The Associate (22 page)

“What about the drugs?”

“Forgotten. The power of the Holy Spirit is far greater than human desire. I’ve seen it a thousand times with addicts who try everything to quit—rehab clinics, state facilities, shrinks and doctors, fancy
meds sold as substitutes. When you’re an addict, you’re powerless in the face of booze and drugs. Strength comes from somewhere else. For me, it comes from the power of the Holy Spirit.”

“I don’t feel very strong right now.”

“You’re not. Look at yourself. From Washoe Retreat to a cheap bar in a run-down casino in a few hours. That might be a record, Baxter.”

“I didn’t want to go to that bar.”

“Of course not. But you did.”

“Why?” His voice was soft, fading.

“Because you’ve never said no.”

A tear rolled down Baxter’s cheek, and he wiped it with the back of his hand. “I don’t want to go back to L.A.”

“You can’t, son.”

“Can you help me? I’m pretty shaky here, okay? I mean, I’m really scared.”

“Let’s pray together, Baxter.”

“I’ll try.”

S
ix months after the Trylon-Bartin dispute went public with the filing of the lawsuit, the battleground had been defined and the troops were in place. Both sides had filed ponderous motions designed to capture the higher ground, but so far no advantage had been gained. They were of course haggling over deadlines, schedules, issues, discovery, and who got to see what documents, and when.

With the waves of lawyers working in sync, the case was plodding along. A trial was nowhere in sight, but then it was far too early. With monthly billings to Trylon averaging $5.5 million, why push the case to a conclusion?

On the other side, Bartin Dynamics was paying just as much for a vigorous and gold-plated defense coordinated by the bare-knuckle litigators at Agee, Poe & Epps. APE had committed forty lawyers to the case and, like Scully, had such a deep bench that it could send in another wave whenever necessary.

The hottest issue so far was no surprise to either
set of litigators. When the forced marriage of Trylon and Bartin unraveled, when their clumsy joint venture blew up, there had been a virtual slugfest for the documents. Hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions of documents had been generated during the development of the B-10 HyperSonic Bomber. Researchers employed by Trylon grabbed all the documents they could. Researchers for Bartin did the same. Software was routed and rerouted, and some of it was destroyed. Hardware controlled by one company found its way to the other. Thousands of secured files disappeared. Crates of printed documents were hoarded and hidden. And throughout the melee each company accused the other of lying, espionage, outright thievery. When the dust settled, neither knew exactly what the other possessed.

Because of the supersensitive nature of the research, the Pentagon watched in horror as the two companies behaved outrageously. The Pentagon, as well as several intelligence agencies, leaned heavily on Trylon and Bartin to keep their dirty laundry private, but they were ultimately not successful. The fight was now controlled by the lawyers and the courts.

A major task for Mr. Wilson Rush and his Scully & Pershing team was to accumulate, index, copy, and store all documents in the possession of Trylon. A warehouse was leased in Wilmington, North Carolina, about a mile from the Trylon testing facility where most of the B-10 research had taken place. After it was leased, it was completely renovated and made fire-, wind-, and waterproof. All windows were removed and replaced with a six-inch cinder-block wall. A Washington security firm wired the warehouse
with twenty closed-circuit cameras. The four large doors were equipped with infrared alarms and metal detectors. Armed guards patrolled the empty warehouse long before any of the documents arrived.

When they did arrive, they came in unmarked tractor-trailer rigs, complete with more armed guards. Dozens of deliveries were made over a two-week period in mid-September. The warehouse, nicknamed Fort Rush, came to life as ton after ton of paperwork was stacked neatly in white cardboard boxes, all waiting to be organized into a system understood only by the lawyers up in New York.

The warehouse was leased by Scully & Pershing. Every contract was signed by Wilson Rush—contracts for the renovations, security operations, transporting of documents, everything. Once the documents entered the warehouse, they were deemed AWP—Attorneys’ Work Product—and thus subject to a different set of rules regarding disclosure to the other side.

