31

   They had the villa for a week, though Clay doubted he could stay away from the office that long. It was wedged into the side of a hill, overlooking the busy harbor town of Gustavia, a place bustling with traffic and tourists and all kinds of boats coming and going. Ridley had found it in a catalog of exclusive private rentals. It was a fine home—traditional Caribbean architecture, red-tiled roof, long porches and verandas. There were bedrooms and bathrooms too numerous to find, and a chef, two maids, and a gardener. They settled in quickly, and Clay began flipping through real estate guides that someone had been kind enough to leave behind.
   Clay’s initial encounter with a nude beach was a huge disappointment. The first naked female he saw was a grandmother, a wrinkled old thing who, with proper advice, should’ve covered much more and exposed much less. Then her husband came strolling by, a large belly hanging low and covering his privates, a rash on his ass, and worse. Nudity was getting a bad rap. Of course, Ridley was in her element, strutting up and down the beach as heads twisted. After a couple of hours in the sand, they retired from the heat and enjoyed a two-hour lunch at a fabulous French restaurant. All the good restaurants were French, and they were everywhere on the island.
   Gustavia was busy. It was hot and not the tourist season, but someone forgot to tell the tourists. They packed the sidewalks as they drifted from store to store, and they crowded the streets in their rented Jeeps and small cars. The harbor was never quiet as small fishing boats jockeyed around the yachts of the rich and famous.
   Whereas Mustique was private and secluded, St. Barth was overbuilt and overbooked. But it was still a charming island. Clay loved them both. Ridley, who was showing a keen interest in island real estate, preferred St. Barth because of the shopping and the food. She liked busy towns and people. Someone had to gawk at her.
   After three days, Clay removed his watch and began sleeping in a hammock on a porch. Ridley read books and watched old movies for long stretches of time. Boredom was creeping in when Jarrett Carter sailed into Gustavia harbor aboard his magnificent catamaran, The ExLitigator. Clay was sitting at a bar near the dock, drinking a soda, waiting for his father.
   His crew consisted of a fortyish German woman with legs as long as Ridley’s, and a roguish old Scotsman named MacKenzie, his sailing instructor. The woman, Irmgard, was at first described as his mate, which in sailing terms meant something very vague. Clay loaded them into his Jeep and drove them to his villa, where they showered forever and had drinks while the sun disappeared into the sea. MacKenzie overdosed on bourbon and was soon snoring in a hammock.
   The sailing business had been slow, much like the airplane charter business. The ExLitigator had been booked four times in six months. Its longest voyage had been from Nassau to Aruba and back, three weeks that generated $30,000 from a retired British couple. The shortest had been a jaunt to Jamaica, where they’d almost lost the boat in a storm. A sober MacKenzie had saved them. Near Cuba they had a run-in with pirates. The stories rolled forth.
   Not surprisingly, Jarrett took a shine to Ridley. He was proud of his son. Irmgard seemed content to drink and smoke and watch the lights down in Gustavia.
   Long after dinner, and after the women had retired for the night, Jarrett and Clay moved to another porch for another round. “Where’d you find her?” Jarrett asked, and Clay gave a quick history. They were practically living together, but neither had mentioned anything more permanent than that. Irmgard was also a temp.
   On the legal front, Jarrett had a hundred questions. He was alarmed at the size of Clay’s new firm, and felt compelled to offer unsolicited advice on how to run things. Clay listened patiently. The sailboat had a computer with online access, and Jarrett knew about the Maxatil litigation and the bad press that went with it. When Clay reported that he now had twenty thousand cases, his father thought that was too many for any one firm to handle.
   “You don’t understand mass torts,” Clay said.
   “Sounds like mass exposure to me,” Jarrett countered.
   “What’s your malpractice limit?”
   “Ten million.”
   “That’s not enough.”
   “That’s all the insurance company would sell me. Relax, Dad, I know what I’m doing.”
   And Jarrett couldn’t argue with success. The money his son was printing made him long for the glory days in the courtroom. He could hear those faraway, magical words from the jury foreman, “Your Honor, we, the jurors, find for the plaintiff and award damages in the amount of ten million dollars.” He would hug the plaintiff and say something gracious to the defense counsel, and Jarrett Carter would leave another courtroom with another trophy.
   It was quiet for a long time. Both men needed sleep. Jarrett stood and walked to the edge of the porch. “You ever think about that black kid?” he asked, staring into the night. “The one who started shooting and had no idea why?”
   “Tequila?”
   “Yeah, you told me about him in Nassau when we were buying the sailboat.”
   “Yeah, I think about him occasionally.”
   “Good. Money isn’t everything.” And with that, Jarrett went to bed.

   The trip around the island took most of the day. The captain seemed to understand the basics of how the boat operated and how the wind affected it, but if not for MacKenzie they might have strayed into the sea and never been found. The captain worked hard at handling his ship, but he was also very distracted by Ridley, who spent most of the day roasting in the nude. Jarrett couldn’t take his eyes off her. Nor could MacKenzie, but he could maneuver a sailboat in his sleep.
   Lunch was in a secluded cove on the north side of the island. Near St. Maarten, Clay took the helm while his father hit the beer. For about eight hours, Clay had been seminauseous, and playing captain did nothing to relieve his discomfort. Life on a boat was not for him. The romance of sailing the world held no appeal; he’d vomit in all the great oceans. He preferred airplanes.
   Two nights on land and Jarrett was ready for the sea. They said good-bye early the next morning and his father’s catamaran motored out of Gustavia harbor, headed nowhere in particular. Clay could hear his father and MacKenzie bickering as they headed for open water.
   He was never certain how the Realtor materialized on the porch of the villa. She was there when he returned, a charming Frenchwoman chatting with Ridley and having a coffee. She said she was in the neighborhood, just stopped by to check on the house, which was owned by one of their clients, a Canadian couple in the midst of a nasty divorce, and how were things?
   “Couldn’t be better,” Clay said, taking a seat. “A great house.”
   “Isn’t it wonderful?” the Realtor gushed. “One of our finest properties. I was just telling Ridley that it was built only four years ago by these Canadians who’ve been down twice, I think. His business turned bad. She started seeing her doctor, a real mess up there in Ottawa, and so they’ve put it on the market at a very reasonable price.”
   A conspiratorial glance from Ridley. Clay asked the question left hanging in the air. “How much?”
   “Only three million. Started at five, but, frankly, the market is a bit soft right now.”
   After she left, Ridley attacked him in the bedroom. Morning sex was unheard of, but they had an impressive go at it. Same for the afternoon. Dinner in a fine restaurant; she couldn’t keep her hands off him. The midnight session began in the pool, went to the Jacuzzi, then to the bedroom and after an all-nighter the Realtor was back before lunch.
   Clay was exhausted and really not in the mood for more property. But Ridley wanted the house much more than she had wanted anything, so far, so he bought it. The price was actually on the low end; it was a bargain, the market would tighten up, and he could always sell it for a profit.
   During the paperwork, Ridley asked Clay, privately, if it might be wise to put the house in her name, for tax reasons. She knew as much about the French and American tax codes as he did about Georgian inheritance laws, if, in fact they had any. Hell no, he said to himself, but to her he said, firmly, “No, that won’t work, for tax reasons.”
   She appeared to be wounded, but the pain passed quickly as he assumed ownership. Clay went to a bank in Gustavia, alone, wired the money from an offshore account. When he met with the property attorney, he did so without Ridley.
   “I’d like to stay for a while,” she said as they spent another long afternoon on the porch. He was planning a departure the following morning, and he’d assumed she was leaving too. “I’d like to get this house in order,” she said. “Meet with the decorator. And just relax for a week or so.”
   Why not? Clay thought. Now that I own the damned place, might as well use it.
   He returned to D.C. by himself, and for the first time in several weeks enjoyed the solitude of his Georgetown home.

   For several days Joel Hanna had considered a solo act—just him, all alone on one side of the table, facing a small army of lawyers and their assistants on the other side. He would present the company’s survival plan; he really needed no help in doing this since it was his brainchild.
   But Babcock, the attorney for their insurance company, insisted on being present. His client was on the front line for $5 million, and if he wanted to be present, then Joel couldn’t stop him.
   Together they walked into the building on Connecticut Avenue. The elevator stopped on the fourth floor and they entered the lush and impressive suite of the Law Offices of J. Clay Carter II. The logo “JCC” was broadcast to the world in tall bronze letters hung on a wall that appeared to be cherry or maybe even mahogany. The furniture in the reception room was sleek and Italian. A comely young blonde behind a glass-and-chrome desk greeted them with an efficient smile and pointed to a room just down the hall. A lawyer named Wyatt met them at the door, escorted them in, handled the introductions to and from the gang on the other side, and while Joel and Babcock were unpacking their briefcases another very shapely young lady materialized from nowhere and took their coffee orders. She served them from a silver coffee service with the JCC logo engraved on the pot and also on the fine china cups. When everyone was set and things couldn’t be readier, Wyatt barked at an assistant, “Tell Clay we’re all here.”
   An awkward minute passed as Mr. JCC kept everyone waiting. Finally, he entered in a rush, jacket off, talking to a secretary over his shoulder, a very busy man. He went straight to Joel Hanna and Babcock and introduced himself as if they were all there voluntarily and about to engage in the common good. Then he hustled around to the other side and assumed the king’s throne in the middle of his team, eight feet away.
   Joel Hanna couldn’t help but think, “This guy made a hundred million bucks last year.”
   Babcock had the same thought, but he added to it the gossip that the kid had never tried a civil lawsuit. He’d spent five years with the crackheads in criminal court, but he’d never asked a jury for a nickel. Through all the posturing, Babcock saw signs of nervousness.
   “You said you had a plan,” Mr. JCC began. “Let’s hear it.”
   The survival scheme was quite simple. The company was willing to admit, for purposes of this meeting only, that it had manufactured a bad batch of Portland masonry cement, and that because of this, X number of new homes in the Baltimore area would have to be re-bricked. A payment fund was needed to compensate the homeowner, while not choking the company to death. As simple as the plan was, it took Joel half an hour to present it.
   Babcock spoke on behalf of the insurance company. He admitted there was $5 million in coverage, something he rarely disclosed this early in a lawsuit. His client and the Hanna company would participate in a pool.
   Joel Hanna explained that his company was short on cash, but was willing to borrow heavily to compensate the victims. “This is our mistake, and we intend to correct it,” he said more than once.
   “Do you have an accurate count of the number of homes here?” JCC asked, and every one of his minions wrote this down.
   “Nine hundred and twenty-two,” Joel said. “We’ve gone to the wholesalers, then to the contractors, then to the masonry subs. I think that’s an accurate number, but it could be off by five percent.”
   JCC was scribbling. When he stopped, he said, “So if we assume a cost of twenty-five thousand dollars to adequately compensate each client, we’re looking at about just over twenty-three million dollars.”
   “We are quite certain that it will not cost twenty thousand to fix each house,” Joel said.
   JCC was handed a document by an assistant. “We have statements from four masonry subs in the Howard County area. Each of the four has been on site to see the damage. Each has submitted an estimate. The lowest is eighteen-nine, the highest is twenty-one-five. The average of the four is twenty thousand bucks.”
   “I’d like to see those estimates,” Joel said.
   “Maybe later. Plus, there are other damages. These homeowners are entitled to compensation for their frustration, embarrassment, loss of enjoyment, and emotional distress. One of our clients is suffering from severe headaches over this. Another lost a profitable sale on his home because the bricks were falling off.”
   “We have estimates in the twelve-thousand-dollar range,” Joel said.
   “We’re not going to settle these cases for twelve thousand dollars,” JCC said, and every head shook on the other side.
   Fifteen thousand dollars was a fair compromise and would get new bricks on every house. But such a settlement left only nine thousand dollars for the client after JCC lopped his one-third off the top. Ten thousand dollars would get the old bricks off, the new ones on the premises, but it wouldn’t pay the brickmasons to finish the job. Ten thousand dollars would only make matters worse—the home stripped to the Sheetrock, the front yard a muddy mess, flats of new bricks in the driveway but no one to lay them.
   Nine hundred twenty-two cases, at $5,000 each—$4.6 million in fees. JCC did the math quickly, amazed at how adept he’d become at stringing together zeroes. Ninety percent would be his; he had to share some with a few lawyers who were latecomers to the action. Not a bad fee. It would cover the cost of the new villa on St. Barth, where Ridley was still hiding with no interest in coming home, and after taxes there would be little left.
   At $15,000 per claim, Hanna could survive. Taking the $5 million from Babcock’s client, the company could add about $2 million in cash currently on hand, funds that were earmarked for plant and equipment. A pool of $15 million was needed to cover every potential claim. The remaining $8 million could be borrowed from banks in Pittsburgh. However, this information was kept between Hanna and Babcock. This was just the first meeting, not the time to play every card.
   The issue would boil down to how much Mr. JCC wanted for his efforts. He could broker a fair settlement, perhaps reduce his percentage, still make several million, protect his clients, allow a fine old company to survive, and call it a victory.
   Or, he could take the hard line and everybody would suffer.

32

   Miss Glick sounded a bit rattled over the intercom. “There are two of them, Clay,” she said, almost in a whisper. “FBI.”
   Those new at the mass tort game look often over their shoulders, as if what they’re doing should somehow be illegal. With time, though, their hides grow so thick they think of themselves as Teflon. Clay jumped at the mere mention of the “FBI,” then chuckled at his own cowardice. He’d certainly done nothing wrong.
   They were straight from central casting; two young clean-cut agents whipping out badges and trying to impress anyone who might be watching. The black one was Agent Spooner and the white one was Agent Lohse. Pronounced LOOSH. They unbuttoned their jackets at the same time as they settled into chairs in the power corner of Clay’s office.
   “Do you know a man by the name of Martin Grace?” Spooner began.
   “No.”
   “Mike Packer?” asked Lohse.
   “No.”
   “Nelson Martin?”
   “No.”
   “Max Pace?”
   “Yes.”
   “They’re all the same person,” Spooner said. “Any idea where he might be?”
   “No.”
   “When did you see him last?”
   Clay walked to his desk, grabbed a calendar, then returned to his chair. He stalled as he tried to organize his thoughts. He did not, under any circumstances, have to answer their questions. He could ask them to leave at any time and come back when he had a lawyer present. If they mentioned Tarvan, then he would call a halt. “Not sure,” he said, flipping pages. “It’s been several months. Sometime in mid-February.”
   Lohse was the record keeper; Spooner the interrogator. “Where did you meet him?”
   “Dinner, in his hotel.”
   “Which hotel?”
   “I don’t remember. Why are you interested in Max Pace?”
   A quick glance between the two. Spooner continued: “This is part of an SEC investigation. Pace has a history of securities fraud, insider trading. Do you know his background?”
   “Not really. He was pretty vague.”
   “How and why did you meet him?”
   Clay tossed the calendar on the coffee table. “Let’s say it was a business deal.”
   “Most of his business partners go to jail. You’d better think of something else.”
   “That’ll do for now. Why are you here?”
   “We’re checking out witnesses. We know he spent some time in D.C. We know he visited you on Mustique last Christmas. We know that in January he short sold a chunk of Goffman for sixty-two and a quarter a share the day before you filed your big lawsuit. Bought it back at forty-nine, made himself several million. We think he had access to a confidential government report on a certain Goffman drug called Maxatil, and he used that information to commit securities fraud.”
   “Anything else?”
   Lohse stopped writing and said, “Did you short sell Goffman before you filed suit?”
   “I did not.”
   “Have you ever owned Goffman’s stock?”
   “No.”
   “Any family members, law partners, shell corporations, offshore funds controlled by you?”
   “No, no, no.”
   Lohse put his pen in his pocket. Good cops keep their first meetings brief. Let the witness/target/subject sweat and maybe do something foolish. The second one would be much longer.
   They stood and headed for the door. “If you hear from Pace, we’d like to know about it,” Spooner said.
   “Don’t count on it,” Clay said. He could never betray Pace because they shared so many secrets.
   “Oh, we’re counting on it, Mr. Carter. Next visit we’ll talk about Ackerman Labs.”

