John Grisham: The Associate

Three of the six jaws had dropped on the other side, not down to their chests, not the kick-me-in-the-gut shock of sudden, horrific news, but a stunning blow nonetheless. The nightmare of one lowly associate tapping into their impenetrable defenses was bad enough. Now there might be another?

And just to give them more heartburn, Kyle added something he truly believed, but couldn’t prove. “And I don’t think it’s an associate,” he said, then withdrew from the fray and settled back into his chair.

All six partners had the same thought. If it’s not an associate, then it must be a partner.

Doug Peckham swallowed hard, cleared his throat, and attempted to speak. “Are you saying—”

Next to him, Wilson Rush quickly raised his right hand, partially in Doug’s space. Like a king calling for silence, a quick lifting of the hand, and all was quiet for the moment.

Roy finally said, “Anything else?”

“I believe that’s all,” Meezer said. After an awkward few seconds, Roy stood, followed by Kyle and Delano and Wingate. The six partners did not budge. They sat frozen, with matching scowls, as Kyle and his little entourage left the room.

In the lobby of the building, they were met by the same three large young men who’d brought Kyle from the hotel. The group made it safely outside, onto Broad Street, then walked one block east to the building next door, where Roy worked, sixteen floors up. The three agents, bodyguards really, camped in a reception area and began waiting again. Inside Roy’s office, Drew Wingate decided that his job was over. He excused himself and promised to help in any way possible. After he left, Kyle, Roy, and Delano gathered around Roy’s small conference table. Some poor secretary, beckoned on a Sunday, served them coffee with a smile.

“What are your plans, Kyle?” Delano asked.

“Well, looks like I won’t be practicing law in the state of New York, that’s for sure. I’ll go home for a few weeks, take some time off, enjoy the holidays.”

“I’m not sure that’s a wise thing to do.”

“Thank you, Mr. Delano. I appreciate your concern, but I’m not about to go into hiding. Thanks for the offer to enter the dark little world of witness protection, but no thanks. I’m twenty-five years old, stumbling but not falling, and I’ll do just fine on my own.”

Roy’s coffee cup froze in midair, halfway to his mouth. “Kyle, you can’t be serious.”

“Dead serious, Roy. No pun intended. I’ve just survived three days of protection, guards all around me, hiding and watching for bad guys. No thanks. There’s more to my future than fake names and nonstop Scrabble.”

“Scrabble?”

“Don’t go there. Listen, I’ve been under surveillance for the last ten months. You know what that does to you? You get real paranoid. You suspect everyone. You seize upon every new face because it might belong to a bad guy. You notice every corner, alley, every bum on a park bench, every guy wearing a dark trench coat. You pick up a phone and you wonder who’s listening. You send an e-mail and change the wording because the wrong eyes might see it. In your own apartment you change clothes in a hurry, back to the camera, trying to hide your crotch. You walk in a coffee shop and go straight to the front window to see who’s on the sidewalk behind you. You learn all sorts of stupid little tricks because the more you know, the more you might need to know. And the walls close in. The world becomes a small place because somebody is always watching. I’m sick of it. I’m not going to live on the run.”

“These guys killed Baxter Tate without the slightest hesitation,” Roy said. “What makes you think they won’t do the same to you?”

“The operation was still hot when Baxter came barging in. The operation, at least that part that involves me, is now over. Bennie’s gone. The operation failed. He might return with another plan—”

“I’m sure he will,” Delano said.

“But it won’t involve me. What does Bennie gain by taking me out?”

“He takes out a material witness,” Roy said.

“Only if he’s caught, which I seriously doubt. If Bennie gets hauled back for a trial, then we can talk about hiding.”

“Oh, it’ll be too late then, Kyle,” Delano said. “Believe me. The moment Bennie gets nabbed, there’ll be a few guys headed your way.”

“Bring ’em on. We have at least five deer rifles at home. I’ll carry a Luger in my briefcase. If they show up, we’ll have a regular gunfight.”

“Get serious, Kyle,” Roy pleaded.

“The decision has been made. The FBI cannot force me into witness protection, and so I hereby officially, and respectfully, say no. Thank you, Mr. Delano, but the answer is no.”

“I hope you don’t regret this,” Delano said.

“So do I,” Kyle said. “And please don’t follow me around. I might go berserk and shoot the next person I see lurking in the shadows.”

“Oh, don’t worry. We have plenty of work elsewhere.” Delano stood and all hands were shaken. He said to Roy, “I’ll check in once a week with an update.”

Roy walked him to the door, and the FBI left Kyle’s life. With the door closed, Roy took his seat and looked at Kyle as if he couldn’t believe it. “You’re awfully brave,” he said.

“Brave or stupid. The line is often blurred.”

“Why not disappear for a few months, maybe a year? Let everything cool off.”

“A year means nothing. These guys have long memories. If Bennie wants revenge, he’ll find me sooner or later, and it won’t matter where I happen to be.”

“You don’t trust the FBI?”

“No. I trust you, me, my father, a girl named Dale, and that’s about it.”

“So it was an inside job?”

“We’ll never know, will we? I have a hunch that Bennie works for the same government you and I send our taxes to. That’s how he got away. That’s why he’ll never be found.”

“I still don’t believe that.”

Kyle shrugged, and for a long time nothing was said.

Finally, Kyle glanced at his watch. “Look, Roy, it’s Sunday afternoon and you have a family. Go home.”

“What about you?”

“Me? I’m walking out the door, taking a long hike to my apartment, not once looking over my shoulder, and when I get there, I’ll load up my clothes and as much junk as possible, cram all of it into my Jeep that has 200,000 miles on the odometer, and drive home. I should get there in time for a late dinner with my father. Tomorrow he and I will draw up a partnership agreement — McAvoy & McAvoy, Attorneys-at-Law — and I’ll make partner faster than any graduate in the history of the Yale Law School.”

“I like it. The editor in chief of the Yale Law Journal practicing law on Main Street in York, Pennsylvania.”

“I like it, too. Real clients. Real people. Real cases. Deer hunting on Saturdays, Steelers on Sundays. A real life.”

“You’re not kidding, are you?”

“I have never been more serious.”

“Come on. I’ll walk you out.”

They rode the elevator to the lobby and walked out of the building. They shook hands and said goodbye, and Roy watched his client stride nonchalantly along Broad Street and disappear around a corner.