sport coat, and he hauled in his black Bally briefcase, six inches thick and showing some wear. He’d bought it at a shop on Fifth Avenue a week before orientation. All briefcases at the firm were black.

He placed it on the floor beside him, partially under the table, directly under the plain-vanilla computer that had so captivated dear Nigel. He withdrew a legal pad, then a file, and before long his workstation looked authentic. After a few minutes, he took off his jacket, hung it on the back of his chair, and rolled up his sleeves. Trylon was now paying old Scully an additional four hundred bucks an hour.

A quick look around the room revealed one other briefcase. All other jackets and coats had been left upstairs in the offices. The hours began to drag by as Kyle lost himself in the futuristic world of the B-10 HyperSonic Bomber and the people who designed it.

The only good thing about the secret room was the prohibition against cell phones. After a few hours, Kyle needed a break, and he wanted to check his messages. Specifically, he was waiting to hear from Dale, who hadn’t bothered to show up on such a beautiful morning. He walked to his office, closed the door, which was a minor violation of firm policy, and called her private cell phone. As a refuge from the much-hated FirmFone, every associate carried a private one as well.

“Yes,” she answered.

“Where are you?”

“I’m still in Providence.”

“Are you coming back to New York?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Need I remind you, young lady, that this is the third consecutive day in which you have not billed a single hour.”

“I take it you’re at the office.”

“Yes, racking up hours along with every other first-year grunt. Everyone’s here but you.”

“Fire me. Sue me. I don’t care.”

“You’ll never make partner with that attitude.”

“Promise?”

“I was thinking about dinner tonight. There’s a new restaurant in the East Village that just got two stars from Frank Bruni.”

“Are you asking me out for a date?”

“Please. We can split the check since we work for a gender-neutral firm.”

“You’re so romantic.”

“We could do the romance later.”

“So that’s what you’re really after.”

“Always.”

“I get in around seven. I’ll call you then.”

KYLE CLIPPED TRYLON for twelve hours, then called a sedan for the ride to dinner. The restaurant had twenty tables, a Turkish menu, and no dress requirement, though jeans were preferred. After the two-star review by the Times the place was crowded. Kyle got a table only because there had been a cancellation.

Dale was at the bar sipping white wine and looking almost serene. They kissed, a peck on each cheek, then squeezed together and started talking about their Thanksgiving holidays as if they’d just had a month at the beach. Both of her parents taught mathematics at Providence College, and, though wonderful people, they had a rather dull existence. Dale’s gift for math led to a relatively quick Ph.D., but she began to fear she’d wind up much like her parents. The law beckoned her. The law, as portrayed in film and on television as nonstop excitement. The law, as the cornerstone of democracy and the front lines for so many social conflicts. She had excelled at law school, received offers from the top firms, and now, after three months of practice, she sorely missed mathematics.

Later, at their table and still sipping wine, she was quick to confess some exciting news. “I had a job interview this morning.”

“I thought you had a job.”

“Yes, but it sucks. There’s a boutique firm in Providence, downtown in a beautiful old building. I got a job there one summer when I was in college, making copies and coffee and doing the general gofer routine. About twenty lawyers, half women, a general practice. I talked them into an interview on a Saturday morning.”

“But you have a cherished associate’s position with the largest firm in the world. What more could you want?”

“A life. The same thing you want.”

“I want to be a partner so I can sleep until 5:00 a.m. every day until I die at fifty. That’s what I want.”

“Look around, Kyle. Very few stay more than three years. The smart ones are gone after two. The crazy ones make a career out of it.”

“So you’re leaving?”

“I’m not cut out for this. I thought I was pretty tough, but you can have it.”

The waiter took their orders and poured more wine. They were side by side, in a narrow half booth with a view of the restaurant. Kyle’s hand was between her knees under the table.

“When are you leaving?” he asked.

“As soon as humanly possible. I practically begged for a job this morning. If I don’t get an offer, I’ll keep knocking. This is madness, Kyle, and I’m checking out.”

“Congratulations. You’ll be the envy of our class.”

“What about you?”

“I have no idea. I feel as though I just got here. We’re all in shock, but it’ll wear off. It’s boot camp, and we’re still sore from the initial bruising.”

“No more bruises for me. I’ve collapsed once. It won’t happen again. I’m slacking off to fifty hours a week and I dare them to say something.”

“Go, girl.”

A platter of olives and goat cheese arrived, and they toyed with it. “How was York?” she asked.

“The same. I had lunch with my real mother and dinner with my next one, a quick deer hunt that killed nothing, and some long talks with my dad.”

“About what?”

“The usual. Life. The past. The future.”

NIGEL WAS PRESENT for the second meeting in a row, and long before Kyle arrived in the hotel suite, preparations had been under way. On a small desk, Nigel had set up a computer that looked very similar to those on the eighteenth floor. Next to it was a monitor that was identical to the one Kyle had stared at for twelve hours the day before.