The King of Torts (15 page)

“So am I.”

“You did good work, Clay.”

“I’m getting paid handsomely for it.”

“I’ll transfer in the last installment today. All fifteen million will be in your account. What’s left of it.”

“What do you expect me to do? Drive an old car, sleep in a rundown apartment, keep wearing cheap clothes? You said yourself that I had to spend some money to create the right impression.”

“I’m kidding. And you’re doing a great job of looking rich.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re making the adjustment from poverty to wealth with remarkable ease.”

“It’s a talent.”

“Just be careful. Don’t create too much attention.”

“Let’s talk about the next case.”

With that Pace took a seat and slid a file across. “The drug is Dyloft, manufactured by Ackerman Labs. It’s a potent anti-inflammatory drug used by sufferers of acute arthritis. Dyloft is new and the doctors have gone crazy over it. It works wonders, patients love it. But it has two problems: First, it’s made by a competitor of my client’s; second, it’s been linked to the creation of small tumors in the bladder. My client, same client as Tarvan, makes a similar drug that was popular until twelve months ago when Dyloft hit the market. The market is worth about three billion a year, give or take. Dyloft is already number two and will probably hit a billion this year. It’s hard to tell because it’s growing so fast. My client’s drug is doing a billion and a half and
losing ground fast. Dyloft is the rage and will quickly crush all competition. It’s that good. A few months ago my client bought a small pharmaceutical company in Belgium. This outfit once had a division that was later swallowed by Ackerman Labs. A few researchers got shoved out and shafted along the way. Some lab studies disappeared then surfaced where they didn’t belong. My client has the witnesses and the documents to prove that Ackerman Labs has known of the potential problems for at least the past six months. You with me?”

“Yes. How many people have taken Dyloft?”

“It’s really hard to tell because the number is growing so fast. Probably a million.”

“What percentage get the tumors?”

“The research indicates about five percent, enough to kill the drug.”

“How do you know whether a patient has the tumors?”

“A urinalysis.”

“You want me to sue Ackerman Labs?”

“Hang on. The truth about Dyloft will be out very shortly. As of today, there has been no litigation, no claims, no damaging studies published in the journals. Our spies tell us Ackerman is busy counting its money and stashing it away to pay off the lawyers when the storm hits. Ackerman may also be trying to fix the drug, but that takes time and FDA approvals. They’re in a real quandary because they need cash. They borrowed heavily to acquire other companies, most of which have not paid off. Their stock is selling for around forty-two bucks. A year ago it was at eighty.”

“What will the news about Dyloft do to the company?”

“Hammer the stock, which is exactly what my client wants. If the litigation is handled right, and I’m assuming you and I can do it properly, the news will murder Ackerman Labs. And since we have the inside proof that Dyloft is bad, the company will have no choice but to settle. They can’t risk a trial, not with such a dangerous product.”

“What’s the downside?”

“Ninety-five percent of the tumors are benign, and very small. There’s no real damage to the bladder.”

“So the litigation is used to shock the market?”

“Yes, and, of course, to compensate the victims. I don’t want tumors in my bladder, benign or malignant. Most jurors would feel the same way. Here’s the scenario: You put together a group of fifty or so plaintiffs, and file a big lawsuit on behalf of all Dyloft patients. At precisely the same time, you launch a series of television ads soliciting more cases. You hit fast and hard, and you’ll get thousands of cases. The ads run coast to coast—quickie ads that’ll scare folks and make them dial your toll-free number right here in D.C., where you have a warehouse full of paralegals answering the phones and doing the grunt work. It’s gonna cost you some money, but if you get, say, five thousand cases, and you settle them for twenty thousand bucks each, that’s one hundred million dollars. Your cut is one third.”

“That’s outrageous!”

“No, Clay, that’s mass tort litigation at its finest.

That’s how the system works these days. And if you don’t do it, I guarantee you someone else will. And very soon. There is so much money involved that the mass tort lawyers wait like vultures for any hint of a bad drug. And believe me, there are plenty of bad drugs.”

“Why am I the lucky guy?”

“Timing, my friend. If my client knows exactly when you file the lawsuit, then they can react to the market.”

