It was an old Holiday Inn, built in the 1960s, when motels and fast-food chains raced to build along the highways and frontage roads. Kyle had passed it a hundred times and never seen it. Behind it was a pancake house, and next door was a large discount appliance store.
The parking lot was dark and one-third full when he backed the red Jeep into a space next to a minivan from Indiana. He turned off the lights but left the engine running and the heater on. A light snow was falling. Why couldn't there be a blizzard, or a flood or earthquake, an invasion, anything to interrupt this awful scenario? Why, exactly, was he sleepwalking through their little plan?
The video.
In the past hour he'd thought of calling his father, but that conversation would take far too long. John McAvoy would provide sound legal advice, and quickly, but the backstory had many complications. He'd thought of calling Professor Bart Mallory, his adviser, his friend, his brilliant teacher of criminal procedure, a former judge who would know exactly what to do. But again, there were too many blanks to fill in and not enough time. He'd thought of calling two of his Beta brothers from Duquesne, but why bother? Any advice they might give would be as unsound as the strategies racing through his mind. No sense ruining their lives. And in the horror of the moment he'd thought of the various schemes he could use to disappear. A mad dash to the airport. A clandestine car ride to the bus station. A long jump off a tall bridge.
But they were watching, weren't they? And probably listening, too, so all phone calls would be shared. Someone was watching at that very moment, he was certain. Perhaps in the minivan from Indiana there were a couple of goons with headsets and night-vision gear, getting their jollies as they monitored him and burned taxpayer money.
If the Valium was working, he couldn't tell.
When the digital clock on the radio hit 9:58, he turned off the engine and stepped into the snow. He walked bravely across the asphalt, each step leaving footprints. Could this be his last moment of freedom? He'd read so many cases of criminal defendants freely walking into the police station for a few quick questions, only to be charged, handcuffed, jailed, railroaded by the system. He could still run, to somewhere.
When the glass doors slammed behind him, he paused for a second in the deserted lobby and thought he heard the clanging of cell-block iron at his back. He was hearing things, seeing things, imagining things. Apparently, the Valium had reversed itself and had him ready to jump out of his skin. He nodded at the decrepit clerk behind the front counter, but there was no audible response. As he rode the musty elevator to the second floor, he asked himself what kind of fool would voluntarily enter a motel room filled with cops and agents all hell-bent on accusing him of something that never happened? Why was he doing this?
The video.
He had never seen it. He did not know anyone who had seen it.
In the secret world of Beta there were rumors and denials and threats, but no one had even known for sure if the "Elaine thing" had actually been recorded. The reality that it had, and that the evidence was now in the possession of the Pittsburgh police and the FBI, made him ponder the bridge scenario.
Wait a minute. I did nothing wrong. I did not touch that girl, not that night anyway.
No one touched her. At least that was the sworn and battle-tested version within the Beta fraternity. But what if the video proved otherwise? He would never know until he saw it.
The noxious smell of fresh paint hit him as he stepped into the hallway on the second floor. He stopped at room 222 and glanced at his watch to make sure he was not a minute too early. He knocked three times, then heard movement and muffled voices. The lock chain rattled, the door was jerked open, and Special Agent Nelson Edward Ginyard said, "Glad you could make it." Kyle stepped inside, leaving the old world behind. The new one was suddenly terrifying.
Ginyard had his jacket off, and strapped over his white shirt was a shoulder harness, with a fairly large black pistol in a black holster snug under his left arm. Agent Plant and the two others from Buster's were staring, and all three were also coatless so that young Kyle could get the full measure of their arsenal. Identical nine-millimeter Berettas, with matching holsters and black leather harnesses. Seriously armed men, all with the same scowl as if they'd be more than happy to shoot the rapist.
"Good move," Plant said, nodding now.
Actually, Kyle thought in the haze of the moment, coming here was a very stupid move.
Room 222 had been converted into a makeshift field office. The king-sized bed had been pushed into a corner. The curtains were tightly closed. Two folding tables had been hauled in and were covered with the evidence of busy work - files and thick envelopes and notepads.
Three laptops were open and on, and in the one nearest the door Kyle caught a glimpse of himself, from his high school yearbook. Central York High School, class of 2001. Tacked to the bare wall behind the folding tables were eight-by-ten color photos of three of his Beta brothers. At the far end, almost to the curtains, was one of Elaine Keenan.
