The King of Torts

Clay hung up first. He slammed the phone down with a smile, quite proud that he had so irritated the great Bennett Van Horn. He’d held his ground and sent a clear message that he would not be shoved around by those people.

He would deal with Rebecca later, and it would not be pleasant.

Clay’s third and final visit to D Camp was more dramatic than the first two. With Jermaine in the front seat and Rodney in the back, Clay followed a D.C. police car and parked again directly in front of the building. Two cops, both young and black and bored with subpoena work, negotiated their entrance. Within minutes they were in the midst of a tense confrontation with Talmadge X, Noland, and another counselor, a hothead named Samuel.

Partially because he had the only white face in the crowd, but primarily because he was the lawyer who’d obtained the subpoena, the three counselors focused their wrath on Clay. He could not have cared less. He would never see these people again.

"You saw the file, man!" Noland yelled at Clay.

"I saw the file that you wanted me to see," Clay shot back. "Now I get the rest of it."

"What’re you talking about?" Talmadge X asked.

"I want everything here with Tequila’s name written on it."

"You can’t do that."

Clay turned to the cop holding the papers and said, "Would you please read the subpoena?"

The cop held it high for all to see, and read: "All files pertaining to the admission, medical evaluation, medical treatment, substance abatement, substance abuse counseling, rehabilitation, and discharge of Tequila Watson. As ordered by the Honorable F. Floyd Sackman, D.C. Superior Court Criminal Division."

"When did he sign it?" Samuel asked.

"’Bout three hours ago."

"We showed you everything," Noland said to Clay.

"I doubt that. I can tell when a file has been rearranged."

"Much too neat," Jermaine added helpfully, finally.

"We ain’t fighting," said the larger of the two cops, leaving little doubt that a good fight would be welcome. "Where do we start?"

"His medical evaluations are confidential," Samuel said. "The doctor-patient privilege, I believe."

It was an excellent point, but slightly off the mark. "The doctor’s files are confidential," Clay explained. "But not the patient’s. I have a release and waiver signed by Tequila Watson allowing me to see all of his files, including the medicals."

They began in a windowless room with mismatched filing cabinets lining the walls. After a few minutes, Talmadge X and Samuel disappeared and the tension began to ease. The cops pulled up chairs and accepted the coffee offered by the receptionist. She did not offer any to the gentlemen from the Office of the Public Defender.

After an hour of digging, nothing useful had been found. Clay and Jermaine left Rodney to continue the search. They had more cops to meet.

The raid on Clean Streets was very similar. The two lawyers marched into the front office with two policemen behind them. The Director was dragged out of a meeting. As she read the subpoena she mumbled something about knowing Judge Sackman and dealing with him later. She was very irritated, but the document spoke for itself. The same language – all files and papers relating to Washad Porter.

"This was not necessary," she said to Clay. "We always cooperate with attorneys."

"That’s not what I hear," Jermaine said. Indeed, Clean Streets had a reputation for contesting even the most benign requests from OPD.

When she finished reading the subpoena for the second time, one of the cops said, "We’re not going to wait all day."

She led them to a large office and fetched an assistant who began hauling in files. "When do we get these back?" she asked.

"When we’re finished with them," Jermaine said.

"And who keeps them?"

"The Office of the Public Defender, under lock and key."

The romance had begun at Abe’s Place. Rebecca had been in a booth with two girlfriends when Clay walked by en route to the men’s room. Their eyes met, and he actually paused for a second, unsure of exactly what to do next. The girlfriends soon got lost. Clay ditched his drinking pals. They sat together at the bar for two hours and talked nonstop. The first date was the next night. Sex within a week. She kept him away from her parents for two months.

Now, four years later, things were stale and she was under pressure to move on. It seemed fitting that they would end things at Abe’s Place.

Clay arrived first and stood at the bar in a crowd of Hill Rats draining their glasses, talking loud and fast and all at once about the crucial issues they had just spent long hours dealing with. He loved D.C., and he hated D.C. He loved its history and energy and importance. And he despised the countless minions who chased themselves in a frenetic game of who was more important. The nearest discussion was a passionate argument about wastewater treatment laws in the Central Plains.

Abe’s Place was nothing but a watering hole, strategically placed near Capitol Hill to catch the thirsty crowd headed for the suburbs. Great-looking women. Well dressed. Many of them on the prowl. Clay caught a few looks.

Rebecca was subdued, determined, and cold. They sneaked into a booth and both ordered strong drinks for the ride ahead. He asked some pointless questions about the subcommittee hearings that had begun, amid no fanfare, at least according to the Post. The drinks arrived and they dived in.

"I talked to my father," she began.

"So did I."

"Why didn’t you tell me you were not taking the job in Richmond?"

"Why didn’t you tell me your father was pulling strings to get me a job in Richmond?"

"You should’ve told me."

"I made it clear."

"Nothing is clear with you."

Both took a drink.

"Your father called me a loser. Is that the prevailing mood in your family?"

"At the moment, yes."

"Shared by you?"

"I have my doubts. Someone has to be realistic here."

There had been one serious intermission in the romance, a miserable failure at best. About a year earlier they had decided to let things cool off, to remain close friends, but to have a look around, perhaps play the field, make sure there was no one else out there. Barb had engineered the separation because, as Clay found out later, a very rich young man at the Potomac Country Club had just lost his wife to ovarian cancer. Bennett was a close personal friend of the family, etcetera, etcetera. He and Barb laid the trap, but the widower smelled the bait. One month on the fringes of the Van Horn family and the guy bought a place in Wyoming.

This, however, was a much more severe breakup. This was almost certainly the end. Clay took another drink and promised himself that whatever else was said, he would not, under any circumstances, say something that would hurt her. She could hit below the belt if she wanted. He would not.

"What do you want, Rebecca?"

"I don’t know."

"Yes you do. Do you want out?"

"I think so," she said, and her eyes were instantly wet. < "Is there someone else?"

"No."

Not yet anyway. Just give Barb and Bennett a few days.

"It’s just that you’re going nowhere, Clay," she said. "You’re smart and talented, but you have no ambition."

"Gee, it’s nice to know I’m smart and talented again. A few hours ago I was a loser."

"Are you trying to be funny?"

"Why not, Rebecca? Why not have a laugh? It’s over, let’s face it. We love each other, but I’m a loser who’s going nowhere. That’s your problem. My problem is your parents. They’ll chew up the poor guy you marry."