The Associate

"Do you mind emptying your pockets?" Ginyard said as he offered a small cardboard box.

"Why?"

"Please."

"You think I’m armed? You think I might pull out a knife and attack you guys?"

Agent No. 5 saw the humor and broke the ice with a good laugh. Kyle pulled out his key ring, jangled its collection for Ginyard to see, then put it back in his pocket.

"How about a pat down?" Plant said, already moving toward Kyle.

"Oh, sure," he said, then raised his arms. "All Yale students are heavily armed."

Plant began a very soft and quick frisk. He finished just seconds after he started, then disappeared into the other room.

"Detective Wright is across the hall," Ginyard said. Yet another room.

Kyle followed him out of the room, into the stuffy hallway, then waited as he tapped gently on the door to room 225. When it opened, Kyle entered alone.

Bennie Wright displayed no weaponry. He offered a quick handshake while spitting out, "Detective Wright, Pittsburgh PD."

A real pleasure, Kyle thought but said nothing. What am I doing here?

Wright was in his late forties, short, trim, bald with a few strands of black hair slicked back just above his ears. His eyes were also black and partially concealed behind a pair of tiny reading glasses perched halfway down his narrow nose. He closed the door behind Kyle, then waved at the appointed spot and said, "Why don’t you have a seat?"

"What do you have in mind?" Kyle asked without moving.

Wright walked past the bed and stopped beside yet another folding table, this one with two cheap metal chairs facing each other. "Let’s talk, Kyle," he said pleasantly, and Kyle realized he had a slight accent. English was not his first language, though there was almost no trace of his native tongue. But it was odd. A man named Bennie Wright from Pittsburgh should not have a foreign accent.

There was a small video camera mounted on a tripod in one corner. Wires ran to the table, to a laptop with a twelve-inch screen. "Please," Wright said, waving at one chair as he settled himself into the other.

"I want all of this recorded," Kyle said.

Wright glanced over his shoulder at the camera and said, "No problem."

Slowly, Kyle walked to the other chair and sat down. Wright was rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt. His necktie was already loose.

To Kyle’s right was the laptop with a blank screen. To his left a thick, unopened file. In the center of the table was a fresh legal pad, white, with a black pen on it, waiting. "Turn on the camera," Kyle said. Wright punched the laptop, and Kyle’s face appeared on the screen. He looked at himself and saw nothing but fear.

Wright went efficiently into the file, retrieving the necessary paperwork as if young Kyle here were simply applying for a student credit card. When the proper sheets were found, he placed them in the center and said, "First, we need to cover your Miranda rights."

"No," Kyle said softly. "First we need to see your badge and some identification."

This irritated the detective, but only for a few seconds. Without a word, he fished out a brown leather wallet from a rear pocket, opened it, and said, "Had this for twenty-two years now."

Kyle examined the bronze badge, and it did indeed show signs of age. Benjamin J. Wright, Pittsburgh Police Department, officer number 6658. "How about a driver’s license?"

Wright yanked back his wallet, opened another compartment, fingered through some cards, and then flung down a Pennsylvania photo license. "Satisfied now?" he snapped.

Kyle handed it back and said, "Why is the FBI involved in this?"

"Can we finish up with Miranda?" Wright was readjusting the paperwork.

"Sure. I understand Miranda."

"I’m sure you do. A top law student at one of our most prestigious law schools. A very smart young man." Kyle was reading as Wright was talking. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in court. You have the right to an attorney. If you can’t afford one, then the state will provide one. Any questions?"

"No." He signed his name on two forms and slid them back to Wright.

"Why is the FBI involved?" He repeated the question.

"Believe me, Kyle, the FBI is the least of your problems." Wright’s hands were hairy, still, calm, and his fingers were laced together on top of the legal pad. He spoke slowly, with authority. There was no doubt this meeting belonged to him. "Here is my suggestion, Kyle. We have so much ground to cover, and time is slipping by. Did you ever play football?"

"Yes."

"Then let’s say this table is a football field. Not a great analogy, but one that will work. You are here, at this goal line." With his left hand he striped an imaginary line in front of the laptop. "You have a hundred yards to go, to score, to win, to walk out of here in one piece." With his right hand, he laid down the other goal line, next to the heavy file. His hands were four feet apart. "A hundred yards, Kyle, bear with me, okay?"

"Okay."

He pulled his hands together and tapped the legal pad. "Somewhere in here, at about the fifty, I’ll show you the video that is the source of this conflict. You won’t like it, Kyle. It will make you ill. Nauseous. Sick to your stomach. But, if we are able, then we will continue your little march to the goal line, and when we get there, you will be quite relieved. You will once again see yourself as the golden boy, the handsome young man with an unlimited future and an unblemished past. Stick with me, Kyle, allow me to be the boss, the coach, the man calling the plays, and together we’ll make it to the promised land." His right hand tapped the goal line.

"What about the indictment?"

Wright touched the file and said, "It’s here."

"When do I see it?"

"Stop asking questions, Kyle. I have the questions. Hopefully, you have the answers."

The accent wasn’t Spanish. Eastern European maybe, and at times it was so slight it almost disappeared.

Wright’s left hand touched the goal line in front of the laptop. "Now, Kyle, we need to start with the basics. Just some background, okay?"

"Whatever."

Wright pulled some papers from the file, studied them for a second, then picked up his pen. "You were born on February 4, 1983, in York, Pennsylvania, third child and only son of John and Patty McAvoy. They divorced in 1989, when you were six years old, neither has remarried, correct?"

"Correct."

Wright made a check mark, then launched into a series of quick questions about family members, their birth dates, education, jobs, addresses, hobbies, church affiliations, even politics. As the list grew longer, Wright shuffled papers and the check marks multiplied. He had his facts straight, every one of them. He knew the date and place of the birth of Kyle’s two-year-old nephew in Santa Monica. When he finished with the family, he pulled out more papers. Kyle felt the first signs of fatigue. And they were just warming up.

"Would you like something to drink?" Wright asked.

"No."

"Your father is a general practice lawyer in York?" It was a statement, but more of a question.

Kyle only nodded. Then a barrage about his father, his life and career and interests. After every fourth or fifth question, Kyle wanted to ask, "Is this really relevant?" But he held his tongue. Wright had all the data. Kyle was simply affirming what someone else had found.