   After two years and $8 billion in cash settlements, Healthy Living threw in the towel. The company, in its opinion, had made a good-faith effort to remedy the nightmare of its Skinny Ben diet pill. It had tried valiantly to compensate the half million or so injured people who had relied upon its aggressive advertising and lack of full disclosure and taken the drug. It had patiently weathered the frenzied shark attacks by the mass tort lawyers. It had made them rich.
   Tattered, shrunken, and hanging on by its fingernails, the company got hammered again and simply couldn’t take anymore. The final straw was two wildcat class actions filed by even shadier lawyers who represented several thousand “patients” who used Skinny Bens but with no adverse effects. They wanted millions in compensation simply because they had consumed the pill, were now worried about it, and might continue to worry about it in the future, thus wrecking their already fragile emotional health.
   Healthy Living filed for bankruptcy protection under Chapter 11 and walked away from the mess. Three of its divisions were on the block, and soon the company itself would cease to exist. It flipped the bird to all the lawyers and all their clients and left the building.
   The news was a surprise to the financial community, but no group was more shocked than the mass tort bar. They had finally strangled the golden goose. Oscar Mulrooney saw it online at his desk and locked his door. Under his visionary planning, the firm had spent $2.2 million in advertising and medical testing, which had so far yielded 215 legitimate Skinny Ben clients. At an average settlement of $180,000, the cases were worth at least $15 million in attorneys’ fees, which would be the basis of his much anticipated year-end bonus.
   In the past three months, he’d been unable to get his claims approved by the class-action administrator. There were rumors of dissension among the countless lawyers and consumer groups. Others were having trouble getting the money that was supposedly available.
   Sweating, he worked the phone for an hour, calling other lawyers in the class, trying to get through to the administrator, then the Judge. His worst fears were confirmed by a lawyer in Nashville, one with several hundred cases, all filed ahead of Oscar’s. “We’re screwed,” the lawyer said. “HL has liabilities four times that of its assets, and there is no cash. We’re screwed.”
   Oscar composed himself, straightened his tie, buttoned his sleeves, put on his jacket, and went to tell Clay.
   An hour later he prepared a letter to each of his 215 clients. He gave them no false hope. Things indeed looked bleak. The firm would closely monitor the bankruptcy and the company. It would aggressively pursue all possible means of compensation.
   But there was little reason to be optimistic.
   Two days later, Nora Tackett received her letter. Because the mailman knew her, he knew that she had changed addresses. Nora now lived in a new doublewide trailer closer to town. She was at home, as always, probably watching soap operas on her new wide-screen, eating low-fat cookies, when he placed a letter from a law firm, three bills, and some sales flyers in her box. She had been receiving lots of mail from the lawyers in D.C., and everybody in Larkin knew why. At first her settlement from that diet pill company was rumored to be $100,000, then she told somebody at the bank that it might get closer to $200,000. It jumped again as it got talked about around Larkin.
   Earl Jeter, south of town, sold her the new trailer on the news that she was getting close to half a million, and getting it fast. Plus, her sister, MaryBeth, had signed the ninety-day note.
   The mailman knew for a fact that the money was causing all sorts of problems for Nora. Every Tackett in the county called her for bail money when there was an arrest. Her kids, or the kids she was raising, were being picked on at school because their mother was so fat and so rich. Their father, a man unseen in those parts for the past two years, was back in town. He told folks at the barbershop that Nora was the sweetest woman he’d ever been married to. Her father had threatened to kill him, and that was another reason she stayed inside with the doors locked.
   But most of her bills were past due. As recently as last Friday someone at the bank supposedly said that there had been no sign of any settlement. Where was Nora’s money? That was the big question in Larkin, Virginia.
   Maybe it was in the envelope.
   She waddled out an hour later, after making sure no one was nearby. She removed the mail from the box, hustled back into the trailer. Her calls to Mr. Mulrooney were not returned. His secretary said he was out of town.

   The meeting occurred late at night, just as Clay was leaving his office. It began with unpleasant business and did not improve.
   Crittle walked in with a sour face and announced, “Our liability insurance carrier is notifying us that they are canceling coverage.”
   “What!” Clay yelled.
   “You heard me.”
   “Why are you telling me now? I’m late for dinner.”
   “I’ve been talking to them all day.”
   A brief time-out while Clay flung his jacket on the sofa and walked to the window. “Why?” he asked.
   “They’ve evaluated your practice and they don’t like what they see. Twenty-four thousand Maxatil cases scare them. There’s too much exposure if something goes wrong. Their ten million could be a drop in the bucket, so they’re jumping ship.”
   “Can they do it?”
   “Of course they can. An insurance company can terminate coverage anytime it wants. They’ll owe us a refund, but it’s peanuts. We’re naked on this, Clay. No coverage.”
   “We won’t need coverage.”
   “I hear you, but I’m still worried.”
   “You were worried about Dyloft too, as I recall.”
   “And I was wrong.”
   “Well, Rex old boy, you’re wrong about Maxatil too.

   After Mr. Mooneyham gets finished with Goffman in Flagstaff, they’ll be anxious to settle. They’re already setting aside billions for the class action. Any idea how much those twenty-four thousand cases could be worth? Take a guess.”
   “Shock me.”
   “Close to a billion dollars, Rex. And Goffman can pay it.” “I’m still worried. What if something goes wrong?” “Have a little faith, pal. These things take time. The trial out there is set for September. When it’s over, the money will pour in again.”
   “We’ve spent eight million on advertising and testing. Can we at least slow down? Why can’t you take the position that twenty-four thousand cases is enough?”
   “Because it’s not enough.” And with that Clay smiled, picked up his jacket, patted Crittle on the shoulder, and left for dinner.

   He was supposed to meet a former college roommate at the Old Ebbitt Grille, on Fifteenth, at eight-thirty. He waited at the bar for almost an hour before his cell phone rang. The roommate was stuck in a meeting that looked as if it would never end. He gave the usual apologies.
   As Clay was leaving, he glanced into the restaurant and saw Rebecca having dinner with two other ladies. He stepped back, found his bar stool, and ordered another ale. He was very aware that she had once again stopped him in his tracks. He wanted desperately to talk to her, but he was determined not to interfere. A trip to the rest room would work fine.
   As he walked by her table, she looked up and immediately smiled. Rebecca introduced Clay to her two friends, and he explained that he was in the bar waiting for an old college buddy for dinner. The guy was running late, it might be a while, sorry for the interruption. Oh well, gotta run. Nice seeing you.
   Fifteen minutes later, Rebecca appeared in the crowded bar and stood close beside him. Very close.
   “I just have a minute,” she said. “They’re waiting.” She nodded at the restaurant.
   “You look great,” Clay said, anxious to start groping.
   “You too.”
   “Where’s Myers?”
   She shrugged as if she didn’t care. “Working. He’s always working.”
   “How’s married life?”
   “Very lonely,” she said, looking away.
   Clay took a drink. If not in a crowded bar, with friends waiting nearby, she would have spilled her guts. There was so much she wanted to say.
   The marriage is not working! Clay fought to suppress a smile. “I’m still waiting,” he said.
   Her eyes were wet when she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Then she was gone without another word.

33

   With the Orioles six runs down to the Devil Rays—of all teams—Mr. Ted Worley awoke from a rare nap and debated whether to sneak to the toilet then or wait until the seventh inning. He’d been asleep for an hour, which was unusual for him because he napped every afternoon at precisely two. The Orioles were dull but they had never put him to sleep.
   But after the Dyloft nightmare he didn’t push the limits of his bladder. Not too many liquids, no beer at all. And no pressure on the plumbing down there; if he needed to go, then he did not hesitate. And what if he missed a few pitches? He walked to the small guest bathroom down the hall, next to the bedroom where Mrs. Worley was perched in her rocker doing the needlepoint that consumed most of her life. He closed the door behind him, unzipped his pants, and began to urinate. A very slight burning sensation caused him to glance down, and when he did he almost fainted.
   His urine was the color of rust—a dark reddish liquid. He gasped and braced himself with one hand against the wall. When he finished, he didn’t flush; instead he sat on the toilet seat for a few minutes trying to collect himself.
   “What are you doing in there?” his wife yelled.
   “None of your damned business,” he snapped back.
   “Are you okay, Ted?”
   “I’m fine.”
   But he wasn’t fine. He lifted the lid, took another look at the deadly calling card his body had just discharged, finally flushed, and walked back to the den. The Devil Rays were now up by eight, but the game had lost whatever importance it had in the first inning. Twenty minutes later, after three glasses of water, he sneaked down to the basement and urinated in a small bathroom, as far away as possible from his wife.
   It was blood, he decided. The tumors were back, and whatever form they now had they were far more serious than before.
   He told his wife the truth the next morning, over toast and jam. He preferred to keep it from her as long as possible, but they were so joined at the hip that secrets, especially any related to health, were difficult to keep. She took charge immediately, calling his urologist, barking at the appointment secretary, lining up a visit just after lunch. It was an emergency and tomorrow just wasn’t acceptable.
   Four days later, malignant tumors were found in Mr. Worley’s kidneys. During five hours of surgery, the doctors removed all the tumors they could find.
   The head of urology was closely monitoring the patient. A colleague at a hospital in Kansas City had reported an identical case a month earlier; a post-Dyloft appearance of kidney tumors. The patient in Kansas City was now undergoing chemotherapy and fading fast.
   The same could be expected for Mr. Worley, though the oncologist was much more cautious in his first postop visit. Mrs. Worley was doing her needlepoint while complaining about the quality of the hospital’s food, which she did not expect to be delicious but why couldn’t it at least be warm? At these prices? Mr. Worley hid under the sheets of his bed and watched the television. He graciously muted the set when the oncologist arrived, though he was too sad and depressed to engage in conversation.
   He would be discharged in a week or so, and as soon as he was strong enough they would begin aggressively treating his cancer. Mr. Worley was crying when the meeting was over.
   During a follow-up conversation with the colleague in Kansas City, the head of urology learned of yet another case. All three patients had been Group One Dyloft plaintiffs. Now they were dying. A lawyer’s name was mentioned. The Kansas City patient was represented by a small firm in New York City.
   It was a rare and rewarding experience for a doctor to be able to pass along the name of one lawyer who would sue another, and the head of urology was determined to enjoy the moment. He entered Mr. Worley’s room, introduced himself because they had not met, and explained his role in the treatment. Mr. Worley was sick of doctors and, if not for the tubes crisscrossing his ravaged body, he would have gathered his things and discharged himself. The conversation soon made its way to Dyloft, then the settlement, then to the fertile grounds of the legal profession. This fired up the old man; his face had some color, his eyes were glaring.
   The settlement, meager as it was, had been completed against his wishes. A paltry $43,000, with the lawyer taking the rest! He had called and called and finally got some young smart mouth who told him to check the fine print in the pile of documents he’d signed. There was a Preauthorization clause that allowed the attorney to settle if the money exceeded a very low threshold. Mr. Worley had fired off two poisonous letters to Mr. Clay Carter, neither of which provoked a response.
   “I was against the settlement,” Mr. Worley kept saying.
   “I guess it’s too late now,” Mrs. Worley kept adding.
   “Maybe not,” the doctor said. He told them about the Kansas City patient, a man very similar to Ted Worley. “He’s hired a lawyer to go after his lawyer,” the doctor said with great satisfaction.
   “I’ve had a butt full of lawyers,” Mr. Worley said. Doctors too, for that matter, but he held his tongue.
   “Do you have his phone number?” Mrs. Worley asked. She was thinking much more clearly than her husband. Sadly, she was also looking down the road a year or two when Ted would be gone.
   The urologist just happened to have the number.

   The only thing mass tort lawyers feared was one of their own. A predator. A traitor who followed behind fixing their mistakes. A subspecialty had evolved in which a few very good and very nasty trial lawyers pursued their brethren for bad settlements. Helen Warshaw was writing the training manual.
   For a breed that professed so much love for the courtroom, tort lawyers fell limp with the visual of themselves sitting at the defense table, looking sheepishly at the jurors as their personal finances were kicked about in open court. It was Helen Warshaw’s calling to get them there.
   However, it rarely happened. Their cries of Sue the World! and We Love Juries! evidently applied to everyone else. When confronted with proof of liability, no one settled faster than a mass tort lawyer. No one, not even a guilty doctor, dodged the courtroom with as much energy as a TV/billboard lawyer caught scamming a settlement.
   Warshaw had four Dyloft cases in her New York office and leads on three more when she received the call from Mrs. Worley. Her small firm had a file on Clay Carter and a much thicker one on Patton French. She monitored the top twenty or so mass tort firms in the country and dozens of the biggest class actions. She had plenty of clients and lots of fees, but nothing had excited her as much as the Dyloft fiasco.
   A few minutes on the phone with Mrs. Worley, and Helen knew exactly what had happened. “I’ll be there by five o’clock,” she said.
   “Today?”
   “Yes. This afternoon.”
   She caught the shuttle to Dulles. She did not have her own jet, for two very good reasons. First, she was prudent with her money and didn’t believe in such waste. Second, if she ever got sued, she did not want the jury to hear about a jet. The year before, in the only case she’d managed to get to trial, she had shown the jury large color photos of the defendant lawyer’s jets, both of them, inside and out. Along with photos of his yacht, Aspen home, etcetera. The jury had been very impressed. Twenty million in punitive damages.
   She rented a car—no limo—and found the hospital in Bethesda. Mrs. Worley had collected their papers, which Warshaw spent an hour with while Mr. Worley took a nap. When he woke up, he did not want to talk. He was wary of lawyers, especially the pushy New York female variety. However, his wife had plenty of time and found it easier to confide in a woman. The two went to the lounge for coffee and a long discussion.
   The principal culprit was and always would be Ackerman Labs. They made a bad drug, rushed the approval process, advertised it heavily, failed to adequately test it, failed to fully disclose everything they knew about it. Now the world was learning that Dyloft was even more insidious than first thought. Ms. Warshaw had already secured convincing medical proof that recurring tumors were linked to Dyloft.
   The second culprit was the doctor who prescribed the drug, though his culpability was slight. He relied on Ackerman Labs. The drug worked wonders. And so on.
   Unfortunately, the first two culprits had been fully and completely released from all liability when Mr. Worley settled his claim in the Biloxi class action. Though Mr. Worley’s arthritis doctor had not been sued, the global release covered him as well.
   “But Ted didn’t want to settle,” Mrs. Worley said more than once.
   Doesn’t matter. He settled. He gave his attorney the power to settle. The attorney did so, and thus became the third culprit. And the last one standing.

