The Associate
The bar review course was offered at Fordham University on Sixty-second Street, in a vast lecture hall that was filled with anxious former law students. From 9:30 until 1:30 each weekday, various professors from nearby law schools covered the intricacies of constitutional law, corporations, criminal law, property, evidence, contracts, and many other subjects. Since virtually every person in the room had just finished law school, the material was familiar and easily digested. But the volume was overwhelming. Three years of intense study would be reduced to a nightmare of an exam that ran for sixteen hours over a two-day period. Thirty percent of those taking it for the first time would not pass, and because of this there was little hesitation in forking over the $3,000 for the review course. Scully & Pershing picked up the bill for Kyle and its other new recruits.
The pressure was palpable the first time Kyle walked into the room at Fordham, and it never went away. By the third day he was sitting with a group of friends from Yale, and they soon formed a study group that met every afternoon and often worked into the night.
During three years of law school, they had dreaded the day they would be forced to revisit the murky world of federal taxation or the tedium of the Uniform Commercial Code, but the day was at hand. The bar exam consumed them.
Scully & Pershing was typical in that it forgave the first flunking of the exam, but not the second. Two bad tests, and you're out. A few of the crueler firms had a one-strike policy, and there were a handful of more reasonable firms that would forgive twice if the associate was showing promise on all other fronts. Regardless, the fear of failure boiled just under the surface and often made it difficult to sleep.
Kyle found himself taking long walks around the city, at all hours, to break the monotony and clear his head. The walks were informative, and at times fascinating. He learned the streets, the subways, the bus system, the rules of the sidewalks. He knew which coffee shops stayed open all night and which bakeries had warm baguettes at 5:00 a.m. He found a wonderful old bookstore in the Village and resumed his rabid new interest in spy and espionage novels.
After three weeks in the city, he finally found a suitable apartment. At daybreak one morning, he was sitting on a stool in the window of a coffee shop on Seventh Avenue in Chelsea, sipping a double espresso and reading the Times, when he saw two men wrestle a sofa out of a door across the street. The men were obviously not professional movers, and they showed little patience with the sofa. They practically threw it into the back of a van, then disappeared through the door. A few minutes later they were back with a bulky leather chair that received the same treatment. The men were in a hurry, and the move did not appear to be a happy one. The door was next to a health food store, and two floors above it a sign in a window advertised an apartment available for a sublet. Kyle quickly crossed the street, stopped one of the men, then followed him upstairs for a look around. The apartment was one of four on the third floor. It had three small rooms and a narrow kitchen, and as he talked to the man, Steve somebody, he learned that Steve had the lease but was leaving town in a hurry. They shook hands on an eight-month sub at $2,500 per. That afternoon, they met again at the apartment to sign the paperwork and transfer the keys.
Kyle thanked Charles and Charles, reloaded his meager assets in his Jeep, and drove twenty minutes uptown to the corner of Seventh and West Twenty-sixth. His first purchase was a well-used bed and night table from a flea market. His second was a fifty-inch flat-screen television. There was no urgency in furnishing or decorating. Kyle doubted he would live there beyond the eight months and could not imagine having guests. It was an adequate place to start, then he would find something nicer.
Before leaving for West Virginia, he carefully set the traps. He cut several four-inch pieces of brown sewing thread, and with a dab of Vaseline stuck the threads to the bottoms of three interior doors. Standing and looking down, he could barely see the thread against the oak stain, but if anyone entered the apartment and opened the doors, they would leave a trail by displacing the threads. Along one wall in the den he had stacked textbooks, notebooks, files for this and that, generally useless stuff that he wasn't ready to part with. It was a haphazard pile, but Kyle arranged everything in careful order and photographed it all with a digital camera. Anyone looking through it would be tempted to toss things back into the collection, and if that happened, Kyle would know it. He informed his new neighbor, an elderly lady from Thailand, that he would be gone for four days and was not expecting any visitors. If she heard anything, call the cops. She agreed, but Kyle was not at all confident she understood a word he said.
His counterintelligence tactics were rudimentary, but the basics often worked just fine, according to the spy novels.
THE NEW RIVER runs through the Allegheny Mountains in southern West Virginia. It's fast in some places, slower in others, but on any stretch of it the scenery is beautiful. With Class IV rapids in some areas, it has long been a favorite of serious kayakers. And with miles and miles of slower water, it attracts thousands of rafters each year. Because of its popularity, there are several established outfitters. Kyle had found one near the town of Beckley.
They met there at a motel the first night. Joey, Kyle, and four other Beta brothers. They drank two cases of beer to celebrate the Fourth of July, and woke up with hangovers. Kyle, of course, stayed with diet soda and woke up pondering the mysteries of the bankruptcy code. One look at his five friends and he was proud of his sobriety.
