John Grisham's 'The Associate': Read Chapter 3! An EW Exclusive!

''I made that decision when I was twelve years old. I always wanted to be a lawyer. My first job was running the copier in my father's office. I sort of grew up there.''

''Where did you apply to law school?''

''Penn, Yale, Cornell, and Stanford.''

''Where were you accepted?''

''All four.''

Why Yale?''

''It was always my first choice.''

''Did Yale offer scholarship money?''

''Financial incentives, yes. So did the others.''

''Have you borrowed money?''

''Yes.''

''How much?''

''Do you really need to know?''

''I wouldn't ask the question if I didn't need to know. You think I'm talking just to hear myself talk?''

''I can't answer that.''

''Back to the student loans.''

''When I graduate in May, I'll owe about sixty thousand.''

Wright nodded as if he agreed that this was the correct amount. He flipped another page, and Kyle could see that it, too, was covered with questions.

''And you write for the law journal?''

I'm the editor in chief of the Yale Law Journal.''

''That's the most prestigious honor in the school?''

''According to some.''

''You clerked last summer in New York. Tell me about it.''

''It was one of those huge Wall Street firms, Scully & Pershing, a typical summer clerkship. We were wined and dined and given easy hours, the same seduction routine all the big firms use. They pamper the clerks, then kill them when they become associates.''

''Did Scully & Pershing offer you a position after graduation?''

''Yes.''

''Did you accept or decline?''

''Neither. I have not made a decision. The firm has given me some additional time to decide.''

''What's taking so long?''

''I have a few options. One is a clerkship for a federal judge, but he might get a promotion. Things are in limbo there.''

''Do you have other job offers?''

''I had other offers, yes.''

''Tell me about them.''

''Is this really relevant?''

''Everything I say is relevant, Kyle.''

''Do you have any water?''

''I'm sure there's some in the bathroom.''

Kyle jumped to his feet, walked between the king-sized bed and the credenza, switched on the light in the cramped bathroom, and ran tap water into a flimsy plastic cup. He gulped it, then refilled. When he returned to the table, he placed the cup somewhere around his own twenty-yard line, then checked himself on the monitor. ''Just curious,'' he said.

''Where's the football right now?''

''Third and long. Tell me about the other job offers, the other firms.''

''Why don't you just show me the video so we can skip all this bullshit? If it really exists, and if it implicates me, then I'll walk out of here and go hire a lawyer.''

Wright leaned forward, adjusted his elbows on the table, and began gently tapping his fingertips together. The lower half of his face eased into a smile while the upper half remained noncommittal. Very coolly, he said, ''Losing your temper, Kyle, could cost you your life.''

Life as in dead body? Or life as in brilliant future? Kyle wasn't so sure. He took a deep breath, then another gulp of the water. The flash of anger was gone, replaced by the crush of confusion and fear.

The fake smile widened, and Wright said, ''Please, Kyle, you're doing fine here. Just a few more questions and we'll move into rougher territory. The other firms?''

''I was offered a job by Logan & Kupec in New York, Baker Potts in San Francisco, and Garton in London. I said no to all three. I'm still kicking around a public-interest job.''

''Doing what? Where?''

''It's down in Virginia, a legal aid position helping migrant workers.''

''And how long would you do this?''

''Couple of years, maybe, I'm not sure. It's just an option.''

''At a much lower salary?''

''Oh, yes. Much.''

''How will you pay back your student loans?''

''I’ll figure that out.''

Wright didn't like the smart-ass answer, but decided to let it slide. He glanced at his notes, though a quick review wasn't necessary. He knew that young Kyle here owed $61,000 in student loans, all of which would be forgiven by Yale if he spent the next three years working for minimum wage protecting the poor, the oppressed, the abused, or the environment. Kyle’s offer had been extended by Piedmont Legal Aid, and the clerkship was funded by a grant from a mammoth law firm in Chicago. According to Wright's sources, Kyle had verbally accepted the position, which paid $32,000 a year. Wall Street could wait. It would always be there. His father had encouraged him to spend a few years out in the trenches, getting his hands dirty, far away from the corporate style of law that he, John McAvoy, despised.

According to the file, Scully & Pershing was offering a base salary of $200,000 plus the usual extras. The other firms' offers were similar.

''When will you select a job?'' Wright asked.

''Very soon.''

''Which way are you leaning?''

''I'm not.''

''Are you sure?''

''Of course I'm sure.''

Wright reached for the file, shaking his head grimly and frowning as if he'd been insulted. He retrieved more papers, flipped through them, then glared at Kyle. ''You haven't made a verbal commitment to accept a position with an outfit called Piedmont Legal Aid, in Winchester, Virginia, beginning September the second of this year?''

A rush of warm air escaped through Kyle's dry lips. As he absorbed this, he instinctively glanced at the monitor, and, yes, he looked as weak as he felt. He almost blurted, ''How the hell do you know this?'' but to do so would be to admit the truth. Nor could he deny the truth. Wright already knew.

As he was lurching toward some lame response, his adversary moved in for the kill. ''Let's call this Lie Number One, okay, Kyle?'' Wright said with a sneer. ''Should we somehow arrive at Lie Number Two, then we turn off the camera, say good night, and meet again tomorrow for the arrest. Handcuffs, perp walk, mug shot, maybe a reporter or two. You won't be thinking about protecting illegal immigrants, and you won't be thinking about Wall Street. Don't lie to me, Kyle. I know too much.''

Kyle almost said, ''Yes, sir,'' but instead managed only a slight affirmative nod.

''So you plan to do some charitable work for a couple of years?''

''Yes.''

''Then what?''