   A week later, Ms. Warshaw filed a lawsuit against J. Clay Carter, F. Patton French, M. Wesley Saulsberry, and all other known and unknown attorneys who had prematurely settled Dyloft cases. The lead plaintiff was once again Mr. Ted Worley from Upper Marlboro, Maryland, for and on behalf of all injured persons, known and unknown at the time. The lawsuit was filed in United States District Court for the District of Columbia, not too far from the JCC offices.
   Borrowing a page from the defendants’ own playbook, Ms. Warshaw faxed copies of her lawsuit to a dozen prominent newspapers fifteen minutes after she filed it.
   A brusque and burly process server presented himself to the receptionist at Clay’s office and demanded to see Mr. Carter. “It’s urgent,” he insisted. He was sent down the hall where he had to deal with Miss Glick. She summoned her boss, who reluctantly came from his office and took possession of the paperwork that would ruin his day. Maybe his year.
   The reporters were already calling by the time Clay finished reading the class action. Oscar Mulrooney was with him; the door was locked. “I’ve never heard of this,” Clay mumbled, painfully aware that there was so much he didn’t know about the mass tort game.
   Nothing wrong with a good ambush, but at least the companies he had sued knew they had trouble brewing. Ackerman Labs knew it had a bad drug before Dyloft hit the market. Hanna Portland Cement Company had people on the ground in Howard County assessing the initial claims. Goffman had already been sued by Dale Mooneyham over Maxatil, and other trial lawyers were circling. But this? Clay had had no idea that Ted Worley was sick again. Not a hint of trouble anywhere in the country. It just wasn’t fair.
   Mulrooney was too stunned to speak.
   Through the intercom Miss Glick announced, “Clay, there’s a reporter here from the Washington Post.”
   “Shoot the bastard,” Clay growled.
   “Is that a ‘No’?”
   “It’s a ‘Hell no!’”
   “Tell him Clay’s not here,” Oscar managed to say.
   “And call security,” Clay added.
   The tragic death of a close friend could not have caused a more somber mood. They talked about spin control—how to respond, and when? Should they quickly put together an aggressive denial to the lawsuit and file it that day? Fax copies to the press? Should Clay talk to the reporters?
   Nothing was decided because they could not make a decision. The shoe was on the other foot; this was new territory.
   Oscar volunteered to spread the news around the firm, spinning everything in a positive light to keep morale up.
   “If I’m wrong, I’ll pay the claim,” Clay said.
   “Let’s hope Mr. Worley is the only one from this firm.”
   “That’s the big question, Oscar. How many Ted Worleys are out there?”

   Sleep was impossible. Ridley was in St. Barth, renovating the villa, and for that Clay was grateful. He was humiliated and embarrassed; at least she didn’t know about it.
   His thoughts were on Ted Worley. He was not angry, far from it. Allegations in lawsuits are famously off the mark, but these sounded accurate. His former client would not be claiming to have malignant tumors if they did not actually exist. Mr. Worley’s cancer was caused by a bad drug, not by a bad lawyer. But to hurriedly settle a case for $62,000 when it was ultimately worth millions smacked of malpractice and greed. Who could blame the man for striking back?
   Throughout the long night, Clay drowned in self-pity—his badly bruised ego; the utter humiliation among peers, friends, and employees; the delight of his enemies; the dread of tomorrow and the public flogging he would take in the press, with no one to defend him.
   At times he was afraid. Could he really lose everything? Was this the beginning of the end? The trial would have enormous jury appeal—for the other side! And how many potential plaintiffs were out there? Each case was worth millions.
   Nonsense. With twenty-five thousand Maxatil cases waiting in the wings he could withstand anything.
   But all thoughts eventually came back to Mr. Worley, a client who had not been protected by his lawyer. The sense of guilt was so heavy that he felt like calling the man and apologizing. Maybe he would write him a letter. He vividly remembered reading the two he’d received from his former client. He and Jonah had had a good laugh over them.
   Shortly after 4 A.M., Clay made the first pot of coffee. At five, he went online and read the Post. No terrorist attacks in the past twenty-four hours. No serial murderers had struck. Congress had gone home. The President was on vacation. A slow news day, so why not put the smiling face of “The King of Torts” on the front page, bottom half?


Mass Tort Lawyer Sued by the Masses

   was the clever headline. The first paragraph read: Washington attorney J. Clay Carter, the so-called newest King of Torts, received a taste of his own medicine yesterday when he was sued by some disgruntled clients. The lawsuit alleges that Carter, who earned a reported $110 million in fees last year, prematurely settled cases for small amounts when they were, in fact, worth millions.
   The remaining eight paragraphs were no better. A severe case of diarrhea had hit during the night, and Clay raced to the bathroom.
   His buddy at The Wall Street Journal weighed in with the heavy artillery. Front page, left side, same hideous sketch of Clay’s smug face.


Is the King of Torts about to be Dethroned?

   was the headline. The tone of the article sounded as if Clay should be indicted and imprisoned rather than simply dethroned. Every business trade group in Washington had ready opinions on the subject. Their delight was thinly concealed. How ironic that they were so happy to see yet another lawsuit. The President of the National Trial Lawyers Academy had no comment.
   No comment! From the one and only group that never waivered in its support of trial lawyers. The next paragraph explained why. Helen Warshaw was an active member of the New York Trial Lawyers Academy. In fact, her credentials were impressive. A board-certified trial advocate. Law Review editor at Columbia. She was thirty-eight years old, ran marathons for fun, and was described by a former opponent as “brilliant and tenacious.”
   A lethal combination, Clay thought as he ran back to the bathroom.
   Sitting on the toilet he realized that the lawyers would not take sides in this one. It was a family feud. He could expect no sympathy, no defenders.
   An unnamed source put the number of plaintiffs at a dozen. Class certification was expected because a much larger group of plaintiffs was anticipated. “How large?” Clay asked himself as he made more coffee. “How many Worleys are out there?”
   Mr. Carter, age thirty-two, was not available for comment. Patton French called the lawsuit “frivolous,” a description he borrowed, according to the article, from no less than eight companies he had sued in the past four years. He ventured further by saying the lawsuit ”... smacked of a conspiracy by the tort reforms proponents and their benefactors, the insurance industry.” Perhaps the reporter caught Patton after a few stout vodkas.
   A decision had to be made. Because he had a legitimate illness he could hunker down at home and ride out the storm from there. Or he could step into the cruel world and face the music. He really wanted to take some pills and go back to bed and wake up in a week with the nightmare behind him. Better yet, hop on the plane and go see Ridley.
   He was at the office by seven, with a game face on, high on coffee, bouncing around the halls bantering and laughing with the early shift, making lame but sporting jokes about other process servers on the way and reporters poking around and subpoenas flying here and there. It was a gutsy, splendid performance, one his firm needed and appreciated.
   It continued until mid-morning when Miss Glick stopped it cold by stepping into his open office and saying, “Clay, those two FBI agents are back.”
   “Wonderful!” he said, rubbing his hands together as if he might just whip both of them.
   Spooner and Lohse appeared with tight smiles and no handshakes. Clay closed the door, gritted his teeth, and told himself to keep performing. But the fatigue hit hard. And the fear.
   Lohse would talk this time while Spooner took notes. Evidently, Clay’s picture on the front page had reminded them that he was owed a second visit. The price of fame.
   “Any sign of your buddy Pace?” Lohse began.
   “No, not a peep.” And it was true. How badly he needed Pace’s counsel in this time of crisis.
   “Are you sure?”
   “Are you deaf?” Clay shot back. He was perfectly prepared to ask them to leave when the questions got sticky. They were just investigators, not prosecutors. “I said no.”
   “We think he was in the city last week.”
   “Good for you. I haven’t seen him.”
   “You filed suit against Ackerman Labs on July second of last year, correct?”
   “Yes.”
   “Did you own any stock in the company before you filed the lawsuit?”
   “No.”
   “Did you sell the stock short, then buy it back at a lower price?”
   Of course he had, at the suggestion of his good friend Pace. They knew the answer to the question. They had the data from the transactions, he was sure of that. Since their first visit, he had thoroughly researched securities fraud and insider trading. He was in a gray area, a very pale one, in his opinion, not a good place to be but far from guilty. In retrospect, he should not have dealt in the stock. He wished a thousand times he had not.
   “Am I under investigation for something?” he asked. Spooner started nodding before Lohse said, “Yes.”
   “Then this meeting is over. My attorney will be in touch with you.” Clay was on his feet, headed for the door.

34

   For the next meeting of the Dyloft Plaintiffs’ Steering Committee, Defendant Patton French chose a hotel in downtown Atlanta, where he was participating in one of his many seminars on how to get rich stalking drug companies. It was an emergency meeting.
   French, of course, had the Presidential Suite, a gaudy collection of wasted space on the hotel’s top floor, and there they met. It was an unusual meeting in that there was no comparing notes about the latest luxury car or ranch, none of that. Nor did any of the five care to boast about recent trial victories. Things were tense from the moment Clay entered the suite, and they never improved. The rich boys were scared.
   And with good reason. Carlos Hernandez from Miami knew of seven of his Dyloft Group One plaintiffs who were now suffering from malignant kidney tumors. They had joined the class action and were now represented by Helen Warshaw. “They’re popping up everywhere,” he said, frantically. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. In fact, all five looked beaten and weary.
   “She’s a ruthless bitch,” Wes Saulsberry said, and the others nodded in agreement. Evidently, the legend of Ms. Warshaw was widely known. Someone had forgotten to tell Clay. Wes had four former clients now suing him. Damon Didier had three. French had five.
   Clay was mightily relieved to have only one, but such relief was temporary. “Actually, you have seven,” French said, and handed over a printout with Clay’s name at the top and a list of ex-clients/now plaintiffs under it.
   “I’m told by Wicks at Ackerman that we can expect the list to grow,” French said.
   “What’s their mood?” Wes asked.
   “Total shock. Their drug is killing people right and left. Philo wishes they’d never heard of Ackerman Labs.”
   “I’m with them,” Didier said, shooting a nasty look at Clay, as if to say, “It’s all your fault.”
   Clay looked back at the seven names on his list. Other than Ted Worley, he did not recognize any of them. Kansas, South Dakota, Maine, two from Oregon, Georgia, Maryland. How did he come to represent these people? A ridiculous way to practice law—suing and settling for people he’d never met! And now they were suing him!
   “Is it safe to assume that the medical evidence is substantial here?” Wes was asking. “I mean, is there room to fight, to try and prove that this recurring cancer is not related to Dyloft. If so, it gets us off the hook, and Ackerman as well. I don’t like being in bed with clowns, but that’s where we are.”
   “Nope! We’re screwed,” French said. At times he could be so blunt it was painful. No sense wasting time. “Wicks tells me that the drug is more dangerous than a bullet to the head. Their own research people are leaving because of this. Careers are being ruined. The company might not survive.”
   “You mean Philo?”
   “Yes, when Philo bought Ackerman they thought they had a handle on the Dyloft mess. It now looks as if Groups Two and Three will be much larger and much more expensive. They’re scrambling.”
   “Aren’t we all?” Carlos mumbled, then he too looked at Clay as if a bullet to the head might be in order.
   “If we are liable, then there’s no way we can defend these cases,” Wes said, stating the obvious.
   “We have to negotiate,” Didier said. “We’re talking survival here.”
   “How much is a case worth?” Clay asked, his voice still working.
   “In front of a jury, two million to ten million, depending on the punitives,” French said.
   “That’s low,” said Carlos.
   “No jury will see my face in court,” Didier said. “Not with this set of facts.”
   “The average plaintiff is sixty-eight and retired,” Wes said. “So, economically, the damages are not great when the plaintiff dies. Pain and suffering will up the tally. But in a vacuum, you could settle these cases for a million each.”
   “This ain’t no vacuum,” Didier snapped.
   “No kidding,” Wes snapped right back. “But throw in such beautiful defendants as a bunch of greedy mass tort lawyers, and the value goes through the roof.”
   “I’d rather have the plaintiff’s side than mine,” Carlos said, rubbing his tired eyes.
   Clay noticed that not a single drop of alcohol was being consumed; just coffee and water. He desperately wanted one of French’s vodka remedies.
   “We’re probably going to lose our class action,” French said. “Everybody who’s still in is trying to get out. As you know, very few of the Group Two and Three plaintiffs have settled, and, for obvious reasons, they want no part of this lawsuit. I know of at least five groups of lawyers ready to ask the court to dissolve our class and kick us out. Can’t really blame them.”
   “We can fight them,” Wes said. “We got fees out there. And we’re gonna need them.”
   Nonetheless they were not in the mood to fight, at least not then. Regardless of how much money they claimed to have, each was worried, but at different levels. Clay did most of the listening, and he became intrigued by how the other four were reacting. Patton French probably had more money than anyone there, and he seemed confident he could withstand the financial pressures of the lawsuit. Same for Wes, who had earned $500 million from the tobacco scam. Carlos was cocky at times, but then he couldn’t stop fidgeting. It was the hard-faced Didier who was terrified.
   They all had more money than Clay, and Clay had more Dyloft cases than any of them. He didn’t like the math.
   He picked the number of $3 million as a possibility for settlement. If his list stopped with seven names, then he could handle a hit in the $20 million range. But if the list kept growing...
   Clay brought up the topic of insurance, and was shocked to learn that none of the four had any. They had all been terminated years earlier. Very few carriers of legal malpractice would touch a mass tort lawyer. Dyloft was a perfect example of why not.
   “Be thankful you’ve got the ten million,” Wes said. “That’s money that won’t come out of your pocket.”
   The meeting was nothing more than a bitch-and-cry session. They wanted the company of each other’s misery, but only briefly. They agreed on a very general plan to meet with Ms. Warshaw at some undetermined point in the future and delicately explore the possibility of negotiation. She was making it well known that she did not want to settle. She wanted trials—big, tawdry, sensational spectacles in which the current and past Kings of Torts would be hauled in and stripped naked before the juries.
   Clay killed an afternoon and night in Atlanta, where no one knew him.

