The King of Torts

The trip around the island took most of the day. The captain seemed to understand the basics of how the boat operated and how the wind affected it, but if not for MacKenzie they might have strayed into the sea and never been found. The captain worked hard at handling his ship, but he was also very distracted by Ridley, who spent most of the day roasting in the nude. Jarrett couldn’t take his eyes off her. Nor could MacKenzie, but he could maneuver a sailboat in his sleep.

Lunch was in a secluded cove on the north side of the island. Near St. Maarten, Clay took the helm while his father hit the beer. For about eight hours, Clay had been seminauseous, and playing captain did nothing to relieve his discomfort. Life on a boat was not for him. The romance of sailing the world held no appeal; he’d vomit in all the great oceans. He preferred airplanes.

Two nights on land and Jarrett was ready for the sea. They said good-bye early the next morning and his father’s catamaran motored out of Gustavia harbor, headed nowhere in particular. Clay could hear his father and MacKenzie bickering as they headed for open water.

He was never certain how the Realtor materialized on the porch of the villa. She was there when he returned, a charming Frenchwoman chatting with Ridley and having a coffee. She said she was in the neighborhood, just stopped by to check on the house, which was owned by one of their clients, a Canadian couple in the midst of a nasty divorce, and how were things?

"Couldn’t be better," Clay said, taking a seat. "A great house."

"Isn’t it wonderful?" the Realtor gushed. "One of our finest properties. I was just telling Ridley that it was built only four years ago by these Canadians who’ve been down twice, I think. His business turned bad. She started seeing her doctor, a real mess up there in Ottawa, and so they’ve put it on the market at a very reasonable price."

A conspiratorial glance from Ridley. Clay asked the question left hanging in the air. "How much?"

"Only three million. Started at five, but, frankly, the market is a bit soft right now."

After she left, Ridley attacked him in the bedroom. Morning sex was unheard of, but they had an impressive go at it. Same for the afternoon. Dinner in a fine restaurant; she couldn’t keep her hands off him. The midnight session began in the pool, went to the Jacuzzi, then to the bedroom and after an all-nighter the Realtor was back before lunch.

Clay was exhausted and really not in the mood for more property. But Ridley wanted the house much more than she had wanted anything, so far, so he bought it. The price was actually on the low end; it was a bargain, the market would tighten up, and he could always sell it for a profit.

During the paperwork, Ridley asked Clay, privately, if it might be wise to put the house in her name, for tax reasons. She knew as much about the French and American tax codes as he did about Georgian inheritance laws, if, in fact they had any. Hell no, he said to himself, but to her he said, firmly, "No, that won’t work, for tax reasons."

She appeared to be wounded, but the pain passed quickly as he assumed ownership. Clay went to a bank in Gustavia, alone, wired the money from an offshore account. When he met with the property attorney, he did so without Ridley.

"I’d like to stay for a while," she said as they spent another long afternoon on the porch. He was planning a departure the following morning, and he’d assumed she was leaving too. "I’d like to get this house in order," she said. "Meet with the decorator. And just relax for a week or so."

Why not? Clay thought. Now that I own the damned place, might as well use it.

He returned to D.C. by himself, and for the first time in several weeks enjoyed the solitude of his Georgetown home.

For several days Joel Hanna had considered a solo act – just him, all alone on one side of the table, facing a small army of lawyers and their assistants on the other side. He would present the company’s survival plan; he really needed no help in doing this since it was his brainchild.

But Babcock, the attorney for their insurance company, insisted on being present. His client was on the front line for $5 million, and if he wanted to be present, then Joel couldn’t stop him.

Together they walked into the building on Connecticut Avenue. The elevator stopped on the fourth floor and they entered the lush and impressive suite of the Law Offices of J. Clay Carter II. The logo "JCC" was broadcast to the world in tall bronze letters hung on a wall that appeared to be cherry or maybe even mahogany. The furniture in the reception room was sleek and Italian. A comely young blonde behind a glass-and-chrome desk greeted them with an efficient smile and pointed to a room just down the hall. A lawyer named Wyatt met them at the door, escorted them in, handled the introductions to and from the gang on the other side, and while Joel and Babcock were unpacking their briefcases another very shapely young lady materialized from nowhere and took their coffee orders. She served them from a silver coffee service with the JCC logo engraved on the pot and also on the fine china cups. When everyone was set and things couldn’t be readier, Wyatt barked at an assistant, "Tell Clay we’re all here."

An awkward minute passed as Mr. JCC kept everyone waiting. Finally, he entered in a rush, jacket off, talking to a secretary over his shoulder, a very busy man. He went straight to Joel Hanna and Babcock and introduced himself as if they were all there voluntarily and about to engage in the common good. Then he hustled around to the other side and assumed the king’s throne in the middle of his team, eight feet away.

Joel Hanna couldn’t help but think, "This guy made a hundred million bucks last year."

Babcock had the same thought, but he added to it the gossip that the kid had never tried a civil lawsuit. He’d spent five years with the crackheads in criminal court, but he’d never asked a jury for a nickel. Through all the posturing, Babcock saw signs of nervousness.

"You said you had a plan," Mr. JCC began. "Let’s hear it."

The survival scheme was quite simple. The company was willing to admit, for purposes of this meeting only, that it had manufactured a bad batch of Portland masonry cement, and that because of this, X number of new homes in the Baltimore area would have to be re-bricked. A payment fund was needed to compensate the homeowner, while not choking the company to death. As simple as the plan was, it took Joel half an hour to present it.

Babcock spoke on behalf of the insurance company. He admitted there was $5 million in coverage, something he rarely disclosed this early in a lawsuit. His client and the Hanna company would participate in a pool.

Joel Hanna explained that his company was short on cash, but was willing to borrow heavily to compensate the victims. "This is our mistake, and we intend to correct it," he said more than once.

"Do you have an accurate count of the number of homes here?" JCC asked, and every one of his minions wrote this down.

"Nine hundred and twenty-two," Joel said. "We’ve gone to the wholesalers, then to the contractors, then to the masonry subs. I think that’s an accurate number, but it could be off by five percent."

JCC was scribbling. When he stopped, he said, "So if we assume a cost of twenty-five thousand dollars to adequately compensate each client, we’re looking at about just over twenty-three million dollars."

"We are quite certain that it will not cost twenty thousand to fix each house," Joel said.

JCC was handed a document by an assistant. "We have statements from four masonry subs in the Howard County area. Each of the four has been on site to see the damage. Each has submitted an estimate. The lowest is eighteen-nine, the highest is twenty-one-five. The average of the four is twenty thousand bucks."