The Associate (10 page)

Patty had twin girls in 1980. In 1983, Kyle was born, and before he started kindergarten, he was hanging around his father’s office. After his parents divorced, he preferred the stability of the law office to the strains of joint custody, and each day after school he parked himself in a small room upstairs and finished his homework. At the age of ten he was running the copier, making coffee, and tidying up the small library. He was paid $1 an hour in cash. By the age of fifteen he had mastered legal research and could hammer out memos on basic subjects. During high school, when he wasn’t playing basketball, he was at the office or in court with his father.

Kyle loved the law office. He chatted up the clients as they waited to see Mr. McAvoy. He flirted with the secretaries and pestered the associates. He cracked jokes when things were tense, especially when Mr. McAvoy was angry with a subordinate, and he pulled pranks on visiting lawyers. Every lawyer and every
judge in York knew Kyle, and it was not unusual for him to slip into an empty courtroom, present a motion to a judge, argue its merits if necessary, then leave with a signed order. The court clerks treated him as if he were one of the lawyers.

Before college, he was always around the office at five on Tuesday afternoons when Mr. Randolph Weeks stopped by with a delivery of food—fruits and vegetables from his garden in the spring and summer and pork, poultry, or wild game in the fall and winter. Every Tuesday at 5:00 p.m. for at least the past ten years, Mr. Weeks came to pay a portion of his fee. No one knew exactly how much was owed or how much had been paid, but Mr. Weeks certainly felt as though he was still in debt to Mr. McAvoy. He had explained to Kyle many years earlier that his father, a great lawyer, had pulled a miracle and kept Mr. Weeks’s oldest son out of prison.

And Kyle, though only a teenager, had been the unofficial lawyer for Miss Brily, a crazy old woman who’d been run out of every law office in York. She trudged the streets of the town with a wooden file cabinet on wheels, boxes of papers which she claimed proved clearly that her father, who had died at the age of ninety-six (and she still suspected foul play), was the rightful heir to a huge tract of rich coal deposits in eastern Pennsylvania. Kyle had read most of her “documents” and had quickly concluded that she was even nuttier than most lawyers suspected. But he engaged her and listened to her conspiracies. By then he was earning $4 an hour and worth every penny of it. His father often parked him in the reception area to
screen those new clients who at first glance showed the potential to waste a lot of his time.

Except for the usual adolescent dreams of playing professional sports, Kyle always knew he would be a lawyer. He wasn’t sure what kind of lawyer, or where he would practice, but by the time he left York for Duquesne, he doubted if he would return. John McAvoy doubted it, too, though, like any father, he often thought of the pride he would have if the firm name became McAvoy & McAvoy. He demanded hard work and excellent grades, but even he was a little surprised at Kyle’s academic success in college and at Yale Law School. When Kyle began his interviews with the big corporate law firms, John had plenty to say on the matter.

_________

Kyle had called and told his father he would arrive in York late Friday afternoon. They had agreed on dinner. As usual, the office was busy at 5:30, when he arrived. Most law firms closed early on Friday, and most lawyers were either in bars or at the country club. John McAvoy worked late because many of his clients got paid at the end of the week, and a few stopped by to write small checks or see about their cases. Kyle had not been home in six weeks, since Christmas, and the office looked even shabbier. The carpet needed replacing. The bookshelves sagged even more. His father couldn’t stop smoking; therefore smoking was permitted, and a thick haze floated near the ceiling late in the day.

Sybil, the ranking secretary, abruptly hung up the phone when Kyle walked through the door. She
jumped to her feet, squealed, grabbed him, and thrust her gigantic breasts at him. They pecked on the cheeks and enjoyed the physical greeting. His father had handled at least two divorces for Sybil, and the current husband would soon be on the street. Kyle had heard the details during the Christmas break. The firm currently had three secretaries and two associates, and he went from room to room, downstairs first, then upstairs, where the young lawyers were kept, speaking to the employees as they packed their briefcases and purses and tidied up their desks. The boss might enjoy staying late on Fridays, but the rest of the firm was tired.

Kyle drank a diet soda in the coffee room and listened to the voices and sounds of the office as it wound down. The contrasts were startling. Here, in York, the firm was filled with co-workers who were friends who could be trusted. The pace was busy at times, but never frantic. The boss was a good guy, someone you would want as your lawyer. The clients had faces and names. The lawyers across the street were old pals. It was a different world from the hard streets of New York City.