   During his years at OPD, Clay had conducted hundreds of initial interviews, almost all at the jail. They usually started slow, with the defendant, who was almost always black, uncertain about how much he should say to his white lawyer. The background information thawed things somewhat, but the facts and details and truth about the alleged crime were rarely given during the first meeting.
   It was ironic that Clay, the white defendant now, was nervously walking into his own initial interview with his black defense lawyer. And at $750 an hour, Zack Battle had better be prepared to listen fast. No ducking and weaving and shadowboxing at that rate. Battle would get the truth, as fast as he could write it down.
   But Battle wanted to gossip. He and Jarrett had been drinking buddies years earlier, long before Battle sobered up and became the biggest criminal lawyer in D.C. Oh, the stories he could tell about Jarrett Carter. Not at $750 an hour, Clay wanted to say. Turn the damned clock off and we’ll chat forever.
   Battle’s office faced Lafayette Park, with the White House in the background. He and Jarrett got drunk one night and decided to drink some beer with the winos and homeless folks out in the park. Cops sneaked up on them, thought they were perverts out looking for action. Both got arrested and it took every favor in the bank to keep it out of the newspapers. Clay laughed because he was supposed to.
   Battle gave up booze for pipe tobacco, and his cluttered and dirty office reeked of stale smoke. How is your father? he wanted to know. Clay, quickly, painted a generous and almost romantic picture of Jarrett sailing the world.
   When they finally got around to it, Clay told the Dyloft story, beginning with Max Pace and ending with the FBI. He did not talk about Tarvan, but he would if it became necessary. Oddly, Battle took no notes. He just listened, frowning and smoking his pipe, gazing off occasionally in deep reflection, but never betraying what he thought.
   “This stolen research that Max Pace had,” he said, then a pause, then a puff. “Did you have it in your possession when you sold the stock and filed suit?”
   “Of course. I had to know that I could prove liability against Ackerman if we went to trial.”
   “Then it’s insider trading. You’re guilty. Five years in the slammer. Tell me, though, how the Feds can prove it.”
   When his heart began pumping again, Clay said, “Max Pace can tell them, I guess.”
   “Who else has the research?”
   “Patton French, maybe one or two of the other guys.”
   “Does Patton French know that you had this information before you filed suit?”
   “I don’t know. I never told him when I got it.”
   “So this Max Pace character is the only person who can nail you.”
   The history was pretty clear. Clay had prepared the Dyloft class action but was unwilling to file it unless Pace could produce enough evidence. They had argued several times. Pace walked in one day with two thick briefcases filled with papers and files and said, “There it is, and you didn’t get it from me.” He left immediately. Clay reviewed the materials, then asked a college friend to evaluate their reliability. The friend was a prominent doctor in Baltimore.
   “Can this doctor be trusted?” Battle asked.
   Before he could say anything, Battle helped him with the answer. “Here’s the bottom line, Clay. If the Feds don’t know you had this secret research when you sold the stock short, they can’t get you for insider trading. They have the records of the stock transactions, but those alone are not enough. They have to prove you had knowledge.”
   “Should I talk to my friend in Baltimore?”
   “No. If the Feds know about him, he might be wired. Then you go to prison for seven years instead of five.”
   “Would you please stop saying that?”
   “And if the Feds don’t know about him, then you might inadvertently lead them to him. They’re probably watching you. They might tap your phones. I’d ditch the research. Purge my files, just in case they walk in with a subpoena. And I’d also do a lot of praying that Max Pace is either dead or hiding in Europe.”
   “Anything else?” Clay asked, ready to start praying.
   “Go see Patton French, make sure the research cannot be traced to you. From the looks of things, this Dyloft litigation is just getting started.”
   “That’s what they tell me.”

   The return address was that of a prison. Though he had many former clients behind bars, Clay could not remember one named Paul Watson. He opened it and pulled out a one-page letter, very neat and prepared on a word processor. It read: Dear Mr. Carter: You may remember me as Tequila Watson. I’ve changed my name because the old one doesn’t fit anymore. I read the Bible every day and my favorite guy is the Apostle Paul, so I’ve borrowed his name. I got a writ-writer here to do it legally for me.
   I need a favor. If you could somehow get word to Pumpkin’s family and tell them that I’m very sorry for what happened. I’ve prayed to God and he has forgiven me. I would feel so much better if Pumpkin’s family could do the same. I still can’t believe I killed him like that. It wasn’t me doing the shooting, but the devil, I guess. But I have no excuses.
   I’m still clean. Lots of dope in prison, lots of bad stuff, but God gets me through every day.
   It would be great if you could write me. I don’t get much mail. Sorry you had to stop being my lawyer. I thought you were a cool dude. Best wishes, Paul Watson Just hang on, Paul, Clay mumbled to himself. We might be cell mates at the rate I’m going. The phone startled him. It was Ridley, down in St. Barth but wanting to come home. Could Clay please send the jet tomorrow?
   No problem, dear. It only costs $3,000 an hour to fly the damned thing. Four hours down, four hours back—$24,000 for the quick round-trip, but that was a drop in the bucket compared to what she was spending on the villa.

35

   You live by the leak, you die by the leak. Clay had played the game a few times, giving reporters the juicy gossip off the record, then offering smug “No comments” that were printed a few lines down from the real dirt. It had been fun then; now it was painful. He couldn’t imagine who would want to embarrass him even further.
   At least he had a little warning. A reporter from the Post had called Clay’s office, where he’d been directed to the Honorable Zack Battle. He found him and got the standard response. Zack called Clay with a report of the conversation.
   It was in the Metro section, third page, and that was a pleasant surprise after months of front-page heroics, then scandals. Because there were so few facts the space had to be filled with something—a photo of Clay.


King of Torts under Sec Investigation

   “According to unnamed sources...” Zack had several quotes, all of which made Clay sound even guiltier. As he read the story he remembered how often he’d seen Zack do the same routine—deny and deflect and promise a vigorous defense, always protecting some of the biggest crooks in town. The bigger the crook the faster he ran to the office of Zack Battle, and Clay thought, for the first time, that perhaps he’d hired the wrong lawyer.
   He read it at home where he was, thankfully, alone because Ridley was spending a day or two at her new apartment, one Clay had signed the lease for. She wanted the freedom of living in two places, hers and his, and since her old flat was quite cramped Clay had agreed to put her up in nicer digs. Actually, her freedom required a third place—the villa in St. Barth, which she always referred to as “ours.”
   Not that Ridley read newspapers anyway. In fact, she seemed to know little of Clay’s problems. Her increasing focus was on the spending of his money, with not much attention to how he made it. If she saw the story on page three, she didn’t mention it. Nor did he.
   As another bad day wore on, Clay began to realize how few people seemed to acknowledge the story. One pal from law school called and tried to cheer him up, and that was it. He appreciated the call, but it did little to help. Where were his other friends?
   Though he tried mightily not to do so, he couldn’t help but think of Rebecca and the Van Horns. No doubt they’d been green with envy and sick with regrets when the new King of Torts had been crowned, just weeks earlier, it seemed. What were they thinking now? He didn’t care, he told himself again, and again. But if he didn’t care, why couldn’t he purge them from his thoughts?
   Paulette Tullos dropped in before noon and that raised his spirits. She looked great—the pounds were off, the wardrobe was expensive. She’d been bouncing around Europe for the past few months, waiting for her divorce to become final. The rumors about Clay were everywhere, and she was concerned about him. Over a long lunch, one she paid for, it slowly became apparent that she was also worried about herself. Her cut of the Dyloft loot had been slightly over $10 million, and she wanted to know if she had exposure. Clay assured her she had none. She had not been a partner in the firm during the settlement, just an associate. Clay’s name was on all the pleadings and documents.
   “You were the smart one,” Clay said. “You took the money and ran.”
   “I feel bad.”
   “Don’t. The mistakes were made by me, not you.”
   Though Dyloft would cost him dearly—at least twenty of his former clients had now joined the Warshaw class action—he was still banking heavily on Maxatil. With twenty-five thousand cases, the payday would be enormous. “The road’s kinda rocky right now, but things will improve greatly. Within a year, I’ll be mining gold again.”
   “And the Feds?” she asked.
   “They can’t touch me.”
   She seemed to believe this and her relief was obvious. If, in fact, she did believe everything Clay was saying, she was the only one at the table who did so.

   The third meeting would be the last, though neither Clay nor anyone on his side of the table realized it. Joel Hanna brought his cousin Marcus, the company’s CEO, with him, and left behind Babcock, their insurance counsel. As usual, the two faced a small army on the other side, with Mr. JCC sitting in the middle. The king.
   After the customary warm-ups, Joel announced, “We have located an additional eighteen homes that should be added to the list. That makes a total of nine hundred and forty. We feel very confident that there will not be any more.”
   “That’s good,” Clay said, somewhat callously. A longer list meant more clients for him, more damages to be paid by the Hanna company. Clay represented almost 90 percent of the class, with a few scattered lawyers hanging around the fringes. His Team Hanna had done a superb job of convincing the homeowners to stick with his firm. They had been assured that they would get more money because Mr. Carter was an expert at mass litigation. Every potential client had received a professionally done packet touting the exploits of the newest King of Torts. It was shameless advertising and solicitation, but those were simply the rules of the game now.
   During the last meeting, Clay had reduced his demands from $25,000 per claim to $22,500, a settlement that would net him fees in the neighborhood of $7.5 million. The Hanna company had countered with $17,000, which would stretch its borrowing capacity to the breaking point.
   At $17,000 per home, Mr. JCC would earn about $4.8 million in fees, if he clung to his 30 percent contingency. If, however, he cut his share to a more reasonable 20 percent, each of his clients would net $13,600. Such a reduction would reduce his fees by roughly $1.5 million. Marcus Hanna had found a reputable contractor who would agree to repair every home for $13,500.
   It had become apparent during the last meeting that the issue of attorneys’ fees was at least as important as the issue of compensating the homeowners. However, since the last meeting there had been several stories about Mr. JCC in the press, none of them good. A reduction in fees was not something his firm was prepared to discuss.
   “Any movement on your side?” Clay asked, rather bluntly.
   Instead of just saying “No,” Joel went through a short exercise in discussing the steps the company had taken to reevaluate its financial situation, its insurance coverage, and its ability to borrow at least $8 million to add to a compensation pool. But, sadly, nothing had really changed. The business was on the downslope of a nasty cycle. Orders were flat. New home construction was even flatter, at least in their market.
   If things looked grim for the Hanna Portland Cement Company, they were certainly no better on the other side of the table. Clay had abruptly stopped all advertising for new Maxatil clients, a move that greatly relieved the rest of his firm. Rex Crittle was working overtime to cut costs, though the culture of JCC had yet to adapt to such radical notions. He had actually broached the subject of layoffs, and in doing so provoked a nasty response from his boss. No significant fees were being generated. The Skinny Ben fiasco had cost them millions, instead of generating another fortune. And with ex-Dyloft clients finding their way to Helen Warshaw, the firm was reeling.
   “So there’s no movement?” Clay asked when Joel finished.
   “No. Seventeen thousand is a stretch for us. Any movement on your side?”
   “Twenty-two thousand five hundred is a fair settlement,” Clay said without flinching or blinking. “If you’re not moving, then neither are we.” His voice was hard as steel. His staff was impressed by his toughness, but also anxious for some compromise. But Clay was thinking of Patton French in New York, in the room full of big shots from Ackerman Labs, barking and bullying, very much in control. He was convinced that if he kept pushing, Hanna would buckle under.
   The only vocal doubter on Clay’s side was a young lawyer named Ed Wyatt, the head of Team Hanna. Before the meeting, he had explained to Clay that, in his opinion, Hanna would benefit greatly from protection and reorganization under Chapter 11 of the bankruptcy code. Any settlement with the homeowners would be delayed until a trustee could sort out their claims and decide what compensation was reasonable. Wyatt thought the plaintiffs would be lucky to get $10,000 through Chapter 11. The company had not threatened bankruptcy, a normal ploy in these situations. Clay had studied Hanna’s books and felt that it had too many assets and too much pride to consider such a drastic move. He rolled the dice. The firm needed all the fees it could squeeze.
   Marcus Hanna abruptly said, “Well, then it’s time to go.” He and his first cousin threw their papers together and stormed out of the conference room. Clay tried a dramatic exit too, as if to show his troops that nothing fazed him.
   Two hours later, in the U.S. Bankruptcy Court for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania, the Hanna Portland Cement Company filed a Chapter 11 petition, seeking protection from its creditors, the largest of whom were those collected in a class action filed by J. Clay Carter II of Washington, D.C.

   Apparently, one of the Hannas understood the importance of leaks as well. The Baltimore Press ran a long story about the bankruptcy and the immediate reaction by the homeowners. Its details were deadly accurate and evidence that someone very close to the settlement negotiations was whispering to the reporter. The company had offered $17,000 per plaintiff; a liberal estimate to repair each home was $15,000. The lawsuit could’ve have been fairly settled but for the issue of attorneys’ fees. Hanna admitted liability from the very beginning. It had been willing to borrow heavily to correct its mistakes. And so on.
   The plaintiffs were extremely unhappy. The reporter ventured out into the suburbs and found an impromptu meeting in a garage. He was given a tour of a few of the homes to survey the damages. He collected numerous comments: “We should’ve dealt directly with Hanna.”
   “The company was out here before that lawyer got involved.”
   “A bricklayer I talked to said he could take off the old and put on the new for eleven thousand dollars. And we turned down seventeen? I just don’t understand it.”
   “I never met that lawyer.”
   “I didn’t realize I was in the class action until after it was filed.”
   “We didn’t want the company to go bankrupt.”
   “No, they were nice guys. They were trying to help us.”
   “Can we sue the lawyer?”
   “I tried calling him, but the lines are busy.”
   The reporter was then obliged to provide some background on Clay Carter, and of course he began with the Dyloft fees. Things got worse from there. Three photographs helped tell the story; the first was a homeowner pointing to her crumbling bricks; the second was the group meeting in the garage; and the third was Clay in a tuxedo and Ridley in a beautiful dress as they posed in the White House before the state dinner. She was stunning; he was quite handsome himself, though taken in context, it was difficult to appreciate what an attractive couple they were. A real cheap shot.
   “Mr. Carter, seen above at a White House dinner, could not be reached for comment.”
   Damned right they’re not reaching me, Clay thought.
   And so began another day at the offices of JCC. Phones ringing nonstop as irate clients wanted someone to yell at. A security guard in the lobby just in case. Associates gossiping in small groups about the survival of the place. Second-guessing by every employee. The boss locked in his office. No real cases to work on because all the firm had now was a trainload of Maxatil files, and there was little do with them because Goffman wasn’t returning calls either.
   Fun and games had been happening all over the District at Clay’s expense, though he didn’t know it until the story ran in the Press. It had started with the Dyloft stories in The Wall Street Journal; a few faxes here and there around the city to make sure that those who knew Clay, either from college, law school, his father, or at OPD, got the current news. It picked up steam when American Attorney ranked him number eight in earnings—more faxes, more e-mails, a few jokes added in for spice. It became even more popular when Helen Warshaw filed her heinous lawsuit. Some lawyer somewhere in the city, one with too much time on his hands, titled it “The King of Shorts,” gave it a rough and quick format, and started the faxes. Someone with a slight artistic bent added a crude cartoon of Clay naked with his boxer shorts around his ankles, looking quite perplexed. Any news about him would provoke another edition. The publisher, or publishers, would pick stories off the Internet, print them in a newsletter format, and share them. The criminal investigation was big news. There was the photo from the White House, some gossip about his airplane, one story about his father.
   The anonymous editors had been faxing copies to Clay’s office from the beginning, but Miss Glick had trashed them. Several of the Yale boys also received faxes, and they too protected their boss. Oscar brought in the latest edition and tossed it on Clay’s desk. “Just so you’ll know,” he said. The current edition was a reproduction of the story in the Press.
   “Any idea who’s behind this?” Clay asked.
   “No. They’re faxed around the city, sort of like a chain letter.”
   “Don’t these people have better things to do?”
   “I guess not. Don’t worry about it, Clay. It’s always been lonely at the top.”
   “So I have my own personal newsletter. My, my, eighteen months ago no one knew my name.”
   There was a commotion outside—sharp, angry voices. Clay and Oscar ran from his office into the hallway where the security guard was scuffling with a very disturbed gentleman. Associates and secretaries were entering the picture.
   “Where is Clay Carter!” the man yelled.
   “Here!” Clay yelled back and walked up to him. “What do you want?”
   The man was suddenly still, though the guard kept his grip. Ed Wyatt and another associate moved close to him. “I’m one of your clients,” the man said, breathing heavily. “Let go of me,” he snapped and shook free from the guard.
   “Leave him alone,” Clay said.
   “I’d like a conference with my attorney,” the man said.
   “This is not the way to schedule one,” Clay shot back, very coolly. He was being watched by his employees.
   “Yeah, well, I tried the other way, but all the lines are busy. You screwed us out of a good settlement with the cement company. We want to know why. Not enough money for you?”
   “I guess you believe everything you read in the newspapers,” Clay said.
   “I believe we got screwed by our own lawyer. And we’re not taking it without a fight.”
   “You folks need to relax and stop reading the papers. We’re still working on the settlement.” It was a lie, but one with good intentions. The rebellion needed to be quashed, at least there in the office.
   “Cut your fees and get us some money,” the man snarled. “And that’s coming from your clients.”
   “I’ll get you a settlement,” Clay said with a fake smile. “Just relax.”
   “Otherwise, we’re going to the bar association.”
   “Keep your cool.”
   The man backed away, then turned and left the suite.
   “Back to work everybody,” Clay said, clapping his hands together as if everybody had plenty of work to do.
   Rebecca arrived an hour later, a random visitor from the street. She stepped into the JCC suite and gave a note to the receptionist. “Please give that to Mr. Carter,” she said. “It’s very important.”
   The receptionist glanced at the security guard, who was on high alert, and it took several seconds to determine that the attractive young lady was probably not a threat. “I’m an old friend,” Rebecca said.
   Whatever she was, she managed to fetch Mr. Carter out of the back faster than anyone in the short history of the firm. They sat in the corner of his office; Rebecca on the sofa, Clay in a chair pulled as close as possible. For a long time nothing was said. Clay was too excited to utter a coherent sentence. Her presence could mean a hundred different things, none of them bad.
   He wanted to lunge at her, to feel her body again, to smell the perfume on her neck, to run his hands along her legs. Nothing had changed—same hair style, same makeup, same lipstick, same bracelet.
   “You’re staring at my legs,” she finally said.
   “Yes I am.”
   “Clay, are you okay? There’s so much bad press right now.”
   “And that’s why you’re here?”
   “Yes. I’m concerned.”
   “To be concerned means you still care about me.”
   “I do.”
   “So you haven’t forgotten about me?”
   “No, I have not. I’m sort of sidetracked right now, with the marriage and all, but I still think about you.” “All the time?” “Yes, more and more.” Clay closed his eyes and placed a hand on her knee, one that she immediately removed and flung away. “I am married, Clay.” “Then let’s commit adultery.” “No.” “Sidetracked? Sounds like it’s temporary. What’s going on, Rebecca?”
   “I’m not here to talk about my marriage. I was in the neighborhood, thought about you, and just sort of popped in.”
   “Like a lost dog? I don’t believe that.”
   “You shouldn’t. How’s your bimbo?”
   “She’s here and there. It’s just an arrangement.”
   Rebecca mulled this over, obviously unhappy with the arrangement. Okay for her to marry someone else, but she didn’t like the idea of Clay hooking up with anyone. “How’s the worm?” Clay asked. “He’s okay.” “That’s a ringing endorsement from the new wife. Just okay?” “We get along.” “Married less than a year and that’s the best you can do? You get along?” “Yes.”
   “You’re not giving him sex, are you?”
   “We’re married.”
   “But he’s such a little twerp. I saw you dancing at your reception and I wanted to vomit. Tell me he’s lousy in bed.” “He’s lousy in bed. What about the bimbo?” “She likes girls.” They both laughed, and for a long time. And then they were silent again, because there was so much to say. She recrossed her legs while Clay watched closely. He could almost touch them.
   “Are you going to survive?” she asked.
   “Let’s not talk about me. Let’s talk about us.”
   “I’m not going to have an affair,” she said.
   “But you’re thinking about one, aren’t you?”
   “No, but I know you are.”
   “But it would be fun, wouldn’t it?”
   “It would, and it wouldn’t. I’m not going to live like that.”
   “I’m not either, Rebecca. I’m not sharing. I once had all of you, and I let you get away. I’ll wait until you’re single again. But would you hurry, dammit?”
   “That might not happen, Clay.”
   “Yes it will.”

