The King of Torts

His work habits were becoming legendary not only within his own firm but around the city as well. Much of the gossip in legal circles was about him, at least for the moment, and his sixteen-hour days were often stretched to eighteen and twenty by those at bars and cocktail parties.

And why not work around the clock? He was thirty-two years old, single, with no serious obligations to steal his time. Through luck and a small amount of talent he had been handed a unique opportunity to succeed like few others. Why not pour his guts into his firm for a few years, then chuck it all and go play for the rest of his life?

Mulrooney arrived just after six, already with four cups of coffee under his belt and a hundred ideas on his mind. "D-Day?" he asked when he barged into Clay’s office.

"D-Day!"

"Let’s kick some ass!"

By seven, the place was rocking with associates and paralegals watching the clocks, waiting for the invasion. Secretaries hauled coffee and bagels from office to office. At eight, they crammed into the conference room and stared at a wide-screen TV. The ABC affiliate for metro D.C. ran the first ad: An attractive woman in her early sixties, short gray hair, smartly cut, designer eyeglasses, sitting at a small kitchen table, staring sadly out a window. Voice-over [rather ominous voice]: "If you’ve been taking the female hormone drug Maxatil, you may have an increased risk of breast cancer, heart disease, and stroke." Close on the lady’s hands; on the table, a close-up of a pill bottle with the word MAXATIL in bold letters. [A skull and crossbones could not have been more frightening.] Voice-over: "Please consult your doctor immediately. Maxatil may pose a serious threat to your health." Close on the woman’s face, even sadder now, then her eyes become moist. Voice-over: "For more information, call the Maxatil Hot Line." An 800 number flashes across the bottom of the screen. The final image is the woman removing her glasses and wiping a tear from her cheek.

They clapped and cheered as if the money was about to be delivered by overnight courier. Then Clay sent them all to their posts, to sit by the phones and begin collecting clients. Within minutes, the calls started. Promptly at nine, as scheduled, copies of the lawsuit were faxed to newspapers and financial cable channels. Clay called his old pal at The Wall Street Journal and leaked the news. He said he might consider an interview in a day or so.

Goffman opened at $65 1/4 but was soon shot down by the news of the Maxatil lawsuit in D.C. Clay got himself photographed by a stringer as he filed the lawsuit in the courthouse.

By noon, Goffman had fallen to $61. The company hurriedly released a statement for the press in which it adamantly denied that Maxatil did all the terrible things alleged in the lawsuit. It would defend the case vigorously.

Patton French called during "lunch." Clay was eating a sandwich while standing behind his desk and watching the phone messages pile up. "I hope you know what you’re doing," French said suspiciously.

"Gee, I hope so too, Patton. How are you?"

"Swell. We took a long hard look at Maxatil about six months ago. Decided to pass. Causation could be a real problem."

Clay dropped his sandwich and tried to breathe. Patton French said no to a mass tort? He passed on a class-action lawsuit against one of the wealthiest corporations in the land? Clay was aware that nothing was being said, a painful gap in the conversation. "Well, uh, Patton, we see things differently." He was reaching behind him, groping for his chair. He finally fell into it.

"In fact, everybody passed, until you. Saulsberry, Didier, Carlos down in Miami. Guy up in Chicago has a bunch of cases, but he hasn’t filed them yet. I don’t know, maybe you’re right. We just didn’t see it, that’s all."

French was fishing. "We got the goods on them," Clay said. The government report! That’s it! Clay had it and French did not. Finally, a deep breath, and the blood started pumping again.

"You’d better have your ducks in a row, Clay. These guys are very good. They make old Wicks and the boys at Ackerman look like Cub Scouts."

"You sound scared, Patton, I’m surprised at you."

"Not scared at all. But if you have a hole in your theory of liability, they’ll eat you alive. And, don’t even think about a quick settlement."

"Are you in?"

"No. I didn’t like it six months ago, don’t like it now. Plus, I got too many other irons in the fire. Good luck."

Clay closed and locked his office door. He walked to his window and stood for at least five minutes before he felt the cool moisture of his shirt sticking to his back. Then he rubbed his forehead and found rows of sweat.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The headline in the Daily Profit screamed:

A Lousy Hundred Million ain’t Enough

And things got worse after that. The story began with a quick paragraph about the "frivolous" lawsuit filed yesterday in D.C. against Goffman, one of America’s finest consumer products companies. Its wonderful drug Maxatil had helped countless women through the nightmare of menopause, but now it was under attack by the same sharks that had bankrupted A.H. Robins, Johns Manville, Owens-Illinois, and practically the entire American asbestos industry.

The story hit its stride when it went after the lead shark, a brash young D.C. hotshot named Clay Carter who, according to their sources, had never tried a civil lawsuit before a jury. Nonetheless, he had earned in excess of $100 million last year in the mass tort lottery. Evidently, the reporter had a trusted stable of ready sources. The first was an executive with the U.S. Chamber of Commerce, who railed against lawsuits in general and trial lawyers in particular. "The Clay Carters of the world will only inspire others to file these contrived suits. There are a million lawyers in this country. If an unknown like Mr. Carter can earn so much so fast, then no decent company is safe." A law professor at a school Clay had never heard of said, "These guys are ruthless. Their greed is enormous, and because of it they will eventually choke the golden goose." A windy Congressman from Connecticut seized the moment to call for immediate passage of a class-action reform bill he’d authored. Committee hearings would take place, and Mr. Carter just might be subpoenaed to testify before Congress.

Unnamed sources within Goffman said the company would defend itself vigorously, that it would not yield to class-action blackmail, and that it would, at the appropriate time, demand to be reimbursed for its attorneys’ fees and litigation costs due to the outrageous and frivolous nature of the claims.

The company’s stock had declined 11 percent, a loss of investors’ equity of about $2 billion, all because of the bogus case. "Why don’t the shareholders of Goffman sue guys like Clay Carter?" asked the professor from the unknown law school.

It was difficult material to read, but Clay certainly couldn’t ignore it. An editorial in Investment Times called upon Congress to take a serious look at litigation reform. It too made much of the fact that young Mr. Carter had made a large fortune in less than a year. He was nothing but a "bully" whose ill-gotten gains would only inspire other street hustlers to sue everyone in sight.

The nickname "bully" stuck for a few days around the office, temporarily replacing "The King." Clay smiled and acted as if it was an honor. "A year ago no one was talking about me," he boasted. "Now, they can’t get enough." But behind his locked office door he was uneasy and fretted about the haste with which he had sued Goffman. The fact that his mass tort pals were not piling on was distressing. The bad press was gnawing at him. There had not been a single defender so far. Pace had disappeared, which was not unusual, but not exactly what Clay needed at the moment.