The King of Torts

He called his pilots and told them to hustle to the airport. "Going where, sir?"

"I don’t know. Where do you want to go?"

"Beg your pardon?"

"Biloxi, Mississippi."

"One person or two?"

"Just me." He hadn’t seen Ridley in twenty-four hours and had no desire to take her with him. He needed time away from the city and anything that reminded him of it.

But two days on French’s yacht did little to help. Clay needed the company of another conspirator, but Patton was too preoccupied with other class actions. They ate and drank too much.

French had two associates in the courtroom in Phoenix and they were sending e-mails by the hour. He continued to discount Maxatil as a potential target, but he was still watching every move. It was his job, he said, since he was the biggest tort lawyer of them all. He had the experience, the money, the reputation. All mass tort, should, sooner or later, land on his desk.

Clay read the e-mails, and he talked to Mulrooney. Jury selection had taken one full day. Dale Mooneyham was now slowly laying out the plaintiff’s case against the drug. The government study was powerful evidence. The jury was keenly interested in it. "So far, so good," Oscar said. "Mooneyham is quite the actor, but Roger has better courtroom skills."

While French juggled three calls at once, with a crushing hangover, Clay sunned on the upper deck and tried to forget his problems. Late on the second afternoon, after a couple of vodkas on the deck, French asked, "How much cash you got left?"

"I don’t know. I’m afraid to crunch the numbers."

"Take a guess."

"Twenty million, maybe."

"And how much insurance?"

"Ten million. They canceled me, but they’re still on the line for Dyloft."

French sucked on a lemon and said, "I’m not sure thirty million is enough for you."

"Doesn’t appear to be sufficient, does it?"

"No. You have twenty-one claims now, and the number can only go up. We’ll be lucky if we can settle these damned things for three mil each."

"How many do you have?"

"Nineteen, as of yesterday."

"And how much cash do you have?"

"Two hundred million. I’ll be all right."

Then why don’t you just loan me, say, fifty million?

Clay managed to be amused at the way they threw around the numbers. A steward brought more alcohol, which they needed.

"And the other guys?" Clay asked.

"Wes is fine. Carlos can survive if his number stays below thirty. Didier’s last two wives cleaned him out. He’s dead. He’ll be the first one to go bankrupt, which he’s done before."

The first one? And who might be the second one? After a long silence, Clay asked, "What happens if Goffman wins in Flagstaff? I have all these cases."

"You’re gonna be one sick puppy, that’s for damned sure. Happened to me ten years ago with a bunch of bad baby cases. I hustled around, signed ’em up, sued too fast, then the wheels came off and there was no way to recover anything. My clients were expecting millions because they had these little deformed babies, you know, and so they were emotional as hell and impossible to deal with. Bunch of ’em sued me, but I never paid. The lawyer can’t promise a result. Cost me a bunch of dough, though."

"That’s not what I want to hear."

"How much have you spent on Maxatil?"

"Eight million just in advertising."

"I’d just sit on them for a while, see what Goffman does. I doubt they’ll offer anything. They’re a bunch of hardasses. With time, your clients will revolt and you can tell them to get lost." A big drink of vodka. "But think positive. Mooneyham hasn’t lost in ages. A big verdict, and the whole world is different. You’re sitting on a gold mine, again."

"Goffman told me they were coming straight to D.C. next."

"They could be bluffing, depends on what happens in Flagstaff. If they lose big, then they have to think about settling. A split-decision – liability but small damages – and they might want to try another one. If they choose yours, then you can bring in a trial stud and whip their asses."

"You wouldn’t advise me to try it myself?"

"No. You don’t have the experience. It takes years in the courtroom before you’re ready for the big leagues, Clay. Years and years."

As fiery as he was about big lawsuits, it was obvious to Clay that Patton had no enthusiasm for the scenario he had just laid out. He was not volunteering to be the trial stud in the D.C. case. He was just going through the motions in an effort to comfort his young colleague.

Clay left late the next morning and flew to Pittsburgh, anywhere but D.C. En route, he talked to Oscar, and he read the e-mails and news reports of the trial in Flagstaff. The plaintiff, a sixty-six-year-old woman with breast cancer, had testified and presented her case beautifully. She was very sympathetic, and Mooneyham played her like a fiddle. Go get ’em, ol’ boy, Clay kept mumbling to himself.

He rented a car and drove northeast for two hours, into the heart of the Allegheny Mountains. Finding Reedsburg on the map was almost as difficult as finding it on a highway. As he crested a hill on the edge of town, he saw a mammoth plant in the distance.

Welcome to Reedsburg, Pennsylvania,

a large sign said.

Home of the Hanna Portland Cement Company.
Founded in 1946

Two large smokestacks emitted a chalky dust that drifted slowly away with the wind. At least it’s still operating, Clay thought.

He followed a sign to downtown and found a parking place on Main Street. Wearing jeans and a baseball cap, with three days’ worth of dark stubble, he was not worried about being recognized. He walked into Ethel’s Coffee Shop and took a seat on a wobbly stool at the counter. Ethel herself greeted him and took his order. Coffee and a grilled cheese sandwich.

At a table behind him two old-timers were talking football. The Reedsburg High Cougars had lost three straight, and both of them could do a better job calling plays than the head coach. There was a home game that night, according to the schedule on the wall near the cash register.

When Ethel brought the coffee she said, "You just passing through?"

"Yes," Clay said, realizing that she knew every one of Reedsburg’s eleven thousand souls.

"Where you from?"

"Pittsburgh."

He couldn’t tell if that was good or bad, but she left with no further questions. At another table, two younger men were talking about jobs. It was soon clear that neither was employed. One wore a denim cap with a Hanna Cement logo on the front. As Clay ate his grilled cheese, he listened as they fretted over unemployment benefits, mortgages, credit-card bills, part-time work. One was planning to surrender his Ford pickup to the local dealer who had promised to resell it for him.

Against the wall by the front door was a folding table with a large plastic water bottle on it. A handmade poster urged everyone to contribute to the "Hanna Fund." A collection of coins and bills half-filled the bottle.

"What’s that for?" Clay asked Ethel when she refilled his cup.

"Oh, that. It’s a drive to collect money for the families laid off out at the plant."

"Which plant?" Clay asked, trying to appear ignorant.

"Hanna Cement, biggest employer in town. Twelve hundred folks got laid off last week. We stick together around here. Got those things all over town – stores, cafes, churches, even the schools. Raised over six thousand so far. Money’ll go for light bills and groceries if things get bad. Otherwise, it’ll go to the hospital."