36

   With Ridley in bed beside him, Clay spent the night dreaming of Rebecca. He slept off and on, always waking up with a goofy smile on his face. All smiles vanished, though, when the phone rang just after 5 A.M. He answered it in the bedroom, then switched to a phone in his study.
   It was Mel Snelling, a college roommate, now a physician in Baltimore. “We gotta talk, pal,” he said. “It’s urgent.”
   “All right,” Clay said, his knees buckling.
   “Ten A.M., in front of the Lincoln Memorial.”
   “I can do that.”
   “And there’s a good chance someone will be following me,” he said, then his line went dead. Dr. Snelling had reviewed the stolen Dyloft research for Clay, as a favor. Now the Feds had found him.
   For the first time, Clay had the wild thought of just simply running. Wire what was left of the money to some banana republic, skip town, grow a beard, disappear. And, of course, take Rebecca with him.
   Her mother would find them before the Feds.
   He made coffee and took a long shower. He dressed in jeans, and would have said good-bye to Ridley but she hadn’t moved.
   There was a very good chance Mel would be wired.
   Since the FBI had found him, they would try their customary bag of dirty tricks. They would threaten to indict him too if he refused to snitch on his friend. They would harass him with visits, phone calls, surveillance. They would pressure him to put on a wire and lay the trap for Clay.
   Zack Battle was out of town, so Clay was on his own. He arrived at the Lincoln Memorial at nine-twenty and mixed with the few tourists who were there. A few minutes later, Mel appeared, which immediately struck Clay as odd. Why would he get there half an hour before their meeting? Was the ambush being organized? Were Agents Spooner and Lohse close by with mikes and cameras and guns? One look at Mel’s face and Clay knew that the news was bad.
   They shook hands, said their hellos, tried to be cordial. Clay suspected that every word was being recorded. It was early September, the air chilly but not cold; Mel, however, was bundled up as if snow was expected. There could be cameras under all that garb. “Let’s go for a walk,” Clay said, sort of pointing down The Mall toward the Washington Monument.
   “Sure,” Mel said, shrugging. He didn’t care. Obviously, no trap had been planned near Mr. Lincoln.
   “Did they follow you?” Clay asked.
   “I don’t think so. I flew from Baltimore to Pittsburgh, Pittsburgh to Reagan National, grabbed a cab. I don’t think anybody’s behind me.”
   “Is it Spooner and Lohse?”
   “Yes, you know them?”
   “They’ve stopped by a few times.” They were walking beside the Reflecting Pool, on the sidewalk on the south side. Clay was not going to say anything that he didn’t want to hear again. “Mel, I know how the Fibbies operate. They like to pressure witnesses. They like to wire people and collect their evidence with gadgets and high-tech toys. Did they ask you to wear a wire?”
   “Yes.”
   “And?”
   “I told them, ‘Hell no.’”
   “Thank you.”
   “I have a great lawyer, Clay. I’ve spent some time with him, told him everything. I did nothing wrong because I didn’t trade the stock. I understand you did, which I’m sure you would handle differently now if given the chance. Maybe I had some inside information, but I did nothing with it. I’m clean. But the pinch comes when I’m subpoenaed by the grand jury.”
   The case had not yet been presented to the grand jury. Mel was indeed listening to a good lawyer. For the first time in four hours, Clay’s breathing relaxed a little.
   “Go on,” he said cautiously. His hands were stuck deep in the pockets of his jeans. Behind his sunglasses, his eyes were watching every person around them. If Mel had told the Feds everything, why would they need wires and mikes?
   “The big question is how did they find me? I told no one I was reviewing the stuff. Who did you tell?”
   “Absolutely no one, Mel.”
   “That’s hard to believe.”
   “I swear. Why would I tell anyone?”
   They stopped for a moment to let the traffic pass on Seventeenth Street. When they were walking again, they drifted to the right, away from a crowd. Mel said, almost under his breath, “If I lie to the grand jury about the research, they’ll have a hard time indicting you. But if I get caught lying, then I go to jail myself. Who else knows I reviewed the research?” he asked again.
   And with that, Clay realized there were no wires, no mikes, no one was listening. Mel wasn’t after evidence—he just wanted to be reassured. “Your name is nowhere, Mel,” Clay said. “I shipped the stuff to you. You copied nothing, right?”
   “Right.”
   “You shipped it back to me. I reviewed it again. There was no sign of you anywhere. We talked by phone a half a dozen times. All of your thoughts and opinions about the research were verbal.”
   “What about the other lawyers in the case?”
   “A few of them have seen the research. They know I had it before we filed suit. They know a doctor reviewed it for me, but they don’t have a clue who he is.”
   “Can the FBI pressure them to testify that you had the research before you filed suit?”
   “No way. They can try, but these guys are lawyers, big lawyers, Mel. They don’t scare easily. They’ve done nothing wrong—they didn’t trade in the stock—and they’ll give the Feds nothing. I’m protected there.”
   “Are you certain?” Mel asked, anything but certain.
   “I’m positive.”
   “So what do I do?”
   “Keep listening to your lawyer. There’s a good chance this thing won’t get to a grand jury,” Clay said, more of a prayer than a fact. “If you hold firm, it’ll probably go away.”
   They walked a hundred yards without a word. The Washington Monument was getting closer. “If I get a subpoena,” Mel said, slowly, “we’d better talk again.”
   “Of course.”
   “I’m not going to jail over this, Clay.”
   “Neither am I.”
   They stopped in a crowd on a sidewalk near the monument. Mel said, “I’m going to disappear. Good-bye. From me, no news is good news.” And with that, he darted through a group of high school students and vanished.

   The Coconino County Courthouse in Flagstaff was relatively quiet the day before the trial. Business was routine; no hint of the historic and far-reaching conflict soon to be raging there. It was the second week in September, the temperature already pushing 105. Clay and Oscar walked around the downtown area, then quickly entered the courthouse in search of air-conditioning.
   Inside the courtroom, though, pretrial motions were being argued and things were tense. No jury sat in the box; that selection process would begin promptly at nine the following morning. Dale Mooneyham and his team covered one side of the arena. The Goffman horde, led by a fancy litigator from L.A. named Roger Redding, occupied the other half. Roger the Rocket, because he struck fast and hard. Roger the Dodger, because he went all over the country, fighting the biggest trial lawyers he could find, dodging big verdicts.
   Clay and Oscar took seats with the other spectators, of which there was an impressive number just for motion arguments. Wall Street would watch the trial very closely. It would be a continuing story in the financial press. And, of course, the vultures like Clay were quite curious. In the front two rows were a dozen or so corporate clones, no doubt the very nervous folks from Goffman.
   Mooneyham lumbered around the courtroom like a barroom bully, bellowing at the Judge, then at Roger. His voice was rich and deep and his words were always contentious. He was an old warrior, with a limp that appeared to come and go. Occasionally, he picked up a cane to move around with, then at times seemed to forget it.
   Roger was Hollywood cool—meticulously tailored, a head full of salt-and-pepper hair, strong chin, perfect profile. Probably wanted to be an actor at some point. He spoke in eloquent prose, beautiful sentences that rolled out with no hesitation. Never an “Uh” or an “Ah” or a “Well...” No false starts. When he began arguing a point, he used a splendid vocabulary that anyone could understand, and he had the talent of keeping three or four arguments alive at one time before tying them all beautifully together into one superbly logical point. He had no fear of Dale Mooneyham, no fear of the Judge, no fear of the facts of the case.
   When Redding argued even the smallest of issues, Clay found himself mesmerized. A frightening thought hit: If Clay was forced to trial in D.C., Goffman would not hesitate to send Roger the Rocket into battle there.
   While he was being entertained by the two great lawyers on the stage before him, Clay was recognized. One of the lawyers at a table behind Redding glanced around the courtroom and thought he saw a familiar face. He nudged another one, and together they made the positive ID. Notes were scribbled and handed to the suits in the front rows.
   The Judge called a fifteen-minute recess so he could visit the toilet. Clay left the courtroom and went to find a soda. He was followed by two men who finally cornered him at the end of the hallway. “Mr. Carter,” the first said pleasantly. “I’m Bob Mitchell, vice president and in-house counsel for Goffman.” He shoved a hand forward and squeezed Clay’s tightly.
   “A pleasure,” Clay said.
   “And this is Sterling Gibb, one of our attorneys from New York.” Clay was obliged to shake hands with Gibb as well.
   “Just wanted to say hello,” Mitchell said. “No surprise to see you here.”
   “I have a slight interest in this trial,” Clay said.
   “That’s an understatement. How many cases do you have now?”
   “Oh, I don’t know. Quite a few.” Gibb was content to just smirk and stare.
   “We watch your Web site every day,” Mitchell was saying. “Twenty-six thousand at last count.” Gibb changed his smirks; it was obvious he detested the mass tort game.
   “Something like that,” Clay said.
   “Looks like you’ve pulled the advertising. Finally got enough cases, I guess.”
   “Oh, you never have enough, Mr. Mitchell.”
   “What are you going to do with all those cases if we win this trial?” Gibb asked, finally speaking.
   “What are you going to do if you lose this trial?” Clay fired back.
   Mitchell took a step closer. “If we win here, Mr. Carter, you’ll have a helluva time finding some poor lawyer who wants your twenty-six thousand cases. They won’t be worth much.”
   “And if you lose?” Clay asked.
   Gibb took a step closer. “If we lose here, we’re coming straight to D.C. to defend your bogus class action. That is, if you’re not in jail.”
   “Oh, I’ll be ready,” Clay said, laboring under the assault.
   “Can you find the courthouse?” Gibb asked.
   “I’ve already played golf with the Judge,” Clay said. “And I’m dating the court reporter.” Lies! But they stalled them for a second.
   Mitchell caught himself, thrust out his right hand again, and said, “Oh well, just wanted to say hello.”
   Clay shook it and said, “So nice to hear from Goffman. You’ve hardly acknowledged my lawsuit.” Gibb turned his back and walked away.
   “Let’s finish this one,” Mitchell said. “Then we’ll talk.”
   Clay was about to reenter the courtroom when a pushy reporter stepped in front of him. He was Derek somebody with Financial Weekly and wanted a quick word or two. His newspaper was a right-wing, trial lawyer-hating, tort-bashing, corporate mouthpiece, and Clay knew better than to give him even a “No comment” or a “Kiss off.” Derek’s name was vaguely familiar. Was he the reporter who’d written so many unkind things about Clay?
   “Can I ask what you’re doing here?” Derek said.
   “I guess you can.”
   “What are you doing here?”
   “Same thing you’re doing here.”
   “And that is?”
   “Enjoying the heat.”
   “Is it true that you have twenty-five thousand Maxatil cases?” “No.” “How many?”
   “Twenty-six thousand.”
   “How much are they worth?”
   “Somewhere between zero and a couple of billion.”
   Unknown to Clay, the Judge had gagged the lawyers for both sides from then until the end of the trial. Since he was willing to talk, he attracted a crowd. He was surprised to see himself surrounded by reporters. He answered a few more questions without saying much at all.

