The King of Torts

The meeting was nothing more than a bitch-and-cry session. They wanted the company of each other’s misery, but only briefly. They agreed on a very general plan to meet with Ms. Warshaw at some undetermined point in the future and delicately explore the possibility of negotiation. She was making it well known that she did not want to settle. She wanted trials – big, tawdry, sensational spectacles in which the current and past Kings of Torts would be hauled in and stripped naked before the juries.

Clay killed an afternoon and night in Atlanta, where no one knew him.

During his years at OPD, Clay had conducted hundreds of initial interviews, almost all at the jail. They usually started slow, with the defendant, who was almost always black, uncertain about how much he should say to his white lawyer. The background information thawed things somewhat, but the facts and details and truth about the alleged crime were rarely given during the first meeting.

It was ironic that Clay, the white defendant now, was nervously walking into his own initial interview with his black defense lawyer. And at $750 an hour, Zack Battle had better be prepared to listen fast. No ducking and weaving and shadowboxing at that rate. Battle would get the truth, as fast as he could write it down.

But Battle wanted to gossip. He and Jarrett had been drinking buddies years earlier, long before Battle sobered up and became the biggest criminal lawyer in D.C. Oh, the stories he could tell about Jarrett Carter. Not at $750 an hour, Clay wanted to say. Turn the damned clock off and we’ll chat forever.

Battle’s office faced Lafayette Park, with the White House in the background. He and Jarrett got drunk one night and decided to drink some beer with the winos and homeless folks out in the park. Cops sneaked up on them, thought they were perverts out looking for action. Both got arrested and it took every favor in the bank to keep it out of the newspapers. Clay laughed because he was supposed to.

Battle gave up booze for pipe tobacco, and his cluttered and dirty office reeked of stale smoke. How is your father? he wanted to know. Clay, quickly, painted a generous and almost romantic picture of Jarrett sailing the world.

When they finally got around to it, Clay told the Dyloft story, beginning with Max Pace and ending with the FBI. He did not talk about Tarvan, but he would if it became necessary. Oddly, Battle took no notes. He just listened, frowning and smoking his pipe, gazing off occasionally in deep reflection, but never betraying what he thought.

"This stolen research that Max Pace had," he said, then a pause, then a puff. "Did you have it in your possession when you sold the stock and filed suit?"

"Of course. I had to know that I could prove liability against Ackerman if we went to trial."

"Then it’s insider trading. You’re guilty. Five years in the slammer. Tell me, though, how the Feds can prove it."

When his heart began pumping again, Clay said, "Max Pace can tell them, I guess."

"Who else has the research?"

"Patton French, maybe one or two of the other guys."

"Does Patton French know that you had this information before you filed suit?"

"I don’t know. I never told him when I got it."

"So this Max Pace character is the only person who can nail you."

The history was pretty clear. Clay had prepared the Dyloft class action but was unwilling to file it unless Pace could produce enough evidence. They had argued several times. Pace walked in one day with two thick briefcases filled with papers and files and said, "There it is, and you didn’t get it from me." He left immediately. Clay reviewed the materials, then asked a college friend to evaluate their reliability. The friend was a prominent doctor in Baltimore.

"Can this doctor be trusted?" Battle asked.

Before he could say anything, Battle helped him with the answer. "Here’s the bottom line, Clay. If the Feds don’t know you had this secret research when you sold the stock short, they can’t get you for insider trading. They have the records of the stock transactions, but those alone are not enough. They have to prove you had knowledge."

"Should I talk to my friend in Baltimore?"

"No. If the Feds know about him, he might be wired. Then you go to prison for seven years instead of five."

"Would you please stop saying that?"

"And if the Feds don’t know about him, then you might inadvertently lead them to him. They’re probably watching you. They might tap your phones. I’d ditch the research. Purge my files, just in case they walk in with a subpoena. And I’d also do a lot of praying that Max Pace is either dead or hiding in Europe."

"Anything else?" Clay asked, ready to start praying.

"Go see Patton French, make sure the research cannot be traced to you. From the looks of things, this Dyloft litigation is just getting started."

"That’s what they tell me."

The return address was that of a prison. Though he had many former clients behind bars, Clay could not remember one named Paul Watson. He opened it and pulled out a one-page letter, very neat and prepared on a word processor. It read: Dear Mr. Carter: You may remember me as Tequila Watson. I’ve changed my name because the old one doesn’t fit anymore. I read the Bible every day and my favorite guy is the Apostle Paul, so I’ve borrowed his name. I got a writ-writer here to do it legally for me.

I need a favor. If you could somehow get word to Pumpkin’s family and tell them that I’m very sorry for what happened. I’ve prayed to God and he has forgiven me. I would feel so much better if Pumpkin’s family could do the same. I still can’t believe I killed him like that. It wasn’t me doing the shooting, but the devil, I guess. But I have no excuses.

I’m still clean. Lots of dope in prison, lots of bad stuff, but God gets me through every day.

It would be great if you could write me. I don’t get much mail. Sorry you had to stop being my lawyer. I thought you were a cool dude. Best wishes, Paul Watson Just hang on, Paul, Clay mumbled to himself. We might be cell mates at the rate I’m going. The phone startled him. It was Ridley, down in St. Barth but wanting to come home. Could Clay please send the jet tomorrow?

No problem, dear. It only costs $3,000 an hour to fly the damned thing. Four hours down, four hours back – $24,000 for the quick round-trip, but that was a drop in the bucket compared to what she was spending on the villa.

Chapter Thirty-Five

You live by the leak, you die by the leak. Clay had played the game a few times, giving reporters the juicy gossip off the record, then offering smug "No comments" that were printed a few lines down from the real dirt. It had been fun then; now it was painful. He couldn’t imagine who would want to embarrass him even further.

At least he had a little warning. A reporter from the Post had called Clay’s office, where he’d been directed to the Honorable Zack Battle. He found him and got the standard response. Zack called Clay with a report of the conversation.

It was in the Metro section, third page, and that was a pleasant surprise after months of front-page heroics, then scandals. Because there were so few facts the space had to be filled with something – a photo of Clay.

King of Torts under Sec Investigation

"According to unnamed sources…" Zack had several quotes, all of which made Clay sound even guiltier. As he read the story he remembered how often he’d seen Zack do the same routine – deny and deflect and promise a vigorous defense, always protecting some of the biggest crooks in town. The bigger the crook the faster he ran to the office of Zack Battle, and Clay thought, for the first time, that perhaps he’d hired the wrong lawyer.