The Associate Read Free

Plant said with a flash of anger. Both found it humorous. Neither seemed concerned.
    “I know which site to check,” Kyle said as he entered the address of a little-known federal directory.
    “You won’t find us,” Ginyard said.
    “This will take a minute. Where’s that tape recorder?”
    Plant produced a slender digital recorder the size of an electric toothbrush and flipped it on.
    “Please give the date, time, and place,” Kyle said with an air of confidence that surprised even him. “And please state that the interrogation has yet to begin and that no statements have been made before now.”
    “Yes, sir. I love law students,” Plant said.
    “You watch too much television,” Ginyard said.
    “Go ahead.”
    Plant situated the recorder in the center of the table, a pastrami and cheddar on one side and a smoked tuna on the other. He aimed his words at it and announced the preliminaries. Kyle was watching his phone, and when the Web site appeared, he entered the name of Nelson Edward Ginyard. A few seconds passed, and to the surprise of no one Agent Ginyard was confirmed as a field agent, FBI, Hartford. “You wanna see it?” Kyle asked, holding up the tiny screen.
    “Congratulations,” Ginyard shot back. “Are you satisfied now?”
    “No. I’d prefer not to be here.”
    “You can leave anytime you want,” Plant said.
    “You asked for ten minutes.” Kyle glanced at his wristwatch.
    Both agents leaned forward, all four elbows in a row, the booth suddenly smaller. “You remember a guy named Bennie Wright, chief investigator, sex crimes, Pittsburgh PD?” Ginyard was talking, both were staring, watching every nervous twitch of Kyle’s eyelids.
    “No.”
    “You didn’t meet him five years ago during the investigation?”
    “I don’t remember meeting a Bennie Wright. Could have, but I don’t remember that name. It has been, after all, five years since the nonevent did not happen.”
    They absorbed this, mulled it over slowly whilemaintaining eye contact. It appeared to Kyle as if both wanted to say, “You’re lying.”
    Instead, Ginyard said, “Well, Detective Wright is here in town, and he’d like to meet with you in about an hour.”
    “Another meeting?”
    “If you don’t mind. It won’t take long, and there’s a good chance you can head off the indictment.”
    “Indictment for what, exactly?”
    “Rape.”
    “There was no rape. The Pittsburgh police made that decision five years ago.”
    “Well, it looks like the girl is back,” Ginyard said. “She’s put her life back together, gone through some extensive therapy, and, best of all, she’s got herself a lawyer now.”
    Since Ginyard stopped without a question, there was no need for a response. Kyle couldn’t help but sink an inch or two. He glanced over at the counter, at the empty stools. He glanced over at the flat-screen television. It was a college game, the stands full of screaming students, and he asked himself why he was sitting where he was sitting.
    Keep talking, he said to himself, but don’t say anything.
    “Can I ask a question?” he asked.
    “Sure.”
    “If the indictment has been issued, how can it be stopped? Why are we talking?”
    “It’s under seal, by court order,” Ginyard said. “According to Detective Wright, the prosecutor has a deal for you, one that the victim’s lawyer cooked up, one that will allow you to walk away from this mess.
    You play ball, and the indictment against you will never see the light of day.”
    “I’m still confused. Maybe I should call my father.”
    “That’s up to you, but if you’re smart, you’ll wait until you chat with Detective Wright.”
    “You guys didn’t advise me of my
Miranda
rights.”
    “This is not an interrogation,” Plant finally said. “It’s not an investigation.” Then he reached into the smoked-tuna basket and pulled out a greasy fry.
    “What the hell is it?”
    “A meeting.”
    Ginyard cleared his throat, leaned back a few inches, and