The King of Torts

Or maybe the Van Horns wouldn’t be so awful with a hundred million or so in the family, just out of their reach but close enough to brag about.

He clenched his jaws and dialed her number. It was a Wednesday, a slow night at the country club. Surely she was at her apartment. After three rings she said, "Hello," and the sound of her voice made him weak.

"Hey, it’s Clay," he said, trying to sound casual. Not a word in six months, but the ice was immediately broken.

"Hello, stranger," she said. Cordial.

"How are you?"

"Fine, busy as always. You?"

"About the same. I’m in New York, settling some cases."

"I hear things are going well for you."

An understatement. "Not bad. I can’t complain. How’s your job?"

"I have six more days."

"You’re quitting?"

"Yes. There’s a wedding, you know."

"So I heard. When is it?"

"December twentieth."

"I haven’t received an invitation."

"Well, I didn’t send you one. Didn’t think you’d want to come." "Probably not. Are you sure you want to get married?" "Let’s talk about something else." "There is nothing else, really." "Are you dating anyone?" "Women are chasing me all over town. Where’d you meet this guy?" "And you’ve bought a place in Georgetown?" "That’s old news." But he was delighted that she knew.

Perhaps she was curious about his new success. "This guy’s a worm," he said. "Come on, Clay. Let’s keep it nice." "He’s a worm and you know it, Rebecca." "I’m hanging up now." "Don’t marry him, Rebecca. There’s a rumor he’s gay." "He’s a worm. He’s gay. What else? Unload everything, Clay, so you’ll feel better."

"Don’t do it, Rebecca. Your parents will eat him alive. Plus your kids will look like him. A bunch of little worms."

The line went dead.

He stretched out on the bed and stared at the ceiling, still hearing her voice, hit hard with the realization of just how much he missed her. Then the phone erupted and startled him. It was Patton French, in the lobby with a limo waiting. Dinner and wine for the next three hours. Someone had to do it.

Chapter Twenty-Three

All participants had been sworn to secrecy. Thick documents had been signed by the lawyers promising complete confidentiality concerning the Dyloft negotiations and settlement. Before they left New York, Patton French had told his group, "It’ll be in the papers within forty-eight hours. Philo will leak it, and their stock will go up."

The following morning, The Wall Street Journal ran the story; of course, all blame was laid at the bar.

Mass Tort Lawyers Force Quick Dyloft Settlement

ran the headline. Unnamed sources had plenty to say. The details were accurate. A pool of $2.5 billion would be set up for the first round of settlements, with another potential $1.5 billion as a reserve for more serious cases.

Philo Products opened at $82 and quickly jumped to $85. One analyst said investors were relieved at news of the settlement. The company would be able to control the costs of litigation. No prolonged lawsuits. No threat of wild verdicts. The trial lawyers had been reined in on this one, and unnamed sources at Philo were calling it a victory. Clay monitored the news on the television in his office.

He also fielded calls from reporters. At eleven, one from The Journal arrived, with a photographer. During the preliminaries, Clay learned that he knew as much about the settlement as Clay himself. "These things are never kept quiet," he said. "We knew which hotel you guys were hiding in."

Off the record, Clay answered all questions. Then on the record, he wouldn’t comment on the settlement. He did offer some insights about himself, his rapid rise from the depths of OPD to mass tort zillionaire, all in just a few months, and the impressive firm he was building, etcetera. He could see the story taking shape, and it would be spectacular.

Next morning, he read it online before sunrise. There was his face, in one of those hideous sketches made famous by The Journal, and just above it was the headline,

The King of Torts, from $40,000 to $100,000,000 in Six Months

Under it was a subtitle: "You gotta love the law!"

It was a very long story, and all about Clay. His background, growing up in D.C., his father, Georgetown Law School, generous quotes from Glenda and Jermaine over at OPD, a comment from a professor he’d forgotten about, a brief recap of the Dyloft litigation. The best part was a lengthy discussion with Patton French, in which the "notorious mass tort lawyer" described Clay Carter as our "brightest young star" and "fearless" and "a major new force to be reckoned with."

"Corporate America should tremble at his name," continued the bombast. And, finally, "No doubt, Clay is the newest King of Torts."

He read it twice then e-mailed it to Rebecca with a note at the top and bottom: "Rebecca, Please Wait, Clay." He sent it to her apartment and her office, and, while he was at it, he removed his own message and faxed it to the offices of BVH Group. The wedding was a month away.

When he finally arrived at the office, Miss Glick handed him a stack of messages – about half from law school friends who jokingly asked for loans, about half from journalists of all varieties. The office was even more chaotic than normal. Paillette, Jonah, and Rodney were still floating and completely unfocused. Every client wanted the money that day.

Fortunately, it was the Yale Branch, under the emerging brilliance of Mr. Oscar Mulrooney, that stepped up to the task and put together a plan to survive until the settlement. Clay moved Mulrooney into an office down the hall, doubled his salary, and left him in charge of the mess.

Clay needed a break.

Because Jarrett Carter’s passport had been quietly confiscated by the U.S. Department of Justice, his movements were somewhat limited. He wasn’t even certain he could return to his country, though in six years he had never tried. The wink-and-hand-shake deal that got him out of town without an indictment had many loose ends. "We’d better stick to the Bahamas," he told Clay on the phone.

They left Abaco on a Cessna Citation V, another toy from the fleet Clay had discovered. They were headed for Nassau, thirty minutes away. Jarrett waited until they were airborne before saying, "Okay, spill your guts." He was already gulping a beer. And he was wearing frayed denim shorts and sandals and an old fishing cap, very much the expatriate banished to the islands and living the life of a pirate.

Clay opened a beer himself, then began with Tarvan and ended with Dyloft. Jarrett had heard rumors of his son’s success, but he never read newspapers and tried his best to ignore any news from home. Another beer as he tried to digest the idea of having five thousand clients at once.

The $100 million closed his eyes, turned him pale, or least a slightly lighter shade of bronze, and it creased his leathery forehead with a wave of thick wrinkles. He shook his head, drank some beer, then began laughing.

Clay pressed on, determined to finish before they landed.

"What are you doing with the money?" Jarrett asked, still in shock.

"Spending it like crazy."

Outside the Nassau airport they found a cab, a 1974 yellow Cadillac with a driver smoking pot. He got them safely to the Sunset Hotel and Casino on Paradise Island, facing Nassau Harbor.

Jarrett headed for the blackjack tables with the five thousand in cash his son had given him. Clay headed for the pool and the tanning cream. He wanted sun and bikinis.