The Associate
At her direction, each associate sat down before a computer and was given a pass code and password. There was nothing on the screen to indicate who manufactured the computer or who wrote the software.
Sherry walked from lawyer to lawyer, looking at the monitors and chatting like a college professor. "There’s an extensive tutorial at the beginning, and I strongly suggest you go through it today. Pull up the index. The documents are classified in three basic groups, with a hundred subgroups. Category A contains all the harmless junk that Bartin has already been given – letters, e-mails, office memos, the list is endless. Category B has important materials that are discoverable, though we have not handed all of them over. Category R, for ‘Restricted,’ is where you’ll find the good stuff, about a million documents dealing with the technological research that is the heart of this little dispute. It’s top secret, classified, and no one but the judge knows if it will ever be shown to Bartin. Mr. Rush thinks not. Category R is privileged, confidential, Attorneys’ Work Product. When you enter Category R, a record of your entry automatically registers with Mr. Gant’s computer right next door. Any questions?"
All eight associates stared at their monitors, all thinking the same thing – there are four million documents in there, and someone has to examine them.
"Sonic is amazing," Sherry said. "Once you master it, you will be able to find a document or group of documents within seconds. I’ll be here for the rest of the day for a workshop. The sooner you learn your way around our virtual library, the easier your life will be."
AT 4:20 ON Friday afternoon, Kyle received an e-mail from Bennie. It read: "Let’s meet tonight at 9:00. Details to follow. BW" Kyle responded: "I can’t." Bennie responded: "Tomorrow afternoon, say 5:00 or 6:00?"
Kyle: "I can’t."
Bennie: "Sunday night, 10:00 p.m.?"
Kyle: "I can’t."
KYLE WAS SLEEPING when someone rapped on the door of his apartment at ten minutes after seven on Saturday morning. "Who is it?" he yelled as he stumbled through his cluttered den.
"Bennie," came the reply.
"What do you want?" Kyle demanded at the door.
"I’ve brought you some coffee."
Kyle unlocked and unchained the door, and Bennie walked by him quickly. He was holding two tall paper cups of coffee. He placed them on the counter and looked around. "What a dump," he said. "I thought you were making some money."
"What do you want?" Kyle snapped.
"I don’t like being ignored," Bennie snapped back as he jerked around, ready to pounce. His face was taut and his eyes were hot. He pointed a finger that came within inches of Kyle’s face. "You do not ignore me, understand?" he hissed. It was the first real display of temper Kyle had seen from him.
"Be cool."
Kyle brushed by him, their shoulders touching solidly, and walked to the bedroom, where he found a T-shirt. When he returned to the den, Bennie was removing the tops from the cups. "I want an update."
The nearest weapon was a cheap ceramic table lamp Kyle had found at a secondhand store. He took the coffee without saying thanks. He glanced at the lamp and thought how nicely it would crack over Bennie’s bald head, how wonderful it would be to hear them break into pieces, both lamp and skull, and how easily he could pound away until the little bastard was dead but still bleeding on the cheap rug. Greetings from my old pal Baxter. Kyle took a sip, then took a breath.
Both men were still standing. Bennie was wearing his gray trench coat. Kyle was decked out in red boxers and a wrinkled T-shirt.
"I got assigned to the Trylon case yesterday. Big news, huh, or did you already know this?"
Bennie’s eyes revealed nothing. He took a sip, then said, "And the secret room on the eighteenth floor? Tell me about it."
Kyle described it.
"What about the computers?"
"Manufacturer unknown. Basic desktop models but supposedly custom built for the project, all linked to a server locked away next door. Lots of memory, all the bells and whistles. Video cameras everywhere and a security expert next door monitoring everything. It’s a dead end if you ask me. There’s no way to steal anything."
To which Bennie offered a grunt and a smart-ass smirk. "We’ve cracked much bigger vaults, I assure you of that. Everything can be stolen. Let us worry about that. Sonic is the software?"
"Yes."
"Have you mastered it?"
"Not yet. I’ll go in later this morning for another lesson."
"How many documents?"
"Over four million."
That brought the only smile of the morning. "What about access to the room?"
"Open seven days a week but closed from ten at night until six in the morning. There’s only one door, and there are at least three cameras watching it."
"Does someone check you in?"
"I don’t think so. But the key leaves a record of each entry and exit."
"Let me see the key."
Kyle reluctantly got the key from his room and handed it over. Bennie examined it like a surgeon, then gave it back. "I want you to visit the room as often as possible over the next few days, but don’t arouse any suspicions. Go at different hours, watch everything. We’ll meet at ten on Tuesday night, room 1780, Four Seasons Hotel on Fifty-seventh. Got it?"
"Sure."
"No surprises."
"Yes, sir."
Chapter 31
With seventy-eight thousand lawyers in Manhattan, the selection of one should not have been so difficult. Kyle narrowed his list, did more research, added names, and deleted names. He had begun the secret project not long after he arrived in the city, and had abandoned it several times. He was never sure he would actually hire a lawyer, but wanted the name of a good one just in case. Baxter’s murder changed everything. Kyle not only wanted protection; now he wanted justice.
Roy Benedict was a criminal defense lawyer with a two-hundred-man firm located in a tall building one block east of Scully & Pershing. The location of the chosen lawyer was crucial, given the attention paid to Kyle’s movements. Benedict measured up in other important areas as well. He had worked for the FBI before law school at NYU and after graduation spent six years with the Department of Justice. He had contacts, old friends, people on the other side of the street now, but people he could trust. Crime was his specialty. He was ranked in the top one hundred of the city’s white-collar defense specialists, but not in the top ten. Kyle needed solid advice, but he couldn’t afford an ego. Benedict’s firm was often listed as opposing counsel in lawsuits involving Scully & Pershing. The icing on the cake was his basketball career at Duquesne some twenty-five years earlier. On the phone, he seemed to have little time for small talk and said he wasn’t taking any new cases, but the basketball angle opened the door.
The appointment was at 2:00 p.m. on Monday, and Kyle arrived early. He found it impossible to walk through the law firm without comparing it with his. It was smaller, and it spent less trying to impress visitors with abstract art and designer furniture. The receptionists were not as cute.
In his briefcase he had a file on Roy Benedict – old stats and photos from Duquesne, bios from legal directories, newspaper stories about two of his more notorious cases. He was forty-seven, six feet six, and appeared to be in great shape, ready for a pickup game. His office was busy, smaller than most of the partners’ at Scully, but nicely appointed. Benedict was cordial and genuinely pleased to meet another New York lawyer who’d played for the Dukes.