Mr. Rush selected ten associates from his litigation team, ten of the brightest and most trusted. These unlucky souls were shipped to Wilmington and introduced to Fort Rush, a long, windowless hangar of a building with shiny concrete floors and a pungent industrial smell to it. In the center was the mountain of boxes. Along both sides were rows of empty folding tables, and beyond the tables were ten large, fierce-looking copy machines, with wires and cables running everywhere. The copiers were, of course, state-of-the-art color and capable of instant scanning, collating, even stapling.

Far away from their New York offices, the associates were allowed to wear jeans and running shoes,
and they were promised bigger bonuses and other goodies. But nothing could compensate them for the dismal job of physically copying and scanning a million documents. And in Wilmington! Most were married, with spouses and children back home, though of the ten, four had already suffered through a divorce. And it was quite likely that Fort Rush would be the cause of even more marital problems.

They began their forbidding task under the direction of Mr. Rush himself. Every document was copied twice, in a split second, and instantly scanned into the firm’s virtual library. Several weeks down the road, when the task was complete, the library would be accessible by a secured code, and once inside, a lawyer could locate any document in a matter of seconds. The firm’s computer experts designed the library and were supremely confident that its security was impenetrable.

To impress upon the associates the gravity of their seemingly mindless work, Mr. Rush stayed for three days and was involved in the unpacking, sorting, scanning, copying, and repacking. When he left, two other litigation partners remained and directed traffic. Such mundane work was normally contracted out to a copying service and supervised by the firm’s litigation support staff, but that was far too risky with these documents. They had to be handled by real lawyers who appreciated their importance. The real lawyers manning the copiers averaged about $400,000 in salary, and most had at least one degree from an Ivy League school. At no point in their graduate or postgraduate studies could they have pictured themselves
running copiers, but after four or five years with Scully & Pershing they were shockproof.

The rotation began after the first week. Eight days in the warehouse, then four days in New York, then back to Wilmington. The assignments were staggered, and a total of fifteen associates were eventually used. All were forbidden to discuss any aspect of Fort Rush with anyone in New York. Security and confidentiality were paramount.

The first project took six weeks. Two point two million documents were copied, indexed, and added to the library. The associates were freed from Fort Rush and flown back to New York on a chartered jet.

By then, Bennie knew exactly where the warehouse was located and had a general idea of its security features, but his interest in these matters was only passing. What Bennie wanted, of course, was access to the virtual library, access only his spy could deliver.

F
or another $1,000, the security firm in Pittsburgh watched Elaine Keenan long enough to determine her daily routine. She usually had lunch with some co-workers at a sandwich shop not far from the parks and recreation complex where she worked.

A chance encounter would have to be believable, and Joey couldn’t sell the idea of bumping into her in the lesbian bar she and her roommate occasionally frequented. He wasn’t sure he could sell any encounter with Elaine. Aside from the casual sex five and a half years earlier, he’d never really known her. She had been one of several groupies around the Beta fraternity, and he’d tried to forget all of them.

The security firm provided three color photos. Joey had studied them for hours and was not convinced he’d ever met the girl. Kyle, however, had studied them and claimed to recall her vividly.

Now, at the age of twenty-three, her dark hair was tinted a deep red and worn very short. There was no makeup, no lipstick, nothing but matching tattoos
around her forearms. If she had any interest in being attractive, it was not apparent. Somewhere under all the attitude was a cute girl, but sex appeal was unimportant.

Joey swallowed hard, cursed Kyle again, and entered the sandwich shop. He eased behind her as she waited in line to order, and after a few minutes, as the line moved slowly forward, managed to bump into her. “Sorry,” he quickly said with a wide fake smile.

She smiled back, but said nothing. He moved a step closer and said, “Hey, you were at Duquesne a few years ago, weren’t you?” Her two co-workers glanced back but were not interested.

“Briefly,” she said, eyeing him carefully, searching for any clue.

He snapped his fingers as if trying to recall something. “Elaine? Right? Can’t think of the last name.”

“That’s right. And who are you?”

“Joey Bernardo. I was in Beta.”

