The Associate (27 page)

“I don’t know. Why are you so interested?”

“Because I don’t want to work on it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I think Trylon is a rogue defense contractor with a rotten history of making cheap products, screwing the government and the taxpayers,
dumping dirty weapons around the world, killing innocent people, promoting war, and propping up nasty little dictators, all in an effort to increase the bottom line and have something to show the shareholders.”

“Anything else?”

“Lots.”

“You don’t like Trylon?”

“No.”

“The company is an extremely valuable client.”

“Good. Let someone else work for them.”

“Associates are not allowed to choose who they work for.”

“I know. I’m just sharing my opinion.”

“Well, keep it to yourself, okay. That kind of language will get you a lousy reputation.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll do the work that’s assigned to me. But as a favor, as my supervising partner, I’m asking that you keep me busy elsewhere.”

“I’ll see what I can do, but Mr. Rush makes the final decisions.”

The second wine was a pinot noir from South Africa, and it, too, caused Doug’s eyes to roll around. Their entrées—braised pork shoulder and aged prime rib of beef—were not far behind, and they got serious about eating.

“You know your rate now goes to four hundred an hour,” Doug said, chewing.

“Are you still at eight hundred?”

“Yes.”

Kyle was not sure he had the spine to bill a client, regardless of how large the corporation might be, $400 for an hour of his inexperienced legal work. Not that he had a choice.

“On the subject of billing,” Doug said. “For the month of October, I need you to estimate my hours on the Ontario Bank case. I got busy and lost track.”

Kyle managed to keep chewing a small bite of braised pork, but he almost choked. Did he say “Estimate my hours”? He certainly did, and this was something new. There had been nothing at orientation, nothing in the handbook, nothing anywhere about “estimating” hours. Just the opposite. They had been trained to treat billing as the most important aspect of their practice. Pick up a file, look at the clock. Make a phone call, record the time. Sit through a meeting, count the minutes. Every hour had to be accounted for, and the billing was done on the spot. It was never to be delayed, and it had to be precise.

“How does one estimate hours?” Kyle asked carefully.

“Look at the file. Check the hours you billed on it. Look at my work, then estimate my time for the month of October. It’s no big deal.”

At $800 an hour it was indeed a big deal.

“And don’t underestimate,” Doug said, swirling his wine in the goblet.

Of course not. If we’re going to guess here, let’s be damned sure we land on the high side. “Is this a common practice?” Kyle asked.

Doug snorted in disbelief and swallowed a hunk of beef. Don’t be stupid, boy. It happens all the time. “And since we’re now talking about Ontario Bank,” he said, meat visible between his teeth, “bill ’em for this lunch.”

“I was planning on getting the check,” Kyle said, a lame effort at humor.

“Of course not. I’ll put it on a credit card and bill the bank. I’m talking about our time. Two hours for you, now at four hundred, and two for me. The bank had record earnings last year.”

That was nice to hear. They would need healthy earnings to continue their relationship with Scully & Pershing. Twenty-four hundred dollars for lunch, and that did not include food, wine, or tip.

“And now that you’ve passed the bar,” Doug said as he took another bite, “you are entitled to use the black cars and bill clients for dinner. The rule goes like this: If you work until eight o’clock at night, then call a car. I’ll give you the number and code, and be sure the client gets billed for the car. And if you choose, you can go to a restaurant, spend no more than a hundred bucks on yourself, and also bill the client.”

“You gotta be kidding.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m at the office almost every night until eight, and if somebody else is buying dinner, then I’ll be damned sure I stay until eight.”

“Attaboy.”

“Seems kinda rich, doesn’t it?”

“What?”

“Billing the client for expensive dinners and lunches and cars.”

A swirl of the pinot, a thoughtful stare at the red liquid, a long pull. “Kyle, my boy, look at it this way. Our biggest client is BXL, the seventh-largest company in the world, sales last year of $200 billion. Very smart businessmen who have a budget for everything. They live by budgets. They are fanatics about budgets.
Last year their budget for legal fees was one percent of their total sales, or about $2 billion. We didn’t get all of that, because they use twenty different law firms around the world, but we got our share. Guess what happens if they don’t spend the amount they budget, if their legal fees fall short? Their in-house lawyers monitor our billings, and if our numbers are low, they call up and raise hell. What are we, the lawyers, doing wrong? Aren’t we properly protecting them? The point is, they expect to spend the money. If we don’t take it, then it screws up their budgets, they get worried, and maybe they start looking around for another firm, one that will work harder at billing them. You follow?”

