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defendant is Baxter Tate, and of course we know what that's all about. The Tate family is very rich. Old Pittsburgh money. Baxter was born with trust funds. How much does she want?”
“I'll ask the questions. Did you ever have sex--”
“Yes, I had sex with Elaine Keenan, as did most of my pledge class. She was wild as hell, spent more time in the Beta house than most Betas, could drink any three of us under the table, and always had a purse full of pills. Her problems began long before she arrived at Duquesne. Believe me, she does not want to go to trial.”
“How many times did you have sex with her?”
“Once, about a month before the alleged rape.”
“Do you know if Baxter Tate had sexual relations with Elaine Keenan on the night in question?”
Kyle paused, took a deep breath, and said, “No, I do not. I blacked out.”
“Did Baxter Tate admit to having sex with her that night?”
“Not to me.”
Wright finished writing a long sentence on his legal pad as the air cleared. Kyle could almost hear the camera running. He glanced at it and saw the little red light still staring at him.
“Where is Baxter?” Wright asked after a long, heavy pause.
“Somewhere in L.A. He barely graduated, then went to Hollywood to become an actor. He's not too stable.”
“Meaning?”
"He comes from a wealthy family that's even more dysfunctional than most wealthy families. He's a hard partier, lots of booze and drugs and girls. And he shows no signs of outgrowing it. His goal
in life is to become a great actor and drink himself to death. He wants to die young, sort of like James Dean."
“Has he been in any films?”
“Not a single one. Lots of bars, though.”
Wright suddenly seemed bored with the questions. He had stopped his scribbling. His hard stare began to drift. He stuffed some papers back into the file, then tapped a finger at the center of the table. “We've made progress, Kyle, thank you. The ball is at midfield. You want to see the video?”

The Associate

Chapter 4
Wright stood for the first time, stretched, and stepped to a corner where a small cardboard box was waiting. It was white, and in a neat hand someone had printed, with a black marker, the words “IN RE: KYLE L. McAVOY et al.” Kyle McAvoy and others. Wright fetched something from the box, and with the steady purpose of an executioner preparing to pull the switch, he removed a disc from its sleeve, slid it into the drive on the laptop, punched a couple of keys, then took his seat. Kyle could barely breathe.
As the computer clicked and hummed, Wright began talking. “The phone was a Nokia 6000 smartphone, manufactured in 2003, with ETI Camcorder software installed, one-gigabyte memory card that holds about three hundred minutes of compressed video, megapixel quality at fifteen FPS, voice commands, voice activated, state of the art for the time. A really nice cell phone.”
“Owned by?”
Wright shot him a smart-ass grin and said, “Sorry, Kyle.”
For some reason, Wright thought it would be helpful to show the
phone itself. He punched a key, and a still photo of the Nokia appeared on the screen. “Ever see this?” he asked.
“No.”
“Didn't think so. Here's the scene, Kyle, in case you're a little fuzzy on the details. It's April 25, 2003, last day of classes, final exams start in a week. It's a Friday, unseasonably warm for Pittsburgh, high of eighty-five that day, almost set a record, and the kids at Duquesne decide to do what all good college kids do everywhere. They start drinking in the afternoon and have big plans to drink all night. A crowd gathers at the apartment complex where you rent a place with three others. A party materializes by the pool. It's mostly Beta brothers and a few girls. You go for a swim, get some rays, drink some beer, listen to Phish. The girls are in bikinis. Life is good. Sometime after dark, the party moves inside, to your apartment. Pizza is ordered. The music, Widespread Panic by this time, is loud. More beer.