The work had become so awful that the trend was for firms to market themselves as “quality of life” firms. The associates were expected to bill fewer hours, have more vacation, and so on. More often than not, though, it was simply a recruiting gimmick. In the workaholic culture of every big firm, the greenest associates were expected to bill almost as much as the partners, regardless of what the recruiters mentioned over lunch months earlier.

Sure the money was great. At least $200,000 to start with. Double that in five years as a senior associate. Double it again in seven years as a junior partner. Well over a million bucks a year at the age of thirty-five as a full partner with a future filled with even higher earnings.

Numbers, numbers. Kyle was sick of the numbers. He longed for the Blue Ridge Mountains and a nonprofit’s salary of $32,000 without the stress and pressure and hassle of life in the city. He yearned for freedom.

Instead, he had another meeting with Bennie Wright. The cab stopped in front of the Millenium Hilton on Church Street. Kyle paid the driver, nodded at the doorman, then took the elevator four floors up to a room where his handler was waiting. Bennie motioned to a round table with a bowl of bright green apples in the center, but Kyle refused to sit or remove his jacket.

“The offer is still good,” he said. “I’ll start in September with the other associates.”

“Good. I’m not surprised. And you’ll be in litigation?”

“Peckham thinks so.”

Bennie had a file on Doug Peckham, as well as files on all of the litigation partners and many of the firm’s other lawyers.

“But there’s no guarantee,” Kyle added.

“You can make it happen.”

“We’ll see.”

“Have you thought about an apartment here in Manhattan?”

“No, not yet.”

“Well, we’ve done some homework, looked around.”

“Funny, I don’t recall asking for your help.”

“And we’ve found a couple of places that will be ideal.”

“Ideal for who?”

“For you, of course. Both places are in Tribeca, fairly close to the office.”

“What makes you think I would even remotely consider living where you want me to live?”

“And we’ll cover the rent. Pretty pricey real estate.”

“Oh, I see. You’ll find an apartment for me, and pay for it, so I won’t need a roommate. Is that it, Bennie? One less person for you to worry about. Helps to keep me isolated. Plus the rent means that we’re financially joined at the hip. You pay me, I give you secrets, just a couple of shrewd businessmen, right, Bennie?”

“Apartment hunting is a bitch in this city. I’m just trying to help.”

“Thanks so much. No doubt these are places that can easily be watched, maybe even wired or bugged or compromised in ways I can’t even imagine. Nice try, Bennie.”

“The rent is five thousand bucks a month.”

“Keep it. I can’t be bought. Evidently I can be blackmailed, but not bought.”

“Where are you planning to live?”

“Wherever I choose. I’ll figure it out, and I’ll do so without any involvement on your part.”

“As you wish.”

“Damned right. What else do you want to talk about?”

Bennie walked to the table, picked up a legal pad, and studied it as if he didn’t know what he’d already written on it. “Have you ever seen a psychiatrist?” he asked.

“No.”

“A psychologist?”

“No.”

“A counselor or therapist of any type?”

“Yes.”

“Details please.”

“It was nothing.”

“Then let’s talk about nothing. What happened?”

Kyle leaned against the wall and folded both arms across his chest. There was little doubt in his mind that Bennie knew most of what he was about to explain. He knew far too much. “After the incident with Elaine, and after the police finished their investigation, I talked to a counselor in student health services. She referred me to a Dr. Thorp, a specialist in drug and alcohol addiction. He roughed me up, got under my skin, forced me to take a long hard look in the mirror, and he convinced me the drinking would only get worse.”

“Were you an alcoholic?”

“No. Dr. Thorp didn’t think so. I certainly didn’t either. But there was too much drinking, especially of the binge variety. I seldom smoked pot.”

“You’re still sober?”

“I quit drinking. I grew up, found some different roommates, and have never been tempted. I’ve yet to miss the hangovers.”

“Not even an occasional beer?”

“Nope. I never think about it.”

Bennie nodded as if he approved of this. “What about the girl?” he asked.

“What about her?”

“How serious is the relationship?”

“Not sure where you figure into this, Bennie. Can you help me here?”

“Your life will be complicated enough without a romance. A serious relationship could pose problems. It’s best if you postpone it for a few years.”

Kyle laughed in frustration and disbelief. He shook his head and tried to think of an appropriate retort, but nothing came to mind. Sadly, he agreed with his tormentor. And the relationship with Olivia was going nowhere fast. “What else, Bennie? Can I have some friends? Can I visit my parents occasionally?”

“You won’t have the time.”

Kyle suddenly headed for the door, yanked it open, then slammed it as he left.

There is a student lounge on the first floor of the Yale Law School, and on the walls outside its door are posters and notices advertising internships and even careers in public-interest law. The students are encouraged to consider spending a few years helping battered women, neglected children, death row inmates, immigrants, runaway teens, indigent defendants, the homeless, asylum seekers, Haitian boat refugees, Americans sitting in foreign jails and foreigners sitting in American jails, First Amendment projects, innocence projects, conservation groups, environmental activists, and on and on.

A belief in public service runs deep at Yale Law. Admission is often determined by the applicant’s record of volunteerism and his or her written thoughts about using a law degree to benefit the world. First-year students are inundated with the virtues of public-interest law and are expected to get involved as soon as possible.

And most do. Around 80 percent of all freshmen claim that they are attracted to the law by a desire to help others. At some point, though, usually about halfway through the second year, things begin to change. The big firms arrive on campus to interview and begin their selection process. They offer summer internships, with nice salaries and the prospect of ten weeks of fun and games in New York, Washington, or San Francisco. Most important, they hold the keys to the lucrative careers. A divide occurs at Yale Law, as it does at all prestigious schools. Many of those so enamored with righteous dreams of aiding the downtrodden suddenly switch gears and begin dreaming of making it to the major leagues of American law, while many are turned off by this seduction and cling to their idyllic notions of public service. The divide is clear, but civilized.

When an editor of the Yale Law Journal takes a low-paying job with legal services, he is a hero to those on his side and to most of the faculty. And when he suddenly caves in to Wall Street, he is viewed less favorably by the same people.

Kyle’s life became miserable. His friends on the public-interest side were in disbelief. Those on the corporate side were too busy to care. His relationship with Olivia was reduced to sex once a week and only because they needed it. She said he had changed. He was moodier, gloomier, preoccupied with something, and whatever it was he couldn’t tell her.

If you only knew, he thought.

She had accepted a summer internship with an anti-death-penalty group in Texas; thus she was full of zeal and big plans to change things down there. They saw less and less of each other but somehow managed to bicker more.