A look of horror swept over her face, and she dropped her gaze to the floor. For a moment she was frozen, unable to speak, ready, it seemed, to erupt. Then she shuffled a step to keep pace in line. She turned her back on the man who once raped her, a man who walked away from the crime not only unpunished but completely vindicated. Joey watched her from the corner of an eye and felt uneasy for several reasons. First, she was obviously frightened by him, but since she considered herself the victim and him the rapist, this was not surprising. It was also uncomfortable being this close to someone he’d once had sex with, regardless of how casual or how uneventful it now seemed.

She turned halfway to him and hissed, “What are you doing here?”

“I’m eating lunch, same as you.”

“Would you please leave?” Her voice was barely audible, but one of her co-workers turned around and glared at Joey.

“No. I’m just getting a sandwich.”

Nothing else was said as they ordered and moved down to the pickup counter. Elaine hurried off to a distant table and ate quickly with her two friends. Joey ate alone at a small table near the front door. The note was already prepared. It read: “Elaine: I’d like to talk to you about what happened. Please call my cell at 412-866-0940. I’ll be in Scranton until 9:00 tomorrow. Joey Bernardo.” He hauled his tray back to the counter, then walked to her table, handed her the note without a word, and disappeared.

Two hours later, she called.

At 5:00 p.m. sharp, as agreed, Joey returned to the sandwich shop. He found Elaine at the same table she’d used for lunch, but instead of sitting with a couple of friends, she was accompanied by her attorney. Icy introductions were made, and Joey sat down across from them with a knot in his throat and a strong desire to maim Kyle McAvoy. Where the hell was Kyle anyway? He was the lawyer.

Elaine’s lawyer was an attractive middle-aged woman. Everything was black—pantsuit, thick coral necklace, boots, eye shadow, and, worst of all, her mood. This woman went for the throat. The business card Joey was holding and glancing at proclaimed her to be Michelin “Mike” Chiz, Attorney & Counselor
at Law. She began matter-of-factly: “My first question for you, Mr. Bernardo, is, what are you doing here?”

“How many questions do you have?” Joey asked in his finest smart-ass manner. He had been assured time after time by his psuedo-lawyer and near co-defendant, one Kyle McAvoy, that there was no danger in this chance meeting with Elaine Keenan. Any legal action she wanted to initiate could have been commenced long ago. Five and a half years had passed.

“Well, Mr. Bernardo, may I call you Joey?”

There was almost no chance that she would allow him to call her Mike, so he abruptly said no.

“Very well, Mr. Bernardo, I have just a few questions. I have represented Ms. Keenan here for some time now. She actually works part-time in my office, a fine paralegal, and I’m familiar with her story. Now, what are you doing here?”

“First of all, I don’t have to explain a damned thing to you. But I’ll try to be nice, at least for the next sixty seconds. I work for a brokerage firm in Pittsburgh, and we have some clients in Scranton. I’m here to see these clients. I got hungry around noon today. I chose this four-star restaurant at random, walked in, saw Ms. Keenan here, said hello, she freaked, I wanted to chat, and now I’m taking questions from her lawyer. Why, exactly, do you need a lawyer, Elaine?”

“You raped me, Joey,” Elaine blurted. “You and Baxter Tate, and maybe Kyle McAvoy.” By the time she finished, her eyes were moist. Her breathing was heavy, almost heaving, as if she might lunge at him at any moment.

“Maybe this, maybe that. You never got your story straight.”

“Why did you want to talk to my client?” Ms. Chiz demanded.

“Because it was a misunderstanding, and I wanted to apologize for the misunderstanding. That’s all. After she cried rape, we never saw her again. The cops investigated, found nothing because nothing happened, and by then Elaine had disappeared.”

“You raped me, Joey, and you know it.”

“There was no rape, Elaine. We had sex—me and you, you and Baxter, you and most of the other boys at Beta—but it was all very consensual.”

Elaine closed her eyes and began shaking as if chills swept her body.

“Why does she need a lawyer?” Joey asked Ms. Chiz.

“She’s suffered greatly.”

“I don’t know how much she’s suffered, Ms. Chiz, but I do know that she suffered very little during her days at Duquesne. She was too busy partying to spend time suffering. Lots of booze, drugs, and sex, and there are lots of boys and girls perfectly capable of refreshing her memory. You’d better get to know your client before you pursue some bogus legal action. There’s a lot of bad stuff back there.”