The Associate by John Grisham

It's a deadly game of blackmail. And they're making him play. Kyle McAvoy is one of the outstanding legal students of his generation: he's good looking, has a brilliant mind and a glittering future ahead of him. But he has a secret from his past, a secret that threatens to destroy his entire life. One night that secret catches up with him in the form of a deeply compromising video of the incident that haunts him. Kyle realises that he no longer owns his own future - that he must do as his blackmailers tell him, or the video will be made public, with all the unpleasant consequences. What price do they demand for Kyle's secret? It is for Kyle to take a job in New York as an associate at the largest law firm in the world. Kyle won't be working for this company, but against it - passing on the secrets of it's biggest trial to date, a dispute worth billions of dollars to the victor. Full of twists and turns and reminiscent of The Firm, The Associate is vintage John Grisham. Editorial Reviews Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. 1 The rules of the New Haven Youth League required that each kid play at least ten minutes in each game. Exceptions were allowed for players who had upset their coaches by skipping practice or violating other rules. In such cases, a coach could file a report before the game and inform the scorekeeper that so-and-so wouldn't play much, if at all, because of some infraction. This was frowned on by the league; it was, after all, much more recreational than competitive. With four minutes left in the game, Coach Kyle looked down the bench, nodded at a somber and pouting little boy named Marquis, and said, Do you want to play? Without responding, Marquis walked to the scorers' table and waited for a whistle. His violations were numerous-skipping practice, skipping school, bad grades, losing his uniform, foul language. In fact, after ten weeks and fifteen games, Marquis had broken every one of the few rules his coach tried to enforce. Coach Kyle had long since realized that any new rule would be immediately violated by his star, and for that reason he trimmed his list and fought the temptation to add new regulations. It wasn't working. Trying to control ten inner- city kids with a soft touch had put the Red Knights in last place in the 12 and Under division of the winter league. Marquis was only eleven, but clearly the best player on the court. He preferred shooting and scoring over passing and defending, and within two minutes he'd slashed through the lane, around and through and over much larger players, and scored six points. His average was fourteen, and if allowed to play more than half a game, he could probably score thirty. In his own young opinion, he really didn't need to practice. In spite of the one-man show, the game was out of reach. Kyle McAvoy sat quietly on the bench, watching the game and waiting for the clock to wind down. One game to go and the season would be over, his last as a basketball coach. In two years he'd won a dozen, lost two dozen, and asked himself how any person in his right mind would willingly coach at any level. He was doing it for the kids, he'd said to himself a thousand times, kids with no fathers, kids from bad homes, kids in need of a positive male influence. And he still believed it, but after two years of babysitting, and arguing with parents when they bothered to show up, and hassling with other coaches who were not above cheating, and trying to ignore teenage referees who didn't know a block from a charge, he was fed up. He'd done his community service, in this town anyway. He watched the game and waited, yelling occasionally because that's what coaches are supposed to do. He looked around the empty gym, an old brick building in downtown New Haven, home to the youth league for fifty years. A handful of parents were scattered through the bleachers, all waiting for the final horn. Marquis scored again. No one applauded. The Red Knights were down by twelve with two minutes to go. At the far end of the court, just under the ancient scoreboard, a man in a dark suit walked through the door and leaned against the retractable bleachers. He was noticeable because he was white. There were no white players on either team. He stood out because he wore a suit that was either black or navy, with a white shirt and a burgundy tie, all under a trench coat that announced the presence of an agent or a cop of some variety. Coach Kyle happened to see the man when he entered the gym, and he thought to himself that the guy was out of place. Probably a detective of some sort, maybe a narc looking for a dealer. It would not be the first arrest in or around the gym. After the agent/cop