The Associate

The Associate Page 31

With seventy-eight thousand lawyers in Manhattan, the selection of one should not have been so difficult. Kyle narrowed his list, did more research, added names, and deleted names. He had begun the secret project not long after he arrived in the city, and had abandoned it several times. He was never sure he would actually hire a lawyer, but wanted the name of a good one just in case. Baxter's murder changed everything. Kyle not only wanted protection; now he wanted justice.

Roy Benedict was a criminal defense lawyer with a two-hundred-man firm located in a tall building one block east of Scully & Pershing. The location of the chosen lawyer was crucial, given the attention paid to Kyle's movements. Benedict measured up in other important areas as well. He had worked for the FBI before law school at NYU and after graduation spent six years with the Department of Justice. He had contacts, old friends, people on the other side of the street now, but people he could trust. Crime was his specialty. He was ranked in the top one hundred of the city's white-collar defense specialists, but not in the top ten. Kyle needed solid advice, but he couldn't afford an ego. Benedict's firm was often listed as opposing counsel in lawsuits involving Scully & Pershing. The icing on the cake was his basketball career at Duquesne some twenty-five years earlier. On the phone, he seemed to have little time for small talk and said he wasn't taking any new cases, but the basketball angle opened the door.

The appointment was at 2:00 p.m. on Monday, and Kyle arrived early. He found it impossible to walk through the law firm without comparing it with his. It was smaller, and it spent less trying to impress visitors with abstract art and designer furniture. The receptionists were not as cute.

In his briefcase he had a file on Roy Benedict  -  old stats and photos from Duquesne, bios from legal directories, newspaper stories about two of his more notorious cases. He was forty-seven, six feet six, and appeared to be in great shape, ready for a pickup game. His office was busy, smaller than most of the partners' at Scully, but nicely appointed. Benedict was cordial and genuinely pleased to meet another New York lawyer who'd played for the Dukes.

Kyle explained that he didn't play much. The basketball talk dragged on, and Kyle cut things off by saying, "Look, Mr. Benedict - "

"It's Roy."

"Okay, Roy, I can't spend too much time here because I'm being followed."

A few seconds passed as Roy allowed this to sink in. "And why is a first-year associate at the biggest law firm in the world being followed?"

"I have a few problems. It's complicated, and I think I need a lawyer."

"I do nothing but white-collar crime, Kyle. Have you screwed up in that area?"

"Not yet. But I'm being pressured to commit a whole list of crimes."

Roy bounced a pencil on his desk, tried to think of how to proceed.

"I really need a lawyer," Kyle said.

"My initial retainer is fifty grand," Roy said and watched carefully for a response. He knew within $10,000 how much Kyle was earning as a first-year associate. His firm didn't try to compete with Scully & Pershing, but it came close.

"I can't pay that much. I have five thousand in cash." Kyle yanked an envelope from his pocket and tossed it on the desk. "Give me some time, and I'll get the rest."

"What does this case involve?"

"Rape, murder, theft, wiretapping, extortion, blackmail, and a few others. I can't give you the details until we reach an agreement."

Roy nodded, then smiled. "There's someone following you now?"

"Oh, yes. I've been under surveillance since early February, back at Yale."

"Is your life in danger?"

Kyle thought for a moment. "Yes, I believe so."

The air was thick with unanswered questions, and Roy's curiosity got the best of him. He opened a drawer and withdrew some papers. He scanned them quickly  -  three sheets stapled together -  added some notes with a pen, then slid them across. "This is a contract for legal services."

Kyle read it hurriedly. The initial retainer had been reduced to $5,000. The hourly rate cut in half, from $800 to $400. Kyle had just recently accepted the fact that he charged $400 an hour. Now he would be the client paying that much. He signed his name and said, "Thanks."

Roy took the envelope and placed it in the drawer. "Where do we begin?" he asked, and Kyle sank deeper into his chair. A huge weight was leaving him. He wasn't sure if the nightmare was coming to an end or if he was digging a deeper hole, but the fact that he had someone to talk to was beyond comforting.

Kyle closed his eyes and said, "I don't know. There's so much ground to cover."

