The King of Torts

In the past month he’d made more money than he’d ever dreamed of earning. Now, as things spun out of control, he felt as if he was spending it even faster. Be bold, he kept telling himself, this is a rare opportunity. Be bold, strike fast, take chances, roll the dice, and you could get filthy rich. Another voice kept urging him to slow down, don’t blow the money, bury it and have it forever.

He had moved $1 million to an account off-shore, not to hide but to protect. He would never touch it, not under any circumstances. If he made bad choices and gambled it all away, he’d still have money for the beach.

He would sneak out of town like his father and never come back.

The million dollars in the secret account was his compromise.

He tried calling his office but all lines were busy, a good sign. He got Jonah on his cell phone, sitting at his desk. "It’s crazy as hell," Jonah said, very fatigued. "Total chaos."

"Good."

"Why don’t you get back here and help!"

"Tomorrow."

At seven thirty-two, Clay turned on the television and found his ad on a cable channel. Dyloft sounded even more ominous in New York.

Dinner was at Montrachet, not for the food, which was very good, but for the wine list, which was thicker than any other in New York. French wanted to taste several red burgundies with his veal. Five bottles were brought to the table, with a different glass for each wine. There was little room for the bread and butter.

The sommelier and Patton lapsed into another language when discussing what was in each bottle. Clay was bored with the entire process. A beer and a burger would’ve been preferable, though he could see his tastes changing dramatically in the near future.

When the wines had been opened and were breathing, French said, "I called my office. That lawyer in Miami is already on the air with Dyloft ads. He’s set up two screening clinics and is running them through like cattle.

Name’s Carlos Hernandez, and he’s very, very good."

"My people can’t answer all the calls," Clay said.

"Are we in this together?" French said.

"Let’s go over the deal."

At which French whipped out a folded document. "Here’s the deal memo," he said, handing it over while he went for the first bottle. "It summarizes what we’ve discussed so far."

Clay read it carefully and signed at the bottom. French, between sips, signed as well, and the partnership was born.

"Let’s file the class action in Biloxi tomorrow," French said. "I’ll do it when I get home. I’ve got two lawyers working on it right now. As soon as it’s filed, you can dismiss yours in D.C. I know the in-house counsel for Ackerman Labs. I think I can talk to him. If the company will negotiate directly with us, and bypass their outside counsel, then they can save a bloody fortune and give it to us. And it will greatly expedite matters. If their outside lawyers take charge of the negotiations, it could cost us half a year in wasted time."

"About a hundred million, right?"

"Something like that. That could be our money." A phone rang somewhere in a pocket and French whipped it out with his left hand while holding a wineglass with his right. "Excuse me," he said to Clay.

It was a Dyloft conversation with another lawyer, somebody in Texas, obviously an old friend, one who could talk faster than Patton French. The banter was polite, but French was cautious. When he slapped the phone shut he said, "Dammit!"

"Some competition?"

"Serious competition. Name’s Vic Brennan, big lawyer in Houston, very smart and aggressive. He’s onto Dyloft, wants to know the game plan."

"He got nothing from you."

"He knows. He’s unleashing some ads tomorrow – radio, television, newspaper. He’ll pick up several thousand cases." For a moment, he consoled himself with a sip of wine, one that made him smile. "The race is on, Clay. We have to get those cases."

"It’s about to get crazier," Clay said.

French had a mouthful of Pinot Noir and couldn’t speak. "What?" his face said.

"Tomorrow morning, big story in the New York Times. The first bad report on Dyloft, according to my sources."

It was the wrong thing to say, as far as dinner was concerned. French forgot about his veal, which was still in the kitchen. And he forgot about the expensive wines covering his table, though he managed to consume them over the next three hours. But what mass tort lawyer could concentrate on food and wine when the New York Times was just hours away from exposing his next defendant and its dangerous drug?

The phone was ringing and it was still dark outside. The clock, when he could finally focus on it, gave the time as five forty-five. "Get up!" French growled at him. "And open the door." By the time he unlocked it, French was pushing it open and marching past with newspapers and a cup of coffee. "Unbelievable!" he said, flinging a copy of the Times on Clay’s bed.

"You can’t sleep all day, son. Read this!" He was dressed in hotel garb, the complimentary terry-cloth robe and white shower shoes.

"It’s not six yet."

"I haven’t slept past five in thirty years. There are too many lawsuits out there."

Clay wore nothing but his boxer shorts. French gulped coffee and read the story again, peering down his flat nose through reading glasses perched on the tip.

No sign of a hangover. Clay had gotten bored with the wines, which all tasted the same to him anyway, and finished the night with bottled water. French had battled on, determined to declare a winner among the five burgundies, though he was so sidetracked with Dyloft his heart wasn’t in it.

The Atlantic Journal of Medicine was reporting that dylofedamint, known as Dyloft, had been linked to bladder tumors in about 6 percent of those who had taken it for a year.

"Up from five percent," Clay said as he read.

"Isn’t that wonderful?" French said.

"Not if you’re in the six percent."

"I’m not."

Some doctors were already pulling the drug. Ackerman Labs offered a rather weak denial, shifting blame, as always, to greedy trial lawyers, though the company appeared to be hunkering down. No comment from the FDA. A doctor in Chicago ran on for half a column about how great the drug was, how happy his patients were with it. The good news, if it could be called that, was that the tumors did not appear to be malignant, so far anyway. As Clay read the story, he got the feeling that Max Pace had seen it a month ago.

There was only one paragraph about the class action filed in D.C. on Monday, and no mention of the young lawyer who’d filed it.

Ackerman’s stock had tumbled from $42.50 Monday morning to $32.50 at the close on Wednesday.

"Should’ve shorted the damned thing," French mumbled. Clay bit his tongue and kept a secret, one of the few he’d held on to in the past twenty-four hours.

"We can read it again on the plane," French said. "Let’s get out of here."

The stock was at $28 by the time Clay walked into his office and tried to say hello to his weary staff. He went online to a Web site with the latest market movements and checked it every fifteen minutes, counting his gains. Burning money on one front, it was comforting to see some profits on the other.

Jonah was the first to stop by. "We were here until midnight last night," he said. "It’s crazy."

"It’s about to get crazier. We’re doubling the TV ads."

"We can’t keep up now."

"Hire some temporary paralegals."

"We need computer people, at least two. We can’t add the data fast enough."