leaned against the bleachers, he cast a long suspicious look at the Red Knights' bench, and his eyes seemed to settle on Coach Kyle, who returned the stare for a second before it became uncomfortable. Marquis let one fly from near mid- court, air ball, and Coach Kyle jumped to his feet, spread his hands wide, shook his head as if to ask, Why? Marquis ignored him as he loafed back on defense. A dumb foul stopped the clock and prolonged the misery. While looking at the free-throw shooter, Kyle glanced beyond him, and in the background was the agent/cop, still staring, not at the action but at the coach. For a twenty-five-year-old law student with no criminal record and no illegal habits or proclivities, the presence and the attention of a man who gave all indications of being employed by some branch of law enforcement should have caused no concern whatsoever. But it never worked that way with Kyle McAvoy. Street cops and state troopers didn't particularly bother him. They were paid to simply react. But the guys in dark suits, the investigators and agents, the ones trained to dig deep and discover secrets-those types still unnerved him. Thirty seconds to go and Marquis was arguing with a referee. He'd thrown an F-bomb at a ref two weeks earlier and was suspended for a game. Coach Kyle yelled at his star, who never listened. He quickly scanned the gym to see if agent/cop No. 1 was alone or was now accompanied by agent/cop No. 2. No, he was not. Another dumb foul, and Kyle yelled at the referee to just let it slide. He sat down and ran his finger over the side of his neck, then flicked off the perspiration. It was early February, and the gym was, as always, quite chilly. Why was he sweating? The agent/cop hadn't moved an inch; in fact he seemed to enjoy staring at Kyle. The decrepit old horn finally squawked. The game was mercifully over. One team cheered, and one team really didn't care. Both lined up for the obligatory high fives and Good game, good game, as meaningless to twelve- year- olds as it is to college players. As Kyle congratulated the opposing coach, he glanced down the court. The white man was gone. What were the odds he was waiting outside? Of course it was paranoia, but paranoia had settled into Kyle's life so long ago that he now simply acknowledged it, coped with it, and moved on. The Red Knights regrouped in the visitors' locker room, a cramped little space under the sagging and permanent stands on the home side. There Coach Kyle said all the right things-nice effort, good hustle, our game is improving in certain areas, let's finish on a high note this Saturday. The boys were changing clothes and hardly listening. They were tired of basketball because they were tired of losing, and of course all blame was heaped upon the coach. He was too young, too white, too much of an Ivy Leaguer. The few parents who were there waited outside the locker room, and it was those tense moments when the team came out that Kyle hated most about his community service. There would be the usual complaints about playing time. Marquis had an uncle, a twenty-two year-old former all-state player with a big mouth and a fondness for bitching about Coach Kyle's unfair treatment of the best player in the league. From the locker room, there was another door that led to a dark narrow hallway that ran behind the home stands and finally gave way to an outside door that opened into an alley. Kyle was not the first coach to discover this escape route, and on this night he wanted to avoid not only the families and their complaints but also the agent/ cop. He said a quick goodbye to his boys, and as they fled the locker room, he made his escape. In a matter of seconds he was outside, in the alley, then walking quickly along a frozen sidewalk. Heavy snow had been plowed, and the sidewalk was icy and barely passable. The temperature was somewhere far below freezing. It was 8:30 on a Wednesday, and he was headed for the law journal offices at the Yale Law School, where he would work until midnight at least. He didn't make it. The agent was leaning against the fender of a red Jeep Cherokee that was parked parallel on the street. The vehicle was titled to one John McAvoy of York, Pennsylvania, but for the past six years it had been the reliable companion of his son, Kyle, the true owner. Though his feet suddenly felt like bricks and his knees were weak, Kyle managed to trudge on as if nothing were wrong. Not only did they find me, he said to himself as he tried to think clearly, but they've done their homework and found my Jeep. Not exactly high-level research. I have done nothing wrong, he said again and again. Tough game, Coach, the agent said when Kyle was ten feet away and slowing down. Kyle