The Associate (32 page)

“Sorry I asked. How was the funeral?”

“Terrible. Let’s do dinner tonight. I need to unload on someone.”

“I’m going home tonight, to bed, to sleep.”

“You have to eat. I’ll grab some Chinese, we’ll have a glass of wine, then sleep together. No sex whatsoever. We’ve done it before.”

“We’ll see. I gotta get out of here. Later.”

“Are you gonna make it?”

“I doubt it.”

At 11:00 a.m., Kyle congratulated himself because he could now bill the client $800 for driving in circles. Then he laughed at himself. Editor in chief of the
Yale Law Journal
behind the wheel here, making perfect turns, clean stops and goes, taking in the sights, dodging the cabs, ah, the life of a big-time Wall Street lawyer.

If his father could see him now. The call came at 11:40. Bard said, “We’re leaving the courtroom. What happened to you?”

“I couldn’t find a parking space.”

“Where are you?”

“Two blocks from the courthouse.”

“Pick us up where you dropped us off.”

“My pleasure.”

Minutes later, Kyle wheeled to the curb like a veteran driver, and his two passengers jumped into the rear seat. He pulled away and said, “Where to?”

“The office,” came the terse reply from Peckham, and for several minutes nothing was said. Kyle expected to be grilled about what he’d been doing for the past few hours. Where were you, Kyle? Why did you miss the hearing, Kyle? But nothing. Sadly, he began to realize that he had not been missed at all. To create some noise, he finally asked, “So how’d the hearing go?”

“It didn’t,” said Peckham.

“What hearing?” said Bard.

“What have you been doing since 9:00 a.m.?” Kyle asked.

“Waiting for the Honorable Theodore Hennessy to shake off his hangover and grace us with his presence,” Bard said.

“It was postponed for two weeks,” Peckham said.

_________

As they stepped off the elevator on the thirty-second floor, Kyle’s phone vibrated. A text message from Tabor read: “Hurry to cube. Problem.”

Tabor met him at the stairs. “So how was court?”

“Great. I love litigation. What’s the problem?” They were walking quickly through the hall, past Sandra the secretary.

“It’s Dale,” Tabor whispered. “She fainted, collapsed, passed out, something.”

“Where is she?”

“I’ve hidden the body.”

At the cube, Dale was lying peacefully on a sleeping bag partially hidden under Tabor’s desk. Her eyes were open, she seemed alert, but her face was very pale.

“She woke up at five Tuesday morning, and she hasn’t slept since. That’s about fifty-five hours, which might be a record.”

Kyle knelt beside her, gently took her wrist, and said, “You okay?”

She nodded yes, but was not convincing.

Tabor, the lookout, glanced around and kept talking: “She doesn’t want anyone to know, okay. I say
we call the nurse. She says no. What do you say, Kyle?”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Dale said, her voice low and raspy. “I fainted, that’s all. I’m fine.”

“Your pulse is good,” Kyle said. “Can you walk?”

“I think so.”

“Then the three of us will slip out for a quick lunch,” Kyle said. “I’ll take you home, and you’re going to rest. Tabor, call a car.”

With a hand under each arm, they slowly pulled her up. She stood, took deep breaths, and said, “I can walk.”

“We’re right beside you,” Kyle said.

They caught a curious glance or two as they left the building—one petite, well-dressed young associate, with very pale skin, arm in arm with two of her colleagues, off for a quick lunch, no doubt, but no one cared. Tabor helped her into the car, then returned to the cube to cover their trails if necessary.

Kyle half-carried her up the three flights to her apartment, then helped her undress and tucked her in. He kissed her forehead, turned off the lights, and closed the door. She did not move for hours.

In the den, he took off his coat, tie, and shoes. He covered the small kitchen table with his laptop, Firm-Fone, and a file full of research for a memo he’d been neglecting. Once he was fully situated, his eyelids became heavier and heavier until he walked to the sofa for a quick nap. Tabor called an hour later and woke him up. Kyle assured him Dale was sleeping well and would be fine after a long rest.

“There’s an announcement coming at 4:00 p.m.,”

Tabor said. “Big news about the split. Watch your e-mails.”