Their guide was a rather rustic local named Clem, and Clem had a few rules for the twenty-four-foot rubber raft that was his livelihood. Helmets and life vests were mandatory. No smoking, period. No drinking was allowed in the "boat" while it was moving down the river. When it stopped, for lunch or for the night, they could drink all they wanted. Clem counted ten cases of beer and realized what he was facing. The first morning was uneventful. The sun was hot, and the crew was subdued, even suffering. By late afternoon, they were splashing water and began jumping in. By 5:00 p.m., they were parched, and Clem found a sandbar to settle into for the first night. After a couple of beers each, and one for Clem himself, they pitched four tents and set up camp. Clem cooked T-bones on a grill, and after dinner the crew ventured off to explore.
Kyle and Joey followed the river for half a mile, and when they were certain they could not be seen, they sat on a log with their feet in the backwater. "Let's have it," Joey said, cutting to the chase.
For weeks, even months, Kyle had struggled with the conversation they were about to have. He loathed the idea of upsetting his friend's life, but he had decided that he had no choice but to tell the story. All of it. He justified his decision by convincing himself that he would certainly want to know if things were reversed. If Joey had been the first to see the video and knew of its dangers, he, Kyle, would want to know. But the bigger reason, and one that made him feel selfish, was that Kyle needed help. He had worked on a rough draft of a plan, and it was more than he could handle himself, especially with Bennie lurking in the shadows. The plan could easily lead nowhere, and it could just as easily lead to something dangerous. It could be aborted at any time. It could also be rejected outright by Joey Bernardo. The first step involved Elaine Keenan.
Joey listened in rapt silence to Kyle's detailed replaying of the initial encounter with a man known as Bennie. He was sufficiently stunned by the existence of the video. He was thoroughly bewildered by the blackmail. He was terrified by the thought of some forgotten girl accusing him of rape and producing the evidence to back it up.
Kyle unloaded everything but the background on the lawsuit. He had not yet passed the bar and received a license to practice, but he had signed a contract with Scully & Pershing and felt an ethical obligation to protect firm business. This was silly in light of what he would be forced to do, but for the moment his career was unblemished and he felt rather ethical.
Joey's first reaction was a halfhearted attempt to deny any contact with Elaine, but Kyle waved him off. "You're on the video," Kyle said as sympathetically as possible. "You're having sex with a girl who's probably floating in and out of consciousness. In our apartment. Baxter goes first, then you. And I saw it on a twelve-inch laptop screen. If it's ever seen in court, it'll be on a big screen, a massive one. It'll be like sitting in the cinema with the images and sounds enhanced so that everybody there, especially the jurors, will have no doubt that it's you. I'm sorry, Joey, but you're there."
"Totally nude?"
"Not a stitch. Do you remember it?"
"It was five years ago, Kyle. I've worked hard to forget it."
"But you do remember?"
With great reluctance, Joey said, "Yeah, sure, but there was no rape. Hell, the sex was her idea."
"That's not real clear on the video."
"I remember well."
"I never saw a girl so promiscuous and so aggressive. That's why we were stunned when she cried rape."
"And it's why the police lost interest."
"Exactly. And there's something else, another little detail not on the video. The night before the party, you and Alan and some others went to a Pirates game, right?"
"Yes."
"Elaine was in the apartment, which was nothing new. And we had a three-way. Me, Baxter, and Elaine. Twenty-four hours later, same apartment, same guys, same everything, she passes out, wakes up, decides she was raped."
"I don't remember this."
"It was no big deal until she cried rape. Baxter and I talked about it and decided to keep it quiet because she might claim we raped her twice. So we buried it. When the police started squeezing us, we finally told them. That's when they packed up and went home. Case closed. No rape."
A small turtle stopped swimming by a log and seemed to stare at them. They stared back, and for a long time nothing was said.
"Do Baxter and Alan know about this?" Joey finally asked.
"No, not yet. It was hard enough telling you."
"Thanks for nothing."
"I'm sorry. I need a friend."
"To do what?"
"I don't know. Right now I just need someone to talk to."
"What do these guys want from you?"
"It's very simple. The scheme is to plant me as a spy in my law firm, where I can extract all sorts of secrets that the other side can use to win a big lawsuit."
"Simple enough. What happens if you get caught?"
"Disbarred, indicted, convicted, sentenced to five years in prison - state, not federal."
"Is that all?"
"Bankrupted, humiliated, it's a long list."
"You need more than friends."
The turtle crawled onto the sand and disappeared into the roots of a dead tree. "We'd better get back," Kyle said.
"We gotta talk some more. Let me think about this."
"We'll sneak away later."
They followed the river to the campsite. The sun had dropped below the mountains, and night was approaching quickly. Clem stoked the coals and added wood to the fire. The crew gathered around and opened beers, and the chatter began. Kyle asked if anyone had heard from Baxter. There was a rumor the family had locked him away in a high-security rehab unit, but this had not been confirmed. No one had heard from him in three weeks. They told Baxter stories for far too long.
Joey was notably quiet, obviously preoccupied. "You got girl trouble?" Clem asked at one point.
"Naw, just sleepy, that's all."
