The King of Torts

"Why would they stop following us?" Clay asked. He would have believed any explanation.

"I’m not sure," Rodney said, still checking his side mirror. "Could be that they were only curious as to whether we went to D Camp. Or maybe they know that we saw them. Just watch your tail for a while."

"This is great. I’ve never been followed before."

"Just pray they don’t decide to catch you."

Jermaine Vance shared an office with another unseasoned lawyer who happened to be out at the moment, so Clay was offered his vacant chair. They compared notes on their most recent murder defendants.

Jermaine’s client was a twenty-four-year-old career criminal named Washad Porter, who, unlike Tequila, had a long and frightening history of violence. As a member of D.C.’s largest gang, Washad had been severely wounded twice in gun battles and had been convicted once of attempted murder. Seven of his twenty-four years had been spent behind bars. He had shown little interest in getting cleaned up; the only attempt at rehab had been in prison and had been clearly unsuccessful. He was accused of shooting two people four days before the Ramon Pumphrey killing. One of the two was killed instantly, the other was barely clinging to life.

Washad had spent six months at Clean Streets, locked down and evidently surviving the rigorous program there. Jermaine had talked to the counselor, and the conversation was very similar to the one Clay had had with Talmadge X. Washad had cleaned up, was a model patient, was in good health, and gathering self-esteem every day. The only bump in the road had been an episode early on when he sneaked out, got stoned, but came back and begged for forgiveness. Then he went almost four months with virtually no problems.

He was released from Clean Streets in April, and the next day he shot two men with a stolen gun. His victims appeared to have been selected at random. The first was a produce deliveryman going about his business near Walter Reed Hospital. There were words, then some pushing and shoving, then four shots to the head, and Washad was seen running away. The deliveryman was still in a coma. An hour later, six blocks away, Washad used his last two bullets on a petty drug dealer with whom he had a history. He was tackled by friends of the dealer who, instead of killing him themselves, held him for the police.

Jermaine had talked to Washad once, very briefly, in the courtroom during his initial appearance. "He was in denial," Jermaine said. "Had this blank look on his face and kept telling me that he couldn’t believe he’d shot anybody. He said that was the old Washad, not the new one."

Chapter Seven

Clay could think of only one other occasion in the past four years on which he called, or tried to call, Bennett the Bulldozer. That effort had ended dismally when he’d been unable to penetrate the layers of importance surrounding the great man. Mr. BVH wanted folks to think he spent his time "on the job," which for him meant out among the earth-moving machinery where he could direct matters and smell up close the unlimited potential of Northern Virginia. In the family’s home there were large photos of him "on the job," wearing his own custom-made and monogrammed hard hat, pointing here and there as land got leveled and more malls and shopping centers got built. He said he was too busy for idle chatter and claimed to hate telephones, yet always had a supply nearby to take care of business.

Truth was, Bennett played a lot of golf, and played it badly, according to the father of one of Clay’s law school classmates. Rebecca had let it slip more than once that her father played at least four rounds a week at Potomac, and his secret dream was to win the club championship.

Mr. Van Horn was a man of action with no patience for life behind a desk. He spent little time there, he claimed. The pit bull who answered "BVH Group" reluctantly agreed to forward Clay on to another secretary deeper inside the company. "Development" the second girl said rudely, as if the company had unlimited divisions. It took at least five minutes to get Bennett’s personal secretary on the phone. "He’s out of the office," she said.

"How can I reach him?" Clay asked.

"He’s on the job."

"Yes, I figured that. How can I reach him?"

"Leave a number and I’ll put it with the rest of his messages," she said.

"Oh thank you," Clay said, and left his office number.

Thirty minutes later Bennett returned the call. He sounded indoors, perhaps in the Men’s Lounge at the Potomac Country Club, double Scotch in hand, big cigar, a game of gin rummy in progress with the boys. "Clay, how in the world are you?" he asked, as if they hadn’t seen each other in months.

"Fine, Mr. Van Horn, and you?"

"Great. Enjoyed dinner last night." Clay heard no roaring diesel engines in the background, no blasting.

"Oh yes, it was really nice. Always a pleasure," Clay lied.

"What can I do for you, son?"

"Well, I want you to understand that I really appreciate your efforts to get me that job down in Richmond. I didn’t expect it, and you were very kind to intervene like that." A pause as Clay swallowed hard. "But truthfully, Mr. Van Horn, I don’t see a move to Richmond in the near future. I’ve always lived in D.C. and this is home."

Clay had many reasons to reject the offer. Staying in D.C. was mid-list. The overwhelming motive was toavoid having his life planned by Bennett Van Horn and getting locked into his debt.

"You can’t be serious," Van Horn said.

"Yes, I’m very serious. Thanks, but no thanks." The last thing Clay planned to do was to take any crap off this jerk. He loved the telephone at these moments; such a wonderful equalizer.

"A big mistake, son," Van Horn said. "You just don’t see the big picture, do you?"

"Maybe I don’t. But I’m not so sure you do either."

"You have a lot of pride, Clay, I like that. But you’re also very wet behind the ears. You gotta learn that life is a game of favors, and when someone tries to help you, then you take the favor. One day maybe you’ll get the chance to repay it. You’re making a mistake, here, Clay, one that I’m afraid could have serious consequences."

"What kinds of consequences?"

"This could really affect your future."

"Well, it’s my future, not yours. I’ll pick the next job, and the one after that. Right now I’m happy where I am." "How can you be happy defending criminals all day long? I just don’t get it." This was not a new conversation, and, if it followed the usual course, things would deteriorate quickly. "I believe you’ve asked that question before. Let’s not go there."

"We’re talking about a huge increase in salary, Clay. More money, better work, you’ll be spending your time with solid folks, not a bunch of street punks. Wake up, boy!" There were voices in the background. Wherever Bennett was, he was playing for an audience.

Clay gritted his teeth and let the "boy" pass. "I’m not going to argue, Mr. Van Horn. I called to say no."

"You’d better reconsider."

"I’ve already reconsidered. No thanks."

"You’re a loser, Clay, you know that. I’ve known it for some time. This just reaffirms it. You’re turning down a promising job so you can stay in a rut and work for minimum wage. You have no ambition, no guts, no vision."

"Last night I was a hard worker – had broad shoulders, lots of talent, and I was as sharp as a tack."

"I take it back. You’re a loser."

"And I was well educated and even handsome."

"I was lying. You’re a loser."