Not for the first time he asked himself why he didn’t tell his father everything. Just spill it all. Start with Elaine, her allegations, the cops and their questions. Five years earlier he had come within minutes of hustling home and asking his father for help. But then it passed, and then it went away, and John McAvoy was never burdened with the ugly episode. None of the four—Kyle, Joey Bernardo, Alan Strock, and Baxter Tate—had told their parents. The investigation ran out of steam before they were forced to.

If he told his father now, the first question would be, “Why didn’t you tell me then?” And Kyle wasn’t prepared to face it. Many tougher questions would follow, a regular cross-examination by a courtroom brawler who’d interrogated his son since he was an infant. It was much easier for Kyle to keep his secrets and hope for the best.

What he was about to tell his father was difficult enough.

After the last client left and Sybil said goodbye and locked the front door, father and son relaxed in the big office and talked about college basketball and hockey. Then family, the twin sisters first, as always, then Patty.

“Does your mother know you’re in town?” John asked.

“No. I’ll call her tomorrow. She’s okay?”

“Nothing’s changed. She’s fine.” Patty lived and worked in the loft of an old warehouse in York. It was a large space with lots of windows that provided the light she needed to pursue her painting. John paid the rent, utilities, and everything else she needed through a monthly stipend of $3,000. It wasn’t alimony, and it certainly wasn’t child support, but simply a gift he felt compelled to pass along for her upkeep because she could not support herself. If she had sold a painting or a sculpture in the past nineteen years, no one in the family knew about it.

“I call her every Tuesday night,” Kyle said.

“I know you do.”

Patty had no use for computers or cell phones. She was severely bipolar, and the mood swings were, at times, astonishing. John still loved her and had never
remarried, though he’d enjoyed a few girlfriends. Patty had been through at least two ruinous affairs, both with fellow artists, much younger men, and John had been there to pick up the pieces. Their relationship was complicated, to say the least.

“So how’s school?” John asked.

“Downhill. I graduate in three months.”

“That’s hard to believe.”

Kyle swallowed hard and decided to get it over with. “I’ve changed my mind about employment. I’m going to Wall Street. Scully & Pershing.”

John slowly lit another cigarette. He was sixty-two, thick but not fat, with a head full of wavy gray hair that began no more than three inches above his eyebrows. Kyle, at twenty-five, had lost more hair than his father.

John took a long drag from his Winston and studied his son from behind wire-rimmed reading glasses perched on his nose. “Any particular reason?”

The list of reasons had been memorized, but Kyle knew they would sound flat regardless of how smoothly they were delivered. “The legal services gig is a waste of time. I’ll end up on Wall Street eventually, so why not get the career started?”

“I don’t believe this.”

“I know, I know. It’s an about-face.”

“It’s a sellout. There’s nothing that requires you to pursue a career in a corporate firm.”

“It’s the big leagues, Dad.”

“In terms of what? Money?”

“That’s a start.”

“No way. There are trial lawyers who make ten
times more each year than the biggest partners in New York.”

“Yes, and for every big trial lawyer there are five thousand starving sole practitioners. On the average, the money is much better in a big firm.”

“You’ll hate every minute of a big firm.”

“Maybe not.”

“Of course you will. You grew up here, around people and real clients. You won’t see a client for ten years in New York.”

“It’s a nice firm, Dad. One of the best.”

John yanked a pen from his pocket. “Let me write this down, so a year from now I can read it back to you.”

“Go ahead. I said, ‘It’s a nice firm. One of the best.’”

John took notes and said, “You’re gonna hate this firm and its lawyers and cases, and you’ll probably even hate the secretaries and the other rookie associates. You’re gonna hate the grind, the routine, the sheer drudgery of all the mindless crap they dump on you. Response?”

“I disagree.”

“Great,” John said, still writing. Then he pulled on the cigarette and blew out an impressive cloud of smoke. He put down the pen. “I thought you wanted to try something different and help people in the process. Did I not hear these words from you just a few weeks ago?”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“Well, change it back. It’s not too late.”

“No.”

“But why? There must be a reason.”

“I just don’t want to spend three years in rural Virginia trying to learn enough Spanish so I can listen to the problems of people who are here illegally in the first place.”

