The Associate (31 page)

But he certainly saw it now.

There were about a hundred mourners huddled around the grave site, all pressing close together to hear the final words from the rector. A few cold raindrops hurried things along. A crimson tent provided shelter for the casket and the family seated near it. Kyle glanced away, at the rows of tombstones where the old money was buried, and beyond them to the stone gate at the cemetery’s entrance. On the other side of the entrance was a large pack of media types, waiting like vultures for a glimpse of something newsworthy. Ready with cameras, lights, and microphones, they had been kept away from the church by the police and private guards, but they had dogged the procession like kids at a parade, and now they were desperate for a shot of the casket or the mother collapsing as she said goodbye. Somewhere in their midst was at least one of Bennie’s boys, maybe two or three. Kyle wondered if they had a camera, not for a shot of the casket but to record which of Baxter’s friends had bothered to attend. Useless information, really, but then so much of what they did made no sense.

They knew how to kill, though. There was little
doubt about that. The state police had nothing to say so far, and as the days passed, it was becoming evident that their silence was not necessarily of their choosing. There was simply no evidence. A clean hit, a silent bullet, a quick getaway, and no motive whatsoever.

Brother Manny wailed loudly from the edge of the tent, and this rattled everyone else. The rector missed a beat, then droned on.

Kyle stared at the horde in the distance, too far away for any one face to be recognized. He knew they were there, watching, waiting, curious about his movements and those of Joey and Alan Strock, who’d driven in from med school at Ohio State. The four roommates, now reduced to three.

As the rector wound down, a few sobs could be heard. Then the crowd began backing away from the crimson tent, inching away from the grave site. The burial was over, and Baxter’s parents and brother wasted no time in leaving. Kyle and Joey held back, and for a moment stood near the tombstone of another Tate.

“This will be our last conversation for a long time,” Joey said softly but firmly. “You’re messing around with the wrong people, Kyle. Just leave me out of it.”

Kyle looked at the pile of fresh dirt about to be packed on top of Baxter.

Joey kept on, his lips barely moving as if bugs were close by. “Count me out, okay? I’ve got my hands full here. I’ve got a life with a wedding and a baby in the future. No more of your silly spy games. You keep playing if you want, but not me.”

“Sure, Joey.”

“No more e-mails, packages, phone calls. No more trips to New York. I can’t keep you out of Pittsburgh, but if you visit here, don’t call me. One of us will be next, Kyle, and it won’t be you. You’re too valuable. You’re the one they need. So for our next mistake, guess who gets the bullet.”

“We didn’t cause his death.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“No.”

“These guys are around for a reason, and that reason is you.”

“Thanks, Joey.”

“Don’t mention it. I’m going now. Please keep me out of it, Kyle. And be damned sure nobody sees that video. So long.”

Kyle allowed him to walk ahead, then he followed.

A
t 6:30 on Thursday morning, Kyle walked into Doug Peckham’s office and reported for duty. Doug was standing at his desk, which resembled, as always, a landfill. “How was the funeral?” he asked without looking up from whatever he was holding.

“It was a funeral,” Kyle said. He handed over a single sheet of paper. “Here is an estimate of your hours on the Ontario Bank case.” Doug snatched it, scanned it, disapproved of it, and said, “Only thirty hours?”

“At the most.”

“You’re way off. Double it and let’s call it sixty.”

Kyle shrugged. Call it whatever you want. You’re the partner. If the client could pay $24,000 for work that wasn’t performed, then the client could certainly pay another $24,000 on top of that.

“We have a hearing in federal court at nine. We’ll leave here at eight thirty. Finish the Rule 10 memo and be here at eight.”

The prospect of a litigation associate getting near a
courtroom during his or her first year was unheard-of, and for Kyle a gloomy day suddenly improved. Of the twelve in his class, no one, at least to his knowledge, had seen live action. He hurried to his cube and was checking e-mails when Tabor appeared with a tall coffee and a haggard look. Since flunking the bar, he had slowly managed to put himself back together, and though he was initially humbled, the cockiness was returning.

“Sorry about your friend,” he said, flinging his overcoat and briefcase.

“Thanks,” Kyle said. Tabor was still standing, slurping coffee and anxious to talk.

“Have you met H. W. Prewitt, litigation partner two floors up?” he asked.

