The Associate (38 page)

The Associate

Chapter 41

The flu raged unabated into Friday. Doug Peckham, while claiming to be sympathetic, was curious about any “improvement.” They were getting hammered with motions in the Trylon case, and everyone was needed. His sympathy did not extend to a curiosity about where Kyle was staying, who, if anyone, was tending to him, what medications he was taking, and so on. Part of Kyle's ruse was the forbidding diagnosis that his particular strain of the flu was “hotly contagious.” Since New York was going through its annual December flu warning, his story was easily digestible. Dale believed it, too, though she was much more sympathetic.

The temperature hit eighty degrees in the early afternoon, and Kyle was bored with the beach house. He said to Todd, “I'd like to take a walk. Would you please prepare the beach?”

“My pleasure. Which way are you going?”

“East, toward Miami.”

“I'll round up the gang. They're getting bored with you.”

Kyle walked for an hour, and passed fewer than ten beachcombers

going the opposite way. Thirty yards behind him were two of his guardians, a male and a female, a happy couple with receivers in their ears and handguns in their pockets.

He heard music, and saw a small crowd under a fake thatched roof. It was the Gator Hotel, a 1950s-style mom-and-pop motel with a small pool and low rates, a depressing little place, but it had the only action on the beach. Just for the hell of it, and to torment his followers, he sauntered away from the water, walked between two small dunes, and pulled up a chair at Pedro's Bar. Jimmy Buffett was singing softly about life in a banana republic. The bartender was mixing rum punch specials. The crowd numbered seven, all over the age of sixty, all overweight, all chatting in crisp northern accents. The early snowbirds.

Kyle sipped a rum punch and ordered a cigar. Between the dunes he saw his trailing couple stop and gawk and try to figure out what to do. Within minutes, another agent appeared from the front of the motel. He walked through the open bar, winked at Kyle, and kept going. We're here, buddy.

He drank and smoked for a while, and tried to convince himself that he was relaxed. No worries. Just another overworked professional enjoying a few days at the beach.

But there was too much unfinished business in New York.

AFTER THREE DAYS of thorough protection, Kyle was fed up. The Lear landed at Teterboro just after 6:00 p.m. on Saturday, December 6. At Kyle's insistence, he was booked into a suite at the Tribeca Grand Hotel, between Walker and White, near the Village. And at his request, all FBI agents remained below, in the lobby and atrium. He was tired of their overkill and silly rules--silly in his opinion.

Dale arrived promptly at eight. She was driven over by two agents and sneaked in through a service entrance. When they were alone,

Kyle started with the fake flu and worked his way backward. It was a long journey, and she listened with the same disbelief that had been shared by Roy Benedict and John McAvoy. They ordered room service, lobster and a fine white burgundy, compliments of the government, and kept talking. He was leaving the firm, and not sure where he was headed. She was leaving the firm, a nice lateral transfer to a better life in downtown Providence. He wanted to talk about her future, but she was determined to finish up with his past. She found it fascinating, incredulous, frightening, and said over and over, “Why didn't you tell me?” The best response he could offer was “I didn't tell anyone.”

They talked until well past midnight. The back-and-forth was more a conversation between two good friends than between two casual lovers. They said goodbye with a long kiss and a serious promise to meet in a few weeks, as soon as Kyle settled some issues.

At 1:00 a.m., he called downstairs and informed the boys that he was going to sleep.

KYLE McAVOY entered the opulent offices of Scully & Pershing for the last time at noon on Sunday. He was accompanied by Roy Benedict, Mr. Mario Delano of the FBI, and Mr. Drew Wingate with the Department of Justice. They were led to a conference room on the thirty-fifth floor, yet another room Kyle had never seen. They were met by half a dozen of the firm's partners, all with very somber faces. All offered stiff introductions. Only Doug Peckham showed the slightest trace of warmth to Kyle, and only for a second. They took seats on opposite sides of the table like enemies glaring across the battlefield: Howard Meezer, the managing partner; Peckham; Wilson Rush, who looked particularly upset; a retired legend named Abraham Kintz; and two slightly younger partners from the firm's management committee, men Kyle had never laid eyes on.