“Where do I find fifty clients?” Clay asked.

Max thumped another file. “We know of at least a thousand. Names, addresses, all right here.”

“You mentioned a warehouse full of paralegals?”

“Half a dozen. It’ll take that many to answer the phones and keep the files organized. You could end up with five thousand individual clients.”

“Television ads?”

“Yep, I’ve got the name of a company that can put the ad together in less than three days. Nothing fancy—a voice-over, images of pills dropping onto a table, the potential evils of Dyloft, fifteen seconds of terror designed to make people call the Law Offices of Clay Carter II. These ads work, believe me. Run them in all major markets for a week and you’ll have more clients than you can count.”

“How much will it cost?”

“Couple of million, but you can afford it.”

It was Clay’s turn to pace around the room and let the blood circulate. He’d seen some ads for diet pills that had gone bad, ads in which unseen lawyers were
trying to frighten folks into dialing a toll-free number. Surely, he wasn’t about to sink that low.

But thirty-three million dollars in fees! He was still numb from the first fortune.

“What’s the timetable?”

Pace had a list of the first things to do. “You’ll have to sign up the clients, which will take two weeks max. Three days to finish the ad. A few days to buy the television time. You’ll need to hire paralegals and put them in some rented space out in the suburbs; it’s too expensive here. The lawsuit has to be prepared. You have a good staff. You should be able to get it done in less than thirty days.”

“I’m taking the firm to Paris for a week, but we’ll get it done.”

“My client wants the lawsuit filed in less than a month. July the second, to be exact.”

Clay returned to the table and stared at Pace. “I’ve never handled a lawsuit like this,” he said.

Pace pulled something out of his file. “Are you busy this weekend?” he asked, looking at a brochure.

“Not really.”

“Been to New Orleans lately?”

“About ten years ago.”

“Ever heard of the Circle of Barristers?”

“Maybe.”

“It’s an old group with a new life—a bunch of trial lawyers who specialize in mass torts. They get together twice a year and talk about the latest trends in litigation. It would be a productive weekend.” He slid the brochure across to Clay who picked it up. On the cover
was a color photo of the Royal Sonesta Hotel in the French Quarter.

__________

NEW ORLEANS was warm and humid as always, especially in the Quarter.

He was alone, and that was fine. Even if he and Rebecca were still together she would not have made the trip. She would’ve been too busy at work, with shopping to do on the weekend with her mother. The usual routine. He had thought about inviting Jonah, but that relationship was strained at the moment. Clay had moved out of their cramped apartment and into the comfort of Georgetown without offering to take Jonah with him, an affront, but one that Clay had anticipated and was prepared to deal with. The last thing he wanted in his new town house was a wild roommate coming and going at all hours with whatever stray cat he could pick up.

The money was beginning to isolate him. Old friends he once called were now being ignored because he didn’t want all the questions. Old places were no longer frequented because he could afford something better. In less than a month, he had changed jobs, homes, cars, banks, wardrobes, eating places, gyms, and he was most definitely in the process of changing girlfriends, though no substitute was on the horizon. They had not spoken in twenty-eight days. He’d been under the assumption that he would call her on the thirtieth day, as promised, but so much had changed since then.

By the time Clay entered the lobby of the Royal Sonesta his shirt was wet and clinging to his back. The registration fee was $5,000, an outrageous amount for a few days of fraternizing with a bunch of lawyers. The fee said to the legal world that not everyone was invited, only the rich who were serious about their mass torts. His room was another $450 a night, and he paid for it with an unused platinum credit card.

Various seminars were under way. He drifted through a discussion on toxic torts, led by two lawyers who’d sued a chemical company for polluting drinking water that might or might not have caused cancer, but the company paid a half a billion anyway and the two lawyers got rich. Next door a lawyer Clay had seen on television was in full throttle on how to handle the media, but he had few listeners. In fact, most of the seminars were lightly attended. But it was Friday afternoon and the heavyweights arrived on Saturday.