   The Arizona Ledger quoted him as claiming his cases could be worth $2 billion. It ran a photo of Clay outside the courtroom, microphones in his face, with the caption “King of Torts in Town.” A brief summary of Clay’s visit followed, along with a few paragraphs about the big trial itself. The reporter did not directly call him a greedy, opportunistic trial lawyer, but the implication was that he was a vulture, circling, hungry, waiting to attack Goffman’s carcass.
   The courtroom was packed with potential jurors and spectators. Nine A.M. came and went with no sign of the lawyers or the Judge. They were in chambers, no doubt still arguing pretrial issues. Bailiffs and clerks busied themselves around the bench. A young man in a suit emerged from the back, passed through the bar, and headed down the center aisle. He abruptly stopped, looked directly at Clay, then leaned down and whispered, “Are you Mr. Carter?”
   Taken aback, Clay nodded.
   “The Judge would like to see you.”
   The newspaper was in the middle of the Judge’s desk. Dale Mooneyham was in one corner of the large office. Roger Redding was leaning on a table by the window. The Judge was rocking in his swivel chair. None of the three were happy. Very awkward introductions were made. Mooneyham refused to step forward and shake Clay’s hand, preferring instead to offer a slight nod and a look that conveyed hatred.
   “Are you aware of the gag order I’ve put in place, Mr. Carter?” asked the Judge.
   “No sir.”
   “Well, there is one.”
   “I’m not one of the attorneys in this case,” Clay said.
   “We work hard at having fair trials in Arizona, Mr. Carter. Both sides want a jury as uninformed and as impartial as possible. Now, thanks to you, the potential jurors know that there are at least twenty-six thousand similar cases out there.”
   Clay was not about to appear weak or apologetic, not with Roger Redding watching every move.
   “Maybe it was unavoidable,” Clay said. He would never try a case in front of this judge. No sense being intimidated.
   “Why don’t you just leave the state of Arizona?” Mooneyham boomed from the corner.
   “I really don’t have to,” Clay shot back.
   “You want me to lose?”
   And with that, Clay had heard enough. He wasn’t sure how his presence might harm Mooneyham’s case, but why run the risk? “Very well, Your Honor, I guess I’ll be seeing you.” “An excellent idea,” the Judge said. Clay looked at Roger Redding and said, “See you in D.C.” Roger smiled politely, but slowly shook his head no. Oscar agreed to remain in Flagstaff and monitor the trial. Clay hopped on the Gulfstream for a very somber ride home. Banished from Arizona.

37

   In Reedsburg, the news that Hanna was laying off twelve hundred workers brought the town to a halt. The announcement came in a letter written by Marcus Hanna and given to all employees.
   In fifty years, the company had been through only four layoffs. It had weathered cycles and slowdowns and had always worked hard to keep everyone on the payroll. Now that it was in bankruptcy, the rules were different. The company was under pressure to prove to the court and to its creditors that it had a viable financial future.
   Events beyond the control of management were to blame. Flat sales were a factor, but nothing the company hadn’t seen many times before. The crushing blow was the failure to reach a settlement in the class-action lawsuit. The company had bargained in good faith, but an overzealous and greedy law firm in D.C. had made unreasonable demands.
   Survival was at stake, and Marcus assured his people that the company was not going under. Drastic cost cutting would be required. A painful reduction in expenses for the next year would guarantee a profitable future.
   To the twelve hundred getting pink slips, Marcus promised all the help the company could provide.
   Unemployment benefits would last for a year. Obviously, Hanna would hire them back as soon as possible, but no promises were made. The layoffs might become permanent.
   In the cafes and barbershops, in the hallways of the schools and the pews of the churches, in the bleachers at soccer and peewee football games, on the sidewalks around the town square, in the beer joints and pool halls, the town talked of nothing else. Every one of the eleven thousand residents knew someone who’d just lost his or her job at Hanna. The layoffs were the biggest disaster in the quiet history of Reedsburg. Though the town was tucked away in the Alleghenies, word got out.
   The reporter for the Baltimore Press who had written three articles about the Howard County class action was still watching. He was monitoring the bankruptcy filing. He was still chatting with the homeowners as their bricks fell off. News of the layoffs prompted him to go to Reedsburg. He went to the cafes and pool halls and soccer games.
   The first of his two stories was as long as a short novel. An author bent on deliberate slander could not have been crueler. All of Reeds-burg’s misery could have easily been avoided if the class-action lawyer, J. Clay Carter II of D.C., had not been strident in his quest for large fees.
   Since Clay did not read the Baltimore Press, and in fact he was dodging most papers and magazines, he might have avoided the news from Reedsburg, at least for a while. But the still-unknown editor(s) of the unauthorized and unwelcome newsletter faxed it over. The latest copy of “The King of Shorts,” obviously thrown together in a hurry, ran the Press story.
   Clay read it and wanted to sue the newspaper.
   However, he would soon forget about the Baltimore Press because a larger nightmare was looming. A week earlier, a reporter from Newsweek had called and, as usual, been stiff-armed by Miss Glick. Every lawyer dreams of national exposure, but only if it’s the high-profile case or billion-dollar verdict. Clay suspected this was neither, and he was right. Newsweek was not really interested in Clay Carter, but rather, his nemesis.
   It was a puff piece for Helen Warshaw, two pages of glory that any lawyer would kill for. A striking photo had Ms. Warshaw in a courtroom somewhere, standing in front of an empty jury box, looking quite tenacious and brilliant, but also very believable. Clay had never seen her before, and he’d hoped she would somehow resemble a “ruthless bitch,” as Saulsberry had called her. She did not. She was very attractive—short, dark hair and sad brown eyes that would hold the attention of any jury. Clay stared at her and wished he had her case rather than his. Hopefully, they would never meet. And if so, never in a courtroom.
   Ms. Warshaw was one of three partners in a New York firm that specialized in attorney malpractice, a rare but growing niche. Now she was going after some of the biggest and richest lawyers in the country, and she was not going to settle. “I’ve never seen a case with as much jury appeal,” she said, and Clay wanted to slit his wrists.
   She had fifty Dyloft clients, all dying, all suing. The story gave the quick and dirty history of the class-action litigation.
   Of the fifty, for some reason the reporter focused on Mr. Ted Worley, of Upper Marlboro, Maryland, and ran a photo of the poor guy sitting in his backyard with his wife behind him, their arms crossed, both faces sad and frowning. Mr. Worley, weak and trembling and angry, recounted his first contact with Clay Carter, a phone call from nowhere while he was trying to enjoy an Orioles game, the frightening news about Dyloft, the urinalysis, the visit from the young lawyer, the filing of the lawsuit. Everything. “I didn’t want to settle,” he said more than once.
   For Newsweek Mr. Worley produced all of his paperwork—the medical records, the court filings, the insidious contract with Carter that gave the lawyer the authority to settle for any amount over $50,000. Everything, including copies of the two letters Mr. Worley had written to Mr. Carter in protest of the “sellout.” The lawyer did not answer the letters.
   According to his doctors, Mr. Worley had less than six months to live. Slowly reading each awful word of the story, Clay felt as if he was responsible for the cancer.
   Helen explained that the jury would hear from many of her clients by video, since they would not last until the trial. A rather cruel thing to say, Clay thought, but then everything in the story was wicked.
   Mr. Carter declined to comment. For good measure, they threw in the White House photo of Clay and Ridley, and they couldn’t resist the tidbit that he had donated $250,000 to the Presidential Review.
   “He’s gonna need friends like the President,” Helen Warshaw said, and Clay could almost feel the bullet between his eyes. He flung the magazine across his office. He wished he’d never been to the White House, never met the President, never written that damned check, never met Ted Worley, never met Max Pace, never thought about going to law school.
   He called his pilots and told them to hustle to the airport. “Going where, sir?”
   “I don’t know. Where do you want to go?”
   “Beg your pardon?”
   “Biloxi, Mississippi.”
   “One person or two?”
   “Just me.” He hadn’t seen Ridley in twenty-four hours and had no desire to take her with him. He needed time away from the city and anything that reminded him of it.
   But two days on French’s yacht did little to help. Clay needed the company of another conspirator, but Patton was too preoccupied with other class actions. They ate and drank too much.
   French had two associates in the courtroom in Phoenix and they were sending e-mails by the hour. He continued to discount Maxatil as a potential target, but he was still watching every move. It was his job, he said, since he was the biggest tort lawyer of them all. He had the experience, the money, the reputation. All mass tort, should, sooner or later, land on his desk.
   Clay read the e-mails, and he talked to Mulrooney. Jury selection had taken one full day. Dale Mooneyham was now slowly laying out the plaintiff’s case against the drug. The government study was powerful evidence. The jury was keenly interested in it. “So far, so good,” Oscar said. “Mooneyham is quite the actor, but Roger has better courtroom skills.”
   While French juggled three calls at once, with a crushing hangover, Clay sunned on the upper deck and tried to forget his problems. Late on the second afternoon, after a couple of vodkas on the deck, French asked, “How much cash you got left?”
   “I don’t know. I’m afraid to crunch the numbers.”
   “Take a guess.”
   “Twenty million, maybe.”
   “And how much insurance?”
   “Ten million. They canceled me, but they’re still on the line for Dyloft.”
   French sucked on a lemon and said, “I’m not sure thirty million is enough for you.”
   “Doesn’t appear to be sufficient, does it?”
   “No. You have twenty-one claims now, and the number can only go up. We’ll be lucky if we can settle these damned things for three mil each.”
   “How many do you have?”
   “Nineteen, as of yesterday.”
   “And how much cash do you have?”
   “Two hundred million. I’ll be all right.”
   Then why don’t you just loan me, say, fifty million?

   Clay managed to be amused at the way they threw around the numbers. A steward brought more alcohol, which they needed.
   “And the other guys?” Clay asked.
   “Wes is fine. Carlos can survive if his number stays below thirty. Didier’s last two wives cleaned him out. He’s dead. He’ll be the first one to go bankrupt, which he’s done before.”
   The first one? And who might be the second one? After a long silence, Clay asked, “What happens if Goffman wins in Flagstaff? I have all these cases.”
   “You’re gonna be one sick puppy, that’s for damned sure. Happened to me ten years ago with a bunch of bad baby cases. I hustled around, signed ‘em up, sued too fast, then the wheels came off and there was no way to recover anything. My clients were expecting millions because they had these little deformed babies, you know, and so they were emotional as hell and impossible to deal with. Bunch of ‘em sued me, but I never paid. The lawyer can’t promise a result. Cost me a bunch of dough, though.”
   “That’s not what I want to hear.”
   “How much have you spent on Maxatil?”
   “Eight million just in advertising.”
   “I’d just sit on them for a while, see what Goffman does. I doubt they’ll offer anything. They’re a bunch of hardasses. With time, your clients will revolt and you can tell them to get lost.” A big drink of vodka. “But think positive. Mooneyham hasn’t lost in ages. A big verdict, and the whole world is different. You’re sitting on a gold mine, again.”
   “Goffman told me they were coming straight to D.C. next.”
   “They could be bluffing, depends on what happens in Flagstaff. If they lose big, then they have to think about settling. A split-decision—liability but small damages—and they might want to try another one. If they choose yours, then you can bring in a trial stud and whip their asses.”
   “You wouldn’t advise me to try it myself?”
   “No. You don’t have the experience. It takes years in the courtroom before you’re ready for the big leagues, Clay. Years and years.”
   As fiery as he was about big lawsuits, it was obvious to Clay that Patton had no enthusiasm for the scenario he had just laid out. He was not volunteering to be the trial stud in the D.C. case. He was just going through the motions in an effort to comfort his young colleague.
   Clay left late the next morning and flew to Pittsburgh, anywhere but D.C. En route, he talked to Oscar, and he read the e-mails and news reports of the trial in Flagstaff. The plaintiff, a sixty-six-year-old woman with breast cancer, had testified and presented her case beautifully. She was very sympathetic, and Mooneyham played her like a fiddle. Go get ‘em, ol’ boy, Clay kept mumbling to himself.
   He rented a car and drove northeast for two hours, into the heart of the Allegheny Mountains. Finding Reedsburg on the map was almost as difficult as finding it on a highway. As he crested a hill on the edge of town, he saw a mammoth plant in the distance.


Welcome to Reedsburg, Pennsylvania,

   a large sign said.


Home of the Hanna Portland Cement Company.
Founded in 1946

   Two large smokestacks emitted a chalky dust that drifted slowly away with the wind. At least it’s still operating, Clay thought.
   He followed a sign to downtown and found a parking place on Main Street. Wearing jeans and a baseball cap, with three days’ worth of dark stubble, he was not worried about being recognized. He walked into Ethel’s Coffee Shop and took a seat on a wobbly stool at the counter. Ethel herself greeted him and took his order. Coffee and a grilled cheese sandwich.
   At a table behind him two old-timers were talking football. The Reedsburg High Cougars had lost three straight, and both of them could do a better job calling plays than the head coach. There was a home game that night, according to the schedule on the wall near the cash register.
   When Ethel brought the coffee she said, “You just passing through?”
   “Yes,” Clay said, realizing that she knew every one of Reedsburg’s eleven thousand souls.
   “Where you from?”
   “Pittsburgh.”
   He couldn’t tell if that was good or bad, but she left with no further questions. At another table, two younger men were talking about jobs. It was soon clear that neither was employed. One wore a denim cap with a Hanna Cement logo on the front. As Clay ate his grilled cheese, he listened as they fretted over unemployment benefits, mortgages, credit-card bills, part-time work. One was planning to surrender his Ford pickup to the local dealer who had promised to resell it for him.
   Against the wall by the front door was a folding table with a large plastic water bottle on it. A handmade poster urged everyone to contribute to the “Hanna Fund.” A collection of coins and bills half-filled the bottle.
   “What’s that for?” Clay asked Ethel when she refilled his cup.
   “Oh, that. It’s a drive to collect money for the families laid off out at the plant.”
   “Which plant?” Clay asked, trying to appear ignorant.
   “Hanna Cement, biggest employer in town. Twelve hundred folks got laid off last week. We stick together around here. Got those things all over town—stores, cafes, churches, even the schools. Raised over six thousand so far. Money’ll go for light bills and groceries if things get bad. Otherwise, it’ll go to the hospital.”
   “Did business turn bad?” Clay said, chewing. Putting the sandwich in his mouth was easy; swallowing was becoming more difficult.
   “No, the plant’s always been well run. The Hannas know what they’re doing. Got this crazy lawsuit down around Baltimore somewhere. Lawyers got greedy, wanted too much money, forced Hanna into bankruptcy.”
   “It’s a damned shame,” said one of the old-timers. Coffee shop conversations were shared by all present. “Didn’t have to happen. The Hannas tried to settle the damned thing, made a good-faith effort, but these slimebags in D.C. had ‘em at gunpoint. Hannas said, ‘Screw you,’ and walked away.”
   In a flash, Clay thought: Not a bad summary of events.
   “I worked there forty years, never missed a paycheck. A damned shame.”
   Because Clay was expected to say something to move along the conversation, he said, “Layoffs are rare, huh?”
   “The Hannas don’t believe in laying folks off.”
   “Will they hire them back?”
   “They’ll try. But the bankruptcy court is in charge now.”
   Clay nodded and quickly turned back to his sandwich. The two younger men were on their feet, heading for the cash register. Ethel shooed them away. “No charge, fellas. It’s on the house.”
   They nodded politely, and as they left both dropped some coins into the Hanna Fund. A few minutes later, Clay said good-bye to the old-timers, paid his bill, thanked Ethel, and dropped a $100 bill into the water bottle.
   After dark, he sat alone on the visitors side and watched the Reedsburg Cougars do battle with the Enid Elk. The home stands were filled almost to capacity. The band was loud, the crowd rowdy and eager for a win. But the football failed to hold his attention. He looked at the roster and wondered how many players listed there were from families hit by the layoffs. He gazed across the field to the rows and rows of Reedsburg fans and wondered who had jobs and who did not.
   Before the kickoff, and just after the national anthem, a local minister had prayed for the safety of the players, and for the renewed economic strength of the community. He had ended his prayer with, “Help us through these hard times, O God. Amen.”
   If Clay Carter had ever felt worse, he could not remember when.