The room adjoined another, and the door between them was open. Agent No. 5 walked through it - same gun, same holster - and glared at Kyle. Five agents? Two rooms. A ton of paperwork. All this effort, all this work, all these men, just to nail me? Kyle felt lightheaded as he observed the power of his government in action.
"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.
"Your mother is an artist of some variety?" Kyle heard him say.
"Yes, and where is the football right now?"
"You've gained about ten yards. What kind of artist?"
"She's a painter."
They probed the life of Patty McAvoy for ten minutes.
Finally, the detective finished with the family and settled on the suspect. He served up a few easy ones about his childhood, but didn't dwell on the details. He already knows it all, Kyle told himself.
"Honors from Central York High, star athlete, Eagle Scout. Why did you select Duquesne University?"
"They offered me a basketball scholarship."
"Were there other offers?"
"A couple, from smaller schools."
"But you didn't play much at Duquesne."
"I played thirteen minutes as a freshman, then tore an ACL in the final minute of the final game."
"Surgery?"
"Yes, but the knee was gone. I quit basketball and joined a fraternity."
"We'll get to the fraternity later. Were you invited back to the basketball team?"
"Sort of. Didn't matter. The knee was shot."
"You majored in economics and made near-perfect grades. What happened in Spanish your second year? You didn't make an A?"
"I should've taken German, I guess."
"One B in four years is not bad." Wright flipped a page, made a note about something. Kyle glanced at his face on the laptop and told himself to relax.
"High honors, a dozen or so student organizations, intramural softball champs, fraternity secretary then president. Your academic record is impressive, yet you managed to also maintain a pretty active social life. Tell me about your first arrest."
"I'm sure you have the records in your file there."
"Your first arrest, Kyle."
"Only one. A first, not a second. Not until now, I guess."
"What happened?"
"Typical frat stuff. A loud party that didn't stop until the cops showed up. I got caught with an open container, a bottle of beer. Nitpicking stuff. Misdemeanor. I paid a fine of three hundred bucks and got six months' probation. After that, the record was expunged and Yale never knew about it."
"Did your father handle it?"
"He was involved, but I had a lawyer in Pittsburgh."
"Who?"
"A lady named Sylvia Marks."
"I've heard of her. Doesn't she specialize in stupid fraternity stunts?"
"That's her. But she knows her stuff."
"I thought there was a second arrest."
"No. I was stopped by the cops once on campus, but there was no arrest. Just a warning."
"What were you doing?"
"Nothing."
"Then why were you stopped?"
"A couple of fraternities were shooting bottle rockets at each other. Smart boys. I was not involved. Nothing went in my file, so I'm wondering how you heard about it."
Wright ignored this and wrote something on his legal pad. When he finished scribbling, he said, "Why did you decide to go to law school?"
"I made that decision when I was twelve years old. I always wanted to be a lawyer. My first job was running the copier in my father's office. I sort of grew up there."
"Where did you apply to law school?"
"Penn, Yale, Cornell, and Stanford."
"Where were you accepted?"
"All four."
"Why Yale?"
"It was always my first choice."
"Did Yale offer scholarship money?"
"Financial incentives, yes. So did the others."
"Have you borrowed money?"
"Yes."
"How much?"
"Do you really need to know?"
"I wouldn't ask the question if I didn't need to know. You think I'm talking just to hear myself talk?"
"I can't answer that."
"Back to the student loans."
"When I graduate in May, I'll owe about sixty thousand."
Wright nodded as if he agreed that this was the correct amount. He flipped another page, and Kyle could see that it, too, was covered with questions.
"And you write for the law journal?"
"I'm the editor in chief of the Yale Law Journal."
"That's the most prestigious honor in the school?"
"According to some."
"You clerked last summer in New York. Tell me about it."
"It was one of those huge Wall Street firms, Scully & Pershing, a typical summer clerkship. We were wined and dined and given easy hours, the same seduction routine all the big firms use. They pamper the clerks, then kill them when they become associates."
"Did Scully & Pershing offer you a position after graduation?"
"Yes."
"Did you accept or decline?"
"Neither. I have not made a decision. The firm has given me some additional time to decide."
"What's taking so long?"
"I have a few options. One is a clerkship for a federal judge, but he might get a promotion. Things are in limbo there."
"Do you have other job offers?"
"I had other offers, yes."
"Tell me about them."
"Is this really relevant?"
"Everything I say is relevant, Kyle."
"Do you have any water?"
"I'm sure there's some in the bathroom."
