In the four and a half months Kyle had lived in his grim little apartment, he had managed to avoid having guests. Dale had asked about it a few times, then let the matter drop. Kyle described his place as a dump with almost no furnishings, lukewarm water, bugs, and uninsulated walls. He claimed to be looking for something much nicer, but then what first-year associate had time to look for an apartment? The truth was that he wanted a dump for that very reason — he could keep guests away, and in doing so avoid the risks of having their conversations listened to and recorded. Though he had not attempted to rid the place of mikes and electronic bugs, he knew they were there. He suspected there were cameras, always watching, and since he had lulled them into believing that he was clueless about their surveillance, he went through the motions each day of living pretty much like a hermit. Intruders came and went, at least one per week, but there were no invited guests.

Dale was content to meet at her place. She had a fear of bugs.

If you only knew, thought Kyle. My apartment has every kind of bug known to the covert world.

They eventually managed to sleep together without actually falling asleep beforehand. Both collapsed shortly afterward. They had violated firm policy on at least four occasions and had no plans to stop.

When Baxter called and asked if he could crash at Kyle’s for a few days, Kyle was ready with a string of lies that were mildly convincing. Joey had sent a Mayday call from his desk phone to Kyle’s just minutes after he’d said goodbye to Baxter. “We gotta do something,” Joey said over and over until Kyle told him to shut up.

The idea of Baxter lounging around his apartment and talking at length about the Elaine episode was almost too much to imagine. Kyle could see Bennie with his technicians, clutching his headphones, listening to Baxter preach about the need to confront the past, admit everything, and so on. If the Elaine episode blew up back in Pittsburgh, Kyle would be dragged into it at some level, and Bennie would risk losing his leverage in New York.

“Sorry, Bax,” Kyle said happily on his cell phone. “I have only one bedroom, if you can call it that, and my cousin has been sleeping on the sofa for a month. She’s in New York looking for a job, and, well, I gotta say, the place is cramped.”

Baxter checked into the Soho Grand. They met for a late pizza at an all-night joint on Bleecker Street in the Village. Kyle picked the place because he’d been there before and, as always, had taken notes on its suitability for future use. One door in and out, large front windows that faced the sidewalk, lots of noise, and it was too small for one of the bloodhounds to enter without being noticed. Kyle arrived at 9:45, fifteen minutes early so he could secure a booth and sit facing the door. He pretended to be engrossed in a thick document, the tireless associate ever dedicated to his work.

Baxter was wearing the same dungarees, sweater, and combat boots Joey had described. They embraced, then fell into the booth talking nonstop. They ordered soft drinks, and Kyle said, “I talked to Joey. Congrats on the rehab. You look great.”

“Thanks. I’ve thought about you a lot in the past few months. You quit drinking during our sophomore year, right?”

“Right.”

“I can’t remember why.”

“A counselor told me that the drinking would only get worse. I didn’t have a serious problem, but one was definitely foreseeable. So I quit. Didn’t touch a drop until a few weeks ago, when I had some wine. So far, so good. If I get worried, I’ll quit again.”

“I had three bleeding ulcers when they took me in. I thought about suicide, but I didn’t really want to do it because I’d miss the vodka and cocaine. I was a mess.”

They ordered a pizza and talked for a long time about the past, primarily Baxter’s. He unloaded story after story about the last three years in L.A.—trying to break into the movie business, the parties, the drug scene, the gorgeous young girls from every small town in America doing everything physically possible to either get a break or marry rich. Kyle listened intently while keeping an eye on the front door and the front windows. Nothing.

They talked about their old friends, Kyle’s new job, Baxter’s new life. After an hour, when the pizza was gone, they eventually got around to more pressing matters. “I guess Joey told you about Elaine,” Baxter said.

“Of course he did. It’s a bad idea, Baxter. I understand the law, and you don’t. You’re walking into quicksand and you could take us with you.”

“But you did nothing. Why are you worried?”

“Here’s a scenario,” Kyle said, leaning closer, eager to unveil a narrative he’d thought about for hours. “You go see Elaine, looking for some type of redemption, forgiveness, whatever you think you might find there. You apologize to someone you once hurt. Maybe she turns the other cheek and accepts your apology, and you two have a nice hug and say goodbye. That probably will not happen. What is much more likely to happen is that she chooses not to take the Christian approach, doesn’t give a rip about this cheek-turning business, and decides, with the advice of a pretty nasty lawyer, that what she really wants is justice. She wants vindication. She cried rape once and nobody listened. You, with the best intentions, will vindicate her with your awkward apology. She feels violated now, and she likes being the victim. Her lawyer starts to push, and things unravel quickly. There’s a prosecutor in Pittsburgh who, not surprisingly, likes to see his face on the front page. Like all prosecutors, he’s tired of the mundane, the gang shootings, the daily street crime. Suddenly he has a chance to go after four white boys from Duquesne, and one just happens to be a Tate. Not only a Great White Defendant, but four of them! Talk about headlines, press conferences, interviews. He’ll be the hero, and we’ll be the criminals. Of course we are entitled to a trial, but that’s a year away, a year of absolutely terrifying hell. You can’t do it, Baxter. You’ll hurt too many people.”

“What if I offer her money? A deal with only two parties, me and her?”

“It might work. I’m sure she and her lawyer would enjoy those discussions. But offering money implies guilt, an admission of some sort. I don’t know Elaine, and neither do you, but given Joey’s encounter, it’s safe to say she is not too stable. We can’t predict how she will react. It’s too risky.”

“I can’t live with myself until I talk to her, Kyle. I feel like I harmed her in some way.”

“Got that. It sounds great in the AA handbook, but it’s a different matter when other people are involved. You have to forget about this and put it behind you.”

“I’m not sure I can.”

“There’s an element of selfishness here, Baxter. You want to do something that you think will make you feel better. Well, good for you. What about the rest of us? Your life will be more complete, our lives could be ruined. You’re dead wrong here. Leave this girl alone.”

“I can apologize to Elaine without admitting I committed a crime. I’ll just say that I was wrong and want to apologize.”

“Her lawyer is not stupid, and her lawyer will be sitting there with a tape recorder, probably a video camera.” Kyle took a sip of a diet soda and had a quick flashback to the first video. If Baxter saw it now, saw himself tag-teaming with Joey while Elaine was motionless, his guilt would crush him.

“I have to do something.”

“No, you don’t,” Kyle said, raising his voice for the first time. He was surprised at the stubbornness across the table. “You don’t have the right to ruin our lives.”

“I’m not ruining your life, Kyle. You did nothing wrong.”

Is she awake? Joey asks. The words rattle around the courtroom. The jurors scowl at the four defendants. Maybe they feel compassion for Kyle and Alan because there is no evidence that they violated the girl, and find them not guilty. Maybe they’re sick of the whole bunch and send them all to prison.