Late Saturday evening, Roy Benedict had sent them a twenty- five-page,

detailed summary of Kyle's big adventure, and there was little doubt that every word had been read more than once by all six of the partners. Attached to the narrative was Kyle's letter of resignation.

Meezer kicked things off with a pleasant “Mr. McAvoy, your resignation is unanimously accepted.”

Not just accepted, but unanimously so. Kyle nodded but said nothing.

“We've read the summary prepared by your lawyer,” Meezer said slowly, methodically. “It is fascinating, and troubling, and it raises a number of questions. I suggest we address them in order of priority.”

Fine, fine, yes, agreed all around the table.

“The first issue is what to do with you, Mr. McAvoy. We understand the reasons behind your theft, but it was a theft nonetheless. You took the confidential files of a valuable client for purposes that had not been authorized by this firm. A criminal prosecution is in order, do you agree?”

Kyle had been told to keep his mouth shut unless Roy approved a response.

“A criminal prosecution is possible,” Roy admitted. “But there is nothing to be gained. The firm lost nothing.”

“Loss is not a requirement, Mr. Benedict.”

“Agreed, technically. But let's be practical. Kyle had no intention of turning over the documents once he'd taken them. He did so only to stop a conspiracy to seriously harm this firm and its client.”

“The FBI will not cooperate in a criminal prosecution, Mr. Meezer,” Delano said, the heavy hand of the federal government.

“Nor will the Department of Justice,” added Wingate.

“Thank you,” Meezer said. “But we don't need your help. Theft can be a state charge, and we have some nice contacts with the authorities here in the city. However, we are not inclined to pursue this as a criminal matter.” Heavy emphasis on the word “criminal.” "There is little to be gained and much to be lost. We don't want our

clients worried about confidentiality, and this little episode would make a wonderful story in the press."

Wilson Rush was glaring at Kyle, but Doug occupied himself with a legal pad. He was there because Kyle fell under his immediate supervision, and because the firm needed bodies, a grim show of force at this unfortunate moment. Kyle watched Doug, ignored Rush, and wondered how many of the six partners over there were billing Trylon at a double rate since they'd been dragged in on a Sunday.

Billing. Billing. He hoped he never saw another time sheet, never again glanced at his watch and divided an hour into tenths, never again tallied things up at the end of the month to make sure he'd gone over two hundred hours, padding here and there if he came up a few hours short.

“As to the matter of ethics,” Meezer was saying, “this is a serious breach of a client's confidence. The state disciplinary committee should be notified.”

He paused long enough for someone on the other side to respond. “I thought you were trying to avoid publicity,” Roy said. “These matters are supposed to be private, but we know that they're often leaked. And if Kyle gets reprimanded or disbarred, it becomes public record. A Scully & Pershing associate disbarred for taking confidential files. Is that the story you want splashed in the New York Lawyer?”

At least four of the six were slowly shaking their heads, and it dawned on Kyle that they were as nervous as he was. Their vaunted reputation was on the line. A major client might pull its business. Others could follow. Scully's competitors would use the breach of security as a piece of delicious gossip to spread all over Wall Street.

“Do you plan to stay in New York, Mr. McAvoy?” Meezer asked.

Roy nodded, and Kyle said, “No, I can't.”

“Very well. If you agree to forgo the practice of law in the state of New York, we will agree to forget the ethical violations.”

“Agreed,” Kyle said, and maybe a bit too quickly because he couldn't wait to leave the city.

Meezer shuffled through some notes as if there were a dozen tough topics to cover, but the meeting was practically over. The meeting was important so that the firm could officially dismiss Kyle, perhaps flog him a bit, listen to his apology, and then both sides could say good riddance.

“Where is this blue box?” Wilson Rush asked.

“Locked in my office,” Roy said.

“And it has nothing but the Category A files?”

“That's correct,” Roy said.