Kyle jumped to his feet, walked between the king-sized bed and the credenza, switched on the light in the cramped bathroom, and ran tap water into a flimsy plastic cup. He gulped it, then refilled. When he returned to the table, he placed the cup somewhere around his own twenty-yard line, then checked himself on the monitor. "Just curious," he said. "Where's the football right now?"
"Third and long. Tell me about the other job offers, the other firms."
"Why don't you just show me the video so we can skip all this bullshit? If it really exists, and if it implicates me, then I'll walk out of here and go hire a lawyer."
Wright leaned forward, adjusted his elbows on the table, and began gently tapping his fingertips together. The lower half of his face eased into a smile while the upper half remained noncommittal. Very coolly, he said, "Losing your temper, Kyle, could cost you your life."
Life as in dead body? Or life as in brilliant future? Kyle wasn't so sure. He took a deep breath, then another gulp of the water. The flash of anger was gone, replaced by the crush of confusion and fear.
The fake smile widened, and Wright said, "Please, Kyle, you're doing fine here. Just a few more questions and we'll move into rougher territory. The other firms?"
"I was offered a job by Logan & Kupec in New York, Baker Potts in San Francisco, and Garton in London. I said no to all three. I'm still kicking around a public-interest job."
"Doing what? Where?"
"It's down in Virginia, a legal aid position helping migrant workers."
"And how long would you do this?"
"Couple of years, maybe, I'm not sure. It's just an option."
"At a much lower salary?"
"Oh, yes. Much."
"How will you pay back your student loans?"
"I'll figure that out."
Wright didn't like the smart-ass answer, but decided to let it slide. He glanced at his notes, though a quick review wasn't necessary. He knew that young Kyle here owed $61,000 in student loans, all of which would be forgiven by Yale if he spent the next three years working for minimum wage protecting the poor, the oppressed, the abused, or the environment. Kyle's offer had been extended by Piedmont Legal Aid, and the clerkship was funded by a grant from a mammoth law firm in Chicago. According to Wright's sources, Kyle had verbally accepted the position, which paid $32,000 a year. Wall Street could wait. It would always be there. His father had encouraged him to spend a few years out in the trenches, getting his hands dirty, far away from the corporate style of law that he, John McAvoy, despised.
According to the file, Scully & Pershing was offering a base salary of $200,000 plus the usual extras. The other firms' offers were similar.
"When will you select a job?" Wright asked.
"Very soon."
"Which way are you leaning?"
"I'm not."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure."
Wright reached for the file, shaking his head grimly and frowning as if he'd been insulted. He retrieved more papers, flipped through them, then glared at Kyle. "You haven't made a verbal commitment to accept a position with an outfit called Piedmont Legal Aid, in Winchester, Virginia, beginning September the second of this year?"
A rush of warm air escaped through Kyle's dry lips. As he absorbed this, he instinctively glanced at the monitor, and, yes, he looked as weak as he felt. He almost blurted, "How the hell do you know this?" but to do so would be to admit the truth. Nor could he deny the truth. Wright already knew.
As he was lurching toward some lame response, his adversary moved in for the kill. "Let's call this Lie Number One, okay, Kyle?" Wright said with a sneer. "Should we somehow arrive at Lie Number Two, then we turn off the camera, say good night, and meet again tomorrow for the arrest. Handcuffs, perp walk, mug shot, maybe a reporter or two. You won't be thinking about protecting illegal immigrants, and you won't be thinking about Wall Street. Don't lie to me, Kyle. I know too much."
Kyle almost said, "Yes, sir," but instead managed only a slight affirmative nod.
"So you plan to do some charitable work for a couple of years?"
"Yes."
"Then what?"
"I don't know. I'm sure I'll join a firm somewhere, start a career."
"What do you think of Scully & Pershing?"
"Big, powerful, rich. I think it's the largest law firm in the world, depending on who got merged or swallowed yesterday. Offices in thirty cities on five continents. Some really smart folks who work very hard and put enormous pressure on each other, especially on their young associates."
"Your kind of work?"
"It's hard to say. The money is great. The work is brutal. But it's the big leagues. I'll probably end up there."
"In what section did you work last summer?"
"I moved around, but most of my time was spent in litigation."
"Do you like litigation?"
"Not especially. May I ask what these questions can possibly have to do with that matter back in Pittsburgh?"
Wright took his elbows off the table and tried to relax a little deeper into the folding chair. He crossed his legs and placed the legal pad on his left thigh. He chewed the end of his pen for a moment, staring at Kyle as if he were now a psychiatrist, analyzing the patient. "Let's talk about your fraternity at Duquesne."
