The King of Torts

"No, I have not. I’m sort of sidetracked right now, with the marriage and all, but I still think about you." "All the time?" "Yes, more and more." Clay closed his eyes and placed a hand on her knee, one that she immediately removed and flung away. "I am married, Clay." "Then let’s commit adultery." "No." "Sidetracked? Sounds like it’s temporary. What’s going on, Rebecca?"

"I’m not here to talk about my marriage. I was in the neighborhood, thought about you, and just sort of popped in."

"Like a lost dog? I don’t believe that."

"You shouldn’t. How’s your bimbo?"

"She’s here and there. It’s just an arrangement."

Rebecca mulled this over, obviously unhappy with the arrangement. Okay for her to marry someone else, but she didn’t like the idea of Clay hooking up with anyone. "How’s the worm?" Clay asked. "He’s okay." "That’s a ringing endorsement from the new wife. Just okay?" "We get along." "Married less than a year and that’s the best you can do? You get along?" "Yes."

"You’re not giving him sex, are you?"

"We’re married."

"But he’s such a little twerp. I saw you dancing at your reception and I wanted to vomit. Tell me he’s lousy in bed." "He’s lousy in bed. What about the bimbo?" "She likes girls." They both laughed, and for a long time. And then they were silent again, because there was so much to say. She recrossed her legs while Clay watched closely. He could almost touch them.

"Are you going to survive?" she asked.

"Let’s not talk about me. Let’s talk about us."

"I’m not going to have an affair," she said.

"But you’re thinking about one, aren’t you?"

"No, but I know you are."

"But it would be fun, wouldn’t it?"

"It would, and it wouldn’t. I’m not going to live like that."

"I’m not either, Rebecca. I’m not sharing. I once had all of you, and I let you get away. I’ll wait until you’re single again. But would you hurry, dammit?"

"That might not happen, Clay."

"Yes it will."

Chapter Thirty-Six

With Ridley in bed beside him, Clay spent the night dreaming of Rebecca. He slept off and on, always waking up with a goofy smile on his face. All smiles vanished, though, when the phone rang just after 5 A.M. He answered it in the bedroom, then switched to a phone in his study.

It was Mel Snelling, a college roommate, now a physician in Baltimore. "We gotta talk, pal," he said. "It’s urgent."

"All right," Clay said, his knees buckling.

"Ten A.M., in front of the Lincoln Memorial."

"I can do that."

"And there’s a good chance someone will be following me," he said, then his line went dead. Dr. Snelling had reviewed the stolen Dyloft research for Clay, as a favor. Now the Feds had found him.

For the first time, Clay had the wild thought of just simply running. Wire what was left of the money to some banana republic, skip town, grow a beard, disappear. And, of course, take Rebecca with him.

Her mother would find them before the Feds.

He made coffee and took a long shower. He dressed in jeans, and would have said good-bye to Ridley but she hadn’t moved.

There was a very good chance Mel would be wired.

Since the FBI had found him, they would try their customary bag of dirty tricks. They would threaten to indict him too if he refused to snitch on his friend. They would harass him with visits, phone calls, surveillance. They would pressure him to put on a wire and lay the trap for Clay.

Zack Battle was out of town, so Clay was on his own. He arrived at the Lincoln Memorial at nine-twenty and mixed with the few tourists who were there. A few minutes later, Mel appeared, which immediately struck Clay as odd. Why would he get there half an hour before their meeting? Was the ambush being organized? Were Agents Spooner and Lohse close by with mikes and cameras and guns? One look at Mel’s face and Clay knew that the news was bad.

They shook hands, said their hellos, tried to be cordial. Clay suspected that every word was being recorded. It was early September, the air chilly but not cold; Mel, however, was bundled up as if snow was expected. There could be cameras under all that garb. "Let’s go for a walk," Clay said, sort of pointing down The Mall toward the Washington Monument.

"Sure," Mel said, shrugging. He didn’t care. Obviously, no trap had been planned near Mr. Lincoln.

"Did they follow you?" Clay asked.

"I don’t think so. I flew from Baltimore to Pittsburgh, Pittsburgh to Reagan National, grabbed a cab. I don’t think anybody’s behind me."

"Is it Spooner and Lohse?"

"Yes, you know them?"

"They’ve stopped by a few times." They were walking beside the Reflecting Pool, on the sidewalk on the south side. Clay was not going to say anything that he didn’t want to hear again. "Mel, I know how the Fibbies operate. They like to pressure witnesses. They like to wire people and collect their evidence with gadgets and high-tech toys. Did they ask you to wear a wire?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"I told them, ‘Hell no.’"

"Thank you."

"I have a great lawyer, Clay. I’ve spent some time with him, told him everything. I did nothing wrong because I didn’t trade the stock. I understand you did, which I’m sure you would handle differently now if given the chance. Maybe I had some inside information, but I did nothing with it. I’m clean. But the pinch comes when I’m subpoenaed by the grand jury."

The case had not yet been presented to the grand jury. Mel was indeed listening to a good lawyer. For the first time in four hours, Clay’s breathing relaxed a little.

"Go on," he said cautiously. His hands were stuck deep in the pockets of his jeans. Behind his sunglasses, his eyes were watching every person around them. If Mel had told the Feds everything, why would they need wires and mikes?

"The big question is how did they find me? I told no one I was reviewing the stuff. Who did you tell?"

"Absolutely no one, Mel."

"That’s hard to believe."

"I swear. Why would I tell anyone?"

They stopped for a moment to let the traffic pass on Seventeenth Street. When they were walking again, they drifted to the right, away from a crowd. Mel said, almost under his breath, "If I lie to the grand jury about the research, they’ll have a hard time indicting you. But if I get caught lying, then I go to jail myself. Who else knows I reviewed the research?" he asked again.

And with that, Clay realized there were no wires, no mikes, no one was listening. Mel wasn’t after evidence – he just wanted to be reassured. "Your name is nowhere, Mel," Clay said. "I shipped the stuff to you. You copied nothing, right?"

"Right."

"You shipped it back to me. I reviewed it again. There was no sign of you anywhere. We talked by phone a half a dozen times. All of your thoughts and opinions about the research were verbal."

"What about the other lawyers in the case?"

"A few of them have seen the research. They know I had it before we filed suit. They know a doctor reviewed it for me, but they don’t have a clue who he is."

"Can the FBI pressure them to testify that you had the research before you filed suit?"

"No way. They can try, but these guys are lawyers, big lawyers, Mel. They don’t scare easily. They’ve done nothing wrong – they didn’t trade in the stock – and they’ll give the Feds nothing. I’m protected there."