''I don't know. I'm sure I'll join a firm somewhere, start a career.''

''What do you think of Scully & Pershing?''

''Big, powerful, rich. I think it's the largest law firm in the world, depending on who got merged or swallowed yesterday. Offices in thirty cities on five continents. Some really smart folks who work very hard and put enormous pressure on each other, especially on their young associates.''

''Your kind of work?''

''It's hard to say. The money is great. The work is brutal. But it's the big leagues. I'll probably end up there.''

''In what section did you work last summer?''

''I moved around, but most of my time was spent in litigation.''

''Do you like litigation?''

''Not especially. May I ask what these questions can possibly have to do with that matter back in Pittsburgh?''

Wright took his elbows off the table and tried to relax a little deeper into the folding chair. He crossed his legs and placed the legal pad on his left thigh. He chewed the end of his pen for a moment, staring at Kyle as if he were now a psychiatrist, analyzing the patient. ''Let’s talk about your fraternity at Duquesne.''

''Whatever.''

''There were about ten members of your pledge class, right?''

''Nine.''

''Do you keep in touch with all of them?''

''To some degree.''

''The indictment names you and three others, so let's talk about the other three. Where is Alan Strock?''

The indictment. Somewhere in that damned file less than three feet away was the indictment. How could his name be listed as a defendant? He had not touched the girl. He had not witnessed a rape. He had not seen anyone having sex. He vaguely recalled being present in the room, but he had blacked out at some point during the night, during the episode. How could he be an accomplice if he wasn't conscious? That would be his defense at trial, and a solid defense it would be, but the specter of a trial was too awful to imagine. A trial would come long after the arrest, the publicity, the horror of seeing his photo in print. Kyle closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, and he thought about the phone calls home, first to his father and then to his mother. Other phone calls would follow: one each to the recruiting directors who'd offered him jobs; one to each of his sisters. He would proclaim his innocence and all that, but he knew he would never shake the suspicion of rape.

At that moment, Kyle had no confidence in Detective Wright and whatever deal he had in mind. If there was indeed an indictment, then no miracle could keep it buried.

''Alan Strock?'' Wright asked.

''He’s in med school at Ohio State.''

''Any recent correspondence?''

''An e-mail a couple of days ago.''

''And Joey Bernardo?''

''He's still in Pittsburgh, working for a brokerage firm.''

''Recent contact?''

''By phone, a few days ago.''

''Any mention of Elaine Keenan with Alan or Joey?''

''No.''

''You boys have tried to forget about Elaine, haven’t you?''

''Yes.''

''Well, she's back.''

''Evidently.''

Wright readjusted himself in the chair, uncrossed his legs, stretched his back, and returned to the most comfortable position with both elbows stuck on the table. ''Elaine left Duquesne after her freshman year,'' he began in a softer voice, as if he had a long tale to tell. ''She was troubled. Her grades were a mess. She now claims that the rape brought on severe emotional distress. She lived with her parents for a year or so in Erie, then began drifting. A lot of self-medication, booze and drugs. She saw some therapists, but nothing helped. Have you heard any of this?''

''No. After she left school, there was not a word.''

''Anyway, she has an older sister in Scranton who took her in, got her some help, paid for rehab. Then they found a shrink who, evidently, has done a nice job of putting Elaine back together. She's clean, sober, feels great, and her memory has improved dramatically. She's also found herself a lawyer, and of course she is demanding justice.''

''You sound skeptical.''

I'm a cop, Kyle. I'm skeptical of everything, but I have this young woman who is credible and who says she was raped, and I have a video that is pretty powerful evidence. And on top of that, there's this lawyer who's out for blood.''

''This is a shakedown, isn't it? All about money?''

''What do you mean, Kyle?''

''The fourth defendant is Baxter Tate, and of course we know what that's all about. The Tate family is very rich. Old Pittsburgh money. Baxter was born with trust funds. How much does she want?''

''I'll ask the questions. Did you ever have sex —''

''Yes, I had sex with Elaine Keenan, as did most of my pledge class. She was wild as hell, spent more time in the Beta house than most Betas, could drink any three of us under the table, and always had a purse full of pills. Her problems began long before she arrived at Duquesne. Believe me, she does not want to go to trial.''

''How many times did you have sex with her?''

''Once, about a month before the alleged rape.''

''Do you know if Baxter Tate had sexual relations with Elaine Keenan on the night in question?''

Kyle paused, took a deep breath, and said, ''No, I do not. I blacked out.''

''Did Baxter Tate admit to having sex with her that night?''

''Not to me.''

Wright finished writing a long sentence on his legal pad as the air cleared. Kyle could almost hear the camera running. He glanced at it and saw the little red light still staring at him.

''Where is Baxter?'' Wright asked after a long, heavy pause.

''Somewhere in L.A. He barely graduated, then went to Hollywood to become an actor. He's not too stable.''

''Meaning?''

''He comes from a wealthy family that's even more dysfunctional than most wealthy families. He's a hard partier, lots of booze and drugs and girls. And he shows no signs of outgrowing it. His goal in life is to become a great actor and drink himself to death. He wants to die young, sort of like James Dean.''

''Has he been in any films?''

''Not a single one. Lots of bars, though.''

Wright suddenly seemed bored with the questions. He had stopped his scribbling. His hard stare began to drift. He stuffed some papers back into the file, then tapped a finger at the center of the table. ''We've made progress, Kyle, thank you. The ball is at midfield. You want to see the video?''

Read Chapter 4 of John Grisham's The Associate

Read Chapter 2 of John Grisham's The Associate

Read Chapter 1 of John Grisham's The Associate

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