Yes, Kyle followed. It was beginning to make sense. Expensive meals were necessary not only to keep the hungry lawyers going but also to properly balance their clients’ financial statements. Now it seemed almost prudent.

“Yes,” Kyle said, and for the first time the wine warmed his brain and made him relax.

Doug spread his arms and looked around. “And look at where we are, Kyle. Wall Street. The absolute pinnacle of success in America. We’re here, we’re on top, we’re smart and tough and talented, and we make a boatload of money to prove it. We are entitled, Kyle, and don’t forget it. Our clients pay us because they need us and we offer the best legal advice money can buy. Never forget that.”

John McAvoy had lunch every day at the same table at an old café on Queen Street in York, and from the time Kyle was ten years old and hanging around the office, he loved having lunch with his father. The
café’s special was a vegetable plate that varied each day and cost little, with homemade rolls and iced tea, no sugar. The café attracted lawyers, bankers, and judges, but there were also mechanics and bricklayers. The gossip roared and the bantering was nonstop. The lawyers always joked, “Who’s paying for lunch?” and boasted of wealthy clients who they’d stick with a $3.99 check.

Kyle doubted that his father ever gave a passing thought to billing a client for lunch.

Doug insisted on dessert. Two hours after entering the restaurant, they pushed themselves out the door and into the black car. Both nodded off during the fifteen-minute ride back to the office.

F
or the first time in the nine-month life of the operation, Kyle contacted Bennie and suggested they meet. All prior meetings had been prompted by the handler, not the asset. Kyle gave no reason for wanting to meet, but then none was necessary. It was assumed that Kyle finally had something valuable to pass along. It was almost 6:00 p.m. on Friday, and Kyle was working in the main library on the thirty-ninth floor. By e-mail, Bennie suggested the hotel 60 Thompson in SoHo, and Kyle agreed. Kyle always agreed because he was not allowed to disagree or suggest another meeting place. It didn’t matter; he had no intention of showing up, not that Friday night. Joey wasn’t in town yet.

Four hours later, Kyle was hiding in the Placid Mortgage tomb mindlessly flipping through foreclosure files—now at $400 an hour—when he e-mailed Bennie with the sad news that he wouldn’t be leaving the office anytime soon. Could be an all-nighter. Although he loathed the work and hated the tomb, and
found it hard to believe he was still at the office so late on a Friday night, he was slightly amused at the image of Bennie waiting impatiently in the hotel room for a meeting that would not take place because his asset was holed up in the office and wouldn’t come out. The handler couldn’t complain if the asset was hard at work.

Kyle suggested a meeting late Saturday afternoon, and Bennie took the bait. Within minutes he e-mailed the instructions: 7:00 p.m., Saturday, room 42, Wooster Hotel in SoHo. So far, a different hotel had been used for each meeting.

On a desk phone, Kyle called Joey’s new cell number and passed along the details. His flight from Pittsburgh would arrive at LaGuardia at 2:30 on Saturday afternoon. He would take a cab to the Mercer Hotel, check into his room, and kill time while his friend practiced law. He would roam the streets, walk in the front doors of bars and out the back, browse through bookstores, dart here and there in cabs, and when he was certain he was not being followed, he would drop in at the Wooster Hotel and mill around the lobby. He had in his pocket a copy of the Bennie Wright composite Kyle had been perfecting for weeks. Joey had studied it for hours and was confident he could spot the man anywhere. Now Kyle wanted Bennie in complete digital color.

At 7:30, Kyle walked through the hotel lobby and took the elevator to the fourth floor. Bennie had a small room, no suite this time. As Kyle tossed his trench coat and briefcase on the bed, he glanced into the bathroom. “Just looking for Nigel, or perhaps another surprise,” he said as he flipped on a light switch.

