The Associate Read Free Page B

charges were filed. She later left Duquesne and mercifully disappeared. The great miracle of the ugly little episode was that it had been kept quiet. No additional lives were ruined.
    “The indictment names you and three others,” Ginyard said.
    “There was no rape,” Kyle said as he continued to rub his temples. “If she had sex, I promise you it was by consent.”
    “Not if she blacked out,” Ginyard said.
    “We’re not here to argue, Kyle,” Plant said. “That’s what lawyers are for. We’re here to help cut a deal. If you’ll cooperate, then this will all go away, at least your part of it.”
    “What kind of deal?”
    “Detective Wright will handle that.”
    Kyle slowly sat back and tapped his head on the red vinyl bench behind him. He wanted to plead, to beg, to explain that this wasn’t fair, that he was about to graduate and pass the bar and start a career. His future held so much promise. His past was unblemished. Almost.
    But they already knew that, didn’t they? He glanced at the tape recorder and decided to give them nothing. “All right, all right,” he said. “I’ll be there.”
    Ginyard leaned even closer and said, “You have one hour. If you make a phone call, we’ll know it. If you try to run, we’ll follow, okay? No funny stuff, Kyle. You’re making the right decision here, I swear it. Just keep it up, and this will all go away.”
    “I don’t believe you.”
    “You’ll see.”
    Kyle left them there with their cold sandwiches and bitter coffee. He made it to his Jeep, then drove to his apartment three blocks from campus. He rummaged through his roommate’s bathroom, found a Valium, then locked his bedroom door, turned off the light, and stretched out on the floor.

3
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    I t 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, hisadviser, 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