Clay eventually found the crowd in the small exhibition hall where an aircraft company was showing a video on its upcoming luxury jet, the fanciest of its generation. The show was on a wide screen in one corner of the hall, and lawyers were packed together, all silent, all gawking at this latest miracle of aviation. Range of four thousand miles—“Coast to coast, or New York to Paris, nonstop of course.” It burned less fuel than the other four jets Clay had never heard of, and went faster too. The interior was roomy with seats and sofas everywhere, even a very comely flight attendant in a short skirt, holding a bottle of champagne and a bowl of cherries. The leather was a rich tan
color. For pleasure or for work, because the Galaxy 9000 came with a cutting-edge phone system and a satellite receiver that allowed the busy lawyer to call anywhere in the world; and faxes and a copier, and, of course, instant Internet access. The video actually showed a group of harsh-looking lawyer types huddled around a small table, with their sleeves rolled up as if they were laboring over some settlement, while the comely blonde in the short skirt got ignored along with her champagne.

Clay inched closer into the crowd, feeling very much like a trespasser. Wisely, the video never gave the selling price of the Galaxy 9000. There were better deals, involving time-shares and trade-ins, and leasebacks, all of which could be explained by the sales reps who were standing nearby ready to do business. When the screen went blank, the lawyers all began talking at once, not about bad drugs and class-action suits, but about jets and how much pilots cost. The sales reps were surrounded by eager buyers. At one point, Clay overheard someone say, “A new one is in the thirty-five range.”

Surely it wasn’t thirty-five million.

Other exhibitors were offering all sorts of luxury items. A boatbuilder had a group of serious lawyers interested in yachts. There was a specialist on Caribbean real estate. Another was peddling cattle ranches in Montana. An electronics booth with the latest absurdly expensive gadgets was particularly busy.

And the automobiles. One entire wall was lined with elaborate displays of expensive cars—a Mercedes-Benz
convertible coupe, a limited edition Corvette, a maroon Bentley, which every respectable mass tort lawyer had to have. Porsche was unveiling its own SUV and a salesman was taking orders. The biggest gathering was gawking over a shiny royal blue Lamborghini. Its price tag was almost hidden, as if the manufacturer was afraid of it. Only $290,000, and a very limited supply. Several lawyers appeared ready to wrestle for the car.

In a quieter section of the hall, a tailor and his assistants were measuring a rather large lawyer for an Italian suit. A sign said they were from Milan, but Clay heard some very American English.

In law school, he had once attended a panel discussion on large settlements, and what lawyers should do to protect their unsophisticated clients from the temptations of instant riches. Several trial lawyers told horror stories of working families who had ruined their lives with their settlements, and the stories were fascinating studies in human behavior. At one point, a lawyer on the panel quipped, “Our clients spend their money almost as fast as we do.”

As Clay gazed around the exhibition hall, he saw lawyers spending money as fast as they could make it. Was he guilty of this?

Of course not. He’d stuck to the basics, at least so far. Who wouldn’t want a new car and a better home? He wasn’t buying yachts and planes and cattle ranches. Didn’t want them. And if Dyloft earned him another fortune, he would not, under any circumstances, waste
his money on jets and second homes. He would bury it in the bank, or in the backyard.

The frenzied orgy of consumption sickened him, and Clay left the hotel. He wanted some oysters and Dixie Beer.

   CHAPTER 15   

The only nine o’clock session on Saturday morning was an update on class-action legislation currently being debated in Congress. The topic drew a small crowd. For $5,000, Clay was determined to soak up as much as he could. Of the few present, he appeared to be the only one without a hangover. Tall cups of steaming coffee were being drained around the ballroom.

The speaker was a lawyer/lobbyist from Washington who got off to a bad start by telling two dirty jokes, both of which bombed. The crowd was all-white, all-male, a regular fraternity, but not in the mood for tasteless jokes. The presentation quickly went from bad humor to boredom. However, at least for Clay, the materials were somewhat interesting and mildly informative; he knew very little about class actions so everything was new.

At ten, he had to choose between a panel discussion
on the latest in Skinny Ben developments and a presentation by a lawyer whose speciality was lead paint, a topic that sounded rather dull to Clay, so he went with the former. The room was full.