It was a college game, the stands full of screaming students, and he asked himself why he was sitting where he was sitting.
Keep talking, he said to himself, but don’t say anything.
“Can I ask a question?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“If the indictment has been issued, how can it be stopped? Why are we talking?”
“It’s under seal, by court order,” Ginyard said. “According to Detective Wright, the prosecutor has a deal for you, one that the victim’s lawyer cooked up, one that will allow you to walk away from this mess. You play ball, and the indictment against you will never see the light of day.”
“I’m still confused. Maybe I should call my father.”
“That’s up to you, but if you’re smart, you’ll wait until you chat with Detective Wright.”
“You guys didn’t advise me of my Miranda rights.”
“This is not an interrogation,” Plant finally said. “It’s not an investigation.” Then he reached into the smoked-tuna basket and pulled out a greasy fry.
“What the hell is it?”
“A meeting.”
Ginyard cleared his throat, leaned back a few inches, and proceeded. “It’s a state crime, Kyle, we all know that. Normally we wouldn’t be involved, but since you’re here in Connecticut and the indictment is in Pennsylvania, the boys in Pittsburgh asked us to help arrange the next meeting. After that, we’ll step aside.”
“I’m still confused.”
“Come on. Bright legal mind like you. Surely you’re not that thick.”
There was a long pause as all three considered the next move. Plant chomped on his second fry, but his eyes never left Kyle.
Ginyard took a sip of coffee, frowned at the taste, and continued staring. The pinball machines were silent. The deli was empty except for the four FBI agents, a bartender absorbed in the game, and Kyle.
Finally, Kyle leaned forward on his elbows, and with the recorder just inches away he said, “There was no rape, no crime. I did nothing wrong.”
“Fine, talk to Wright.”
“And where is he?”
“At ten o’clock, he’ll be at the Holiday Inn on Saw Mill Road, room 222.”
“This is a bad idea. I need a lawyer.”
“Maybe you do, maybe you don’t,” Ginyard said, leaning in so that their heads were a foot apart. “Look, I know you don’t trust us, but please believe it when we say you should talk to Wright before you talk to anyone else. Hell, you can call a lawyer, or your father, at midnight. Or tomorrow. If you overreact now, the outcome could be a disaster.”
“I’m leaving. Conversation over. Turn off the recorder.”
Neither made any move toward the recorder. Kyle looked at it, then leaned down and said, very clearly, “This is Kyle McAvoy. The time is 8:50 p.m. I have nothing else to say. I have made no statements, and I am leaving Buster’s Deli right now.” He scooted off the bench and was almost out of the booth when Plant blurted, “He’s got the video.”
A horse kick to the groin could not have hit harder. Kyle clutched the red vinyl and looked as though he might faint. Slowly, he sat down again. Slowly, he reached for a plastic cup and took a long sip of water. His lips and tongue were parched, and the water did little to help.
The video. A fraternity brother, one of the drunks at the little party, had allegedly recorded something with his cell phone. Supposedly, there were images of the girl, naked on a sofa, too drunk to move, and admiring her were three or four or five Beta brothers, all naked, too, or in the process of undressing. Kyle vaguely remembered the scene, but he’d never seen the video. It had been destroyed, according to Beta legend. The cops in Pittsburgh had searched but never found it. It was gone, forgotten, buried deep in the secrecy of Beta brotherhood.
Plant and Ginyard were elbow to elbow again, all four eyes focused and unblinking.
“What video?” Kyle managed to ask, but it was so lame and so unconvincing that he didn’t believe himself.
“The one you boys hid from the cops,” Plant said, barely moving his lips. “The one that places you at the scene of the crime. The one that will destroy your life and send you away for twenty years.”
Oh, that video.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kyle said, then drank some more water. Waves of nausea crashed through his stomach and head, and he thought about vomiting.
“Oh, I think you do,” Ginyard said.
“Have you seen this video?” Kyle asked.
Both nodded.
“Then you know I didn’t touch the girl.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But you were there,” Ginyard said. “You were an accessory.”
To keep from throwing up, Kyle closed his eyes and began rubbing his temples. The girl was a wild little thing who’d spent more time in the Beta house than in her dorm room. A groupie, a dinger, a party animal with an abundant supply of Daddy’s cash. The brothers of Beta passed her around. When she cried rape, the brothers had instantly gone mute and solidified into an impenetrable wall of denial and innocence. The cops eventually gave up when she proved too unreliable with the details. No charges were filed. She later left Duquesne and mercifully disappeared. The great miracle of the ugly little episode was that it had been kept quiet. No additional lives were ruined.
“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?