38

   Ridley called early Saturday evening, quite upset. She had been unable to locate Clay for four days! No one at the office knew where he was, or if they knew they wouldn’t tell her. He, on the other hand, had made no effort to call her. Both had more than one phone. Was this any way to advance a relationship? After listening to the whining for a few minutes, Clay heard something buzz in the line and asked, “Where are you?”
   “St. Barth. In our villa.”
   “How’d you get down there?” Clay, of course, had been using the Gulfstream.
   “I chartered a smaller jet. Too small, actually, we had to stop in San Juan for fuel. It wouldn’t make it here nonstop.”
   Poor girl. Clay wasn’t sure how she knew the number of the air charter service. “Why are you down there?” he asked, a stupid question.
   “I was so stressed out because I couldn’t find you. You can’t do that again, Clay.”
   He tried to link the two—his disappearance and her escape to St. Barth, but quickly gave it up.
   “I’m sorry,” he said. “I left town in a hurry. Patton French needed me in Biloxi. I was too busy to call.”
   A long pause as she debated whether she should forgive him right then or wait a day or two. “Promise me you won’t do it again,” she whimpered.
   Clay wasn’t in the mood for either whining or promising, and he found himself relieved that she was out of the country. “It won’t happen again. Relax, enjoy yourself down there.”
   “Can you come down?” she asked, but without any feeling. Sort of a perfunctory request.
   “Not with the trial in Flagstaff getting close.” He doubted seriously if she had an inkling about the trial in Flagstaff.
   “Will you call me tomorrow?” she asked.
   “Of course.”
   Jonah was back in town, with many adventures to report from the sailing life. They were to meet at nine at a bistro on Wisconsin Avenue for a late and long dinner. Around eight-thirty, the phone rang, but the caller hung up without a word. Then it rang again, and Clay grabbed it as he was buttoning his shirt.
   “Is this Clay Carter?” a male voice asked.
   “Yes, who is this?” Because of the sheer number of disgruntled clients out there—Dyloft and Skinny Ben and, now, especially, those irate homeowners up in Howard County—Clay had changed numbers twice in the past two months. He could handle the abuse at the office, but he preferred to live in peace.
   “I’m from Reedsburg, Pennsylvania, and I have some valuable information about the Hanna company.”
   The words were chilling, and Clay sat on the edge of his bed. Keep him on the phone, he said as he tried to think clearly. “Okay, I’m listening.” Someone from Reedsburg had somehow acquired his new, unlisted phone number.
   “We can’t talk over the phone,” the voice said. Thirty years old, white male, high school education.
   “Why not?”
   “It’s a long story. There are some papers.”
   “Where are you?”
   “I’m in the city. I’ll meet you in the lobby of the Four Seasons Hotel on M Street. We can talk there.”
   Not a bad plan. There would be plenty of foot traffic in the lobby, just in case someone wanted to pull out a gun and start shooting lawyers. “When?” Clay asked.
   “Real soon. I’ll be there in five minutes. How long will it take you?”
   Clay was not going to mention the fact that he lived six blocks away, though his address was no secret. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
   “Good. I’m wearing jeans and a black Steelers cap.”
   “I’ll find you,” Clay said, then hung up. He finished dressing and hustled out of his town house. Walking rapidly along Dumbarton, he tried to imagine what information he could need or even want on the Hanna company. He’d just spent eighteen hours in Reedsburg, and was trying, quite unsuccessfully, to forget about the place. He turned south on Thirty-first Street, mumbling to himself, lost in a world of conspiracies and payoffs and spy scenarios. A lady passed with a small dog in search of a suitable spot on the sidewalk to relieve itself.
   A young man in a black biker’s jacket with a cigarette hanging from his mouth approached, though Clay barely saw him. As the two passed, in front of a poorly lit town house and under the limbs of an old red maple, the man suddenly, with perfect timing and precision, unloaded a short right cross that caught Clay directly on the chin.
   Clay never saw it. He remembered a loud pop in his face, and his head crashing into a wrought-iron fence. There was a stick of some sort, and another man, two of them up there throwing punches and flailing away. Clay rolled to his side and managed to get a knee under himself, then the stick landed like a gunshot on the back of his skull.
   He heard a woman’s voice in the distance, then he passed out.
   The lady had been walking her dog when she heard a commotion behind her. There was a fight of some sort, two against one, with the man on the ground getting the worse of it. She ran closer and was horrified to see two men in black jackets hammering away with large black sticks. She screamed, they ran. She whipped out her cell phone and dialed 911.
   The two men ran down the block and disappeared around the corner of a church on N Street. She tried to assist the young man on the ground, who was unconscious and bleeding badly.

   Clay was taken to George Washington University Hospital where a trauma team stabilized him. The initial exam revealed two large head wounds caused by something blunt, a cut on his right cheekbone, a cut in his left ear, and numerous contusions. His right fibula was cracked neatly in two. His left kneecap was in pieces and the left ankle was broken. His head was shaved and eighty-one stitches were required to close the two large cuts. His skull was badly bruised but not fractured. Six stitches in his cheekbone, eleven in his ear, and they rolled him into surgery to put his legs back together.
   Jonah began calling after waiting impatiently for thirty minutes. He left the restaurant after an hour and headed on foot to Clay’s town house. He knocked on the door, rang the bell, cursed just under his breath, and was ready to throw rocks at the windows when he saw Clay’s car parked between two others down the street. He thought it was Clay’s car, anyway.
   He walked slowly toward it. Something was wrong there, he just wasn’t sure what. It was a black Porsche Carrera all right, but it was covered with a white dust. He called the police.
   A torn and empty Hanna Portland Cement bag was found under the Porsche. Someone had evidently covered the car with cement, then thrown water at it. In spots, especially on the roof and the hood, large patches of the cement had dried and stuck to the car. As the police inspected it, Jonah told them that its owner was unaccounted for. After a long computer search, Clay’s named popped up, and Jonah took off for the hospital. He called Paulette, and she was there before he arrived. Clay was in surgery, but it was only broken bones and probably a concussion. His injuries did not appear life-threatening.
   The lady with the dog told police the assailants were both white males. Three college boys entering a bar on Wisconsin Avenue reported seeing two white males in black jackets hurry around the corner from N Street. They hopped into a metallic green van, where a driver was waiting for them. It was too dark to see the license plates.
   The call Clay had received at 8:39 P.M. was traced to a pay phone on M Street, about five minutes from his town house.
   The trail grew cold quickly. It was, after all, only a beating. And a Saturday night beating at that. The same night would see two rapes in the city, two drive-by shootings that injured five, and two murders, both of which appeared to be completely at random.

   Since Clay had no family in the city, Jonah and Paulette assumed the roles of spokesmen and decision makers. At 1:30 A.M., a doctor reported to them that the surgery had gone smoothly, all the bones were set and ready to heal, some pins and screws had been installed, things couldn’t be better. They would closely monitor brain activity. They were sure there was a concussion but didn’t know how serious it was. “He looks awful,” she warned them.
   Two hours went by, as Clay was slowly moved upstairs. Jonah had insisted on a private room. They finally saw him just after 4 A.M. A mummy would have had less wrapping.
   Both legs were in thick, full-length casts suspended a few inches off the bed by a complex series of cables and pulleys. A sheet hid his chest and arms. Heavy gauze covered his skull and half his face. His eyes were swollen and shut; mercifully he was still unconscious. His chin was swollen, his lips puffy and blue. Blood had dried on his neck.
   They stood in muted silence, taking in the full extent of his wounds, listening to the monitors click and beep, watching his chest move up and down, very slowly. Then Jonah started laughing. “Look at that son of a bitch,” he said.
   “Hush, Jonah,” Paulette hissed, ready to slap him.
   “There lies the King of Torts,” Jonah said, shaking with suppressed laughter.
   Then, she too saw the humor. She managed to laugh without opening her mouth, and for a long moment they both stood at the foot of Clay’s bed, working hard to contain their amusement.
   When the humor passed, she said, “You should be ashamed.”
   “I am. I’m sorry.”
   An orderly rolled in a bed. Paulette would take the first night, Jonah would get the second.
   Fortunately, the assault was too late to make the Sunday Post. Miss Glick called each member of the firm and asked them not to visit the hospital and not to send flowers. They might be needed later in the week, but for now just say prayers.
   Clay finally came back from the dead around noon Sunday. Paulette was tossing on the foldaway when he said, “Who’s there?”
   She jumped up and ran to his side. “It’s me, Clay.”
   Through his swollen and blurry eyes he could see a black face. It certainly wasn’t Ridley. He reached out with a hand and said, “Who?”
   “Paulette, Clay. Can’t you see?”
   “No. Paulette? What are you doing here?” His words were thick, slow, and painful.
   “Just taking care of you, boss.”
   “Where am I?”
   “George Washington University Hospital.”
   “Why, what happened?”
   “It’s what they call an old-fashioned ass-kicking.”
   “What?”
   “You got jumped. Two guys with sticks. You need some pain pills?”
   “Please.”
   She raced from the room and found a nurse. A doctor showed up a few minutes later and, in excruciating detail, explained to Clay just how badly he’d been beaten. Another pill, and Clay drifted away again. Most of Sunday was spent in a pleasant fog, with Paulette and Jonah baby-sitting as they read the newspapers and watched pro football.
   The stories hit with a fury on Monday, and they were all the same. Paulette muted the television and Jonah hid the newspapers. Miss Glick and the rest of the firm circled the wagons and had “No comment” for everyone. She received an e-mail from a sailboat captain claiming to be Clay’s father. He was near the Yucatan Peninsula in the Gulf of Mexico and could someone please update him on Clay’s condition? She did so—stable condition, broken bones, concussion. He thanked her and promised to check back the following day.
   Ridley arrived Monday afternoon. Paulette and Jonah cleared out, happy to leave the hospital for a while. Evidently, Georgians did not understand proper hospital waiting rituals. Whereas Americans move in with their beloved sick and wounded, those from other cultures deem it more practical to stop by for an hour, then let the hospital take care of its patients. Ridley showed great affection for a few minutes and tried to interest Clay in the latest renovations to their villa. His head pounded worse and he called for a pill. She relaxed on the foldaway and tried to nap, exhausted, she said, from the flight home. Nonstop. On the Gulfstream. He fell asleep too, and when he awoke she was gone.
   A detective stopped by for a follow-up. All suspicion pointed to some thugs from Reedsburg, but there was scant proof. Clay was unable to describe the man who threw the first punch. “I never saw it,” he said, rubbing his chin. To make Clay feel better, the cop had four large, color photos of the black Porsche, heavily spotted with white cement, and Clay needed another pill.
   Flowers poured in. Adelfa Pumphrey, Glenda at OPD, Mr. and Mrs. Rex Crittle, Rodney, Patton French, Wes Saulsberry, a judge Clay knew from Superior Court. Jonah brought a laptop, and Clay had a lengthy chat with his father.
   “The King of Shorts” newsletter published three editions on Monday, each filled with the latest newspaper stories and gossip about Clay’s beating. He saw none of it. Hidden away in his hospital room, he was sheltered by his friends.
   Early Tuesday morning, Zack Battle stopped by on his way to the office and delivered some welcome news. The SEC was suspending its investigation of Clay. He had talked to Mel Snelling’s lawyer in Baltimore. Mel wasn’t budging, wasn’t caving in to FBI pressure. And without Mel, they could not put together the necessary evidence.
   “I guess the Feds saw you in the papers and figured you’ve been punished enough,” Zack said.
   “I’m in the paper?” Clay asked.
   “A couple of stories.”
   “Do I want to read them?”
   “I advise you not to.”
   The boredom of the hospital was hitting hard—the traction, the bedpans, the relentless visits by the nurses at all hours, the grave little chats with the doctors, the four walls, the dreadful food, the endless rebandaging of his injuries, the taking of blood for yet more tests, the sheer tedium of lying there, unable to move. The casts would be his for weeks, and he could not envision surviving life in the city with a wheelchair and crutches. At least two additional operations were planned, minor ones, they promised him.
   The aftershocks of the actual beating came to haunt him, and he remembered more of the sounds and physical sensations of being pummeled. He saw the face of the man who threw the first punch, but couldn’t be sure if it was real or just a dream. So he didn’t tell the detective. He heard screams from the darkness, but they too could easily be part of the nightmare. He remembered seeing a black stick the size of a baseball bat rising into the air. Mercifully, he had been knocked out and could not recall most of the blows.
   The swelling began to subside; his head was clearing. He quit the pain pills so he could think and try to run the office by phone and e-mail. Things were quite hectic there, according to everyone he talked to. But he suspected otherwise.
   Ridley was good for an hour late in the morning and another late in the afternoon. She stood by his bed and was very affectionate, especially when the nurses were around. Paulette detested her and was quick to disappear when she entered the room.
   “She’s after your money,” she said to Clay.
   “And I’m after her body,” Clay said.
   “Well, right now she’s getting the better end of the deal.”

