The Associate by John Grisham Read Free Book Online Page A

ejected the disc and placed it carefully back into a plastic case.
Kyle stared at the industrial-grade carpet for a long time.
There were sounds in the hallway, muffled voices, feet shuffling, maybe the Fibbies were getting restless. He really didn't care. His ears were ringing and he wasn't sure why.
Each fleeting thought was chased away by the next, and he found it impossible to concentrate, to think rationally, to focus on what should and should not be said. Decisions made at this ugly moment could reverberate forever. For a moment he settled on the three Duke lacrosse players who were falsely accused of raping a stripper. They were eventually cleared of everything, but only after an excruciating trip to hell and back. And there was no video, no link whatsoever to the victim.
“Is she awake?” Joey says to Baxter. How many times would that question echo around the courtroom? Frame by frame. Word by word. The jurors would have the video memorized by the time they retired to consider the verdicts.
Wright sat patiently at the table, hairy hands folded again and motionless on his legal pad. Time meant nothing. He could wait forever.
“Are we at midfield?” Kyle asked, breaking the silence.
“Past midfield, around the forty and driving.”
“I'd like to see the indictment.”
“Sure.”
Kyle stood and looked down at the folding table. The detective began a series of movements that were immediately confusing. First, he pulled his wallet out of his rear left pocket, removed his driver's license, and placed it on the table. He produced his Pittsburgh PD badge and laid it on the table. From a box on the floor he pulled other cards and other badges and began arranging them in line on the table. He reached for a file, handed it to Kyle, and said, “Happy reading.”
The file was labeled “INFORMATION.” Kyle opened it and removed a stack of papers stapled together. The top one looked official. A bold title read: “Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, Allegheny County, Court of Common Pleas.”
A smaller heading read: “Commonwealth versus Baxter F. Tate, Joseph N. Bernardo, Kyle L. McAvoy, and Alan B. Strock.” There was a docket number, file number, and other official markings.
Wright produced a pair of kitchen scissors and methodically cut his driver's license into two perfect squares.
The first paragraph read: “This prosecution is in the name of and by the authority of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania against the above-named defendants--”
Wright was cutting some of the other plastic cards, all of which appeared to be either driver's licenses or credit cards.
“Who, within the jurisdiction of this court--”
Wright ripped his bronze badge from its leather wallet and bounced it on the table. “What are you doing?” Kyle finally asked.
“Destroying the evidence.”
“What evidence?”
“Read page two.”
Kyle, who was at the bottom of page one, flipped to page two. It was blank, not a word, letter, period, anything. He flipped to page three, then four, then five. All blank. Wright was busy removing other badges. Kyle held the bogus indictment and gawked at the detective.
“Have a seat, Kyle,” Wright said with a smile as he waved at the empty folding chair.
In an effort to say something, Kyle managed only a dying whimper. Then he sat down.
“There is no indictment, Kyle,” Wright proceeded as if it all made sense now. “No grand jury, no cops, no arrest, no trial. Nothing but a video.”
“No cops?”
“Oh, no. This stuff is all fake.” He waved his hands over the pile
of destroyed identification. “I'm not a cop. Those boys across the hall are not FBI agents.”
Kyle rolled his head back like a wounded boxer, then rubbed his eyes. The indictment fell to the floor. “Who are you?” he managed to grunt.
“That's a very good question, Kyle, one that will take a long time to answer.”
In disbelief, Kyle picked up one of the badges--Ginyard's, FBI. He rubbed it and said, “But I checked this guy out online.