“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.

It 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, his adviser, 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 charged, handcuffed, jailed, railroaded by the system. He could still run, to somewhere.

When the glass doors slammed behind him, he paused for a second in the deserted lobby and thought he heard the clanging of cell-block iron at his back. He was hearing things, seeing things, imagining things. Apparently, the Valium had reversed itself and had him ready to jump out of his skin. He nodded at the decrepit clerk behind the front counter, but there was no audible response. As he rode the musty elevator to the second floor, he asked himself what kind of fool would voluntarily enter a motel room filled with cops and agents all hell-bent on accusing him of something that never happened? Why was he doing this?

The video.

He had never seen it. He did not know anyone who had seen it.

In the secret world of Beta there were rumors and denials and threats, but no one had even known for sure if the “Elaine thing” had actually been recorded. The reality that it had, and that the evidence was now in the possession of the Pittsburgh police and the FBI, made him ponder the bridge scenario.

Wait a minute. I did nothing wrong. I did not touch that girl, not that night anyway.

No one touched her. At least that was the sworn and battle-tested version within the Beta fraternity. But what if the video proved otherwise? He would never know until he saw it.

The noxious smell of fresh paint hit him as he stepped into the hallway on the second floor. He stopped at room 222 and glanced at his watch to make sure he was not a minute too early. He knocked three times, then heard movement and muffled voices. The lock chain rattled, the door was jerked open, and Special Agent Nelson Edward Ginyard said, “Glad you could make it.” Kyle stepped inside, leaving the old world behind. The new one was suddenly terrifying.

Ginyard had his jacket off, and strapped over his white shirt was a shoulder harness, with a fairly large black pistol in a black holster snug under his left arm. Agent Plant and the two others from Buster’s were staring, and all three were also coatless so that young Kyle could get the full measure of their arsenal. Identical nine-millimeter Berettas, with matching holsters and black leather harnesses. Seriously armed men, all with the same scowl as if they’d be more than happy to shoot the rapist.

“Good move,” Plant said, nodding now.

Actually, Kyle thought in the haze of the moment, coming here was a very stupid move.

Room 222 had been converted into a makeshift field office. The king-sized bed had been pushed into a corner. The curtains were tightly closed. Two folding tables had been hauled in and were covered with the evidence of busy work — files and thick envelopes and notepads.

Three laptops were open and on, and in the one nearest the door Kyle caught a glimpse of himself, from his high school yearbook. Central York High School, class of 2001. Tacked to the bare wall behind the folding tables were eight-by-ten color photos of three of his Beta brothers. At the far end, almost to the curtains, was one of Elaine Keenan.

The room adjoined another, and the door between them was open. Agent No. 5 walked through it — same gun, same holster — and glared at Kyle. Five agents? Two rooms. A ton of paperwork. All this effort, all this work, all these men, just to nail me? Kyle felt lightheaded as he observed the power of his government in action.

“Do you mind emptying your pockets?” Ginyard said as he offered a small cardboard box.

“Why?”

“Please.”

“You think I’m armed? You think I might pull out a knife and attack you guys?”

Agent No. 5 saw the humor and broke the ice with a good laugh. Kyle pulled out his key ring, jangled its collection for Ginyard to see, then put it back in his pocket.

“How about a pat down?” Plant said, already moving toward Kyle.

“Oh, sure,” he said, then raised his arms. “All Yale students are heavily armed.”

Plant began a very soft and quick frisk. He finished just seconds after he started, then disappeared into the other room.