The Associate (7 page)

“Why? Why? Why?”

“Because I need information.”

“Great. That really explains things. Thank you so much.”

“Bear with me for a few minutes, Kyle. You need a little background here. There are two gigantic corporations who compete with each other. Both are ruthless
competitors, both are worth billions, and they really despise each other. There have been lawsuits, nasty ones, big public spectacles with no clear winner or loser. So, over the years, they have tried to avoid the courtroom. Until now. Now they’re about to square off in the mother of all lawsuits. It will be filed in a few weeks in federal court in New York City. At stake is something in the neighborhood of $800 billion, and the loser might not survive. Nasty, vicious litigation. A bonanza for the attorneys. Each uses a huge Wall Street law firm, and guess what? The two law firms hate each other.”

“I can’t wait to get in the middle of that.”

“That’s where you’re headed. One firm is Scully & Pershing. The other is Agee, Poe & Epps.”

“Otherwise known as APE.”

“Yes.”

“I interviewed there.”

“Did they offer a job?”

“I thought you knew everything.”

“Only what I need to know.”

“I didn’t like the firm.”

“Attaboy. Now you can really dislike them.”

Kyle walked into the bathroom, ran cold water in the sink, splashed it on his face and down his neck, and for a long time stared at himself in the mirror. Don’t get tired, he told himself. Ignore the fatigue and the fear. Try to anticipate what’s coming. Try to throw him a curve, mess with his timing, knock him off course.

He sat down across the table from Wright. “Where’d you find the video?” Kyle asked.

“Kyle, Kyle, such a waste of time.”

“If the video is used in court, then the owner of the cell phone camera will have to testify. You can’t protect his identity at that point. Does he know this? Did you explain it to him? He’s one of my fraternity brothers, and I’ll bet he’ll refuse to testify at trial.”

“A trial? You’re willing to go to trial? A trial holds the possibility of a conviction, which means prison, and prison for cute little white boys convicted of rape is not pretty.”

“I’ll bet she won’t press charges.”

“You have nothing to bet with. She needs money. If she can squeeze it out of Mr. Tate, and a few bucks from you and the other two, she’ll do it. Trust me.”

“I wouldn’t trust you with my dirty laundry.”

“Enough of the insults. We’ll go to her lawyer and show her exactly how to do it. Or, maybe we won’t. Maybe we’ll just release an edited version of the video on the Internet tonight. Cut out the rape and let everyone see the party scene. We’ll e-mail it to all your friends, family, prospective employers, the whole world, Kyle. See how it plays. Then maybe we’ll edit it some more, maybe include some of the rape, post it again. When Elaine sees it, your face is in the newspaper.”

Kyle’s mouth actually dropped open, and his shoulders slumped. He could think of no quick response, but the one thought that hit him hard was that of being shot. Mr. Wright here was a ruthless little cutthroat who worked for some group with unlimited resources and great determination. They would ruin him. They might even kill him.

As if reading his mind, Wright leaned in a little closer and said, “Kyle, we’re not Boy Scouts. And I’m
tired of this bantering back and forth. I’m not here to negotiate. I’m here to give orders. Either you follow my orders, or I call the office and tell my pals to destroy you.”

“I despise you.”

“So be it. I’m just doing my job.”

“What a miserable job.”

“Can we talk about your new one?”

“I didn’t go to law school to become a spy.”

“Let’s not call it spying, Kyle.”

“Then give it a name, Bennie.”

“Transferring information.”

“Oh, bullshit. It’s nothing but spying.”

“I really don’t care what you call it.”

“What kind of information?”

“Once the lawsuit gets cranked up, there will be a million documents. Maybe ten million, who knows? Lots of documents and lots of secrets. We expect each of the two law firms to commit fifty lawyers to the case—maybe as many as ten partners, the rest associates. You’ll be in the litigation section of Scully & Pershing, so you’ll have access to a lot of material.”

“Security at these firms is extremely tight.”

“We know that. Our security experts are better than theirs. We wrote the book, Kyle.”

“I’m sure you did. May I ask what these two big companies are fighting over?”

“Secrets. Technology.”

