The King of Torts

Patton French had ordered a meeting of the steering committee, a logistical impossibility that took a month to put together. Clay asked why they couldn’t do things by phone, fax, e-mail, and through secretaries, but French said they needed a day together, the five of them in the same room. Since the lawsuit had been filed in Biloxi, he wanted them there.

Ridley was up for the trip. Her modeling had all but ceased; she spent her time at the gym and put in several hours a day shopping. Clay had no complaints about the gym time, it provided icing for the cake. The shopping concerned him, but she showed remarkable restraint. She could shop for hours and spend a modest amount.

A month earlier, after a long weekend in New York, they had returned to D.C. and driven to his town house. She spent the night, not for the first time and evidently not for the last. Though nothing was said about her moving in, it just happened. Clay could not remember when he realized that her bathrobe and toothbrush and makeup and lingerie were there. He never saw her hauling her stuff into his apartment, it just materialized there. She wasn’t pushy; nothing was said. She stayed three consecutive nights, doing all the right things and not getting in the way, then she whispered that she needed a night at home. They didn’t talk for two days, then she was back.

Marriage was never mentioned, though he was buying enough jewelry and clothes for a harem. Neither appeared to be looking for anything permanent. They enjoyed each other’s company and companionship, but both kept a roving eye. There were mysteries around her that Clay did not want to solve. She was gorgeous and pleasant and okay in the sack, and she did not seem to be a gold digger. But she had secrets.

So did Clay. His biggest secret was that if Rebecca called at the right time, he’d sell everything but the Gulfstream, load her in it, and fly away to Mars.

Instead he was flying to Biloxi with Ridley, who for the trip had chosen a suede mini-skirt that barely covered the essentials, which she had no interest in covering because it was just the two of them on the plane. Somewhere over West Virginia, Clay gave a passing thought to yanking out the sofa and attacking her. The thought lingered, but he managed to put it away, partly out of frustration. Why was he always the one initiating the fun and games? She was a willing player, but she never started things.

Besides, the briefcase was filled with steering committee paperwork.

A limo met them at the airport in Biloxi. It drove them a few miles to a harbor, where a speedboat was waiting. Patton French spent most of his time on his yacht, ten miles out in the Gulf. He was now between wives. A nasty divorce was raging. The current one wanted half his money and all his hide. Life was much quieter on a boat, as he called the two-hundred-foot luxury yacht.

He greeted them in shorts and bare feet. Wes Saulsberry and Damon Didier were already there, stiff drinks in hand. Carlos Hernandez from Miami was due at any moment. French gave them a quick tour, during which Clay counted at least eight people in perfect white sailor’s garb, all standing at the ready in case he needed something. The boat had five levels, six state rooms, cost $20 million, and on and on. Ridley ducked into a bedroom and began shucking clothes.

The boys met for drinks "on the porch," as French described it – a small wooden deck on the top level. French was actually going to trial in two weeks, a rarity for him because corporate defendants normally just threw money at him in fear. He claimed to be looking forward to it, and over a round of vodkas bored them all with the details.

He froze in mid-sentence when he saw something below. On a lower deck, Ridley appeared, topless and, at first sight, bottomless as well. But there was a dental-floss bikini in the package, clinging somehow to the right spot. The three older men bolted upright and gasped for breath. "She’s European," Clay explained as he waited for the first heart attack. "When she gets near the water, the clothes come off."

"Then buy her a damned boat," Saulsberry said.

"Better yet, she can have this one," French said, trying to collect himself.

Ridley looked up, saw the commotion she was causing, then disappeared. No doubt she was followed by every waiter and staff person on board.

"Where was I?" French said, breathing again.

"You were finished with whatever story you were telling," Didier said.

Another powerboat was coming near. It was Hernandez, with not one but two young ladies in tow. After they unloaded and French got them settled in, Carlos met the boys on the porch.

"Who are the girls?" Wes asked.

"My paralegals," Carlos said.

"Just don’t make them partners," French said. They talked about women for a few minutes. Evidently, all four had been through several wives. Maybe that was why they kept working so hard. Clay did none of the talking and all of the listening.

"What’s up with Maxatil?" Carlos asked. "I have a thousand cases and I’m not sure what to do with them."

"You’re asking me what to do with your cases?" Clay said.

"How many do you have?" French asked. The mood had changed dramatically; things were serious now.

"Twenty thousand," Clay said, fudging just a little. Truth was, he didn’t know how many cases were in the office. What was a little exaggerating among mass tort boys?

"I haven’t filed mine," Carlos said. "Proving causation could be a nightmare." Words that Clay had heard enough and did not want to hear again. For almost four months, he’d been waiting for another big name to dive into the Maxatil pit.

"I still don’t like it," French said. "I was talking to Scotty Gaines yesterday in Dallas. He has two thousand cases, but isn’t sure what to do with them either."

"It’s very difficult to prove causation based solely on a study," Didier said in Clay’s direction, almost lecturing. "I don’t like it either."

"The problem is that the diseases caused by Maxatil are caused by many other factors as well," Carlos was saying. "I’ve had four experts study this drug. They all say that when a woman is taking Maxatil and gets breast cancer, it’s impossible to link the disease to the drug."

"Anything from Goffman?" French asked. Clay, who was ready to jump overboard, took a long pull on a very strong drink and tried to appear as if he had the corporation dead in the crosshairs.

"Nothing," he said. "Discovery is just getting started. I think we’re all waiting for Mooneyham."

"I talked to him yesterday," Saulsberry said. They might not like Maxatil, but they were certainly monitoring it. Clay had been a mass tort lawyer long enough to know that the greatest fear of all was missing the big one. And Dyloft had taught him that the biggest thrill was launching a surprise attack while everyone else was asleep.

He was not yet sure what Maxatil might teach him. These guys were nibbling around the edges, probing, hoping to learn something from the front lines. But since Goffman had so thoroughly stonewalled the lawsuit since the day he’d filed it, Clay had nothing to give them.

Saulsberry was saying, "I know Mooneyham very well. We tried some cases together years ago."

"He’s a blowhard," French said, as if the typical trial lawyer was tight-lipped and one with a big mouth was a disgrace to the profession.

"He is, but he’s very good. The old guy hasn’t lost in twenty years."

"Twenty-one," Clay said. "At least that’s what he told me."

"Whatever," Saulsberry said, brushing them aside because he had fresh news. "You’re right, Clay, everybody is watching Mooneyham. Even Goffman. The trial is set for sometime in September. They claim they want a trial. If Mooneyham can connect the dots and prove causation and liability, then there’s a good chance the company will set up a national compensation plan. But if the jury goes with Goffman, then the war is on because the company ain’t paying a dime to anybody."