The image of Bennie chained to a chair as a couple of pit bulls screamed at him was rather pleasant.
Roy cleared his throat, glanced at his watch, and said, "If you'll excuse us, I need to talk to Kyle. I'll call you later." And with that Kyle stood, shook their hands again, and followed his lawyer back to his office. Roy closed the door and said, "What do you think?"
"You trust those guys?" Kyle shot back.
"Yes. You don't?"
"Would you trust them with your life?"
"Yes."
"Try this scenario. Currently there are at least eighteen intelligence outfits in this country, and those are just the ones on paper. There are probably a few more we know nothing about. What if Bennie works for one of them? Suppose his project is just one of several to procure and protect all the secrets? What if the supercomputers couldn't find his face because they weren't supposed to?"
"That's a pretty ridiculous scenario, Kyle. A rogue operative working for the United States, spying on a U.S. law firm, killing U.S. citizens? I don't think so."
"Sure it's ridiculous, but when your skull might be the next target, it does wonders for the imagination."
"Take it easy. This is your only way out."
"There's no way out."
"Yes, there is. Let's take it one step at a time. Don't panic."
"I haven't panicked in nine months, but I'm getting close."
"No, you're not. Be cool. We have to trust those guys."
"I'll call you tomorrow." Kyle grabbed his brown trench coat and left the office.
Chapter 36
The Cessna 182 was owned by a retired doctor who flew it only in clear weather and never at night. He had known John McAvoy for over forty years and had flown him several times around the state for legal matters. Their little trips were as much pleasure as business, with John wearing a headset and taking the controls and thoroughly enjoying his time as the pilot. They always haggled over the rate. John wanted to pay more than just the fuel costs, and the doctor demanded less because flying was his hobby and he didn't need the money. Once they agreed on the cost of the trip, $250, they met at the York airport early on Tuesday morning and took off in perfect weather. Seventy-one minutes later they landed in Scranton. John rented a car, and the doctor left in the Cessna to drop in on his son in Williamsport.
The law office of Michelin Chiz was on the second floor of an old building on Spruce Street in downtown Scranton. John walked in promptly at 9:00 a.m. and was greeted coolly by a secretary. He had never met Ms. Chiz, never heard of her, but that was not unusual in a state with over sixty thousand lawyers. A Scranton lawyer he did know had told him that she ran an all-woman shop with a couple of associates, a couple of paralegals, and the usual assortment of secretaries and part-time help. No men need apply. Ms. Chiz specialized in divorce, custody, sexual harrassment, and employment discrimination, all from the female side, and had a busy practice. Her reputation was solid. She was a tough advocate for her clients, a good negotiator, and not afraid of the courtroom. Not bad looking either, the lawyer had informed John.
And he was right about that. Ms. Chiz was waiting in her office when John walked in and said good morning. She was wearing a black leather skirt, not too short, with a tight purple sweater and a pair of black and purple spiked-heeled platform sling backs that most hookers would shy away from. She was in her mid-forties, with, according to John's source, at least two divorces under her belt. She wore a lot of jewelry and makeup, far too much for John's taste, but he wasn't there to evaluate the talent.
For his part, he was wearing a boring gray wool suit and a plain red tie, nothing anyone would remember.
They settled around a small worktable in a room adjacent to her office, and the secretary was sent for coffee. They played a few minutes of who-do-you-know, kicking around the names of lawyers from Philadelphia to Erie. After the coffee was served and the door was closed, Ms. Chiz said, "Let's get down to business."
"Great idea," Mr. McAvoy said. "Please call me John."
"Sure, and I'm Mike. Don't know if that's the correct nickname for Michelin, but it stuck a long time ago."
"Mike it is." So far she had exuded nothing but charm and hospitality, but John could already tell that just behind the smile was a very tough lawyer. "Would you like to go first?" John asked.
"No. You called me. You traveled here. There's something you want, so let's have it."
"Very well. My client is my son, not the best arrangement in the world, but that's the way it is. As you know, he works for a law firm in New York. Law school at Yale, undergrad at Duquesne. I'm sure you know the details of the alleged rape."
"Indeed I do. Elaine works here part-time, and we're very close. She wants to go to law school someday."
"I hope she succeeds. As you know, the police in Pittsburgh closed the investigation not long after they opened it. Frankly, I knew nothing about it until very recently."
Her surprise was obvious, and John continued. "No, Kyle did not tell me when it happened. He was planning to, but the investigation was closed. This is upsetting because we are very close, but it's not important. I understand that you and Ms. Keenan met with Joey Bernardo here in Scranton a few weeks back, and the meeting did not go well, according to Joey's version. I also know that Baxter Tate contacted your client, and was evidently on his way here to talk to her when he was murdered."
"That's correct."
"They were planning to meet?"
"Yes."
"So, it appears, Mike, that the episode five and a half years ago will not go away. My client would like to resolve things, to close this matter. It's a dark cloud hanging over these kids, and I'm here to explore ways to get rid of it. I'm representing only my son. The others know nothing of this meeting. The Tate family, of course, has no clue, and you can imagine what they're going through right now. Joey has a child on the way and is about to get married. Alan Strock, as far as we know, has forgotten the episode."
Mike had yet to lift a pen. She listened intently as she softly tapped all ten fingertips together. Most fingers were adorned with rings, and both wrists were laden with inexpensive bangles. Her hard hazel eyes did not blink. "I'm sure you have something in mind," she said, content to listen.
"I'm not sure what your client wants. She might be thrilled if all three surviving roommates admitted there was a rape, got themselves convicted, and were sent off to prison. She might be satisfied with a quiet apology. Or she might entertain the idea of a financial settlement. Perhaps you could help me here."
Mike licked her lipstick and rattled some bracelets. "I've known Elaine for two years. She has a troubled past. She's frail, vulnerable, and at times subject to some very dark moods. It might be depression. She's been sober for almost a year, but she's fighting those demons. She has become almost like a daughter to me, and she has insisted from day one that she was raped. I believe her. She is convinced that the Tate family got involved, leaned on their friends, who leaned on the cops, who quickly backed off."
John was shaking his head. "That's not true. None of the four boys told their parents."
"Maybe, but we don't know that for sure. Regardless, many of Elaine's problems stem from that episode. She was a healthy, fun-loving, vibrant coed who loved college and had big plans. Shortly after the rape, she dropped out and has been struggling ever since."