The Associate

Chapter 20

For another $1,000, the security firm in Pittsburgh watched Elaine Keenan long enough to determine her daily routine. She usually had lunch with some co-workers at a sandwich shop not far from the parks and recreation complex where she worked.

A chance encounter would have to be believable, and Joey couldn’t sell the idea of bumping into her in the lesbian bar she and her roommate occasionally frequented. He wasn’t sure he could sell any encounter with Elaine. Aside from the casual sex five and a half years earlier, he’d never really known her. She had been one of several groupies around the Beta fraternity, and he’d tried to forget all of them.

The security firm provided three color photos. Joey had studied them for hours and was not convinced he’d ever met the girl. Kyle, however, had studied them and claimed to recall her vividly.

Now, at the age of twenty-three, her dark hair was tinted a deep red and worn very short. There was no makeup, no lipstick, nothing but matching tattoos around her forearms. If she had any interest in being attractive, it was not apparent. Somewhere under all the attitude was a cute girl, but sex appeal was unimportant.

Joey swallowed hard, cursed Kyle again, and entered the sandwich shop. He eased behind her as she waited in line to order, and after a few minutes, as the line moved slowly forward, managed to bump into her. “Sorry,” he quickly said with a wide fake smile.

She smiled back, but said nothing. He moved a step closer and said, “Hey, you were at Duquesne a few years ago, weren’t you?” Her two co-workers glanced back but were not interested.

“Briefly,” she said, eyeing him carefully, searching for any clue.

He snapped his fingers as if trying to recall something. “Elaine? Right? Can’t think of the last name.”

“That’s right. And who are you?”

“Joey Bernardo. I was in Beta.”

A look of horror swept over her face, and she dropped her gaze to the floor. For a moment she was frozen, unable to speak, ready, it seemed, to erupt. Then she shuffled a step to keep pace in line. She turned her back on the man who once raped her, a man who walked away from the crime not only unpunished but completely vindicated. Joey watched her from the corner of an eye and felt uneasy for several reasons. First, she was obviously frightened by him, but since she considered herself the victim and him the rapist, this was not surprising. It was also uncomfortable being this close to someone he’d once had sex with, regardless of how casual or how uneventful it now seemed.

She turned halfway to him and hissed, “What are you doing here?”

“I’m eating lunch, same as you.”

“Would you please leave?” Her voice was barely audible, but one of her co-workers turned around and glared at Joey.

“No. I’m just getting a sandwich.”

Nothing else was said as they ordered and moved down to the pickup counter. Elaine hurried off to a distant table and ate quickly with her two friends. Joey ate alone at a small table near the front door. The note was already prepared. It read: “Elaine: I’d like to talk to you about what happened. Please call my cell at 412-866-0940. I’ll be in Scranton until 9:00 tomorrow. Joey Bernardo.” He hauled his tray back to the counter, then walked to her table, handed her the note without a word, and disappeared.

Two hours later, she called.

At 5:00 p.m. sharp, as agreed, Joey returned to the sandwich shop. He found Elaine at the same table she’d used for lunch, but instead of sitting with a couple of friends, she was accompanied by her attorney. Icy introductions were made, and Joey sat down across from them with a knot in his throat and a strong desire to maim Kyle McAvoy. Where the hell was Kyle anyway? He was the lawyer.

Elaine’s lawyer was an attractive middle-aged woman. Everything was black — pantsuit, thick coral necklace, boots, eye shadow, and, worst of all, her mood. This woman went for the throat. The business card Joey was holding and glancing at proclaimed her to be Michelin “Mike” Chiz, Attorney & Counselor at Law. She began matter-of-factly: “My first question for you, Mr. Bernardo, is, what are you doing here?”

“How many questions do you have?” Joey asked in his finest smart-ass manner. He had been assured time after time by his psuedo-lawyer and near co-defendant, one Kyle McAvoy, that there was no danger in this chance meeting with Elaine Keenan. Any legal action she wanted to initiate could have been commenced long ago. Five and a half years had passed.

“Well, Mr. Bernardo, may I call you Joey?”

There was almost no chance that she would allow him to call her Mike, so he abruptly said no.

“Very well, Mr. Bernardo, I have just a few questions. I have represented Ms. Keenan here for some time now. She actually works part-time in my office, a fine paralegal, and I’m familiar with her story. Now, what are you doing here?”

