John Grisham: The Associate

According to the file, Scully & Pershing was offering a base salary of $200,000 plus the usual extras. The other firms’ offers were similar.

“When will you select a job?” Wright asked.

“Very soon.”

“Which way are you leaning?”

“I’m not.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

Wright reached for the file, shaking his head grimly and frowning as if he’d been insulted. He retrieved more papers, flipped through them, then glared at Kyle. “You haven’t made a verbal commitment to accept a position with an outfit called Piedmont Legal Aid, in Winchester, Virginia, beginning September the second of this year?”

A rush of warm air escaped through Kyle’s dry lips. As he absorbed this, he instinctively glanced at the monitor, and, yes, he looked as weak as he felt. He almost blurted, “How the hell do you know this?” but to do so would be to admit the truth. Nor could he deny the truth. Wright already knew.

As he was lurching toward some lame response, his adversary moved in for the kill. “Let’s call this Lie Number One, okay, Kyle?” Wright said with a sneer. “Should we somehow arrive at Lie Number Two, then we turn off the camera, say good night, and meet again tomorrow for the arrest. Handcuffs, perp walk, mug shot, maybe a reporter or two. You won’t be thinking about protecting illegal immigrants, and you won’t be thinking about Wall Street. Don’t lie to me, Kyle. I know too much.”

Kyle almost said, “Yes, sir,” but instead managed only a slight affirmative nod.

“So you plan to do some charitable work for a couple of years?”

“Yes.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know. I’m sure I’ll join a firm somewhere, start a career.”

“What do you think of Scully & Pershing?”

“Big, powerful, rich. I think it’s the largest law firm in the world, depending on who got merged or swallowed yesterday. Offices in thirty cities on five continents. Some really smart folks who work very hard and put enormous pressure on each other, especially on their young associates.”

“Your kind of work?”

“It’s hard to say. The money is great. The work is brutal. But it’s the big leagues. I’ll probably end up there.”

“In what section did you work last summer?”

“I moved around, but most of my time was spent in litigation.”

“Do you like litigation?”

“Not especially. May I ask what these questions can possibly have to do with that matter back in Pittsburgh?”

Wright took his elbows off the table and tried to relax a little deeper into the folding chair. He crossed his legs and placed the legal pad on his left thigh. He chewed the end of his pen for a moment, staring at Kyle as if he were now a psychiatrist, analyzing the patient. “Let’s talk about your fraternity at Duquesne.”

“Whatever.”

“There were about ten members of your pledge class, right?”

“Nine.”

“Do you keep in touch with all of them?”

“To some degree.”

“The indictment names you and three others, so let’s talk about the other three. Where is Alan Strock?”

The indictment. Somewhere in that damned file less than three feet away was the indictment. How could his name be listed as a defendant? He had not touched the girl. He had not witnessed a rape. He had not seen anyone having sex. He vaguely recalled being present in the room, but he had blacked out at some point during the night, during the episode. How could he be an accomplice if he wasn’t conscious? That would be his defense at trial, and a solid defense it would be, but the specter of a trial was too awful to imagine. A trial would come long after the arrest, the publicity, the horror of seeing his photo in print. Kyle closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, and he thought about the phone calls home, first to his father and then to his mother. Other phone calls would follow: one each to the recruiting directors who’d offered him jobs; one to each of his sisters. He would proclaim his innocence and all that, but he knew he would never shake the suspicion of rape.

At that moment, Kyle had no confidence in Detective Wright and whatever deal he had in mind. If there was indeed an indictment, then no miracle could keep it buried.

“Alan Strock?” Wright asked.

“He’s in med school at Ohio State.”

“Any recent correspondence?”

“An e-mail a couple of days ago.”

“And Joey Bernardo?”

“He’s still in Pittsburgh, working for a brokerage firm.”

“Recent contact?”

“By phone, a few days ago.”

“Any mention of Elaine Keenan with Alan or Joey?”

“No.”

“You boys have tried to forget about Elaine, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, she’s back.”

“Evidently.”

Wright readjusted himself in the chair, uncrossed his legs, stretched his back, and returned to the most comfortable position with both elbows stuck on the table. “Elaine left Duquesne after her freshman year,” he began in a softer voice, as if he had a long tale to tell. “She was troubled. Her grades were a mess. She now claims that the rape brought on severe emotional distress. She lived with her parents for a year or so in Erie, then began drifting. A lot of self-medication, booze and drugs. She saw some therapists, but nothing helped. Have you heard any of this?”

“No. After she left school, there was not a word.”

“Anyway, she has an older sister in Scranton who took her in, got her some help, paid for rehab. Then they found a shrink who, evidently, has done a nice job of putting Elaine back together. She’s clean, sober, feels great, and her memory has improved dramatically. She’s also found herself a lawyer, and of course she is demanding justice.”

“You sound skeptical.”

“I’m a cop, Kyle. I’m skeptical of everything, but I have this young woman who is credible and who says she was raped, and I have a video that is pretty powerful evidence. And on top of that, there’s this lawyer who’s out for blood.”

“This is a shakedown, isn’t it? All about money?”

“What do you mean, Kyle?”

“The fourth defendant is Baxter Tate, and of course we know what that’s all about. The Tate family is very rich. Old Pittsburgh money. Baxter was born with trust funds. How much does she want?”

“I’ll ask the questions. Did you ever have sex—”

“Yes, I had sex with Elaine Keenan, as did most of my pledge class. She was wild as hell, spent more time in the Beta house than most Betas, could drink any three of us under the table, and always had a purse full of pills. Her problems began long before she arrived at Duquesne. Believe me, she does not want to go to trial.”

“How many times did you have sex with her?”

“Once, about a month before the alleged rape.”

“Do you know if Baxter Tate had sexual relations with Elaine Keenan on the night in question?”

Kyle paused, took a deep breath, and said, “No, I do not. I blacked out.”

“Did Baxter Tate admit to having sex with her that night?”

“Not to me.”

Wright finished writing a long sentence on his legal pad as the air cleared. Kyle could almost hear the camera running. He glanced at it and saw the little red light still staring at him.

“Where is Baxter?” Wright asked after a long, heavy pause.

“Somewhere in L.A. He barely graduated, then went to Hollywood to become an actor. He’s not too stable.”

“Meaning?”

“He comes from a wealthy family that’s even more dysfunctional than most wealthy families. He’s a hard partier, lots of booze and drugs and girls. And he shows no signs of outgrowing it. His goal in life is to become a great actor and drink himself to death. He wants to die young, sort of like James Dean.”