The Associate

"Ideal for who?"

"For you, of course. Both places are in Tribeca, fairly close to the office."

"What makes you think I would even remotely consider living where you want me to live?"

"And we’ll cover the rent. Pretty pricey real estate."

"Oh, I see. You’ll find an apartment for me, and pay for it, so I won’t need a roommate. Is that it, Bennie? One less person for you to worry about. Helps to keep me isolated. Plus the rent means that we’re financially joined at the hip. You pay me, I give you secrets, just a couple of shrewd businessmen, right, Bennie?"

"Apartment hunting is a bitch in this city. I’m just trying to help."

"Thanks so much. No doubt these are places that can easily be watched, maybe even wired or bugged or compromised in ways I can’t even imagine. Nice try, Bennie."

"The rent is five thousand bucks a month."

"Keep it. I can’t be bought. Evidently I can be blackmailed, but not bought."

"Where are you planning to live?"

"Wherever I choose. I’ll figure it out, and I’ll do so without any involvement on your part."

"As you wish."

"Damned right. What else do you want to talk about?"

Bennie walked to the table, picked up a legal pad, and studied it as if he didn’t know what he’d already written on it. "Have you ever seen a psychiatrist?" he asked.

"No."

"A psychologist?"

"No."

"A counselor or therapist of any type?"

"Yes."

"Details please."

"It was nothing."

"Then let’s talk about nothing. What happened?"

Kyle leaned against the wall and folded both arms across his chest. There was little doubt in his mind that Bennie knew most of what he was about to explain. He knew far too much. "After the incident with Elaine, and after the police finished their investigation, I talked to a counselor in student health services. She referred me to a Dr. Thorp, a specialist in drug and alcohol addiction. He roughed me up, got under my skin, forced me to take a long hard look in the mirror, and he convinced me the drinking would only get worse."

"Were you an alcoholic?"

"No. Dr. Thorp didn’t think so. I certainly didn’t either. But there was too much drinking, especially of the binge variety. I seldom smoked pot."

"You’re still sober?"

"I quit drinking. I grew up, found some different roommates, and have never been tempted. I’ve yet to miss the hangovers."

"Not even an occasional beer?"

"Nope. I never think about it."

Bennie nodded as if he approved of this. "What about the girl?" he asked.

"What about her?"

"How serious is the relationship?"

"Not sure where you figure into this, Bennie. Can you help me here?"

"Your life will be complicated enough without a romance. A serious relationship could pose problems. It’s best if you postpone it for a few years."

Kyle laughed in frustration and disbelief. He shook his head and tried to think of an appropriate retort, but nothing came to mind. Sadly, he agreed with his tormentor. And the relationship with Olivia was going nowhere fast. "What else, Bennie? Can I have some friends? Can I visit my parents occasionally?"

"You won’t have the time."

Kyle suddenly headed for the door, yanked it open, then slammed it as he left.

Chapter 8

There is a student lounge on the first floor of the Yale Law School, and on the walls outside its door are posters and notices advertising internships and even careers in public-interest law. The students are encouraged to consider spending a few years helping battered women, neglected children, death row inmates, immigrants, runaway teens, indigent defendants, the homeless, asylum seekers, Haitian boat refugees, Americans sitting in foreign jails and foreigners sitting in American jails, First Amendment projects, innocence projects, conservation groups, environmental activists, and on and on.

A belief in public service runs deep at Yale Law. Admission is often determined by the applicant’s record of volunteerism and his or her written thoughts about using a law degree to benefit the world. First-year students are inundated with the virtues of public-interest law and are expected to get involved as soon as possible.

And most do. Around 80 percent of all freshmen claim that they are attracted to the law by a desire to help others. At some point, though, usually about halfway through the second year, things begin to change. The big firms arrive on campus to interview and begin their selection process. They offer summer internships, with nice salaries and the prospect of ten weeks of fun and games in New York, Washington, or San Francisco. Most important, they hold the keys to the lucrative careers. A divide occurs at Yale Law, as it does at all prestigious schools. Many of those so enamored with righteous dreams of aiding the downtrodden suddenly switch gears and begin dreaming of making it to the major leagues of American law, while many are turned off by this seduction and cling to their idyllic notions of public service. The divide is clear, but civilized.

When an editor of the Yale Law Journal takes a low-paying job with legal services, he is a hero to those on his side and to most of the faculty. And when he suddenly caves in to Wall Street, he is viewed less favorably by the same people.

Kyle’s life became miserable. His friends on the public-interest side were in disbelief. Those on the corporate side were too busy to care. His relationship with Olivia was reduced to sex once a week and only because they needed it. She said he had changed. He was moodier, gloomier, preoccupied with something, and whatever it was he couldn’t tell her.

If you only knew, he thought.

She had accepted a summer internship with an anti-death-penalty group in Texas; thus she was full of zeal and big plans to change things down there. They saw less and less of each other but somehow managed to bicker more.

One of Kyle’s favorite professors was an old radical who’d spent most of the 1960s marching for or against something, and he was still the first one to organize a petition against whatever he perceived to be the latest injustice on campus. When he heard the news that Kyle had flipped, he called and demanded lunch. Over enchiladas at a taco bar just off campus, they argued for an hour. Kyle pretended to resent the intrusion, but in his heart he knew he was wrong. The professor railed and hammered and got nowhere. He left Kyle with a disheartening "I’m very disappointed in you."

"Thanks," Kyle retorted, then cursed himself as he walked to campus. Then he cursed Bennie Wright and Elaine Keenan and Scully & Pershing and everything else in his life at that moment. He was mumbling and cursing a lot these days.

After a few rounds of ugly encounters with his friends, Kyle finally found the courage to go home.

THE MCAVOYS DRIFTED into eastern Pennsylvania in the late eighteenth century, along with thousands of other Scottish settlers. They farmed for a few generations, then moved on, down to Virginia, the Carolinas, and even farther south. Some stayed behind, including Kyle’s grandfather, a Presbyterian minister who died before Kyle was born. Reverend McAvoy led several churches on the outskirts of Philadelphia before being transferred to York in 1960. His only son, John, finished high school there and returned home after college, Vietnam, and law school.

In 1975, John McAvoy quit his job as a lowly paid pencil pusher in a small real estate law firm in York. He marched across Market Street, rented a two-room "suite" in a converted row house, hung out his shingle, and declared himself ready to sue. Real estate law was too boring. John wanted conflict, courtrooms, drama, verdicts. Life in York was uneventful enough. He, an ex-Marine, was looking for a fight.