The King of Torts

In Crittle’s opinion, such sudden wealth would almost certainly trigger an audit by the Internal Revenue Service. Notwithstanding Pace’s promises to the contrary, Clay agreed and insisted on perfect records with no gray areas when it came to write-offs and deductions. He had just earned more money than he’d ever dreamed of. No sense trying to beat the government out of some taxes. Pay them and sleep well.

"What’s this payment to East Media for half a million dollars?" Crittle asked.

"We’re doing some television ads for litigation. That’s the first installment."

"Installment? How many more?" He peered over his reading glasses and gave Clay a look he’d seen before. It said, "Son, have you lost your mind?"

"A total of two million dollars. We’re filing a big lawsuit in a few days. The filing will be coordinated with an advertising blitz that East Media is handling."

"Okay," Crittle said, obviously wary of such large expenditures. "And I’m assuming there will be some additional fees to cover all this."

"Hopefully," Clay said with a laugh.

"What about this new office out in Manassas? A lease deposit of fifteen thousand bucks?"

"Yes, we’re expanding. I’m adding six paralegals in an office out there. Rent’s cheaper."

"Nice to see you’re worried about expenses. Six paralegals?"

"Yes, four have been hired. I have their contracts and payroll information on my desk."

Crittle studied a printout for a moment, a dozen questions clicking through the calculator behind his glasses. "Could I ask why you need six more paralegals when you have so few cases?"

"Now that’s an interesting question," Clay said. He blitzed through the pending class action without mentioning either the drug or its maker, and if his quick summary answered Crittle’s questions it wasn’t obvious. As an accountant, he was naturally skeptical of any scheme that urged more people to sue.

"I’m sure you know what you’re doing," he said, suspecting Clay had, in fact, lost his mind. "Trust me, Rex, the money is about to pour in." "It’s certainly pouring out." "You have to spend money to make money." "That’s what they say."

The assault began just after sundown on July 1. With everyone but Miss Glick gathered in front of the television in the conference room, they waited until exactly 8:32 P.M., then grew quiet and still. It was a fifteen-second ad that began with a shot of a handsome young actor wearing a white jacket and holding a thick book and looking sincerely at the camera. "Attention arthritis sufferers. If you are taking the prescription drug Dyloft, you may have a claim against the manufacturer of the drug. Dyloft has been linked to several side effects, including tumors in the bladder." On the bottom of the screen the bold words: DYLOFT HOT LINE – CALL 1-800-555-DYLO appeared. The doctor continued: "Call this number immediately. The Dyloft Hot Line can arrange a free medical test for you. Call now!"

No one breathed for fifteen seconds, and no one spoke when it was over. For Clay, it was a particularly harrowing moment because he had just launched a vicious and potentially crippling attack against a mammoth corporation, one that would undoubtedly respond with a vengeance. What if Max Pace was wrong about the drug? What if Pace was using Clay as a pawn in a huge corporate chess match? What if Clay couldn’t prove, by expert witnesses, that the drug caused the tumors? He had wrestled with these questions for several weeks, and he had quizzed Pace a thousand times. They had fought twice and exchanged sharp words on several occasions. Max had eventually handed over the stolen, or at least ill-gotten, research on the effects of Dyloft. Clay had had it reviewed by a fraternity brother from Georgetown who was now a physician in Baltimore. The research looked solid and sinister.

Clay had ultimately convinced himself that he was right and Ackerman was wrong. But seeing the ad and flinching at its accusation made him weak in the knees.

"Pretty nasty," said Rodney, who’d seen the video of the ad a dozen times. Still, it was much harsher on real television. East Media had promised that 16 percent of each market would see each ad. The ads would run every other day for ten days in ninety markets from coast to coast. The estimated audience was eighty million.

"It’ll work," Clay said, ever the leader.

For the first hour, it ran on stations in thirty markets along the East Coast, then it spread to eighteen markets in the Central Time Zone. Four hours after it began, it finally reached the other coast and hit in forty-two markets. Clay’s little firm spent just over $400,000 the first night in wall-to-wall advertising.

The 800 phone number routed callers to the Sweatshop, the new nickname for the shopping center branch of the Law Offices of J. Clay Carter II. There, the six new paralegals took the calls, filled out forms, asked all the scripted questions, referred the callers to the Dyloft Hot Line Web Site, and promised return calls from one of the staff attorneys. Within two hours of the first ads, all phones were busy. A computer recorded the numbers of those callers unable to get through. A computerized message referred them to the Web site.

At nine the next morning, Clay received an urgent phone call from an attorney in a large firm down the street. He represented Ackerman Labs and insisted that the ads be stopped immediately. He was pompous and condescending and threatened all manner of vile legal action if Clay did not buckle immediately. Words grew harsh, then calmed somewhat.

"Are you going to be in your office for a few minutes?" Clay asked.

"Yes, of course. Why?"

"I have something to send over. I’ll get my courier. Should take five minutes."

Rodney, the courier, hustled down the street with a copy of the twenty-page lawsuit. Clay left for the courthouse to file the original. Pursuant to Pace’s instructions, copies were also being faxed to the Washington Post, The Wall Street Journal, and the New York Times.

Pace had also hinted that short-selling Ackerman Labs stock would be a shrewd investment move. The stock had closed the Friday before at $42.50. When it opened Monday morning, Clay placed a sell order for a hundred thousand shares. He’d buy it back in a few days, hopefully around $30, and pick up another million bucks. That was the plan, anyway.

His office was hectic when he returned. There were six incoming toll-free lines to the Sweatshop out in Manassas, and during working hours, when all six were busy, the calls were routed to the main office on Connecticut Avenue. Rodney, Paulette, and Jonah were each on the phone talking to Dyloft users scattered around North America.

"You might want to see this," Miss Glick said. The pink message slip listed the name of a reporter from The Wall Street Journal. "And Mr. Pace is in your office."

Max was holding a coffee cup and standing in front of a window.

"It’s filed," Clay said. "We’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest."

"Enjoy the moment."

"Their lawyers have already called. I sent them a copy of the lawsuit."

"Good. They’re dying already. They’ve just been ambushed and they know they’ll get slaughtered. This is a lawyer’s dream, Clay, make the most of it."

"Sit down. I have a question."

Pace, in black as always, fell into a chair and crossed his legs. The cowboy boots appeared to be of rattlesnake.

"If Ackerman Labs hired you right now, what would you do?" Clay asked.

"Spin is crucial. I’d start the press releases, deny everything, blame it on greedy trial lawyers. Defend my drug. The initial goal, after the bomb goes off and the dust is settling, is to protect the stock price. It opened at forty-two and a half, which was very low; it’s already at thirty-three. I’d get the CEO on television to say all the right things. I’d get the PR folks cranking out the propaganda. I’d get the lawyers preparing an organized defense. I’d get the sales people to reassure the doctors that the drug is okay."