“First of all, I don’t have to explain a damned thing to you. But I’ll try to be nice, at least for the next sixty seconds. I work for a brokerage firm in Pittsburgh, and we have some clients in Scranton. I’m here to see these clients. I got hungry around noon today. I chose this four-star restaurant at random, walked in, saw Ms. Keenan here, said hello, she freaked, I wanted to chat, and now I’m taking questions from her lawyer. Why, exactly, do you need a lawyer, Elaine?”

“You raped me, Joey,” Elaine blurted. “You and Baxter Tate, and maybe Kyle McAvoy.” By the time she finished, her eyes were moist. Her breathing was heavy, almost heaving, as if she might lunge at him at any moment.

“Maybe this, maybe that. You never got your story straight.”

“Why did you want to talk to my client?” Ms. Chiz demanded.

“Because it was a misunderstanding, and I wanted to apologize for the misunderstanding. That’s all. After she cried rape, we never saw her again. The cops investigated, found nothing because nothing happened, and by then Elaine had disappeared.”

“You raped me, Joey, and you know it.”

“There was no rape, Elaine. We had sex — me and you, you and Baxter, you and most of the other boys at Beta — but it was all very consensual.”

Elaine closed her eyes and began shaking as if chills swept her body.

“Why does she need a lawyer?” Joey asked Ms. Chiz.

“She’s suffered greatly.”

“I don’t know how much she’s suffered, Ms. Chiz, but I do know that she suffered very little during her days at Duquesne. She was too busy partying to spend time suffering. Lots of booze, drugs, and sex, and there are lots of boys and girls perfectly capable of refreshing her memory. You’d better get to know your client before you pursue some bogus legal action. There’s a lot of bad stuff back there.”

“Shut up!” Elaine snarled.

“You want to apologize to her?” the lawyer said.

“Yes. Elaine, I apologize for the misunderstanding, whatever the hell it was. And I think you should apologize for accusing us of something that did not happen. And right now, I want to apologize for even being here.” Joey sprang to his feet. “This was not a good idea. So long.”

He walked quickly out of the deli, strolled to his car, and left Scranton. Driving back to Pittsburgh, when he wasn’t cursing Kyle McAvoy, he was hearing her voice again and again. “You raped me, Joey.” Her words were painful and free of doubt. She may not have known precisely what happened in their apartment five-and-a-half years earlier, but she certainly knew now.

He hadn’t raped anyone. What began as consensual sex, at her suggestion nonetheless, had now been transformed into something far different, at least in her mind.

If a girl consents to sex, can she change her mind once things are underway? Or if she consents to sex, then blacks out halfway through the act, how can she later claim she’d changed her mind? Difficult questions, and Joey wrestled with them as he drove.

“You raped me, Joey.”

The mere accusation carried a heavy dose of suspicion, and for the first time Joey questioned himself. Had he and Baxter taken advantage of her?

FOUR DAYS LATER, Kyle stopped by the mail room at Scully & Pershing and picked up a letter from Joey. It was a detailed summary of the encounter, complete with their choice of sandwiches and a description of Elaine’s hair color and matching tattoos. After setting out the facts, Joey offered his opinions:

EK has definitely convinced herself that she was raped by several of us, JB and BT for sure and “maybe” KM. She is weak, fragile, emotionally unstable, haunted, but at the same time carries a certain smugness in her victimhood. She has chosen the right attorney, a tough broad who believes in her and would not hesitate to start legal trouble if she could find any evidence. Her finger is on the trigger. If that little video is half as damaging as you say it is, then by all human means keep it locked away from these people. Elaine and her lawyer are two cobras, pissed and coiled and ready to strike.

He finished with: “I’m not sure what my next little project might be, but I’d rather not go near Elaine again. I don’t like being called a rapist. The entire episode was unnerving, plus I had to lie to Blair to get out of town. I have two tickets to the Steelers-Giants game on October 26. Shall I call you with this news so your goons will know about it? I really think we should go to the game and hash out our next moves. Your faithful servant, Joey.”

Kyle read the letter and summary in the main library while hiding between shelves of ancient law books. It confirmed his worst fears, but he had little time to dwell on it. He quietly tore the sheets of paper into a hundred pieces, then dropped them in a wastebasket as he left the library. Immediately destroy all written correspondence, he’d instructed Joey.