“No,” Kyle answered, still pecking away.

“He’s about fifty, big Texan. They call him Harvey Wayne behind his back. Get it? Harvey Wayne, from Texas, double first name?”

“Got it.”

“They also call him Texas Slim because he weighs about four hundred pounds. Mean as hell. Went to a community college, then A&M, then Texas Law and hates anybody from Harvard. He’s been stalking me, caught me two days ago and gave me a project that any part-time secretary could handle. I spent six hours Tuesday night taking apart exhibit binders for a big deposition yesterday. Took them apart, then reconfigured them just the way Harvey Wayne wanted. There were a dozen binders, couple of hundred pages each, a ton of paperwork. At nine yesterday morning I put them on a cart, raced them down to a conference
room where about a hundred lawyers are gathering for this depo, and what did Harvey Wayne do?”

“What?”

“There’s this door that leads to another conference room and it won’t stay shut, sort of swings back and forth, and so Harvey Wayne, fat ass, tells me to stack the binders on the floor and use them as a doorstop. I do what he tells me, and as I’m leaving the room, I hear him say something like ‘Those Harvard boys make the best paralegals.’”

“How much coffee have you had?”

“Second cup.”

“I’m on my first, and I really need to crank out this memo.”

“Sorry. Look, have you seen Dale?”

“No. I left Tuesday afternoon for the funeral yesterday. Something the matter?”

“She got nailed with some heinous project Tuesday night, and I don’t think she’s slept at all. Let’s keep an eye on her.”

“Will do.”

At 8:30, Kyle left the office with Doug Peckham and a senior associate named Noel Bard. They walked hurriedly to a parking garage a few blocks away, and when the attendant pulled up in Bard’s late-model Jaguar, Peckham said, “Kyle, you drive. We’re going to Foley Square.”

Kyle wanted to protest but said nothing. Bard and Peckham climbed into the rear seat, leaving Kyle, the chauffeur, alone in the front.

“I’m not sure of the best route,” Kyle admitted, with a flash of fear at what would happen if he got
lost and the two big shots in the back were late for court.

“Stay on Broad until it becomes Nassau. Take it all the way to Foley Square,” Bard said, as if he made the drive every day. “And be careful. This little baby is brand-new and cost me a hundred grand. It’s my wife’s.”

Kyle could not remember being so nervous behind the wheel. He finally found the mirror-adjustment scheme and eased into traffic, cutting his eyes in all directions. To make matters worse, Peckham wanted to talk. “Kyle, a couple of names, all first-years. Darren Bartkowski?”

Without glancing at Peckham in the rearview mirror, Kyle waited and finally said, “So?”

“You know him?”

“Sure. I know all of the first-year litigation associates.”

“What about him? Have you worked with him? Good, bad, talk to me, Kyle. How would you evaluate him?”

“Uh, well, nice guy, I knew him at Yale.”

“His work, Kyle, his work?”

“I haven’t worked with him yet.”

“The word is he’s a slacker. Ducks the partners, late with projects, lazy with the billing.”

I wonder if he estimates his hours, Kyle thought but kept his concentration on the yellow cabs passing, darting, turning abruptly, violating every known rule of the road.

“Have you heard he’s a slacker, Kyle?”

“Yes,” Kyle said reluctantly. It was the truth.

Bard decided to help thrash poor Bartkowski.

“He’s billed the fewest hours so far of anyone in your class.”

Talking about colleagues was a contact sport at the firm, and the partners were as bad as the associates. An associate who cut corners or ducked projects was labeled a slacker, and the tag was permanent. Most slackers didn’t mind. They worked less, got the same salary, and ran almost no risk of being fired unless they stole money from a client or got caught in a sex scandal. Their bonuses were small, but who needs a bonus when you have a fat paycheck? Career slackers could slide for six or seven years at a firm before being informed they would not make partner and shown the door.

“What about Jeff Tabor?” Doug asked.

“I know him well. Definitely not a slacker.”

“He has the reputation of being a gunner,” Doug said.

“Yes, and that’s accurate. He’s competitive, but he’s not a cutthroat.”

“You like him, Kyle?”

“Yes. Tabor’s a good guy. Smart as hell.”

“Evidently not smart enough,” Bard said. “That bar exam problem.”