"Whatever."
"There were about ten members of your pledge class, right?"
"Nine."
"Do you keep in touch with all of them?"
"To some degree."
"The indictment names you and three others, so let's talk about the other three. Where is Alan Strock?"
The indictment. Somewhere in that damned file less than three feet away was the indictment. How could his name be listed as a defendant? He had not touched the girl. He had not witnessed a rape. He had not seen anyone having sex. He vaguely recalled being present in the room, but he had blacked out at some point during the night, during the episode. How could he be an accomplice if he wasn't conscious? That would be his defense at trial, and a solid defense it would be, but the specter of a trial was too awful to imagine. A trial would come long after the arrest, the publicity, the horror of seeing his photo in print. Kyle closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, and he thought about the phone calls home, first to his father and then to his mother. Other phone calls would follow: one each to the recruiting directors who'd offered him jobs; one to each of his sisters. He would proclaim his innocence and all that, but he knew he would never shake the suspicion of rape.
At that moment, Kyle had no confidence in Detective Wright and whatever deal he had in mind. If there was indeed an indictment, then no miracle could keep it buried.
"Alan Strock?" Wright asked.
"He's in med school at Ohio State."
"Any recent correspondence?"
"An e-mail a couple of days ago."
"And Joey Bernardo?"
"He's still in Pittsburgh, working for a brokerage firm."
"Recent contact?"
"By phone, a few days ago."
"Any mention of Elaine Keenan with Alan or Joey?"
"No."
"You boys have tried to forget about Elaine, haven't you?"
"Yes."
"Well, she's back."
"Evidently."
Wright readjusted himself in the chair, uncrossed his legs, stretched his back, and returned to the most comfortable position with both elbows stuck on the table. "Elaine left Duquesne after her freshman year," he began in a softer voice, as if he had a long tale to tell. "She was troubled. Her grades were a mess. She now claims that the rape brought on severe emotional distress. She lived with her parents for a year or so in Erie, then began drifting. A lot of self-medication, booze and drugs. She saw some therapists, but nothing helped. Have you heard any of this?"
"No. After she left school, there was not a word."
"Anyway, she has an older sister in Scranton who took her in, got her some help, paid for rehab. Then they found a shrink who, evidently, has done a nice job of putting Elaine back together. She's clean, sober, feels great, and her memory has improved dramatically. She's also found herself a lawyer, and of course she is demanding justice."
"You sound skeptical."
"I'm a cop, Kyle. I'm skeptical of everything, but I have this young woman who is credible and who says she was raped, and I have a video that is pretty powerful evidence. And on top of that, there's this lawyer who's out for blood."
"This is a shakedown, isn't it? All about money?"
"What do you mean, Kyle?"
"The fourth defendant is Baxter Tate, and of course we know what that's all about. The Tate family is very rich. Old Pittsburgh money. Baxter was born with trust funds. How much does she want?"
"I'll ask the questions. Did you ever have sex - "
"Yes, I had sex with Elaine Keenan, as did most of my pledge class. She was wild as hell, spent more time in the Beta house than most Betas, could drink any three of us under the table, and always had a purse full of pills. Her problems began long before she arrived at Duquesne. Believe me, she does not want to go to trial."
"How many times did you have sex with her?"
"Once, about a month before the alleged rape."
"Do you know if Baxter Tate had sexual relations with Elaine Keenan on the night in question?"
Kyle paused, took a deep breath, and said, "No, I do not. I blacked out."
"Did Baxter Tate admit to having sex with her that night?"
"Not to me."
Wright finished writing a long sentence on his legal pad as the air cleared. Kyle could almost hear the camera running. He glanced at it and saw the little red light still staring at him.
"Where is Baxter?" Wright asked after a long, heavy pause.
"Somewhere in L.A. He barely graduated, then went to Hollywood to become an actor. He's not too stable."
"Meaning?"
"He comes from a wealthy family that's even more dysfunctional than most wealthy families. He's a hard partier, lots of booze and drugs and girls. And he shows no signs of outgrowing it. His goal in life is to become a great actor and drink himself to death. He wants to die young, sort of like James Dean."
"Has he been in any films?"
"Not a single one. Lots of bars, though."
Wright suddenly seemed bored with the questions. He had stopped his scribbling. His hard stare began to drift. He stuffed some papers back into the file, then tapped a finger at the center of the table. "We've made progress, Kyle, thank you. The ball is at midfield. You want to see the video?"