At exactly 4:00 p.m., Scully & Pershing sent an e-mail to all of its lawyers announcing the departure of six partners and thirty-one associates from its litigation practice group. The names were listed. The departures were effective as of 5:00 p.m. that day. The bulletin then proceeded with the standard drivel touting the greatness of the firm and assuring everyone that the split would have no impact on the firm’s ability to fully service the needs of its many wonderful and valuable clients.

Kyle peeked through the bedroom door. The patient was breathing nicely and had not changed positions.

He dimmed the lights in the den and stretched out on the sofa. Forget the memo, forget the billing. To hell with the firm, at least for a few stolen moments. How often would he have the chance to relax like this on a Thursday afternoon? The funeral seemed like a month ago. Pittsburgh was in another galaxy. Baxter was gone but not forgotten. He needed Joey, but Joey was gone, too.

The vibration of the phone woke him again. The e-mail was from Doug Peckham, and it read: “Kyle: Major realignment in litigation. I’ve been added to the Trylon case. So have you. Office of Wilson Rush, 7:00 a.m. sharp tomorrow.”

F
or the senior litigation partner, and member of the firm’s management committee, the cost of square footage was not a concern. Wilson Rush’s office was spread over a large corner on the thirty-first floor, an area at least four times larger than any Kyle had yet seen. Mr. Rush evidently liked boats. His polished and gleaming oak desk was mounted on four rudders from old sailing yachts. A long credenza behind it held a collection of intricate models of sleek clippers and schooners. Every painting depicted a grand vessel at sea. As Kyle walked in and did a quick scan, he caught himself almost waiting for the floor to rock and the salt water to splash across his feet. But he forgot about the decor when Mr. Rush said, “Good morning, Kyle. Over here.”

The great man was rising from a large conference table at the far end of his office. A crowd had already gathered there and heavy lifting was under way. Kyle sat next to Doug Peckham. Quick introductions were made. There were nine others present, excluding Mr.
Rush and Mr. Peckham, and Kyle recognized most of the faces, including that of Sherry Abney, the senior associate Bennie had been shadowing. She smiled. Kyle smiled back.

Mr. Rush, seated at the head of the table, launched into a quick review of the current upheaval. Two of the partners who’d mutinied with Toby Roland, and seven of the thirty-one associates, had been assigned to the Trylon versus Bartin case—“much more about that in a minute”—and it was imperative that the firm’s manpower be shuffled immediately because the client, Trylon, was important and demanding. Therefore, two partners, Doug Peckham and a woman named Isabelle Gaffney, were entering the fray, along with eight associates.

Mr. Rush was explaining how uneasy the in-house boys at Trylon were with the defections and how necessary it was to shore up the troops, to literally throw more lawyers at APE and Bartin Dynamics.

Isabelle, or Izzy behind her back, was somewhat notorious because she had once required two associates to wait in the delivery room while she was temporarily sidetracked giving birth to a child. Firm lore held that no one had ever seen her smile. And she wasn’t about to smile as Mr. Rush went on about the reshuffling and realigning and deft maneuvering of the unlimited legal talent at his disposal.

Two first-year associates were being added, Kyle and a mysterious young man from Penn named At-water. Of the twelve litigation rookies, Atwater was by far the quietest and loneliest. Dale was a distant second, but she had warmed up nicely, at least in Kyle’s opinion. He’d spent the night on her sofa
again, alone, while she was dead to the world. He’d slept little. There was too much to consider. The shock of being assigned to the Trylon case caused him to stare at the ceiling and mumble to himself. The horror of Baxter’s murder, the images of the funeral and burial, the harsh words of Joey Bernardo—who could sleep with such nightmares rattling around?

Late that night, Kyle had called Peckham and picked and probed to find out why he had been selected to a case he had been rather vocal in trying to avoid. Peckham had no sympathy and was not in the mood to talk. The decision had been made by Wilson Rush. End of conversation.

Mr. Rush was now going through the basics of the lawsuit, material Kyle had committed to memory weeks and months earlier. Binders were passed around. A half hour dragged by and Kyle began to wonder how a person as dull and methodical as Wilson Rush could be so successful in the courtroom. Discovery was under way, with both parties at war over the documents. At least twenty depositions had been scheduled.