39

   To read, he was forced to raise half of the bed, and since his legs were already pointed upward, he sort of folded himself into a V. A painful one. He could hold that position for no more than ten minutes before lowering the bed and relieving the pressure. With Jonah’s laptop resting on both casts, he was browsing through the newspaper articles from Arizona when Paulette answered the phone. “It’s Oscar,” she said.
   They had talked briefly on Sunday night, but Clay had been drugged and incoherent. Now he was wide awake and ready for details. “Let’s hear it,” he said, lowering the bed and trying to stretch out. “Mooneyham rested Saturday morning. His case could not have been more perfect. The guy is brilliant, and he has the jury eating out of his hands. The Goffman boys were strutting when the trial started, now I think they’re running for the bunkers. Roger Redding put on their star expert yesterday afternoon, a researcher who testified that there is no direct link between the drug and the plaintiff’s breast cancer. I thought the guy was very good, very believable, hell he has three doctorates. The jury paid attention. Then Mooneyham ripped him to shreds. He pulled out some bad research the guy did twenty years ago. He attacked his credentials. The witness was completely slain when it was over. I’m thinking, ‘Somebody call nine-one-one, get this poor guy outta here.’ I’ve never seen a witness so thoroughly humiliated. Roger was pale. The Goffman boys were sitting there like a bunch of thugs in a police lineup.”
   “Beautiful, beautiful,” Clay kept saying, the phone stuck to the gauze on the left side of his face, opposite the slashed ear.
   “Here’s the good part. I found out where the Goffman folks are staying, so I switched hotels. I see them at breakfast. I see them in the bar late at night. They know who I am, so we’re like two rabid dogs circling each other. They have an in-house lawyer named Fleet who caught me in the hotel lobby yesterday after adjournment, about an hour after the slaughter of their expert. He said he wanted to have a drink. He had one, I had three. The reason he had only one is because he had to go back to the Goffman suite on the top floor where they spent the night pacing the floors, kicking around the possibilities of a settlement.”
   “Say it again,” Clay said softly.
   “You heard me. Goffman, at this very moment, is thinking about settling with Mooneyham. They are terrified. They’re convinced, like everybody else in the courtroom, that this jury is about to nuke their company. Any settlement will cost a fortune because the old stud doesn’t want to settle. Clay, he is eating their lunch! Roger is excellent, but he can’t carry Mooneyham’s briefcase.”
   “Back to the settlement.”
   “Back to the settlement. Fleet wanted to know how many of our cases are legitimate. I said, ‘All twenty-six thousand.’ He beats around the bush for a while, then asks if I think you would consider settling them for something in the neighborhood of a hundred thousand each. That’s two point six bil, Clay. Are you doing the math?”
   “It’s done.”
   “And the fees?”
   “Done.” And with that the pain immediately vanished. The throbbing skull was still. The heavy casts were featherlike. The delicate bruises ceased to exist. Clay felt like crying.
   “Anyway, it definitely was not an offer to settle, just the first feeler. A real tense one. You hear a lot of rumors around the courthouse, especially from the lawyers and stock analysts. According to the gossip, Goffman could afford a compensation pool of up to seven billion. If the company settled now, its stock price might hold steady because the Maxatil nightmare would be over. That’s one theory, but after the bloodletting yesterday, it makes a lot of sense. Fleet came to me because we have the biggest class. The courthouse gossip puts the number of potential claims at somewhere around sixty thousand, so we have about forty percent of the market. If we’re willing to settle for around a hundred grand each, then they can predict their costs.”
   “When do you see him again?”
   “It’s almost eight here, the trial resumes in an hour.
   We agreed to meet outside the courtroom.” “Call me as soon as you can.” “Don’t worry, chief. How are the broken bones?” “Much better now.” Paulette took the phone. Seconds later, it rang again.
   She answered, handed it back to Clay, and said, “It’s for you, and I’m getting out of here.”
   It was Rebecca, in the hospital’s lobby, on her cell phone, wondering if a quick visit would be appropriate. Minutes later, she walked into his room and was shocked at the sight of him. She kissed him on the cheek, between bruises.
   “They had sticks,” Clay said. “To even things out. Otherwise, I would’ve had an unfair advantage.” He punched the controls to the bed and began raising himself into the V.
   “You look awful,” she said. Her eyes were moist. “Thank you. You, on the other hand, look spectacular.” She kissed him again, same place, and began rubbing his left arm. A moment of silence passed between them. “Can I ask you a question?” Clay said. “Sure.” “Where is your husband right now?” “He’s in either Sao Paulo or Hong Kong. I can’t keep track.” “Does he know you’re here?” “Of course not.” “What would he do if he knew you were here?” “He would be upset. I’m sure we’d fight.”
   “Would that be unusual?”
   “Happens all the time, I’m afraid. It’s not working, Clay. I want out.”
   In spite of his wounds, Clay was having an awesome day. A fortune was within his grasp, as was Rebecca. The door to his room opened quietly and Ridley entered. She was at the foot of his bed, unnoticed, when she said, “Sorry to interrupt.”
   “Hi, Ridley,” Clay said weakly.
   The women gave each other looks that would terrify cobras. Ridley moved to the other side of the bed, directly opposite Rebecca, who kept her hand on Clay’s bruised arm. “Ridley, this is Rebecca, Rebecca, this is Ridley,” Clay said, then gave serious consideration to pulling the sheets over his head and pretending to be dead.
   Neither smiled. Ridley reached over just a few inches and began gently rubbing Clay’s right arm. Though he was being pampered by two beautiful women, he felt more like fresh roadkill seconds before the wolves arrived.
   Since there was absolutely nothing anybody could say for a few seconds, Clay nodded to his left and said, “She’s an old friend,” then to his right, and said, “She’s a new friend.” Both women, at least at that moment, felt much closer to Clay than just a mere friend. Both were irritated. Neither flinched nor moved an inch. Their positions had been staked out.
   “I believe we were at your wedding reception,” Ridley said, finally. A not too subtle reminder to Rebecca that she happened to be married.
   “Uninvited as I recall,” Rebecca said.
   “Oh, darn, time for my enema,” Clay said, and nobody laughed but him. If a catfight broke out across his bed, he’d be mauled even worse. Five minutes earlier he’d been on the phone to Oscar, dreaming of record fees. Now, two women were drawing swords.
   Two very beautiful women. Things could be worse, he told himself. Where were the nurses? They barged in at all hours of the day, with no regard for privacy or sleep patterns. Sometimes they came in pairs. And if a visitor happened to be in Clay’s room, a needless drop-in by a nurse was guaranteed. “Anything we can get for you, Mr. Carter?”
   “Adjust your bed?”
   “Want the TV on?”
   “Or off?”
   The halls were silent. Both women pawed at him.
   Rebecca blinked first. She had no choice. She did, after all, have a husband. “I guess I’ll be going.” She left the room slowly, as if she didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to concede territory. Clay was thrilled by that.
   As soon as the door closed, Ridley withdrew to the window, where she stood for a long time and looked at nothing. Clay scanned a newspaper, completely unconcerned with her and whatever her moods might be. The cold shoulder she was working diligently to deliver happened to be welcome.
   “You love her, don’t you?” Ridley said, still looking out the window, trying to appear wounded.
   “Who?”
   “Rebecca.”
   “Oh, her. Naw, she’s just an old friend.”
   With that she wheeled around and walked to the side of his bed. “I’m not stupid, Clay!”
   “Didn’t say you were.” He was still reading the newspaper, quite unmoved by this attempt at high drama. She grabbed her purse and stomped out of his room, heels clicking as loudly as possible. A nurse entered shortly thereafter, to inspect him for damages.
   Oscar called a few minutes later, on his cell phone outside the courtroom. A quick recess had been ordered. “Rumor has it Mooneyham turned down ten million this morning,” he said.
   “Fleet tell you this?”
   “No, we didn’t meet. He was tied up with some motions. I’ll try and catch him during lunch.”
   “Who’s on the stand?”
   “Another Goffman expert, a female professor from Duke who’s discrediting the government study on Maxatil. Mooneyham is sharpening his knives. Should be ugly.”
   “Do you believe the rumor?”
   “I’m not sure what to believe. The Wall Street boys seem excited about it. They want a settlement because they figure that’s the best way to predict costs. I’ll call you back during lunch.”
   There were three possible outcomes in Flagstaff; two would be delightful. A verdict against Goffman would put enormous pressure on the company to settle and avoid years of litigation and the constant barrage of big verdicts. A mid-trial settlement there would likely mean a national compensation plan for all plaintiffs.
   A verdict in favor of Goffman would force Clay to scurry around and prepare for his own trial in D.C. That prospect brought back the sharp pains in his skull and legs.
   Lying motionless for hours in a hospital bed was sufficient torture in itself. Now, the silent phone made matters much worse. At any moment, Goffman could offer Mooneyham enough money to make him settle. His ego would push him all the way to a verdict, but could he ignore the interests of his client?
   A nurse closed the blinds, turned off the lights and the TV. When she was gone, Clay rested the phone on his stomach, pulled the sheets over his head, and waited.

40

   The next morning, Clay was taken back to surgery for some minor adjustments to the pins and screws in his legs. “A bit of tweaking,” his doctor had called it. Whatever it was required a full dose of anesthesia, which wiped out most of the day. He returned to his room just after noon, and slept for three hours before the drugs wore off. Paulette, not Ridley and not Rebecca, was waiting when he finally came around. “Any word from Oscar?” he said, with a thick tongue.
   “He called, said the trial was going well. That’s about it,” Paulette reported. She adjusted his bed and his pillow and gave him water, and when he was awake for good, she left to run errands. On the way out, she handed him an overnight envelope, unopened.
   From Patton French. A handwritten note passed along his best wishes for a speedy recovery, and something else that Clay could not decipher. The attached memo was to the Dyloft Plaintiffs’ Steering Committee (now Defendants). The Honorable Helen Warshaw had submitted her weekly additions to her class action. The list was growing. Residual Dyloft damage was popping up all over the nation, and the Defendants were sinking deeper into the quicksand. There were now 381 members of the class, with 24 of them ex-JCC clients who’d signed up with Ms. Warshaw, up three from the week before. As always, Clay slowly read the names, and again wondered how their paths had ever crossed.
   Wouldn’t his former clients love to see him laid up in the hospital—cut, broken, and bruised? Perhaps one was down the hall, having tumors and organs removed, huddling with loved ones as the clock ticked loudly. He knew he didn’t cause their diseases, but for some reason he felt responsible for their suffering.
   Ridley finally stopped by on her way home from the gym. She hauled in some books and magazines and tried to appear concerned. After a few minutes she said, “Clay, the decorator called. I need to return to the villa.”
   Was the decorator male or female? He pondered the question but did not ask.
   What an excellent idea!
   “When?” he asked.
   “Tomorrow, maybe. If the plane is available.” Why wouldn’t it be available? Clay certainly wasn’t going anywhere.
   “Sure. I’ll call the pilots.” Getting her out of town would make his life easier. She was of no benefit around the hospital.
   “Thanks,” she said, then sat in the chair and began flipping through a magazine. After thirty minutes her time was up. She kissed him on the forehead and disappeared.
   The detective was next. Three men from Reedsburg had been arrested early Sunday morning outside a bar in Hagerstown, Maryland. There had been a fight of some sort. They tried to leave the scene, in a dark green minivan, but the driver misjudged something and drove them into a drainage ditch. The detective produced three color photos of the suspects—all rough-looking characters. Clay could not identify any of them.
   They worked at the Hanna plant, according to the Chief of Police in Reedsburg. Two had recently been laid off, but that was the only information the detective had managed to extract from the authorities up there. “They’re not very cooperative,” he said. Having been to Reedsburg, Clay could understand why.
   “If you can’t identify these guys, then I have no choice but to close the file,” the detective said.
   “I’ve never seen them before,” Clay said.
   The detective placed the photos back in his file and left forever. A parade of nurses and doctors followed with much probing and groping, and after an hour Clay fell asleep.

   Oscar called around 9:30 P.M. The trial had just adjourned for the day. Everyone was exhausted, primarily because Dale Mooneyham had caused such massive carnage in the courtroom. Goffman had reluctantly hauled out its third expert, a spineless horn-rimmed in-house lab rat who’d been in charge of the clinical trials for Maxatil, and after a wonderful and creative direct examination by Roger the Dodger, Mooneyham had proceeded to butcher the poor boy on cross.
   “It’s an old-fashioned rump-humping.” Oscar laughed. “Goffman should be afraid to call any more witnesses.”
   “Settlement?” Clay asked, drugged and sluggish and sleepy, but trying desperately to catch the details.
   “No, but it should be a long night. Rumor is that Goffman might try one more expert tomorrow, then plug the dike and hunker down for the verdict. Mooneyham refuses to talk to them. He looks and acts as if he expects a record verdict.”
   Clay passed out with the phone wedged against the side of his head. A nurse removed it an hour later.

   Goffman’s Ceo arrived in Flagstaff late Wednesday night and was rushed downtown to a tall building where the lawyers were conspiring. He was briefed by Roger Redding and the rest of the defense team and shown the latest numbers by the boys in finance. Every discussion was centered around a doomsday scenario.
   Because Redding’s rear-end had been so thoroughly whipped, he was adamant that the defense stick to its game plan and call its remaining witnesses. Surely, the tide would turn. Surely, he would find his stride and score some points with his jury. But Bob Mitchell, the chief in-house counsel and a vice president, and Sterling Gibb, the company’s longtime lawyer and golfing buddy of the CEO, had seen enough. One more witness assassination by Mooneyham and the jurors might jump from their seats and attack the nearest Goffman executive. Redding’s ego was badly bruised. He wanted to push on, hoping for a miracle. To follow him was bad advice.
   Mitchell and Gibb met with the CEO alone, around 3 A.M., over doughnuts. Just the three of them. As bad as things were for the company, there remained some secrets about Maxatil that could never be revealed. If Mooneyham had this information, or if he could beat it out of a witness, then the sky would indeed fall on Goffman. At that point in the trial, they put nothing past Mooneyham. The CEO finally made the decision to stop the bloodletting.
   When court was called to order at 9 A.M., Roger Redding announced that the defense would rest.
   “No further witnesses?” the Judge asked. A fifteen-day trial had just been cut in half. He had a week of golf coming up!
   “That’s correct, Your Honor,” Redding said with a smile at the jurors, as if all was well.
   “Any rebuttal, Mr. Mooneyham?”
   The plaintiff’s lawyer slowly got to his feet. He scratched his head, scowled at Redding, and said, “If they’re done, then so are we.”
   The Judge explained to the jurors that they would be in recess for an hour while he took up some matters with the lawyers. When they returned, they would hear the closing arguments, and by lunchtime they would have the case.
   With everyone else, Oscar ran into the hallway, clutching a cell phone. There was no answer in Clay’s hospital room.

   He spent three hours waiting in X Ray, three hours on a gurney in a busy hall where nurses and orderlies rushed by chatting about nothing. He’d left his cell phone behind and so for three hours he was isolated from the world while he waited in the depths of George Washington University Hospital.
   The X rays took almost an hour, but could’ve taken less if the patient had not been so uncooperative and aggressive and, at times, downright profane. The orderly wheeled him back to his room and happily left him there.
   Clay was napping when Oscar called. It was five-twenty his time, three-twenty in Phoenix.
   “Where have you been?” Oscar demanded.
   “Don’t ask.”
   “Goffman threw in the towel first thing this morning, tried to settle, but Mooneyham wouldn’t talk. Everything happened real fast after that. Closing arguments began around ten, I guess. The jury got the case at exactly noon.”
   “The jury has the case?” Clay asked, practically yelling at the phone.
   “Had.”
   “What?”
   “Had the case. It’s over. They deliberated for three hours and found in favor of Goffman. I’m sorry, Clay.
   Everybody here is in shock.”
   “No.”
   “Afraid so.”
   “Tell me you’re lying, Oscar.”
   “I wish. I don’t know what happened. Nobody does. Redding gave a spectacular closing argument, but I watched the jurors. I thought Mooneyham had them.”
   “Dale Mooneyham lost a case?”
   “Not just any case, Clay. He lost our case.”
   “But how?”
   “I don’t know. I would’ve bet the farm against Goffman.”
   “We just did.”
   “I’m sorry.”
   “Look, Oscar, I’m lying here in bed, all alone. I’m closing my eyes now, and I want you to just talk to me, okay. Don’t leave me. There’s no one else around. Just talk to me. Tell me something.”
   “After the verdict, I got cornered by Fleet, and two other guys—Bob Mitchell and Sterling Gibb. Real sweet boys. They were so happy they were about to pop. They began by asking if you’re still alive—how do you like that? Then they sent their regards, real sincere like. They told me that they’re bringing their show on the road—Roger the Dodger and Company—and the next trial will be in D.C., against Mr. Clay Carter, the King of Torts, who, as we all know, has never tried a tort case. What could I say? They had just beaten a great lawyer in his own backyard.”
   “Our cases are worthless, Oscar.”
   “They certainly think so. Mitchell said they would not offer one cent for any Maxatil case anywhere in the country. They want trials. They want vindication. A clear name. All that crap.”
   He kept Oscar on the phone for over an hour, as his unlit room grew dark. Oscar replayed the closing arguments and the high tension of waiting for the verdict. He described the shock on the plaintiff’s face, a dying woman whose lawyer wouldn’t take whatever Goffman was offering, supposedly $10 million. And Mooneyham, who hadn’t lost in so long he had forgotten how to lose, demanding that the jury be required to fill out questionnaires and explain themselves. After Mooneyham caught his breath and managed to get to his feet, with his cane of course, he made a total ass of himself. And there was shock on the Goffman side, where the crowd of dark suits sat with lowered heads in what appeared to be a mass prayer until the jury foreman uttered his majestic words. There had been a stampede from the courtroom as the Wall Street analysts rushed to make their calls.
   Oscar ended his narrative with, “I’m going to a bar now.” Clay called a nurse and asked for a sleeping pill