The King of Torts

An endless string of experts and market analysts prattled on with all sorts of groundless opinions. Dyloft was mentioned early and often. Though Ackerman Labs had been badly managed for years, there was no doubt Dyloft had succeeded in shoving it off the cliff.

Was Philo the maker of Tarvan? Pace’s client? Had Clay been manipulated to bring about a $14 billion takeover? And most troubling, what did it all mean for the future of Ackerman Labs and Dyloft? While it was certainly exciting to calculate his new profits on the Ackerman stock, he had to ask himself if this meant the end of the Dyloft dream.

But the truth was that there was no way to know. He was a small player in a huge deal between two mammoth corporations. Ackerman Labs had assets, he reassured himself. And the company made a very bad product that harmed many. Justice would prevail.

Patton French called from his airplane, somewhere between Florida and Texas, and asked Clay to sit tight for an hour or so. The Plaintiffs’ Steering Committee needed an emergency conference call. His secretary was putting one together.

French was back in an hour, on the ground in Beaumont, where he would meet tomorrow with lawyers who had some cholesterol drug cases that they needed his help with, cases worth tons of money, but, anyway, he couldn’t find the rest of their steering committee. He’d already talked with Barry and Harry in New York and they were not worried about the Philo takeover. "Ackerman owns twelve million shares of its own stock, now worth at least fifty bucks a share but maybe more before the dust settles. The company just picked up six hundred million in equity alone. Plus, the government has to approve the merger, and they typically want the litigation cleaned up before saying yes. Also, Philo is notorious for avoiding courtrooms. They settle fast and quiet."

Sounds like Tarvan, Clay thought.

"Overall, it’s good news," French said, with a fax buzzing in the background. Clay could see him pacing up and down in his Gulf-stream as it waited on the ramp in Beaumont. "I’ll keep you posted." And he was gone.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Rex Crittle wanted to scold, to be reassured, to lecture, to educate, but his client sitting across the desk seemed completely unshaken by the figures.

"Your firm is six months old," Crittle said, peering over his reading glasses with a pile of reports in front of him. The evidence! He had the proof that the boutique firm of the Law Offices of J. Clay Carter II was in fact being run by idiots. "Your overhead began at an impressive seventy-five thousand a month – three lawyers, one paralegal, a secretary, serious rent, nice digs. Now it’s a half a million bucks a month, and growing every day."

"You gotta spend it to make it," Clay said, sipping coffee and enjoying his accountant’s discomfort. That was the sign of a good bean counter – one who lost more sleep over the expenses than the client himself.

"But you’re not making it," Crittle said cautiously. "No revenue in the past three months."

"It’s been a good year."

"Oh yes. Fifteen million in fees makes for a splendid year. Problem is, it’s evaporating. You spent fourteen thousand bucks last month chartering jets."

"Now that you mention it, I’m thinking about buying one. I’ll need you to crunch the numbers."

"I’m crunching them right now. You can’t justify one." "That’s not the issue. The issue is whether or not I can afford one." "No, you cannot afford one." "Hang on, Rex. Relief is in sight." "I assume you’re talking about the Dyloft cases? Four million dollars for advertising. Three thousand a month for a Dyloft Web site. Now three thousand a month for the Dyloft newsletter. All those paralegals out in Manassas. All these new lawyers."

"I think the question will be, should I lease one for five years or just buy it outright?" "What?" "The Gulf stream." "What’s a Gulfstream?" "The finest private jet in the world." "What are you going to do with a Gulfstream?" "Fly." "Why, exactly, do you think you need one?" "It’s the preferred jet of all the big mass tort lawyers." "Oh, that makes sense." "I thought you’d come around." "Any idea how much one might cost?" "Forty, forty-five million." "I hate to break the news, Clay, but you don’t have forty million." "You’re right. I think I’ll just lease one." Crittle removed his reading glasses and massaged his long, skinny nose, as if a severe headache was developing there. "Look, Clay, I’m just your accountant. But I’m not sure if there’s anyone else who is telling you to slow down. Take it easy, pal. You’ve made a fortune, enjoy it. You don’t need a big firm with so many lawyers. You don’t need jets. What’s next? A yacht?"

"Yes."

"You’re serious?"

"Yes."

"I thought you hated boats."

"I do. It’s for my father. Can I depreciate it?"

"No."

"Bet I can."

"How?"

"I’ll charter it when I’m not using it."

When Crittle was finished with his nose, he replaced his glasses and said, "It’s your money, pal."

They met in New York City, on neutral ground, in the dingy ballroom of an old hotel near Central Park, the last place anyone would expect such an important gathering to take place. On one side of the table sat the Dyloft Plaintiffs’ Steering Committee, five of them, including young Clay Carter who felt quite out of place, and behind them were all manner of assistants and associates and gofers employed by Mr. Patton French. Across the table was the Ackerman team, headed by Cal Wicks, a distinguished veteran who was flanked by an equal number of supporters.

One week earlier, the government had approved the merger with Philo Products, at $53 a share, which for Clay meant another profit, somewhere around $6 million. He’d buried half of it off-shore, never to be touched. So the venerable company founded by the Ackerman brothers a century earlier was about to be consumed by Philo, a company with barely half its annual revenues but a lot less debt and a much brighter management.

As Clay took his seat and spread his files and tried to convince himself that, yes, dammit, he did belong there, he thought he noticed some harsh frowns from the other side. Finally, the folks at Ackerman Labs were getting to see in person this young upstart from D.C. who’d started their Dyloft nightmare.

Patton French may have had plenty of backup, but he needed none. He took charge of the first session and soon everyone else shut up, with the exception of Wicks, who spoke only when necessary. They spent the morning nailing down the number of cases out there. The Biloxi class had 36,700 plaintiffs. A renegade group of lawyers in Georgia had 5,200 and were threatening an end run with another class action. French felt confident he could dissuade them. Other lawyers had opted out of the class and were planning solo trials in their backyards, but again, French wasn’t worried about them. They did not have the crucial documents, nor were they likely to get them.

Numbers poured forth, and Clay was soon bored with it all. The only number that mattered to him was 5,380 – his Dyloft share. He still had more than any single lawyer, though French himself had closed the gap brilliantly and had just over 5,000.

After three hours of nonstop statistics, they agreed on a one-hour lunch. The plaintiffs’ committee went upstairs to a suite, where they ate sandwiches and drank only water. French was soon on the phone, talking and yelling at the same time. Wes Saulsberry wanted some fresh air, and invited Clay for a quick walk around the block. They strolled up Fifth Avenue, across from the park. It was mid-November, the air chilly and light, the leaves blowing across the street. A great time to be in the city.