stopped and took in the thick young man with red cheeks and red bangs who'd been watching him in the gym. Can I help you? he said, and immediately saw the shadow of No. 2 dart across the street. They always worked in pairs. No. 1 reached into a pocket, and as he said That's exactly what you can do, he pulled out a leather wallet and flipped it open. Bob Plant, FBI. A real pleasure, Kyle said as all the blood left his brain and he couldn't help but flinch. No. 2 wedged himself into the frame. He was much thinner and ten years older with gray around the temples. He, too, had a pocketful, and he performed the well- rehearsed badge presentation with ease. Nelson Ginyard, FBI, he said. Bob and Nelson. Both Irish. Both northeastern. Anybody else? Kyle asked. No. Got a minute to talk? Not really. You might want to, Ginyard said. It could be very productive. I doubt that. If you leave, we'll just follow, Plant said as he stood from his slouch position and took a step closer. You don't want us on campus, do you? Are you threatening me? Kyle asked. The sweat was back, now in the pits of his arms, and despite the arctic air a bead or two ran down his ribs. Not yet, Plant said with a smirk. Look, let's spend ten minutes together, over coffee, Ginyard was saying. There's a sandwich shop just around the corner. I'm sure it's warmer there. Do I need a lawyer? No. That's what you always say. My father is a lawyer and I grew up in his office. I know your tricks. No tricks, Kyle, I swear, Ginyard said, and he at least sounded genuine. Just give us ten minutes. I promise you won't regret it. What's on the agenda? Ten minutes. That's all we ask. Give me a clue or the answer is no. Bob and Nelson looked at each other. Both shrugged. Why not? We'll have to tell him sooner or later. Ginyard turned and looked down the street and spoke into the wind. Duquesne University. Five years ago. Drunk frat boys and a girl. Kyle's body and mind had different reactions. His body conceded- a quick slump of the shoulders, a slight gasp, a noticeable jerk in the legs. But his mind fought back instantly. That's bullshit! he said, then spat on the sidewalk. I've already been through this. Nothing happened and you know it. There was a long pause as Ginyard continued to stare down the street while Plant watched their subject's every move. Kyle's mind was spinning. Why was the FBI involved in an alleged state crime? In second-year Criminal Procedure they had studied the new laws regarding FBI interrogation. It was now an indictable offense to simply lie to an agent in this very situation. Should he shut up? Should he call his father? No, under no circumstances would he call his father. Ginyard turned, took three steps closer, clenched his jaw like a bad actor, and tried to hiss his tough- guy words. Let's cut to the chase, Mr. McAvoy, because I'm freezing. There's an indictment out of Pittsburgh, okay. Rape. If you want to play the hard-ass smart-ass brilliant law student and run get a lawyer, or even call your old man, then the indictment comes down tomorrow and the life you have planned is pretty much shot to shit. However, if you give us ten minutes of your valuable time, right now, in the sandwich shop around the corner, then the indictment will be put on hold, if not forgotten altogether. You can walk away from it, Plant said from the side. Without a word. Why should I trust you? Kyle managed to say with a very dry mouth. Ten minutes. You got a tape recorder? Sure. I want it on the table, okay? I want every word recorded because I don't trust you. Fair enough. They jammed their hands deep into the pockets of their matching trench coats and stomped away. Kyle unlocked his Jeep and got inside. He started the engine, turned the heat on high, and thought about driving away. Excerpted from THE ASSOCIATE by John Grisham Published by Doubleday Reprinted with permission of the publisher. Copyright © 2009 by Belfry Holdings, Inc. From the Hardcover edition. --This text refers to the paperback edition. From Publishers Weekly Bestseller Grisham's contemporary legal thriller offers an action-and-suspense plot reminiscent of that of his breakout book, 1991's The Firm, in contrast to 2008's didactic The Appeal, which served as a platform for his concerns about the corrupting effects of judicial elections. Kyle McAvoy, a callow Yale Law School student, dreams of a public service gig on graduation, until shadowy figures blackmail him with a videotape that could revive a five-year-old rape accusation. Instead of helping those in need, McAvoy accepts a position at a huge Wall Street firm, Scully & Pershing, whose clients include a military contractor enmeshed in a $800 billion lawsuit concerning a newly-designed aircraft. McAvoy