“Is she awake?” Joey Bernardo asks while Baxter Tate has Elaine down on the sofa.

Is she awake? The words echo around the courtroom.

The countryside vanished as the train sped through suburbs and towns, then it went underground, at some point dipped under the East River and entered Manhattan. Kyle strolled through Grand Central and hailed a cab at the corner of Lex and Forty-fourth. Not once had he looked over his shoulder.

Scully & Pershing leased the top half of a building named 110 Broad, a sleek glass edifice with forty-four floors, in the heart of the financial district. Kyle had spent ten weeks there the previous summer as an intern — the typical big-firm seduction routine of socializing, lunching, barhopping, watching the Yankees, and putting in a few light hours of work. It was a joke of a job and everybody involved knew it. If the wining and dining worked, and it almost always did, the interns became associates upon graduation and their lives were basically over.

It was almost 10:00 a.m., and the elevator was empty. The lawyers had been at their desks for hours. He stopped at the thirtieth floor, the firm’s main lobby, and paused for a second to admire the massive bronze lettering that informed all visitors that they were now on the hallowed turf of Scully & Pershing. Attorneys-at-law, all twenty-one hundred of them, the largest law firm the world had ever known. The first and still the only firm to boast of more than two thousand lawyers. Counsel to more Fortune 500 companies than any other firm in the history of American law. Offices in ten U.S. cities and twenty foreign ones. A hundred and thirty years of hidebound tradition. Magnet to the best legal talent money can buy. Power, money, prestige.

He already felt like a trespasser.

The walls were covered with abstract art, the furniture was rich and contemporary. Some Asian whiz had done the decorating, magazine quality, and there was a brochure on a table that went into details. As if anyone who worked there had the time to stop and ponder the interior design schemes. A gorgeous little receptionist in stiletto heels took his name and asked him to please wait. Kyle turned his back on everything and became entranced in a work of art so bizarre he had no idea what he was looking at. After a few minutes of mindless gazing, he heard the receptionist call, “Mr. Peckham is waiting. Two floors up.” Kyle took the stairs.

Like many Manhattan law firms, Scully & Pershing spent money on the elevators, reception areas, and conference rooms — the places clients and other visitors might actually see — but back in the bowels of the firm where the grunts worked, efficiency ruled. The halls were lined with file cabinets. The secretaries and typists — all women — worked in tight cubicles within reach of each other. The copyboys and other gofers worked on their feet; New York real estate was simply too expensive to provide them a spot or a nook of any significance. The senior associates and junior partners were awarded small offices on the outer walls, with a view of similar buildings.

The rookie associates were stuffed in tight windowless spaces; three or four of them wedged together in cramped cubicles, nicknamed “cubes.” These “offices” were tucked away and kept out of sight. Lousy accommodations, brutal hours, sadistic bosses, unbearable pressure — it was all part of the blue-chip law firm experience, and Kyle had heard the horror tales before he finished his first year at Yale. Scully & Pershing was no better and certainly no worse than the other mega-firms that threw money at the brightest students, then burned them up.

At the corners of each floor, in the largest offices, the real partners anchored things and had some say in the decor. One was Doug Peckham, a forty-one-year-old litigation partner, a Yale man who had supervised Kyle during his internship. They had become somewhat friendly.

Kyle was shown into Peckham’s office a few minutes after 10:00 a.m., just as a pair of associates were leaving. Whatever the meeting was, it had not gone well. The associates looked rattled, and Peckham was trying to calm down.

They exchanged greetings and pleasantries, the usual banter about good old Yale. Kyle knew that Peckham billed $800 an hour, at least ten hours a day, and therefore the time that Kyle was now wasting was quite valuable. “I’m not sure I want to spend a couple of years doing legal aid,” Kyle said, not too deep into the meeting.

“Don’t really blame you there, Kyle,” Peckham said in a quick, clipped voice. “You have too much potential in the real world. This is your future.” He spread his arms to take in his vast empire. It was a nice office, large by comparison, but not a kingdom.

“I really would like to work in litigation.”

“I see no problem there. You had a great summer here. We were all impressed. I’ll make the request myself. You know, though, that litigation is not for everyone.”

That’s what they all said. The average career of a litigator is twenty-five years. The work is high pressure, high stress. Peckham may have been forty-one, but he could easily pass for fifty. Completely gray, dark circles, too much bulk in the jowls and around the waist. Probably hadn’t exercised in years.

“My deadline has passed,” Kyle said.

“When?”

“A week ago.”

“No problem. Come on, Kyle, editor in chief of the Yale Law Journal. We’ll be happy to cut you some slack. I’ll talk to Woody in personnel and clear it. Our recruiting has gone very well. You’re joining the best freshman class in years.”

The same was said about every freshman class at every major firm.

“Thanks. And I’d love to work in the litigation practice group.”

“Got it, Kyle. Consider it done.” And with that Peckham glanced at his watch — meeting over. His phone was ringing, there were hushed voices just outside his door. As Kyle shook his hand and said goodbye, he decided he did not want to become another Doug Peckham. He had no idea what he wanted to become, or if he would in fact become anything other than a disbarred lawyer, but selling his soul to become a partner was not in the plans.

Associates were waiting at the door, sharply dressed young men not much older than Kyle. Smug, harried, nervous, they stepped into the lion’s den, and as the door closed, Doug was raising his voice. What a life. And this was an easy day in litigation. The real pressure was in the courtroom.

On the elevator down, Kyle was struck by the absurdity of what he was expected to do. Upon leaving the offices of Scully & Pershing, and riding the elevator like hundreds of others, he was expected to have hidden somewhere upon his person or within his effects top secret information that belonged not to him but to the firm and especially to its client. And he would give this valuable data to Bennie with the hairy hands, or whatever his real name was, who would then use it against the firm and its client.

Who am I kidding? he said to himself. There were four others on the elevator. Sweat popped out above his eyebrows.

So this is what my life boils down to. A chance of prison for rape in Pennsylvania or a chance of prison in New York for stealing secrets. Why not a third option? Four years of college, three years of law school, seven rather successful years, all the potential in the world, and I’ll become a highly paid thief.

And there was no one to talk to.

He wanted out. Out of the elevator, the building, the city. Out of this predicament. He closed his eyes and talked to himself.

But there was evidence in Pennsylvania, and none in New York. Yet. He was certain he would get caught, though. Months before any crime was committed, he knew he would get caught.

Two blocks away, he found a coffee shop. He sat on a bar stool in the window and for a long time looked rather forlornly at 110 Broad, at the tower that would soon become his home, or his prison. He knew the numbers, the statistics. Scully & Pershing would hire 150 new associates worldwide, 100 in the New York office alone. They would pay them a nice salary that would amount to about $100 an hour, and the firm would in turn bill their well-heeled clients several times that rate for the associates’ work. Kyle, like all rookie grunts on Wall Street, would be expected to bill a minimum of two thousand hours a year, though more would be required to make an impression. Hundred-hour workweeks would not be uncommon. After two years, the associates would begin dropping out and looking for more sensible work. Half would be gone in four years. Ten percent of his freshman class would survive, claw their way to the top, and be awarded with a partnership after seven or eight years. Those who didn’t drop out along the way would be squeezed out by the firm if they were not deemed partnership material.