“I guess I do now.” Kyle had played several times at Yale. “Not sure when I’ll find the time.”

“You figure it out. She just might be your entrée onto the Trylon team.”

Go, team, go. Kyle planned to avoid Trylon and its litigation team as diligently as possible. “Small problem here, Bennie,” Kyle said. “Nice homework, but you’re missing the obvious. There are no first-year grunts anywhere near this case. A couple of reasons. First, we don’t know anything — five months ago we were still in law school — and, second, the smart boys at Trylon probably told their lawyers to keep the rookies away from this case. That happens, you know. Not all of our clients are stupid enough to pay $300 an hour for a bunch of kids to stick it to them. So, Bennie, where is plan B?”

“It takes patience, Kyle. And politics. You start angling for the Trylon case, networking with the upper associates, kissing the right asses, and we might get a lucky break.”

Kyle wasn’t finished with the discussion about McDougle. He was determined to pursue it, when another man suddenly appeared from the sitting room adjacent to the bedroom. Kyle was so startled he almost dropped the half-filled cup of coffee. “This is Nigel,” Bennie was saying. “He’ll spend a few minutes on systems.” Nigel was in his face, thrusting forward a hand to shake. “A pleasure,” he sang in a cheery British way. He then moved to the tripod and mounted his own display.

The sitting room was twelve by twelve. Kyle looked through the open double doors into it. Nigel had been hiding in there and listening to every word.

“Scully & Pershing uses a litigation support system called Jury Box,” he began quickly. All movements were rapid and precise.

British, but with a strange accent. Forty years old. Five feet ten inches, 150 pounds. Short dark hair, half gray. Eyes, brown. No remarkable features but slightly elevated cheekbones. Thin lips. No eyeglasses.

“How much have they taught you about Jury Box?” Nigel wanted to know.

“The basics. I’ve used it on several occasions.” Kyle was still reeling from Nigel’s unexpected appearance.

“It’s your typical litigation support system. All discovery is scanned into a virtual library that can be accessed by all lawyers working on the case. Quick retrieval of documents. Super-quick search of keywords, phrases, contract language, anything, really. You’re up to speed?”

“Yes.”

“It’s fairly secure, pretty standard stuff these days. And like all smart law firms, Scully also uses a more secure system for sensitive files and cases. It’s called Barrister. You in on this one?”

“No.”

“Not surprised. They keep it quiet. Works pretty much like Jury Box, but much harder to access, or to hack into. Keep your ears open for it.”

Kyle nodded as if he would do precisely as he was being told. Since February, on that awful night when he’d been ambushed after a youth-league basketball game on the cold streets of New Haven, he had met only with Bennie Wright. Or whoever he really was. He had assumed, without really thinking about it, that Bennie, as his handler, would be the only face of the operation. There were other faces, to be sure; in particular, a couple of the street pounders who followed him night and day and who’d made enough mistakes so that Kyle could now spot them. But it had not occurred to him that he would actually be introduced to someone else with a bogus name who worked for the operation.

And why was he? Bennie was certainly capable of handling Nigel’s little presentation.

“And then you have the Trylon case,” Nigel was singing. “A completely different matter, I’m afraid. Much more complicated and secure. Whole different batch of software, really. Probably written just for this one lawsuit. Got the docs locked up in a warehouse down south with Uzis at every door. But we’ve made progress.” He stopped long enough to allow himself a quick approving smile at Bennie.

Aren’t we clever?

“We know that the program is code-named Sonic, as in B-10 HyperSonic Bomber, not very creative if you ask me, but then they didn’t, did they? Ha-ha. Sonic cannot be accessed by the nice little laptop they gave you greenies on day one, no sir. No laptop can have a peek at Sonic.”

Nigel bounced to the other side of the tripod. “There is a secret room on the eighteenth floor of your building, heavily secured, mind you, with a bank of desktop computers, some really fancy stuff, and there is where you will find Sonic. Pass codes change every week. Passwords every day, sometimes twice a day. Must have the proper ID before logging in, and if you log out without quitting to a tee, they’ll write you up and maybe show you the door.”

Show me the door, Kyle almost said.

“Sonic is probably a bastardized version of Barrister, so it will be incumbent upon you to master Barrister as soon as you’re given the opportunity.”

Can’t wait, Kyle almost said.

Slowly, through the shock and the fatigue, it was sinking in that Kyle was crossing the line, and doing it in a way he had not envisioned. His nightmare was to walk out of Scully & Pershing with secrets he was not supposed to have, and deliver them like Judas to Bennie for thirty pieces of silver. Now, though, he was receiving firm secrets from an outside source. He had yet to steal anything, but he damned sure wasn’t supposed to know about Sonic and the hidden room on the eighteenth floor. Perhaps it wasn’t criminal and maybe it wasn’t a violation of the canons of ethics, but it certainly felt wrong.

“That’s enough for now,” Bennie was saying. “You look exhausted. Get some rest.”

“Oh, thank you.”

Back on Seventh Avenue, Kyle glanced at his watch. It was almost midnight.

At 5:00 a.m., the usual hour now, the alarm clock exploded at full volume and Kyle slapped it twice before it shut off. He hurried through the shower and the shave, and fifteen minutes later he was on the sidewalk, fashionably dressed because he could certainly afford fine clothes. His life had quickly become a harried, fatigued mess, but he was determined to look nice as he stumbled through the day. He bought a coffee, a bagel, and a copy of the Times at his favorite all-night deli, then caught a cab at the corner of Twenty-fourth and Seventh. Ten minutes later, he’d finished breakfast, scanned the newspaper, and gulped half the coffee. He walked into the Broad Street entrance of his office building at 6:00, on schedule. Regardless of the hour, he was never alone during the elevator ride up. There were usually two or three other bleary-eyed and gaunt-faced associates, all sleep deprived, all avoiding eye contact as the elevator hummed and rocked gently upward and they asked themselves several questions.

What was I thinking when I chose law school?

How long will I last in this meat grinder?

What fool designed this method of practicing law?

There was seldom a word because there was nothing to say. Like prisoners riding to the gallows, they chose to meditate and put things in perspective.

At the cube, Kyle was not surprised to see another young lawyer. Tim Reynolds had been the first to sneak in a sleeping bag — a new, thermally insulated Eddie Bauer special that he claimed he’d owned for years and taken all over the country. But it had a new smell to it. Tim — without shoes, tie, shirt, or jacket, and wearing an old T-shirt — was partially curled under his small desk, inside the sleeping bag, dead to the world. Kyle kicked his feet, woke him up, and began with a pleasant “You look like crap.”

“Good morning,” Tim said, scrambling to his feet and reaching for his shoes. “What time is it?”

“Six ten. What time did you go to sleep?”

“I don’t remember. Sometime after two.” He was pulling on his shirt quickly, as if a dreaded partner might appear any second and issue demerits. “I have a memo due for Toby Roland at seven and I have no idea what I’m doing.”