“Great. Thanks. Do these companies have names?”

“Fortune 500. I’ll give you more information as we progress.”

“So you’re going to be part of my life for a while?”

“I’m your official handler. You and I will spend a lot of time together.”

“Then I quit. Go ahead and shoot me. I’m not spying and I’m not stealing. The moment I walk out of Scully & Pershing with a document or a disc I’m not supposed to have and give it to you or anybody else, I’ve broken the law and violated half the canons of ethics. I will be disbarred and convicted of something.”

“Only if you get caught.”

“I’ll get caught.”

“No. We’re much too smart, Kyle. We’ve done this before. It’s our business.”

“Your firm specializes in stealing documents?”

“Let’s call it corporate espionage. We do it all the time and we’re very good at it.”

“Then go blackmail someone else.”

“No. It’s all you, Kyle. Think about it. You take the job you’ve always wanted, at an obscene salary, living the fast life in the big city. They try to work you to death for a few years, but they reward you. By the time you’re thirty, you’re a senior associate making four hundred grand a year. Nice apartment in SoHo. A share of a weekend house in the Hamptons. A Porsche. A circle of friends who are all smart and rich and moving up as fast as you are. Then one day the lawsuit is settled. We disappear. The statute runs out in Pittsburgh. The video is finally forgotten, and at the age of thirty-two or thirty-three you’re asked to join Scully & Pershing as a full equity partner. A million or two per year. The pinnacle of success. A great career ahead of you. Life is great. And no one there will ever know about the transferring of information.”

A headache that had been smoldering for the past hour finally matured and hit hard in the middle of his forehead. Kyle stretched out on the bed and massaged his temples. He closed his eyes, but in the blackness managed to keep talking. “Look, Bennie, I know you don’t care about morals or ethics and such things, but I do. How, exactly, am I supposed to live with myself if I betray the confidences of my firm and its clients? Trust is the most important thing a lawyer has. I learned that from my father when I was a teenager.”

“All we care about is getting the information. We don’t spend too much time pondering morality.”

“That’s about what I figured.”

“I need a commitment, Kyle. I need your word.”

“Do you have any Tylenol?”

“No. Do we have an agreement, Kyle?”

“Do you have anything for a headache?”

“No.”

“Do you have a gun?”

“In my jacket.”

“Let me have it.”

A minute passed without a sound. Wright’s eyes never left Kyle, who was motionless except for his fingers pressing gently on his forehead. Then Kyle slowly sat up and asked in a whisper, “How much longer are you planning to stay here?”

“Oh, I have lots of questions.”

“I was afraid of that. I can’t keep going. My head is splitting.”

“Whatever, Kyle. It’s up to you. But I need an answer. Do we have an agreement, a deal, an understanding?”

“Do I really have a choice?”

“I don’t see one.”

“Neither do I.”

“So?”

“If I have no choice, then I have no choice.”

“Excellent. A wise decision, Kyle.”

“Oh, thank you so much.”

Wright stood and stretched as if a long day at the office were finally over. He reshuffled some papers, fiddled with the video camera, closed the laptop. “Would you like to rest, Kyle?”

“Yes.”

“We have several rooms. You’re welcome to take a nap if you’d like, or we can continue tomorrow.”

“It’s already tomorrow.”

Wright was at the door. He opened it and Kyle followed him out of the room, across the hall, and into room 222. What had once been an FBI command center had now been converted back to a regular $89-a-night motel room. Ginyard and Plant and the other fake agents were long gone, and they had taken everything—files, computers, enlarged photos, tripods, briefcases, boxes, folding tables. The bed was back in the center of the room, perfectly made up.

“Shall I wake you in a few hours?” Wright asked pleasantly.

“No. Just leave me alone.”

“I’ll be across the hall.”

When Kyle was alone, he pulled back the bedspread, turned off the lights, and soon fell asleep.

C
ontrary to his best intentions, Kyle awoke several hours later. He desperately wanted to sleep forever, to simply drift away and be forgotten. He awoke in a warm, dark room on a hard bed, and for a second wasn’t sure where he was or how he had managed to get there. His head was still hurting and his mouth was dry. Soon, though, the nightmare returned, and he had the urgent desire to get away, to get outside, where he could look back at the motel and convince himself that the meeting with Detective Wright had not really happened. He needed fresh air, and maybe someone to talk to.