Kyle took notes because everyone else was taking notes, but he was thinking about Bennie. Did Bennie already know that Kyle had landed the prize position? Bennie had known every member of the Trylon team. He knew that Sherry Abney supervised Jack McDougle. Was there another spy in the firm? Another victim of Bennie and his blackmail? If so, was this person watching Kyle and reporting to Bennie?

Though he hated every meeting with Bennie, their next encounter would be the biggest challenge. Kyle would go through the motions and engage in somewhat
civilized conversation with the man responsible for the murder of Baxter Tate, and he would be forced to do so without a hint that he was remotely suspicious.

“Any questions?” Mr. Rush asked.

Sure, Kyle thought, more questions than you can possibly answer.

After a full hour of update and review, Kyle, Atwater, and the other six new associates were led by Sherry Abney to the secret room on the eighteenth floor. Secret to some, but Bennie and Nigel certainly knew about it. Along the way they were introduced to a nonlawyer named Gant, a security expert of some variety. Gant stopped them at the door and explained that it was the only door. One way in and one way out and a coded plastic strip smaller than a credit card was required for entry and exit. Each lawyer was given a card, and every time the lawyer came or went, it was recorded. Gant nodded at the ceiling and informed them that there were video cameras watching everything.

Inside, the room was about the size of Wilson Rush’s office. No windows, bare walls, drab olive carpet. There was nothing in the room but ten square tables with a large computer on each one.

Sherry Abney took charge. “This case now has over four million documents, and they’re all right here in our virtual warehouse,” she said, patting a computer like a proud mother. “The actual paperwork is in secured storage in a facility in Wilmington, but you can access it all from one of these. The main server is locked up in a room next door.” She kept patting. “These are pretty fancy computers, custom made by a company you’ve never heard of and never
will. Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to repair, examine, or just plain fiddle with the hardware.

“The software is called Sonic, and it, too, is customized for this case. It’s really just some home brew that our computer folks put together, a variation of Barrister with some bells and whistles added for security reasons. Pass code changes every week. Password changes every day, sometimes twice a day. When it changes, you will receive a coded e-mail. If you try to access with the wrong code or password, then all manner of hell breaks loose. You could be fired.”

She looked around with as much menace as possible, then continued, “This system is self-contained and cannot be accessed anywhere else within the firm, or outside the firm. It’s online, you just can’t get to it. This is the only place, the only room in which you are able to access the documents, and this room is closed from 10:00 p.m. until 6:00 a.m. Sorry, no all-nighters in here, but it is open seven days a week.”

At her direction, each associate sat down before a computer and was given a pass code and password. There was nothing on the screen to indicate who manufactured the computer or who wrote the software.

Sherry walked from lawyer to lawyer, looking at the monitors and chatting like a college professor. “There’s an extensive tutorial at the beginning, and I strongly suggest you go through it today. Pull up the index. The documents are classified in three basic groups, with a hundred subgroups. Category A contains all the harmless junk that Bartin has already been given—letters, e-mails, office memos, the list is endless. Category B has important materials that are
discoverable, though we have not handed all of them over. Category R, for ‘Restricted,’ is where you’ll find the good stuff, about a million documents dealing with the technological research that is the heart of this little dispute. It’s top secret, classified, and no one but the judge knows if it will ever be shown to Bartin. Mr. Rush thinks not. Category R is privileged, confidential, Attorneys’ Work Product. When you enter Category R, a record of your entry automatically registers with Mr. Gant’s computer right next door. Any questions?”

All eight associates stared at their monitors, all thinking the same thing—there are four million documents in there, and someone has to examine them.

“Sonic is amazing,” Sherry said. “Once you master it, you will be able to find a document or group of documents within seconds. I’ll be here for the rest of the day for a workshop. The sooner you learn your way around our virtual library, the easier your life will be.”

_________

At 4:20 on Friday afternoon, Kyle received an e-mail from Bennie. It read: “Let’s meet tonight at 9:00. Details to follow. BW.”

Kyle responded: “I can’t.”

Bennie responded: “Tomorrow afternoon, say 5:00 or 6:00?”

Kyle: “I can’t.”

Bennie: “Sunday night, 10:00 p.m.?”