The King of Torts

Jonah began calling after waiting impatiently for thirty minutes. He left the restaurant after an hour and headed on foot to Clay’s town house. He knocked on the door, rang the bell, cursed just under his breath, and was ready to throw rocks at the windows when he saw Clay’s car parked between two others down the street. He thought it was Clay’s car, anyway.

He walked slowly toward it. Something was wrong there, he just wasn’t sure what. It was a black Porsche Carrera all right, but it was covered with a white dust. He called the police.

A torn and empty Hanna Portland Cement bag was found under the Porsche. Someone had evidently covered the car with cement, then thrown water at it. In spots, especially on the roof and the hood, large patches of the cement had dried and stuck to the car. As the police inspected it, Jonah told them that its owner was unaccounted for. After a long computer search, Clay’s named popped up, and Jonah took off for the hospital. He called Paulette, and she was there before he arrived. Clay was in surgery, but it was only broken bones and probably a concussion. His injuries did not appear life-threatening.

The lady with the dog told police the assailants were both white males. Three college boys entering a bar on Wisconsin Avenue reported seeing two white males in black jackets hurry around the corner from N Street. They hopped into a metallic green van, where a driver was waiting for them. It was too dark to see the license plates.

The call Clay had received at 8:39 P.M. was traced to a pay phone on M Street, about five minutes from his town house.

The trail grew cold quickly. It was, after all, only a beating. And a Saturday night beating at that. The same night would see two rapes in the city, two drive-by shootings that injured five, and two murders, both of which appeared to be completely at random.

Since Clay had no family in the city, Jonah and Paulette assumed the roles of spokesmen and decision makers. At 1:30 A.M., a doctor reported to them that the surgery had gone smoothly, all the bones were set and ready to heal, some pins and screws had been installed, things couldn’t be better. They would closely monitor brain activity. They were sure there was a concussion but didn’t know how serious it was. "He looks awful," she warned them.

Two hours went by, as Clay was slowly moved upstairs. Jonah had insisted on a private room. They finally saw him just after 4 A.M. A mummy would have had less wrapping.

Both legs were in thick, full-length casts suspended a few inches off the bed by a complex series of cables and pulleys. A sheet hid his chest and arms. Heavy gauze covered his skull and half his face. His eyes were swollen and shut; mercifully he was still unconscious. His chin was swollen, his lips puffy and blue. Blood had dried on his neck.

They stood in muted silence, taking in the full extent of his wounds, listening to the monitors click and beep, watching his chest move up and down, very slowly. Then Jonah started laughing. "Look at that son of a bitch," he said.

"Hush, Jonah," Paulette hissed, ready to slap him.

"There lies the King of Torts," Jonah said, shaking with suppressed laughter.

Then, she too saw the humor. She managed to laugh without opening her mouth, and for a long moment they both stood at the foot of Clay’s bed, working hard to contain their amusement.

When the humor passed, she said, "You should be ashamed."

"I am. I’m sorry."

An orderly rolled in a bed. Paulette would take the first night, Jonah would get the second.

Fortunately, the assault was too late to make the Sunday Post. Miss Glick called each member of the firm and asked them not to visit the hospital and not to send flowers. They might be needed later in the week, but for now just say prayers.

Clay finally came back from the dead around noon Sunday. Paulette was tossing on the foldaway when he said, "Who’s there?"

She jumped up and ran to his side. "It’s me, Clay."

Through his swollen and blurry eyes he could see a black face. It certainly wasn’t Ridley. He reached out with a hand and said, "Who?"

"Paulette, Clay. Can’t you see?"

"No. Paulette? What are you doing here?" His words were thick, slow, and painful.

"Just taking care of you, boss."

"Where am I?"

"George Washington University Hospital."

"Why, what happened?"

"It’s what they call an old-fashioned ass-kicking."

"What?"

"You got jumped. Two guys with sticks. You need some pain pills?"

"Please."

She raced from the room and found a nurse. A doctor showed up a few minutes later and, in excruciating detail, explained to Clay just how badly he’d been beaten. Another pill, and Clay drifted away again. Most of Sunday was spent in a pleasant fog, with Paulette and Jonah baby-sitting as they read the newspapers and watched pro football.

The stories hit with a fury on Monday, and they were all the same. Paulette muted the television and Jonah hid the newspapers. Miss Glick and the rest of the firm circled the wagons and had "No comment" for everyone. She received an e-mail from a sailboat captain claiming to be Clay’s father. He was near the Yucatan Peninsula in the Gulf of Mexico and could someone please update him on Clay’s condition? She did so – stable condition, broken bones, concussion. He thanked her and promised to check back the following day.

Ridley arrived Monday afternoon. Paulette and Jonah cleared out, happy to leave the hospital for a while. Evidently, Georgians did not understand proper hospital waiting rituals. Whereas Americans move in with their beloved sick and wounded, those from other cultures deem it more practical to stop by for an hour, then let the hospital take care of its patients. Ridley showed great affection for a few minutes and tried to interest Clay in the latest renovations to their villa. His head pounded worse and he called for a pill. She relaxed on the foldaway and tried to nap, exhausted, she said, from the flight home. Nonstop. On the Gulfstream. He fell asleep too, and when he awoke she was gone.

A detective stopped by for a follow-up. All suspicion pointed to some thugs from Reedsburg, but there was scant proof. Clay was unable to describe the man who threw the first punch. "I never saw it," he said, rubbing his chin. To make Clay feel better, the cop had four large, color photos of the black Porsche, heavily spotted with white cement, and Clay needed another pill.

Flowers poured in. Adelfa Pumphrey, Glenda at OPD, Mr. and Mrs. Rex Crittle, Rodney, Patton French, Wes Saulsberry, a judge Clay knew from Superior Court. Jonah brought a laptop, and Clay had a lengthy chat with his father.

"The King of Shorts" newsletter published three editions on Monday, each filled with the latest newspaper stories and gossip about Clay’s beating. He saw none of it. Hidden away in his hospital room, he was sheltered by his friends.

Early Tuesday morning, Zack Battle stopped by on his way to the office and delivered some welcome news. The SEC was suspending its investigation of Clay. He had talked to Mel Snelling’s lawyer in Baltimore. Mel wasn’t budging, wasn’t caving in to FBI pressure. And without Mel, they could not put together the necessary evidence.

"I guess the Feds saw you in the papers and figured you’ve been punished enough," Zack said.

"I’m in the paper?" Clay asked.

"A couple of stories."

"Do I want to read them?"

"I advise you not to."

The boredom of the hospital was hitting hard – the traction, the bedpans, the relentless visits by the nurses at all hours, the grave little chats with the doctors, the four walls, the dreadful food, the endless rebandaging of his injuries, the taking of blood for yet more tests, the sheer tedium of lying there, unable to move. The casts would be his for weeks, and he could not envision surviving life in the city with a wheelchair and crutches. At least two additional operations were planned, minor ones, they promised him.