The hotel nearest his apartment was the Chelsea Garden, a fifteen-minute walk. At eleven that night, Kyle dragged himself along Seventh Avenue, looking for the hotel. Had he not been so exhausted, he might have enjoyed the cool autumn night with leaves sweeping across the sidewalk and half the city still awake and going somewhere. But Kyle was numb with fatigue and capable of only one thought at a time, and that was often too much.

Bennie was in a suite on the third floor, where he’d been waiting for two hours because his “asset” couldn’t get away from the office.

But Bennie didn’t mind. His asset belonged at the office, and the more time he spent there, the quicker Bennie could get on with his work.

Regardless, though, Bennie opened up with a nasty “You’re two hours late.”

“Sue me.” Kyle stretched out on the bed. This was their fourth meeting in New York since Kyle had moved there, and he had yet to hand over anything that Bennie wasn’t supposed to have. His ethics were still intact. No laws had been broken.

So why did he feel like such a traitor?

Bennie was tapping a large white poster board mounted on an easel. “If I could have your attention, please,” he said. “This won’t take long. I have some coffee if you’d like.”

Kyle wasn’t about to concede an inch. He jumped to his feet, poured coffee in a paper cup, and sat on the edge of the bed. “Go.”

“This is the Trylon team as it is now assembled. At the top here is Wilson Rush, and below him are eight litigation partners — Mason, Bradley, Weems, Cochran, Green, Abbott, Etheridge, and Wittenberg. How many have you met?”

Kyle studied the eight squares with the names scrawled inside them, and thought for a second. “Wilson Rush spoke to us during orientation, but I haven’t seen him since. I did a memo for Abbott on a securities case, met him briefly, and I had lunch one day in the cafeteria with Wittenberg. I’ve seen Bradley, Weems, maybe Etheridge, but I can’t say I’ve met them. It’s a big firm.” Kyle was still amazed at the unknown faces he encountered every day in the halls and elevators, the cafeteria and libraries and coffee rooms. He tried to socialize and at least say hello, but the clock was always ticking and billing was much more important.

His supervising partner was Doug Peckham, and he was relieved Peckham’s name was not on the board.

There were a bunch of smaller squares under the partners. Bennie tapped an index finger near them. “There are sixteen senior associates, and under them another sixteen younger ones. The names are in that binder over there. You need to memorize them.”

“Sure, Bennie.” Kyle glanced at the binder, this one a two-inch blue one. The last three were black and thicker. Then he studied the names on the board.

“How many of these associates have you worked with?”

“Five, six, maybe seven,” he said with no effort at being accurate. How would Bennie know whom he’d worked with? And how Bennie knew the names of all forty-one lawyers assigned to the Trylon case was a question Kyle didn’t even want to consider. A few of the names would appear in the court file, but only the big boys. How many sources did he have?

He pointed to a smaller box. “This is a senior associate named Sherry Abney. You met her?”

“No.”

“A rising star, fast track to partnership. Two degrees from Harvard and a federal clerkship. She reports to Partner Mason, who’s in charge of discovery. Under her is a second-year associate by the name of Jack McDougle. McDougle has a cocaine problem. No one at the firm knows it, but he’s about to get busted, so everybody will know it. His departure will be quick.”

Kyle stared at the box with McDougle’s name and thought of so many questions he didn’t know where to start. How did Bennie know this?

“And you want me to take his place?”

“I want you to schmooze it up with Sherry Abney. Check her out, get to know her. She’s thirty years old, single but committed to an investment banker at Chase who works as many hours as she does, so they have no time for any fun. No wedding date, as of now, at least nothing that has been announced. She likes to play squash, when she can find the time, and as you know, the firm has two courts on the fortieth floor beside the gym. You play squash?”

“I guess I do now.” Kyle had played several times at Yale. “Not sure when I’ll find the time.”

“You figure it out. She just might be your entrée onto the Trylon team.”

Go, team, go. Kyle planned to avoid Trylon and its litigation team as diligently as possible. “Small problem here, Bennie,” Kyle said. “Nice homework, but you’re missing the obvious. There are no first-year grunts anywhere near this case. A couple of reasons. First, we don’t know anything — five months ago we were still in law school — and, second, the smart boys at Trylon probably told their lawyers to keep the rookies away from this case. That happens, you know. Not all of our clients are stupid enough to pay $300 an hour for a bunch of kids to stick it to them. So, Bennie, where is plan B?”

