The King of Torts

"This is all according to Mooneyham?" French asked.

"Yes."

"He’s a blowhard."

"No, I’ve heard it too," Carlos said. "I have a source, and he said exactly what Wes is saying."

"I’ve never heard of a defendant pushing for a trial," French said.

"Goffman’s a tough bunch," Didier added. "I sued them fifteen years ago. If you can prove liability, they’ll pay a fair settlement. But if you can’t, you’re screwed."

Once again, Clay felt like going for a swim. Fortunately, Maxatil was instantly forgotten when the two Cuban paralegals pranced onto the deck below in very skimpy outfits.

"Paralegals, my ass," French said, straining for a better view.

"Which one is yours?" Saulsberry asked, leaning out of his chair.

"Take your pick, boys," Carlos said. "They’re professionals. I brought them as a gift. We’ll pass them around."

And with that the windbags on the top deck were dead silent.

A storm arrived just before dawn and disrupted the quietness of the yacht. French, badly hung over and with a naked paralegal under his sheets, called the captain from his bed and ordered him to head for shore. Breakfast was postponed, not that anyone was hungry. Dinner had been a four-hour marathon, complete with courtroom war stories, dirty jokes, and the obligatory late-night bickering caused by too much alcohol. Clay and Ridley had retired early and double-latched their door.

Moored in Biloxi harbor, riding out the storm, the steering committee managed to review all the documents and memos it was supposed to review. There were directions to the class-action administrator, and dozens of signature blanks to be filled in. Clay was nauseous by the time they finished, and desperate to stand on solid ground.

Not lost in all the paperwork was the latest fee schedule. Clay, or more accurately, his law firm, would soon be receiving another $4 million. Exciting enough, but he wasn’t sure if he would realize it when the money arrived. It would make a nice dent in the overhead, but only a temporary one.

It would, however, get Rex Crittle off his back for a few weeks. Rex was pacing the halls like an expectant father, looking for fees.

Never again, he vowed to himself when he stepped off the yacht. Never would he allow himself to be penned up overnight with people he didn’t like. A limo took them to the airport. The Gulfstream took them to the Caribbean.

Chapter Thirty-One

They had the villa for a week, though Clay doubted he could stay away from the office that long. It was wedged into the side of a hill, overlooking the busy harbor town of Gustavia, a place bustling with traffic and tourists and all kinds of boats coming and going. Ridley had found it in a catalog of exclusive private rentals. It was a fine home – traditional Caribbean architecture, red-tiled roof, long porches and verandas. There were bedrooms and bathrooms too numerous to find, and a chef, two maids, and a gardener. They settled in quickly, and Clay began flipping through real estate guides that someone had been kind enough to leave behind.

Clay’s initial encounter with a nude beach was a huge disappointment. The first naked female he saw was a grandmother, a wrinkled old thing who, with proper advice, should’ve covered much more and exposed much less. Then her husband came strolling by, a large belly hanging low and covering his privates, a rash on his ass, and worse. Nudity was getting a bad rap. Of course, Ridley was in her element, strutting up and down the beach as heads twisted. After a couple of hours in the sand, they retired from the heat and enjoyed a two-hour lunch at a fabulous French restaurant. All the good restaurants were French, and they were everywhere on the island.

Gustavia was busy. It was hot and not the tourist season, but someone forgot to tell the tourists. They packed the sidewalks as they drifted from store to store, and they crowded the streets in their rented Jeeps and small cars. The harbor was never quiet as small fishing boats jockeyed around the yachts of the rich and famous.

Whereas Mustique was private and secluded, St. Barth was overbuilt and overbooked. But it was still a charming island. Clay loved them both. Ridley, who was showing a keen interest in island real estate, preferred St. Barth because of the shopping and the food. She liked busy towns and people. Someone had to gawk at her.

After three days, Clay removed his watch and began sleeping in a hammock on a porch. Ridley read books and watched old movies for long stretches of time. Boredom was creeping in when Jarrett Carter sailed into Gustavia harbor aboard his magnificent catamaran, The ExLitigator. Clay was sitting at a bar near the dock, drinking a soda, waiting for his father.

His crew consisted of a fortyish German woman with legs as long as Ridley’s, and a roguish old Scotsman named MacKenzie, his sailing instructor. The woman, Irmgard, was at first described as his mate, which in sailing terms meant something very vague. Clay loaded them into his Jeep and drove them to his villa, where they showered forever and had drinks while the sun disappeared into the sea. MacKenzie overdosed on bourbon and was soon snoring in a hammock.

The sailing business had been slow, much like the airplane charter business. The ExLitigator had been booked four times in six months. Its longest voyage had been from Nassau to Aruba and back, three weeks that generated $30,000 from a retired British couple. The shortest had been a jaunt to Jamaica, where they’d almost lost the boat in a storm. A sober MacKenzie had saved them. Near Cuba they had a run-in with pirates. The stories rolled forth.

Not surprisingly, Jarrett took a shine to Ridley. He was proud of his son. Irmgard seemed content to drink and smoke and watch the lights down in Gustavia.

Long after dinner, and after the women had retired for the night, Jarrett and Clay moved to another porch for another round. "Where’d you find her?" Jarrett asked, and Clay gave a quick history. They were practically living together, but neither had mentioned anything more permanent than that. Irmgard was also a temp.

On the legal front, Jarrett had a hundred questions. He was alarmed at the size of Clay’s new firm, and felt compelled to offer unsolicited advice on how to run things. Clay listened patiently. The sailboat had a computer with online access, and Jarrett knew about the Maxatil litigation and the bad press that went with it. When Clay reported that he now had twenty thousand cases, his father thought that was too many for any one firm to handle.

"You don’t understand mass torts," Clay said.

"Sounds like mass exposure to me," Jarrett countered.

"What’s your malpractice limit?"

"Ten million."

"That’s not enough."

"That’s all the insurance company would sell me. Relax, Dad, I know what I’m doing."

And Jarrett couldn’t argue with success. The money his son was printing made him long for the glory days in the courtroom. He could hear those faraway, magical words from the jury foreman, "Your Honor, we, the jurors, find for the plaintiff and award damages in the amount of ten million dollars." He would hug the plaintiff and say something gracious to the defense counsel, and Jarrett Carter would leave another courtroom with another trophy.

It was quiet for a long time. Both men needed sleep. Jarrett stood and walked to the edge of the porch. "You ever think about that black kid?" he asked, staring into the night. "The one who started shooting and had no idea why?"

"Tequila?"

"Yeah, you told me about him in Nassau when we were buying the sailboat."

"Yeah, I think about him occasionally."

"Good. Money isn’t everything." And with that, Jarrett went to bed.