“Just me this time,” Bennie said. He was relaxing in a velvet chair. “You passed the bar. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” The inspection over, Kyle sat on the edge of the bed. The inspection had revealed no one but Bennie, but it had also revealed no luggage, no shaving kit, nothing to indicate Bennie would stay in the room after Kyle left.

“You’re putting in the hours,” Bennie said, again making an attempt at small talk.

“I’m a full-blown lawyer now, so evidently I’m expected to work even more.” He noted the shirt—light blue cotton, no pattern, no buttons on the collar, no necktie. The slacks were dark brown, wool, pleated. The jacket was evidently in the closet next to the bathroom, and Kyle cursed himself for not noticing it. Dark socks, no distinguishable color. Black scuffed shoes, quite ugly.

“Here’s the scoop,” Kyle said. “Five litigation partners are splitting off—Abraham, DeVere, Hanrahan, Roland, and Bradley. They’re opening up their own shop and stealing at least three clients in the process. As of last count, twenty-six associates are jumping with them. Of the partners, Bradley is the only one working on the Trylon-Bartin case. However, at least seven of the associates are assigned to the lawsuit.”

“I’m sure you have a memo.”

Kyle pulled out a single sheet of paper, tri-folded, and handed it over. It was a summary of the names of all the Scully & Pershing lawyers who were leaving. He knew Bennie would want it in writing, something to preserve in the file and keep as evidence of his
treachery. There. He’d finally done it. He’d handed over firm secrets, and now there was no turning back.

Except that it was not exactly accurate. The gossip was changing by the hour, and no one seemed to know precisely who was planning to leave. Kyle had taken a few liberties with the names, especially those of the associates. Nor was it highly confidential information that he was passing along. The
New York Lawyer
, the trade daily, had carried at least two brief stories about the spin-off in the litigation section of Scully & Pershing. Given the ever-shifting nature of law firm personnel, it was not headline news. And besides, Bennie already knew as much as Kyle. And Kyle knew he knew.

The memo gave no details about the business of any client. In fact, it did not mention a client by name. While it appeared to have been put together in a hurry, Kyle had spent time on it and was convinced it was not a violation of ethics.

Bennie unfolded the sheet of paper and studied it carefully. Kyle watched him for a moment, then said, “I need to use the bathroom.”

“In there,” Bennie said, pointing without looking.

As Kyle walked to the bathroom, he passed the closet, its door half-open, and hanging on a rack was a cheap navy sport coat and a dark gray trench coat.

“I’m not sure this means anything,” Kyle said when he returned. “Trylon’s in-house attorneys are hands-on, and they prefer the more experienced associates. Those who are leaving will likely be replaced with third- and fourth-year people. I’m still a long shot.”

“Who’ll take Bradley’s place?”

“Not a clue. There are a lot of rumors.”

“Have you met Sherry Abney?”

“Yes, we played softball together at the picnic in Central Park. We hit it off, but she’s not in charge of which associates are assigned to the case. That decision rests with Mr. Wilson Rush.”

“Patience, Kyle, patience. Good intelligence is based on long-term placement and relationships. You’ll get there.”

“I’m sure I will, especially if you keep picking off the associates ahead of me. How’d you get rid of McDougle? Plant the drugs in his apartment?”

“Come on, Kyle. The young man had a serious problem with cocaine.”

“He didn’t need your help.”

“He’s on the road to recovery.”

“You asshole! He’s on the road to prison.”

“He was dealing coke, Kyle. A menace to society.”

“What do you care about society?”

Kyle stood and began gathering his things. “Gotta run. My old pal Joey Bernardo is in from Pittsburgh for the Jets game tomorrow.”

“How nice,” Bennie said, getting to his feet. He knew Joey’s flight numbers, coming and going, and he knew their section and seat numbers for tomorrow’s game.

“You remember Joey? The second one in your little video?”

“It’s not my video, Kyle. I didn’t take it. I just found it.”

“But you couldn’t leave it alone, could you? Later.” Kyle slammed the door behind him and hurried down the hallway. He ran down four flights of
stairs and entered the lobby not far from the elevators. He made eye contact with Joey, then went straight to the men’s room around the corner. There were three urinals to the right. He straddled the center one, waited about ten seconds, then was joined by Joey on the left. There was no one else in the men’s room.