As the rector wound down, a few sobs could be heard. Then the crowd began backing away from the crimson tent, inching away from the grave site. The burial was over, and Baxter’s parents and brother wasted no time in leaving. Kyle and Joey held back, and for a moment stood near the tombstone of another Tate.

“This will be our last conversation for a long time,” Joey said softly but firmly. “You’re messing around with the wrong people, Kyle. Just leave me out of it.”

Kyle looked at the pile of fresh dirt about to be packed on top of Baxter.

Joey kept on, his lips barely moving as if bugs were close by. “Count me out, okay? I’ve got my hands full here. I’ve got a life with a wedding and a baby in the future. No more of your silly spy games. You keep playing if you want, but not me.”

“Sure, Joey.”

“No more e-mails, packages, phone calls. No more trips to New York. I can’t keep you out of Pittsburgh, but if you visit here, don’t call me. One of us will be next, Kyle, and it won’t be you. You’re too valuable. You’re the one they need. So for our next mistake, guess who gets the bullet.”

“We didn’t cause his death.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“No.”

“These guys are around for a reason, and that reason is you.”

“Thanks, Joey.”

“Don’t mention it. I’m going now. Please keep me out of it, Kyle. And be damned sure nobody sees that video. So long.”

Kyle allowed him to walk ahead, then he followed.

At 6:30 on Thursday morning, Kyle walked into Doug Peckham’s office and reported for duty. Doug was standing at his desk, which resembled, as always, a landfill. “How was the funeral?” he asked without looking up from whatever he was holding.

“It was a funeral,” Kyle said. He handed over a single sheet of paper. “Here is an estimate of your hours on the Ontario Bank case.” Doug snatched it, scanned it, disapproved of it, and said, “Only thirty hours?”

“At the most.”

“You’re way off. Double it and let’s call it sixty.”

Kyle shrugged. Call it whatever you want. You’re the partner. If the client could pay $24,000 for work that wasn’t performed, then the client could certainly pay another $24,000 on top of that.

“We have a hearing in federal court at nine. We’ll leave here at eight thirty. Finish the Rule 10 memo and be here at eight.”

The prospect of a litigation associate getting near a courtroom during his or her first year was unheard-of, and for Kyle a gloomy day suddenly improved. Of the twelve in his class, no one, at least to his knowledge, had seen live action. He hurried to his cube and was checking e-mails when Tabor appeared with a tall coffee and a haggard look. Since flunking the bar, he had slowly managed to put himself back together, and though he was initially humbled, the cockiness was returning.

“Sorry about your friend,” he said, flinging his overcoat and briefcase.

“Thanks,” Kyle said. Tabor was still standing, slurping coffee and anxious to talk.

“Have you met H. W. Prewitt, litigation partner two floors up?” he asked.

“No,” Kyle answered, still pecking away.

“He’s about fifty, big Texan. They call him Harvey Wayne behind his back. Get it? Harvey Wayne, from Texas, double first name?”

“Got it.”

“They also call him Texas Slim because he weighs about four hundred pounds. Mean as hell. Went to a community college, then A&M, then Texas Law and hates anybody from Harvard. He’s been stalking me, caught me two days ago and gave me a project that any part-time secretary could handle. I spent six hours Tuesday night taking apart exhibit binders for a big deposition yesterday. Took them apart, then reconfigured them just the way Harvey Wayne wanted. There were a dozen binders, couple of hundred pages each, a ton of paperwork. At nine yesterday morning I put them on a cart, raced them down to a conference room where about a hundred lawyers are gathering for this depo, and what did Harvey Wayne do?”

“What?”

“There’s this door that leads to another conference room and it won’t stay shut, sort of swings back and forth, and so Harvey Wayne, fat ass, tells me to stack the binders on the floor and use them as a doorstop. I do what he tells me, and as I’m leaving the room, I hear him say something like ‘Those Harvard boys make the best paralegals’.”

“How much coffee have you had?”

“Second cup.”

“I’m on my first, and I really need to crank out this memo.”

“Sorry. Look, have you seen Dale?”

“No. I left Tuesday afternoon for the funeral yesterday. Something the matter?”

“She got nailed with some heinous project Tuesday night, and I don’t think she’s slept at all. Let’s keep an eye on her.”

“Will do.”

At 8:30, Kyle left the office with Doug Peckham and a senior associate named Noel Bard. They walked hurriedly to a parking garage a few blocks away, and when the attendant pulled up in Bard’s late-model Jaguar, Peckham said, “Kyle, you drive. We’re going to Foley Square.”

Kyle wanted to protest but said nothing. Bard and Peckham climbed into the rear seat, leaving Kyle, the chauffeur, alone in the front.

“I’m not sure of the best route,” Kyle admitted, with a flash of fear at what would happen if he got lost and the two big shots in the back were late for court.

“Stay on Broad until it becomes Nassau. Take it all the way to Foley Square,” Bard said, as if he made the drive every day. “And be careful. This little baby is brand-new and cost me a hundred grand. It’s my wife’s.”

Kyle could not remember being so nervous behind the wheel. He finally found the mirror-adjustment scheme and eased into traffic, cutting his eyes in all directions. To make matters worse, Peckham wanted to talk. “Kyle, a couple of names, all first-years. Darren Bartkowski?”

Without glancing at Peckham in the rearview mirror, Kyle waited and finally said, “So?”

“You know him?”

“Sure. I know all of the first-year litigation associates.”

“What about him? Have you worked with him? Good, bad, talk to me, Kyle. How would you evaluate him?”

“Uh, well, nice guy, I knew him at Yale.”

“His work, Kyle, his work?”

“I haven’t worked with him yet.”

“The word is he’s a slacker. Ducks the partners, late with projects, lazy with the billing.”

I wonder if he estimates his hours, Kyle thought but kept his concentration on the yellow cabs passing, darting, turning abruptly, violating every known rule of the road.

“Have you heard he’s a slacker, Kyle?”

“Yes,” Kyle said reluctantly. It was the truth.

Bard decided to help thrash poor Bartkowski. “He’s billed the fewest hours so far of anyone in your class.”

Talking about colleagues was a contact sport at the firm, and the partners were as bad as the associates. An associate who cut corners or ducked projects was labeled a slacker, and the tag was permanent. Most slackers didn’t mind. They worked less, got the same salary, and ran almost no risk of being fired unless they stole money from a client or got caught in a sex scandal. Their bonuses were small, but who needs a bonus when you have a fat paycheck? Career slackers could slide for six or seven years at a firm before being informed they would not make partner and shown the door.

“What about Jeff Tabor?” Doug asked.

“I know him well. Definitely not a slacker.”

“He has the reputation of being a gunner,” Doug said.

“Yes, and that’s accurate. He’s competitive, but he’s not a cutthroat.”

“You like him, Kyle?”

“Yes. Tabor’s a good guy. Smart as hell.”

“Evidently not smart enough,” Bard said. “That bar exam problem.”

Kyle had no comment, and no comment was necessary because a yellow cab swerved in front of them, cutting off the Jaguar and forcing Kyle to slam on the brakes and hit the horn at the same time. A fist shot out from the driver’s window, then an angry middle finger, and Kyle received his first bird. Be cool, he said to himself.