The King of Torts

"I believe we were at your wedding reception," Ridley said, finally. A not too subtle reminder to Rebecca that she happened to be married.

"Uninvited as I recall," Rebecca said.

"Oh, darn, time for my enema," Clay said, and nobody laughed but him. If a catfight broke out across his bed, he’d be mauled even worse. Five minutes earlier he’d been on the phone to Oscar, dreaming of record fees. Now, two women were drawing swords.

Two very beautiful women. Things could be worse, he told himself. Where were the nurses? They barged in at all hours of the day, with no regard for privacy or sleep patterns. Sometimes they came in pairs. And if a visitor happened to be in Clay’s room, a needless drop-in by a nurse was guaranteed. "Anything we can get for you, Mr. Carter?"

"Adjust your bed?"

"Want the TV on?"

"Or off?"

The halls were silent. Both women pawed at him.

Rebecca blinked first. She had no choice. She did, after all, have a husband. "I guess I’ll be going." She left the room slowly, as if she didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to concede territory. Clay was thrilled by that.

As soon as the door closed, Ridley withdrew to the window, where she stood for a long time and looked at nothing. Clay scanned a newspaper, completely unconcerned with her and whatever her moods might be. The cold shoulder she was working diligently to deliver happened to be welcome.

"You love her, don’t you?" Ridley said, still looking out the window, trying to appear wounded.

"Who?"

"Rebecca."

"Oh, her. Naw, she’s just an old friend."

With that she wheeled around and walked to the side of his bed. "I’m not stupid, Clay!"

"Didn’t say you were." He was still reading the newspaper, quite unmoved by this attempt at high drama. She grabbed her purse and stomped out of his room, heels clicking as loudly as possible. A nurse entered shortly thereafter, to inspect him for damages.

Oscar called a few minutes later, on his cell phone outside the courtroom. A quick recess had been ordered. "Rumor has it Mooneyham turned down ten million this morning," he said.

"Fleet tell you this?"

"No, we didn’t meet. He was tied up with some motions. I’ll try and catch him during lunch."

"Who’s on the stand?"

"Another Goffman expert, a female professor from Duke who’s discrediting the government study on Maxatil. Mooneyham is sharpening his knives. Should be ugly."

"Do you believe the rumor?"

"I’m not sure what to believe. The Wall Street boys seem excited about it. They want a settlement because they figure that’s the best way to predict costs. I’ll call you back during lunch."

There were three possible outcomes in Flagstaff; two would be delightful. A verdict against Goffman would put enormous pressure on the company to settle and avoid years of litigation and the constant barrage of big verdicts. A mid-trial settlement there would likely mean a national compensation plan for all plaintiffs.

A verdict in favor of Goffman would force Clay to scurry around and prepare for his own trial in D.C. That prospect brought back the sharp pains in his skull and legs.

Lying motionless for hours in a hospital bed was sufficient torture in itself. Now, the silent phone made matters much worse. At any moment, Goffman could offer Mooneyham enough money to make him settle. His ego would push him all the way to a verdict, but could he ignore the interests of his client?

A nurse closed the blinds, turned off the lights and the TV. When she was gone, Clay rested the phone on his stomach, pulled the sheets over his head, and waited.

Chapter Forty

The next morning, Clay was taken back to surgery for some minor adjustments to the pins and screws in his legs. "A bit of tweaking," his doctor had called it. Whatever it was required a full dose of anesthesia, which wiped out most of the day. He returned to his room just after noon, and slept for three hours before the drugs wore off. Paulette, not Ridley and not Rebecca, was waiting when he finally came around. "Any word from Oscar?" he said, with a thick tongue.

"He called, said the trial was going well. That’s about it," Paulette reported. She adjusted his bed and his pillow and gave him water, and when he was awake for good, she left to run errands. On the way out, she handed him an overnight envelope, unopened.

From Patton French. A handwritten note passed along his best wishes for a speedy recovery, and something else that Clay could not decipher. The attached memo was to the Dyloft Plaintiffs’ Steering Committee (now Defendants). The Honorable Helen Warshaw had submitted her weekly additions to her class action. The list was growing. Residual Dyloft damage was popping up all over the nation, and the Defendants were sinking deeper into the quicksand. There were now 381 members of the class, with 24 of them ex-JCC clients who’d signed up with Ms. Warshaw, up three from the week before. As always, Clay slowly read the names, and again wondered how their paths had ever crossed.

Wouldn’t his former clients love to see him laid up in the hospital – cut, broken, and bruised? Perhaps one was down the hall, having tumors and organs removed, huddling with loved ones as the clock ticked loudly. He knew he didn’t cause their diseases, but for some reason he felt responsible for their suffering.

Ridley finally stopped by on her way home from the gym. She hauled in some books and magazines and tried to appear concerned. After a few minutes she said, "Clay, the decorator called. I need to return to the villa."

Was the decorator male or female? He pondered the question but did not ask.

What an excellent idea!

"When?" he asked.

"Tomorrow, maybe. If the plane is available." Why wouldn’t it be available? Clay certainly wasn’t going anywhere.

"Sure. I’ll call the pilots." Getting her out of town would make his life easier. She was of no benefit around the hospital.

"Thanks," she said, then sat in the chair and began flipping through a magazine. After thirty minutes her time was up. She kissed him on the forehead and disappeared.

The detective was next. Three men from Reedsburg had been arrested early Sunday morning outside a bar in Hagerstown, Maryland. There had been a fight of some sort. They tried to leave the scene, in a dark green minivan, but the driver misjudged something and drove them into a drainage ditch. The detective produced three color photos of the suspects – all rough-looking characters. Clay could not identify any of them.

They worked at the Hanna plant, according to the Chief of Police in Reedsburg. Two had recently been laid off, but that was the only information the detective had managed to extract from the authorities up there. "They’re not very cooperative," he said. Having been to Reedsburg, Clay could understand why.

"If you can’t identify these guys, then I have no choice but to close the file," the detective said.

"I’ve never seen them before," Clay said.

The detective placed the photos back in his file and left forever. A parade of nurses and doctors followed with much probing and groping, and after an hour Clay fell asleep.

Oscar called around 9:30 P.M. The trial had just adjourned for the day. Everyone was exhausted, primarily because Dale Mooneyham had caused such massive carnage in the courtroom. Goffman had reluctantly hauled out its third expert, a spineless horn-rimmed in-house lab rat who’d been in charge of the clinical trials for Maxatil, and after a wonderful and creative direct examination by Roger the Dodger, Mooneyham had proceeded to butcher the poor boy on cross.

"It’s an old-fashioned rump-humping." Oscar laughed. "Goffman should be afraid to call any more witnesses."