can avoid exposure of his past if he feeds his new masters inside information on the case. Readers should be prepared for some predictable twists, an ending with some unwarranted ambiguity and some unconvincing details (the idea that a secret file room in a high stakes litigation case would be closed from 10:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m. every night stretches credulity to the breaking point). Still, Grisham devotees should be satisfied, even if this is one of his lesser works. Copyright ® Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. --This text refers to the paperback edition. About the Author John Grisham is the author of twenty-two novels, one work of non-fiction, a collection of short stories, and a novel for young readers. He is on the Board of Directors for the Innocence Project in New York and is the Chairman on the Board of Directors for the Mississippi Innocence Project at the Mississippi School of Law. He lives in Virginia and Mississippi. His website is www.johngrisham.co.uk --This text refers to the paperback edition. From Bookmarks Magazine Critics agree with Entertainment Weeklythat The Associateis vintage Grisham, for better or worse, made timely with its sorry portrait of what passes for everyday ethics on Wall Street. Like his previous novels, The Associateis heavy on readability, predictability, and pace, and lighter on character development, scene setting, and style--no surprises here. Fans of Grisham cited masterfully drawn characters and page-turning subplots, but less enthusiastic reviewers faulted stock villains, a rather mysterious Kyle, and implausible storylines. Timeeven claimed that unlike Michael Crichton or Scott Turow, who wrestle with actual issues, Grisham deals with, well, nothing. Still, you know what you're getting into with The Associate, for better or for worse. Copyright 2009 Bookmarks Publishing LLC --This text refers to the paperback edition. Review It's a damned good read. This is Grisham returning to what he knows best. * Scotland on Sunday * Grisham paints a fascinating picture. Vintage Grisham, with a really believable ending * The Guardian * Tense and exciting * Evening Standard * Easily his most recognisably 'back to form' novel since The Firm. Grisham has returned with a vengeance to his trademark territory: the grim world of corporate law and the sinister machinations of the men on its fringes. * The Times * In typical Grisham fashion it does hurtle along at a decent clip * London Lite * --This text refers to the paperback edition. From Booklist Editor of the Yale Law Journal, recipient of job offers from the best Wall Street firms, a wonderful (but not too serious) girl by his side--Kyle McAvoy is ready to take on the world. Until, that is, Bennie Wright, an unsavory private investigator, walks into his life and announces that Kyle will be doing Bennie's bidding for the foreseeable future. Why would Kyle put his fate into the hands of Bennie and his unsavory crew? Because they know a secret about Kyle--an incident involving a fraternity party gone bad--that Kyle thought was buried and forgotten. If the story gets out, Kyle's career could be ruined, so he does as Bennie demands and accepts a position with one of Wall Street's two largest firms. Kyle's assignment is to spy on his new employer on behalf of Bennie's client, the other premier Wall Street firm, as the two legal giants face off in the largest case involving defense contracts in U.S. history. Kyle must play along if he wants to get out alive. Just like Mitch McDeere in Grisham's break-out novel, The Firm (1991), Kyle is at once too naive and too cocky, daring to try to outwit forces much more powerful than he. Grisham knows how to produce a page-turner, that's for sure, and while his plot this time stretches believability a bit, he'll hook readers with the David-against-Goliath angle. --This text refers to the paperback edition. From AudioFile Upon leaving Yale Law School, scholastic superstar Kyle McAvoy plans to work in the public service sector before joining his father's firm. But a blackmail threat concerning college fraternity shenanigans sends him into a major New York practice--and a plot that has him running for his life. Erik Singer is the perfect choice for this classic Grisham thriller. His fresh, edgy vocal tones adapt well to the character of Kyle, as well as to the other characters in the story. Singer's pace keeps up with the racing plot, offering slight shifts in inflection to suggest gender and age. And when the story reaches a sudden and unsatisfying ending, we can hear our disappointment mirrored in his performance. R.L.L. ® AudioFile 2009, Portland, Maine --This text refers to the paperback edition.