The Associate

His meter began promptly at 5:00 a.m. By 9:00, he was calling trial lawyers and defense lawyers in Duval County, Florida, in and around Jacksonville. He had a long list of cases that had gone to trial, and he planned to talk to every lawyer he could get on the phone.

The more calls he made, the longer the list became. Lawyers in Florida, Memphis and western Tennessee, Lincoln and Omaha, and dozens in the Chicago area. He found more cases and more trials, and called more lawyers. He tracked every Barx trial in the past twenty years and compared their verdicts.

There was no word from Doug Peckham, no text message or e-mail on the FirmFone always lying on the table next to the legal pad. Kyle was delighted to be given such free rein, such discretion. Dale sent an e-mail and asked about lunch. He met her in the cafeteria for a quick salad at 1:00 p.m. She was still imprisoned in the Placid tomb, but mercifully three other rookies had been sent in to help with the grunt work. All three were thinking about quitting. She seemed genuinely pleased that someone she knew had been given a real task.

"Save me some Placid files," Kyle said as they left the cafeteria. "I’ll be back tomorrow."

He left the library at midnight on Wednesday, after billing Barx for eighteen hours. Six the day before. He added two more early Thursday morning as he polished up the fifteen-page memo and rehearsed his ten-minute presentation to Peckham and a team of senior associates. At precisely 7:30, he approached the partner’s door and saw that it was closed.

"He’s expecting me at seven thirty," he said politely to a secretary.

"I’ll let him know," she said without making a move toward the phone.

Five minutes passed as Kyle tried to settle his nerves and appear calm. He had a knot in his stomach, and there was sweat around his collar. Why? he kept asking himself. It’s just a brief presentation before a friendly audience. We’re on the same team, right? Ten minutes, fifteen. He could hear voices in Peckham’s office. Finally, the door was opened by one of the associates, and Kyle walked in.

Peckham appeared surprised to see him. "Oh, yes, Kyle, I forgot," he said, snapping his fingers and frowning. "I should’ve e-mailed. The hearing’s been postponed. You’re off the hook. Keep the memo. I might need it later."

Kyle’s mouth fell open and he glanced around. Two associates were huddled over a small worktable, papers everywhere. And two more were seated near the desk. All four seemed to be amused.

The False Deadline.

Kyle, of course, had heard of this little maneuver. The hapless associate is run through the grinder to produce a useless memo or brief that is time sensitive but will never be used. But the client will nonetheless get billed, and will pay, so even though the research is not needed, it is at least profitable.

Kyle had heard of the False Deadline, but didn’t see this one coming. "Uh, sure, no problem," he said, backtracking.

"Thanks," Peckham said as he flipped the page of another document. "See you later."

"Sure."

Kyle was at the door when Peckham asked, "Say, Kyle, where’s the best place for Barx to try the case?"

"Nebraska, Fillmore County," Kyle said eagerly.

Two of the associates laughed out loud, and the other two were highly entertained. One of them said, "Nebraska? No one tries cases in Nebraska."

"Thanks, Kyle," Peckham said, patronizing. "Nice work." And please get out of here.

For $200,000 a year, plus treats, the job would naturally have its moments of humiliation. You’re getting paid for this, Kyle kept repeating as he slowly made his way up the stairs. Take it in stride. Be tough. Happens to everyone.

Back in the dungeon, he managed to smile. When Dale asked "How did it go?" he said, "It’s hard to say." At the far end of the room two associates were plowing through mortgage files. Kyle nodded at them, then parked himself near Dale, arranged his pen, legal pad, and FirmFone. He opened a box, removed a file, and reentered the world of Placid Mortgage. It was known territory, and he felt oddly safe there. He would not be harmed or humiliated. A long career as a document reviewer would no doubt be dull, but it would also be much less hazardous than that of a litigator.

Chapter 17

When Kyle left the office late Friday afternoon, he considered his first week to be a success, though a dismal one. He billed Placid thirty hours and Barx Biomed twenty-six, and though virtually all of this valuable time would eventually mean little to either client, he wasn’t paid to worry about such things. He was there to do one thing  –  bill. If he kept up the pace and managed only fifty hours a week, he would hit twenty-five hundred for the year, a high number for a first-year and one that would catch the attention of the higher-ups.

For the week, Tabor the Gunner billed fifty hours. Dale, forty-four. Tim Reynolds, forty-three.

It was amazing how consumed they were with the clock after only five days on the job.

He walked to his apartment, changed into jeans, stuffed a phone in each pocket, and headed for the ballpark. The Mets were at home against the Pirates, who were already guaranteed another losing season. With seventeen games to go, the Mets were in first place, two games ahead of the Phillies, and primed for another choke in the stretch.

Kyle had paid cash for two tickets sold by a broker recommended by a paralegal at the firm. As he made his way to Shea Stadium, he picked up his surveillance as it was picking up him.

His seat was fifteen rows behind the third-base dugout. The night was hot; the Mets were in first; the place was packed. He timed his entrance perfectly and sat down just as the first pitch was thrown in the bottom of the first. To his right was a young boy holding a baseball glove and eating ice cream. To his left was a real fan with a Mets cap, Mets jersey, blue and orange sweatbands, even goofy Mets eyeglasses. Under the cap and behind the glasses was Joey Bernardo, who had spent his entire life in Pittsburgh and hated the Mets almost as much as he hated the Phillies.

"Do not acknowledge me," Kyle said as he watched the field.

"Don’t worry. Right now I hate your guts. And I hate the Mets almost as much as I hate you."

"Thanks. I like the glasses."

"Can I take them off? I can’t see a damned thing."

"No."

They were talking out of the corners of their mouths, just loud enough to hear each other. Shea was alive with every pitch, and there was little chance of being overheard.

Joey took a sip of a tall beer. "Are they really following you?"

"Oh, yes. Every day, everywhere."

"Do they know that you know?"

"I don’t think so."

"But why?"

"Basic espionage tradecraft."

"Of course."

"Information is crucial. The more they watch and listen, the more they know about me. If they know what I eat, drink, wear, watch, listen to, and who I talk to and hang out with and where I like to shop and browse and sneak away to, then they might one day be able to use it all to their advantage. Sounds pretty dull to you and me, but not to these guys."

More beer as Joey absorbed this.

A ball bounced off the left-field wall, scoring a run, and the crowd was on its feet. Kyle and Joey acted like all the other fans. When things had settled down, Kyle continued: "For example, I’ve found this wonderful little store in midtown that sells all sorts of spy gadgets. Tiny cameras, hidden mikes, phone-tapping devices, and some high-tech stuff that the military has left behind. It’s run by a couple of misfits who claim to be ex-CIA, but then people who are really ex-CIA don’t talk about it. I found the store online, at the office, not at the apartment, and I’ve been there twice when I was able to shake surveillance. I might need the store one day, but if the goons knew I had discovered the place, they would really be interested."