“I'd like for our security people to see it.”

“Anytime.”

“But we would like to be present,” Delano added. “If this Bennie character is caught, the box is exhibit No. 1.”

“Any progress on the search?” Meezer asked, veering off script.

Delano could never say there was no progress when searching for a suspect, so he gave the standard “We are pursuing leads. We're still confident.”

In other words, no.

More shuffling of paper, more shifting of rear ends. “In your summary, Mr. McAvoy, you allude to additional security issues within Scully & Pershing. Care to expand on this?”

A nod from Roy, and Kyle began, "Yes, but first I want to apologize for my actions. I hope you understand the reasons behind what I did, but I was still wrong. And I apologize. As far as security, I met with these thugs ten times while I was in New York. The first meeting was in February, the tenth meeting was last Tuesday night. I took meticulous notes of each meeting--dates, places, duration, who was present, what was said, everything I could remember afterward. My attorney has these notes. The FBI has a copy. On three occasions, I was given information that could only be known by someone within this firm. I think there's another spy. For example, Bennie, and I hate to use that name because it's just an alias, but it's all we have,

but Bennie knew about the warehouse full of documents, down south, as he said. During one meeting he and Nigel, another alias, hinted that they were making progress in breaching the security of the warehouse. They knew about the secret room on the eighteenth floor. Bennie knew every name of every partner and associate assigned to the lawsuit. Bennie knew that a young lawyer named McDougle was leaving, that he worked under a senior associate named Sherry Abney on the Trylon case, and Bennie told me to start playing squash because Sherry enjoyed the game. Bennie handed me copies of pleadings, motions, rulings--I have over six hundred pages of the court file that, as you know, is locked away and kept from the public."

Three of the six jaws had dropped on the other side, not down to their chests, not the kick-me-in-the-gut shock of sudden, horrific news, but a stunning blow nonetheless. The nightmare of one lowly associate tapping into their impenetrable defenses was bad enough. Now there might be another?

And just to give them more heartburn, Kyle added something he truly believed, but couldn't prove. “And I don't think it's an associate,” he said, then withdrew from the fray and settled back into his chair.

All six partners had the same thought. If it's not an associate, then it must be a partner.

Doug Peckham swallowed hard, cleared his throat, and attempted to speak. “Are you saying--”

Next to him, Wilson Rush quickly raised his right hand, partially in Doug's space. Like a king calling for silence, a quick lifting of the hand, and all was quiet for the moment.

Roy finally said, “Anything else?”

“I believe that's all,” Meezer said. After an awkward few seconds, Roy stood, followed by Kyle and Delano and Wingate. The six partners did not budge. They sat frozen, with matching scowls, as Kyle and his little entourage left the room.

The Associate

Chapter 42

In the lobby of the building, they were met by the same three large young men who'd brought Kyle from the hotel. The group made it safely outside, onto Broad Street, then walked one block east to the building next door, where Roy worked, sixteen floors up. The three agents, bodyguards really, camped in a reception area and began waiting again. Inside Roy's office, Drew Wingate decided that his job was over. He excused himself and promised to help in any way possible. After he left, Kyle, Roy, and Delano gathered around Roy's small conference table. Some poor secretary, beckoned on a Sunday, served them coffee with a smile.

“What are your plans, Kyle?” Delano asked.

“Well, looks like I won't be practicing law in the state of New York, that's for sure. I'll go home for a few weeks, take some time off, enjoy the holidays.”

“I'm not sure that's a wise thing to do.”

"Thank you, Mr. Delano. I appreciate your concern, but I'm not about to go into hiding. Thanks for the offer to enter the dark little

world of witness protection, but no thanks. I'm twenty-five years old, stumbling but not falling, and I'll do just fine on my own."

Roy's coffee cup froze in midair, halfway to his mouth. “Kyle, you can't be serious.”

“Dead serious, Roy. No pun intended. I've just survived three days of protection, guards all around me, hiding and watching for bad guys. No thanks. There's more to my future than fake names and nonstop Scrabble.”