Kyle had no comment, and no comment was necessary because a yellow cab swerved in front of them, cutting off the Jaguar and forcing Kyle to slam on the brakes and hit the horn at the same time. A fist shot out from the driver’s window, then an angry middle finger, and Kyle received his first bird. Be cool, he said to himself.

“You gotta watch these idiots,” Doug said.

The sound of important papers being extracted
crackled from the backseat, and Kyle knew something was being reviewed. “Will we get Judge Hennessy or his magistrate?” Doug asked Bard. Kyle was shut out of the conversation, which was fine with him. He preferred to concentrate on the street in front of him, and he had no interest in assessing the performance of his colleagues.

After ten minutes of downtown traffic, Kyle was wet under the collar and breathing heavy. “There’s a lot at the corner of Nassau and Chambers, two blocks from the courthouse,” Bard announced. Kyle nodded nervously. He found the lot but it was full, and this caused all manner of cursing in the rear seat.

Peckham took charge. “Look, Kyle, we’re in a hurry. Just drop us off in front of the courthouse at Foley Square, then circle the block until you find a spot on the street.”

“A spot on which street?”

Doug was stuffing papers back into his briefcase. Bard suddenly had business on the phone. “I don’t care. Any street, and if you can’t find a spot, then just keep making the block. Let us out here.”

Kyle cut to the curb, and a horn erupted somewhere behind them. Both lawyers scrambled out of the rear seat. Peckham’s final words were “Just keep moving, okay. You’ll find something.”

Bard managed to tear himself away from his phone conversation long enough to say, “And be careful. It’s my wife’s.”

Alone, Kyle eased away and tried to relax. He headed north on Centre Street, drove four blocks, then turned left on Leonard and headed west. Every inch of available space was packed with vehicles and
motorbikes. An amazing abundance of signs warned against parking anywhere near a potential space. Kyle had never noticed so many threatening signs. He passed no parking garages, but he did pass several traffic cops working the streets, slapping tickets on windshields. After a long, slow block, he turned left on Broadway, and the traffic was even heavier. He inched along for six blocks, then turned left onto Chambers. Two blocks later he was back at the courthouse in which he was supposed to be making his debut as a litigator, if only as a reserve.

Left on Centre, left on Leonard, left on Broadway, left on Chambers, back at the courthouse. Ever concerned about billing, he noted the time. The second loop ate seventeen minutes of the clock, and along the way Kyle again saw nowhere to park. He saw the same signs, same traffic cops, same street bums, same drug dealer sitting on a bench working his cell phone.

Nine o’clock came and went without a call from Peckham, not even a quick “Where the hell are you?” The hearing was under way, but without Kyle the litigator. Kyle the chauffeur, though, was hard at work. After three loops, he was bored with the route and added extra blocks to the north and west. He thought about stopping for a coffee to go, but decided against it out of fear of spilling something onto the fine beige leather of Bard’s wife’s new Jaguar. He had settled into the leather and was comfortable behind the wheel. It was a very nice car. A hundred thousand dollars and no doubt worth every penny. The gas tank was half-full, and this was worrying him. The stop-and-go driving was a strain on such a large engine. The hearing that he was missing was an important
one, no doubt requiring the presence of many high-powered lawyers, all anxious to plead their positions, and things might drag on for a long time. It was obvious that every legal parking spot in lower Manhattan was taken, and with clear instructions to “just keep moving,” Kyle accepted the fact that he had no choice but to burn fuel. He began to look for a gas station. He’d fill the tank, bill the client, and score a few points with Bard.

Once the tank was full, he began to ponder other ways to score points. A quick car wash? A quick lube job? When he passed the courthouse for the seventh or eighth time, a street vendor selling soft pretzels looked at him, spread his arms, and said something like “Are you crazy, man?” But Kyle was unperturbed. He decided against a wash or oil change.

Now confident in traffic, he picked up his phone and called Dale. She answered on the third ring and in a hushed voice said, “I’m in the library.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not what I hear.”

A pause. “I haven’t slept in two nights. I think I’m delirious.”

“You sound terrible.”

“Where are you?”

“Right now I’m on Leonard Street, driving Noel Bard’s wife’s new Jaguar. What do you think I’m doing?”