“It takes patience, Kyle. And politics. You start angling for the Trylon case, networking with the upper associates, kissing the right asses, and we might get a lucky break.”

Kyle wasn’t finished with the discussion about McDougle. He was determined to pursue it, when another man suddenly appeared from the sitting room adjacent to the bedroom. Kyle was so startled he almost dropped the half-filled cup of coffee. “This is Nigel,” Bennie was saying. “He’ll spend a few minutes on systems.” Nigel was in his face, thrusting forward a hand to shake. “A pleasure,” he sang in a cheery British way. He then moved to the tripod and mounted his own display.

The sitting room was twelve by twelve. Kyle looked through the open double doors into it. Nigel had been hiding in there and listening to every word.

“Scully & Pershing uses a litigation support system called Jury Box,” he began quickly. All movements were rapid and precise.

British, but with a strange accent. Forty years old. Five feet ten inches, 150 pounds. Short dark hair, half gray. Eyes, brown. No remarkable features but slightly elevated cheekbones. Thin lips. No eyeglasses.

“How much have they taught you about Jury Box?” Nigel wanted to know.

“The basics. I’ve used it on several occasions.” Kyle was still reeling from Nigel’s unexpected appearance.

“It’s your typical litigation support system. All discovery is scanned into a virtual library that can be accessed by all lawyers working on the case. Quick retrieval of documents. Super-quick search of keywords, phrases, contract language, anything, really. You’re up to speed?”

“Yes.”

“It’s fairly secure, pretty standard stuff these days. And like all smart law firms, Scully also uses a more secure system for sensitive files and cases. It’s called Barrister. You in on this one?”

“No.”

“Not surprised. They keep it quiet. Works pretty much like Jury Box, but much harder to access, or to hack into. Keep your ears open for it.”

Kyle nodded as if he would do precisely as he was being told. Since February, on that awful night when he’d been ambushed after a youth-league basketball game on the cold streets of New Haven, he had met only with Bennie Wright. Or whoever he really was. He had assumed, without really thinking about it, that Bennie, as his handler, would be the only face of the operation. There were other faces, to be sure; in particular, a couple of the street pounders who followed him night and day and who’d made enough mistakes so that Kyle could now spot them. But it had not occurred to him that he would actually be introduced to someone else with a bogus name who worked for the operation.

And why was he? Bennie was certainly capable of handling Nigel’s little presentation.

“And then you have the Trylon case,” Nigel was singing. “A completely different matter, I’m afraid. Much more complicated and secure. Whole different batch of software, really. Probably written just for this one lawsuit. Got the docs locked up in a warehouse down south with Uzis at every door. But we’ve made progress.” He stopped long enough to allow himself a quick approving smile at Bennie.

Aren’t we clever?

“We know that the program is code-named Sonic, as in B-10 HyperSonic Bomber, not very creative if you ask me, but then they didn’t, did they? Ha-ha. Sonic cannot be accessed by the nice little laptop they gave you greenies on day one, no sir. No laptop can have a peek at Sonic.”

Nigel bounced to the other side of the tripod. “There is a secret room on the eighteenth floor of your building, heavily secured, mind you, with a bank of desktop computers, some really fancy stuff, and there is where you will find Sonic. Pass codes change every week. Passwords every day, sometimes twice a day. Must have the proper ID before logging in, and if you log out without quitting to a tee, they’ll write you up and maybe show you the door.”

Show me the door, Kyle almost said.

“Sonic is probably a bastardized version of Barrister, so it will be incumbent upon you to master Barrister as soon as you’re given the opportunity.”

Can’t wait, Kyle almost said.

Slowly, through the shock and the fatigue, it was sinking in that Kyle was crossing the line, and doing it in a way he had not envisioned. His nightmare was to walk out of Scully & Pershing with secrets he was not supposed to have, and deliver them like Judas to Bennie for thirty pieces of silver. Now, though, he was receiving firm secrets from an outside source. He had yet to steal anything, but he damned sure wasn’t supposed to know about Sonic and the hidden room on the eighteenth floor. Perhaps it wasn’t criminal and maybe it wasn’t a violation of the canons of ethics, but it certainly felt wrong.

“That’s enough for now,” Bennie was saying. “You look exhausted. Get some rest.”

“Oh, thank you.”

Back on Seventh Avenue, Kyle glanced at his watch. It was almost midnight.