“Scrabble?”

“Don't go there. Listen, I've been under surveillance for the last ten months. You know what that does to you? You get real paranoid. You suspect everyone. You seize upon every new face because it might belong to a bad guy. You notice every corner, alley, every bum on a park bench, every guy wearing a dark trench coat. You pick up a phone and you wonder who's listening. You send an e-mail and change the wording because the wrong eyes might see it. In your own apartment you change clothes in a hurry, back to the camera, trying to hide your crotch. You walk in a coffee shop and go straight to the front window to see who's on the sidewalk behind you. You learn all sorts of stupid little tricks because the more you know, the more you might need to know. And the walls close in. The world becomes a small place because somebody is always watching. I'm sick of it. I'm not going to live on the run.”

“These guys killed Baxter Tate without the slightest hesitation,” Roy said. “What makes you think they won't do the same to you?”

“The operation was still hot when Baxter came barging in. The operation, at least that part that involves me, is now over. Bennie's gone. The operation failed. He might return with another plan--”

“I'm sure he will,” Delano said.

“But it won't involve me. What does Bennie gain by taking me out?”

“He takes out a material witness,” Roy said.

“Only if he's caught, which I seriously doubt. If Bennie gets hauled back for a trial, then we can talk about hiding.”

“Oh, it'll be too late then, Kyle,” Delano said. “Believe me. The moment Bennie gets nabbed, there'll be a few guys headed your way.”

“Bring 'em on. We have at least five deer rifles at home. I'll carry a Luger in my briefcase. If they show up, we'll have a regular gunfight.”

“Get serious, Kyle,” Roy pleaded.

“The decision has been made. The FBI cannot force me into witness protection, and so I hereby officially, and respectfully, say no. Thank you, Mr. Delano, but the answer is no.”

“I hope you don't regret this,” Delano said.

“So do I,” Kyle said. “And please don't follow me around. I might go berserk and shoot the next person I see lurking in the shadows.”

“Oh, don't worry. We have plenty of work elsewhere.” Delano stood and all hands were shaken. He said to Roy, “I'll check in once a week with an update.”

Roy walked him to the door, and the FBI left Kyle's life. With the door closed, Roy took his seat and looked at Kyle as if he couldn't believe it. “You're awfully brave,” he said.

“Brave or stupid. The line is often blurred.”

“Why not disappear for a few months, maybe a year? Let everything cool off.”

“A year means nothing. These guys have long memories. If Bennie wants revenge, he'll find me sooner or later, and it won't matter where I happen to be.”

“You don't trust the FBI?”

“No. I trust you, me, my father, a girl named Dale, and that's about it.”

“So it was an inside job?”

“We'll never know, will we? I have a hunch that Bennie works for the same government you and I send our taxes to. That's how he got away. That's why he'll never be found.”

“I still don't believe that.”

Kyle shrugged, and for a long time nothing was said.

Finally, Kyle glanced at his watch. “Look, Roy, it's Sunday afternoon and you have a family. Go home.”

“What about you?”

“Me? I'm walking out the door, taking a long hike to my apartment, not once looking over my shoulder, and when I get there, I'll load up my clothes and as much junk as possible, cram all of it into my Jeep that has 200,000 miles on the odometer, and drive home. I should get there in time for a late dinner with my father. Tomorrow he and I will draw up a partnership agreement--McAvoy & McAvoy, Attorneys-at-Law--and I'll make partner faster than any graduate in the history of the Yale Law School.”

“I like it. The editor in chief of the Yale Law Journal practicing law on Main Street in York, Pennsylvania.”

“I like it, too. Real clients. Real people. Real cases. Deer hunting on Saturdays, Steelers on Sundays. A real life.”

“You're not kidding, are you?”

“I have never been more serious.”

“Come on. I'll walk you out.”

They rode the elevator to the lobby and walked out of the building. They shook hands and said goodbye, and Roy watched his client stride nonchalantly along Broad Street and disappear around a corner.