"Who's following you? Government agents of some sort?"

"No. Private thugs. Very good ones. And I have no idea who they are."

"Why don't we start at the beginning?"

"Okay."

Kyle began with Elaine, the party, the accusations of rape, the investigation. He introduced Bennie and his boys, his blackmail, the video, his covert mission to steal documents from Scully & Pershing. He produced a file and spread out the photos of Bennie, along with the composites of Nigel and two of the street thugs who'd been following him.

"Bennie Wright is just an alias. The guy probably has twenty names. He speaks with a slight accent that's probably eastern European. Just a guess."

Roy studied the photo of Bennie.

"Is there a way to identify him?" Kyle asked.

"I don't know. Do you know where he is?"

"Here, in New York. I saw him on Saturday, and I'll meet him again tomorrow night. He's my handler. I'm his asset."

"Keep talking."

Kyle removed another file and went through the basics of the Trylon-Bartin war, and in doing so discussed only the facts that had been published in news stories. Even though Roy was his lawyer and sworn to confidentiality, Kyle was a lawyer, too, and his client expected the same. "It's the largest Pentagon contract in history, so it's potentially the biggest lawsuit ever filed."

Roy spent a few minutes scanning the articles, then said, "I've heard of it. Keep talking."

Kyle described the surveillance and eavesdropping, and Roy forgot about Trylon and Bartin. "Wiretapping carries five years, federal," he said.

"Wiretapping is nothing. What about murder?"

"Who got murdered?"

Kyle raced through Joey's involvement, then the surprising arrival of Baxter and his desire to reach out to the girl. He handed over a dozen newspaper reports on the random shooting of Baxter Tate.

"I saw something about this in the news," Roy said.

"I was a pallbearer at his funeral last Wednesday," Kyle said.

"I'm sorry."

"Thanks. The cops have no clue. I'm sure Bennie ordered the hit, but the killers have vanished."

"Why would Bennie kill Baxter Tate?" Roy alternated between scribbling notes, looking at the face of Bennie Wright, and picking through the file, but for the most part he just shook his head in confusion and disbelief.

"He had no choice," Kyle said. "If Baxter succeeded in making some harebrained confession to Elaine, which certainly appeared likely, then the events that follow are out of control. I think the girl goes nuts, cries rape again, and I'm dragged back to Pittsburgh along with Joey and Alan Strock. My life is derailed. I leave the firm, leave New York, and Bennie loses his asset."

"But with Baxter dead, doesn't the rape case lose some steam?"

"Yes, but the video is still out there. And believe me, we want no part of it. It's brutal."

"But it doesn't implicate you?"

"Only for being a drunken idiot. When the sex begins, I'm nowhere to be seen. I don't even remember it."

"And you have no idea how Bennie got the video?"

"That's the greatest question of all, one that I've asked myself every hour for the past nine months. The fact that he somehow heard of the video, then stole it or bought it, is something I cannot comprehend. I don't know which is more terrifying  -  the video itself or the fact that Bennie got his hands on it."

Roy was shaking his head again. He stood and unfolded his gangly frame. He stretched and kept shaking his head. "How many interns did Scully & Pershing hire the summer before last?"

"Around a hundred."

"So Bennie and his group get the names of a hundred summer interns, and they investigate them, looking for an Achilles' heel. When they get to your name on the list, they snoop around Pittsburgh and Duquesne. They probably hear about the rape, lean on someone in the police department, get the rape file, and decide to dig even deeper. The file is closed, so the cops talk more than they should. There was the rumor about a video, but the cops could never find it. Somehow, Bennie does."

"Yep."

"He's got plenty of money and plenty of people."

"Obviously, so who's he working for?"

Roy glanced at his watch, frowned, and said, "I have a meeting at three." He grabbed his desk phone, waited, then barked, "Cancel my three o'clock. And no interruptions." He fell into his chair and rubbed his chin with his knuckles.

"I doubt if he works for APE. I cannot believe that a rival law firm would spend this kind of money to break so many laws. It's inconceivable."

"Bartin?"

