The King of Torts

Sweating, he worked the phone for an hour, calling other lawyers in the class, trying to get through to the administrator, then the Judge. His worst fears were confirmed by a lawyer in Nashville, one with several hundred cases, all filed ahead of Oscar’s. "We’re screwed," the lawyer said. "HL has liabilities four times that of its assets, and there is no cash. We’re screwed."

Oscar composed himself, straightened his tie, buttoned his sleeves, put on his jacket, and went to tell Clay.

An hour later he prepared a letter to each of his 215 clients. He gave them no false hope. Things indeed looked bleak. The firm would closely monitor the bankruptcy and the company. It would aggressively pursue all possible means of compensation.

But there was little reason to be optimistic.

Two days later, Nora Tackett received her letter. Because the mailman knew her, he knew that she had changed addresses. Nora now lived in a new doublewide trailer closer to town. She was at home, as always, probably watching soap operas on her new wide-screen, eating low-fat cookies, when he placed a letter from a law firm, three bills, and some sales flyers in her box. She had been receiving lots of mail from the lawyers in D.C., and everybody in Larkin knew why. At first her settlement from that diet pill company was rumored to be $100,000, then she told somebody at the bank that it might get closer to $200,000. It jumped again as it got talked about around Larkin.

Earl Jeter, south of town, sold her the new trailer on the news that she was getting close to half a million, and getting it fast. Plus, her sister, MaryBeth, had signed the ninety-day note.

The mailman knew for a fact that the money was causing all sorts of problems for Nora. Every Tackett in the county called her for bail money when there was an arrest. Her kids, or the kids she was raising, were being picked on at school because their mother was so fat and so rich. Their father, a man unseen in those parts for the past two years, was back in town. He told folks at the barbershop that Nora was the sweetest woman he’d ever been married to. Her father had threatened to kill him, and that was another reason she stayed inside with the doors locked.

But most of her bills were past due. As recently as last Friday someone at the bank supposedly said that there had been no sign of any settlement. Where was Nora’s money? That was the big question in Larkin, Virginia.

Maybe it was in the envelope.

She waddled out an hour later, after making sure no one was nearby. She removed the mail from the box, hustled back into the trailer. Her calls to Mr. Mulrooney were not returned. His secretary said he was out of town.

The meeting occurred late at night, just as Clay was leaving his office. It began with unpleasant business and did not improve.

Crittle walked in with a sour face and announced, "Our liability insurance carrier is notifying us that they are canceling coverage."

"What!" Clay yelled.

"You heard me."

"Why are you telling me now? I’m late for dinner."

"I’ve been talking to them all day."

A brief time-out while Clay flung his jacket on the sofa and walked to the window. "Why?" he asked.

"They’ve evaluated your practice and they don’t like what they see. Twenty-four thousand Maxatil cases scare them. There’s too much exposure if something goes wrong. Their ten million could be a drop in the bucket, so they’re jumping ship."

"Can they do it?"

"Of course they can. An insurance company can terminate coverage anytime it wants. They’ll owe us a refund, but it’s peanuts. We’re naked on this, Clay. No coverage."

"We won’t need coverage."

"I hear you, but I’m still worried."

"You were worried about Dyloft too, as I recall."

"And I was wrong."

"Well, Rex old boy, you’re wrong about Maxatil too.

After Mr. Mooneyham gets finished with Goffman in Flagstaff, they’ll be anxious to settle. They’re already setting aside billions for the class action. Any idea how much those twenty-four thousand cases could be worth? Take a guess."

"Shock me."

"Close to a billion dollars, Rex. And Goffman can pay it." "I’m still worried. What if something goes wrong?" "Have a little faith, pal. These things take time. The trial out there is set for September. When it’s over, the money will pour in again."

"We’ve spent eight million on advertising and testing. Can we at least slow down? Why can’t you take the position that twenty-four thousand cases is enough?"

"Because it’s not enough." And with that Clay smiled, picked up his jacket, patted Crittle on the shoulder, and left for dinner.

He was supposed to meet a former college roommate at the Old Ebbitt Grille, on Fifteenth, at eight-thirty. He waited at the bar for almost an hour before his cell phone rang. The roommate was stuck in a meeting that looked as if it would never end. He gave the usual apologies.

As Clay was leaving, he glanced into the restaurant and saw Rebecca having dinner with two other ladies. He stepped back, found his bar stool, and ordered another ale. He was very aware that she had once again stopped him in his tracks. He wanted desperately to talk to her, but he was determined not to interfere. A trip to the rest room would work fine.

As he walked by her table, she looked up and immediately smiled. Rebecca introduced Clay to her two friends, and he explained that he was in the bar waiting for an old college buddy for dinner. The guy was running late, it might be a while, sorry for the interruption. Oh well, gotta run. Nice seeing you.

Fifteen minutes later, Rebecca appeared in the crowded bar and stood close beside him. Very close.

"I just have a minute," she said. "They’re waiting." She nodded at the restaurant.

"You look great," Clay said, anxious to start groping.

"You too."

"Where’s Myers?"

She shrugged as if she didn’t care. "Working. He’s always working."

"How’s married life?"

"Very lonely," she said, looking away.

Clay took a drink. If not in a crowded bar, with friends waiting nearby, she would have spilled her guts. There was so much she wanted to say.

The marriage is not working! Clay fought to suppress a smile. "I’m still waiting," he said.

Her eyes were wet when she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Then she was gone without another word.

Chapter Thirty-Three

With the Orioles six runs down to the Devil Rays – of all teams – Mr. Ted Worley awoke from a rare nap and debated whether to sneak to the toilet then or wait until the seventh inning. He’d been asleep for an hour, which was unusual for him because he napped every afternoon at precisely two. The Orioles were dull but they had never put him to sleep.

But after the Dyloft nightmare he didn’t push the limits of his bladder. Not too many liquids, no beer at all. And no pressure on the plumbing down there; if he needed to go, then he did not hesitate. And what if he missed a few pitches? He walked to the small guest bathroom down the hall, next to the bedroom where Mrs. Worley was perched in her rocker doing the needlepoint that consumed most of her life. He closed the door behind him, unzipped his pants, and began to urinate. A very slight burning sensation caused him to glance down, and when he did he almost fainted.

His urine was the color of rust – a dark reddish liquid. He gasped and braced himself with one hand against the wall. When he finished, he didn’t flush; instead he sat on the toilet seat for a few minutes trying to collect himself.

"What are you doing in there?" his wife yelled.

"None of your damned business," he snapped back.