He eased from the room and tiptoed down the hall, down the stairs. In the lobby some salesmen were gulping coffee and talking rapidly, anxious for the day to start. The sun was up, the snow had stopped. Outside the air was cold and sharp, and he inhaled as if he’d been suffocating. He made it to his Jeep, started the engine, turned on the heater, and waited for the defrost to melt the snow on the windshield.

The shock was wearing off, but the reality was even worse.

He checked his cell phone messages. His girlfriend had called six times, his roommate three. They were worried. He had class at 9:00
A.M.
and a pile of work at the law journal. And nothing—girlfriend, roommate, law school, or work—held the slightest interest at the moment. He left the Holiday Inn and drove east on Highway 1 for a few miles until New Haven was behind him. He ran up behind a snowplow and was content to putter along at thirty miles an hour. Other cars lined up behind him, and for the first time he wondered if someone might be following. He began glancing at the rearview mirror.

At the small town of Guilford, he stopped at a convenience store and finally found some Tylenol. He washed it down with a soft drink and was about to drive back to New Haven when he noticed a diner across the street. He had not eaten since lunch the day before and was suddenly famished. He could almost smell the bacon grease.

The diner was packed with the local breakfast crowd. Kyle found a seat at the counter and ordered scrambled eggs, bacon, hash browns, toast, coffee, and orange juice. He ate in silence as the laughter and town gossip roared around him. The headache was fading fast, and he began plotting the rest of his day. His girlfriend might be a problem: no contact in twelve hours, a night spent away from his apartment—highly unusual behavior for someone as disciplined as Kyle. He certainly couldn’t tell her the truth, could he? No, the truth was a thing of the past. The present and the
future would be a life of lies, cover-ups, thievery, espionage, and more lies.

Olivia was a first-year law student at Yale, a Californian, UCLA graduate, extemely bright and ambitious and not looking for a serious commitment. They had been dating for four months, and the relationship was far more casual than romantic. Still, he did not look forward to some stuttering tale of a night that simply vanished.

A body closed in from behind. A hand appeared with a white business card. Kyle glanced to his right and came face-to-face with the man he had once known as Special Agent Ginyard, now wearing a camel hair sport coat and jeans. “Mr. Wright would like to see you at 3:00 p.m., after class, same room,” he said, then disappeared before Kyle could speak. He picked up the card. It was blank except for the handwritten message: “3:00 p.m., today, room 225, Holiday Inn.” He stared at it for a few minutes as he quickly lost interest in the remaining food in front of him.

Is this my future? he asked himself. Someone always watching, following, waiting in the shadows, stalking, listening?

A crowd was waiting by the door for seating. The waitress slipped his bill under his coffee cup and gave him a quick smile that said “Time’s up.” He paid at the cash register and, outside, refused to scan the other vehicles for signs of stalkers. He called Olivia, who was sleeping.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“I don’t want to know anything else, just tell me you’re not hurt.”

“I’m not hurt. I’m fine, and I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“I’m apologizing, okay. I should have called.”

“I don’t want to know.”

“Yes you do. Do you accept my apology?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s better. I expect some anger here.”

“Don’t get me started.”

“How about lunch?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m busy.”

“You can’t skip lunch.”

“Where are you?”

“Guilford.”

“And where might that be?”

“Just down the road from New Haven. There’s a great little place for breakfast. I’ll bring you here sometime.”

“Can’t wait.”

“Meet me at The Grill at noon. Please.”

“I’ll think about it.”

He drove back to New Haven, refusing every half mile to glance at his mirror. He slipped quietly into his apartment and took a shower. Mitch, his roommate, could sleep through an earthquake, and when he finally staggered out of his bedroom, Kyle was sipping coffee at the kitchen counter and reading a newspaper online. Mitch asked a few vague questions about last night, but Kyle deflected them nicely and gave the impression
that he had bumped into a different girl and things went extremely well. Mitch went back to bed.