By 9:30 they were all sleepy. The beer and sun and red meat finally caught up with them. When Clem finished his third long joke in a row with a lame punch line, they were all ready for their sleeping bags. Kyle and Joey shared a tent, and as they were arranging two rather thin air mattresses, Clem yelled across the campsite, "Be sure and check for snakes." Then he laughed, and they assumed it was another attempt at humor. Ten minutes later they heard him snore. The sound of the river soon put them all to sleep.
At 3:20 a.m., Kyle checked his watch and saw the time. After three rough weeks of bar review, his nights were erratic. The fact that he was essentially sleeping on the ground didn't help matters.
"You awake?" Joey whispered.
"Yes. I assume you are too."
"I can't sleep. Let's go talk."
They quietly unzipped the front tent fly and eased away from the campsite. Kyle led with a flashlight, moving carefully, watching for snakes. The path led up to a rocky trail, and after a few minutes of tentative hiking they stopped near a huge boulder. Kyle turned off the flashlight, and their eyes began to focus in the darkness.
"One more time," Joey said. "Describe the video."
Since it was seared into Kyle's memory, he had no trouble replaying it - exact times, camera location, angle, the people involved, the arrival of the police, and the presence of Elaine Keenan. Joey absorbed it again without a word.
"Okay, Kyle," he said finally. "You've lived with this since February. You've had plenty of time to think. Right now I ain't thinking real clear. Tell me what we should do."
"The big decision has been made. I'm officially employed by Scully & Pershing, and at some point I'll get around to the dirty work. But there are two things I want to know. The first concerns Elaine. I know where she is, but I'd like to know who she is now. Is she capable of dragging this up again, or has she moved on? Does she have a life, or is she living in the past? According to Bennie, she has a lawyer and she still wants justice. Maybe so, maybe not, but I'd like to know the truth."
"Why?"
"Because Bennie is a liar by trade. If she's still angry, or if she's dreaming of squeezing money out of us, especially Baxter, it's important to know. It could impact what I do at the law firm."
"Where is she?"
"She lives in Scranton, but that's all I know. For about two thousand bucks we can hire a private investigator to do a background on her. I'll pay it, but I can't arrange it myself, because they're watching and listening."
"So you want me to do it?"
"Yes. But you have to be careful. No phones or e-mails. There's a reputable investigator in Pittsburgh, not too far from your office. I give you the cash, you give it to him, he does the snooping, gives us the report, and nobody will know about it."
"I want to know who Bennie is and who he works for."
"Good luck."
"It's a long shot. He might work for an opposing law firm, or a client involved in a big lawsuit, or he might work for some intelligence operation, domestic or foreign. If I'm being forced to spy, I would like to know who I'm spying for."
"That's too dangerous."
"It's very dangerous, but it can be done."
"How?"
"I haven't got that far yet."
"Great. And I'm guessing that I'll be involved in this plan that has yet to be created."
"I need help, Joey. There's no one else."
"I got a better idea. Why don't you just go to the FBI and tell them everything? Tell them this creep is trying to blackmail you into stealing secrets from your law firm?"
"Oh, I've thought of that, believe me. I've spent hours upon hours walking through that scenario, but it's a bad idea. There's no doubt whatsoever that Bennie will use the video. He'll send a copy to the Pittsburgh police, a copy to Elaine, and a copy to her lawyer with clear instructions on how to use it to inflict as much misery as possible on me, you, Alan, and especially Baxter. He'll put it on the Internet. The video will become a big part of our lives. You want Blair to know about it?"
"No."
"This guy is ruthless, Joey. He's a professional, a corporate spy with an unlimited budget and plenty of manpower to do whatever he wants. He would watch us burn and have a good laugh, probably from someplace where the FBI can't touch him."
"A real prince. You'd better leave him alone."
"I'm not doing anything stupid. Look, Joey, there's an even chance that I can survive this. I'll do the dirty work for a few years, and when I'm no longer useful, Bennie will disappear. By then, I've violated every ethic in the book, and I've broken laws too numerous to mention, but I haven't been caught."
"That sounds awful."
And indeed it did. Kyle listened to his own words and was hit again by the folly of it all, and by the bleakness of his future.
They talked for two hours, until the sky began to change, and never once thought about returning to the tent. It was cooler on the ridge.
The old Joey would have jumped in with both feet, looking for a fight. This later version was much more cautious. He had a wedding to think about, a future with Blair. They had already bought a new condo together, and Joey, without the slightest trace of embarrassment, claimed that he was enjoying the decorating. Joey Bernardo, decorating?
Breakfast was scrambled eggs with hot sauce and bacon with onions. Clem cooked over the fire while his crew broke camp and loaded the raft. By eight o'clock, they were off, floating leisurely on the New River, headed nowhere in particular.
After a month in the city, Kyle savored the fresh air and open spaces. He envied Clem, a good ole boy from the mountains who earned little and needed even less. Clem had worked "these rivers" for twenty years and loved every minute of it. Such an uncomplicated life. Kyle would trade with him in an instant.
The thought of returning to New York made him ill. It was July 6. The bar exam was in three weeks. Scully & Pershing was two months away.