“I’m sorry, but that sounds like a great way to spend the next three years. I don’t buy it. Give me another reason.” With that, John shoved his leather swivel chair back and jumped to his feet. Kyle had seen this a million times. His father preferred to pace and toss his hands about when he was agitated and firing questions. It was an old habit from the courtroom, and it was not unexpected.

“I’d like to make some money.”

“For what? To buy things, some new toys? You won’t have the time to play with them.”

“I plan to save—”

“Of course you will. Living in Manhattan is so cheap you’ll save a fortune.” He was walking in front of his Ego Wall, framed certificates and photos almost to the ceiling. “I don’t buy it, and I don’t like it.” His cheeks were turning colors. The Scottish temper was warming up.

Speak softly, Kyle reminded himself. A sharp word or two would make things much worse. He would survive this little clash, as he had survived the others, and one day soon all the harsh words would be over and Kyle would be off to New York.

“It’s all about the money, isn’t it, Kyle?” John said. “You were raised better.”

“I’m not here to be insulted, Dad. I’ve made my decision. I ask you to respect it. A lot of fathers would be thrilled with such a job.”

John McAvoy stopped pacing and stopped smoking,
and he looked across his office at the handsome face of his only son, a twenty-five-year-old who was quite mature and unbelievably bright, and he decided to back off. The decision was made. He’d said enough. Any more and he might say too much. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. It’s all you. You’re smart enough to know what you want, but I’m your father and I’ll have some opinions about your next big decision, and the next. That’s what I’m here for. If you screw up again, I’ll damned sure let you know it.”

“I’m not screwing up, Dad.”

“I will not bicker.”

“Can we go to dinner? I’m starving.”

“I need a drink.”

_________

They rode together to Victor’s Italian Restaurant, John’s Friday night ritual for as long as Kyle could remember. John had his usual end-of-the-week martini. Kyle had his standard drink—club soda with a twist of lime. They ordered pasta with meatballs, and after the second martini John began to mellow. Having his son at the largest and most prestigious law firm in the country did have a nice ring to it.

But he was still puzzled by the abrupt change in plans.

If you only knew, Kyle kept saying to himself. And he ached because he couldn’t tell his father the truth.

K
yle was relieved when his mother did not answer the phone. He waited until almost eleven on Saturday morning before calling. He left a pleasant little message about popping in for a quick hello as he was passing through York for some vague reason. She was either asleep or medicated, or if it was a good day, she was in her studio thoroughly absorbed in creating some of the most dreadful art never seen in a gallery or an exhibition. Visits with his mother were painful. She rarely left her loft, for any reason, so the suggestion that they meet for coffee or lunch was always dismissed. If the meds were in sync, she talked incessantly while forcing Kyle to admire her latest masterpieces. If the meds were out of order, she would lie on the sofa with her eyes closed, unbathed, unkempt, often inconsolable in her gloom and misery. She seldom asked about his life—college, law school, girlfriends, plans for the future. She was much too absorbed in her own sad little world. Kyle’s twin sisters stayed far away from York.

He left the message on her recorder as he was hustling out of town and hoped she didn’t return the call anytime soon. She did not; in fact, the call was never returned, which was not unusual. Four hours later he was in Pittsburgh. Joey Bernardo had tickets for the Penguins–Senators hockey game Saturday night. Three tickets, not two.

They met at Boomerang’s, a favorite watering hole from their college days. After Kyle quit drinking (Joey did not), he avoided most bars. Driving to Pittsburgh, he had hoped for some quiet time with his old roommate, but it wasn’t to be.

The third ticket was for Blair, Joey’s soon-to-be-announced fiancée. By the time the three of them settled into a tight booth and ordered drinks, Joey was gushing with the news that they had just become engaged and were looking at wedding dates. Both were glowing with love and romance and seemed oblivious to everything else. They held hands, sat close, even giggled at each other, and after five minutes Kyle felt uncomfortable. What had happened to his friend? Where was the old Joey—the tough kid from South Pittsburgh, son of a fire captain, accomplished boxer, all-conference high school fullback, tremendous appetite for girls, a cynical, smart-ass wisecracker who believed women were disposable, the guy who’d vowed he wouldn’t marry until he was at least forty?