"Much more probable. Plenty of money, plenty of motive. I'm sure Bartin is convinced the documents were stolen from them, so why not steal them back?"

"Any other suspects?"

"Oh, please, Kyle. We're talking about military technology. The Chinese and the Russians prefer to steal what they can't develop.

That's the nature of the game. We dazzle with the research, they just steal it."

"But using a law firm?"

"The law firm is probably just one piece of the puzzle. They have spies in other places, and there are more people like Bennie, who have no name and no home and ten passports. He's probably a well-trained former intelligence pro who now hires himself out for a zillion dollars to do exactly what he's doing."

"He killed Baxter."

Roy shrugged. "Killing doesn't bother this guy."

"Great. Just when I was starting to feel better."

Roy smiled, but the wrinkles never left his forehead. "Look, give me a few days to digest this."

"We need to move fast. I now have access to the documents, and Bennie's much more excited."

"You'll see him tomorrow night?"

"Yes. At the Four Seasons Hotel on Fifty-seventh. Care to join the party?"

"Thanks. How long do these little meetings last?"

"Ten minutes if I'm lucky. We bitch and bark, and then I slam the door on the way out. I act tough, but the whole time I'm scared to death. I need help, Roy."

"You've come to the right place."

"Thanks. I gotta go. Doofus is waiting."

"Doofus?"

Kyle stood and reached across the desk. He picked out a composite and laid it on top of the pile. "Meet Doofus, probably the worst of the street crawlers who've shadowed me for the past nine months. His buddy there is Rufus. He's bad, too, but not as bad as Doofus. I have become so adept at appearing to be so clueless that these clowns think they can follow me in their sleep. They make a lot of mistakes."

They shook hands and said goodbye, and long after Kyle was gone,

Roy stared at his window and tried to absorb it all. A twenty-five-year-old former editor in chief of the Yale Law Journal being stalked on the streets of New York City by a deadly group of professional operatives who are blackmailing him into spying on his own law firm.

Roy was awestruck by the scenario. He smiled and reminded himself of how much he loved his job.

THERE WERE A few bright spots in the ugly split among the firm's litigators. More partners would be needed, and sooner. Advancement opportunities were created with all those gaps to fill. And, most crucial to the first-year associates, offices had been emptied. The jockeying began as soon as the malcontents fled. Over the weekend, Tabor nailed down a place of his own and had moved his junk by Sunday night.

Kyle gave little thought to a move. He'd grown accustomed to his little cubicle, and he enjoyed having Dale close by. They groped occasionally when they were completely safe. He looked forward to her daily appearance and expected a full rundown on what she was wearing and who designed it. Discussing her clothes was almost as much fun as removing them.

He was surprised when Sherry Abney dropped by late Monday afternoon and asked him to follow her. They took the stairs one floor up to the thirty-fourth, and, after walking past a dozen doors, she stopped, stepped in, and said, "This is yours."

It was a twelve-by-twelve square room, with a glass desk, leather chairs, handsome rug, and a window that faced south and allowed real sunlight to pass through. Kyle was overwhelmed. Why me? he wanted to ask. But he pretended to take it in stride.

"Compliments of Wilson Rush," she said.

"Nice," Kyle said, stepping to the window.

"You share a secretary with Cunningham next door. I'm just down the hall if you need anything. I'd get myself moved in because Mr. Rush might stop by for a quick inspection."

Moving took fifteen minutes. Kyle made four trips back and forth, and during his last one Dale carried his sleeping bag and laptop. She was genuinely happy for him, and even passed along a few decorating ideas. "Too bad you don't have a sofa," she said.

"Not at the office, dear."

"Then where and when?"

"I take it you're in the mood."

"I need to be loved, or at least lusted after."

"How about dinner, then a quickie?"

"How about a marathon, then a quick dinner?"

"Oh, boy."

They sneaked out of the building at 7:00 p.m. and took a cab to her apartment. Kyle was unbuttoning his shirt when his FirmFone buzzed with an e-mail sent by an unknown partner to about a dozen grunts. All hands were needed on deck immediately for an urgent orgy of work that was absolutely critical to the future of the firm. Kyle ignored it and turned off the lights.