The King of Torts (20 page)

At that moment, his zeal was contagious. His face glowed with fanaticism. He exhaled heavily, then said, “You like this wine?”

“No, it tastes like kerosene,” Clay said.

“You’re right. Julia! Flush this! Bring us a bottle of that Meursault we picked up yesterday.”

First, though, she brought a phone. “It’s Muriel.” French grabbed it and said, “Hello.”

Julia leaned down and, almost in a whisper, said, “Muriel is the head secretary, Mother Superior. She gets through when his wives cannot.”

French slapped the phone shut and said, “Let me trot out a scenario for you, Clay. And I promise you it is designed to get you more money in a shorter period of time. Much more.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’ll end up with as many Dyloft cases as you. Now that you’ve opened the door, there will be hundreds of lawyers chasing these cases. We, you and I, can control the litigation if we move your lawsuit from D.C. to my backyard in Mississippi. That will terrify Ackerman Labs beyond anything you can imagine. They’re worried now because you’ve nailed them in D.C., but they’re also thinking, ‘Well, he’s just a rookie, never been here before, never handled a mass tort case, this is his first class action,’ and so on. But if we put your cases with mine, combine everything into one class action, and move it to Mississippi, then Ackerman Labs will have one, huge, massive corporate coronary.”

Clay was almost dizzy with doubt and with questions. “I’m listening,” was all he could manage.

“You keep your cases, I keep mine. We pool them, and as the other cases are signed up and the lawyers come on board, I’ll go to the trial judge and ask him to appoint a Plaintiffs’ Steering Committee. Do it all the
time. I’ll be the chairman. You’ll be on the committee because you filed first. We’ll monitor the Dyloft litigation, try and keep things organized, though with a bunch of arrogant lawyers it’s hard as hell. I’ve done it dozens of times. The committee gives us control. We’ll start negotiating with Ackerman pretty soon. I know their lawyers. If your inside dope is as strong as you say, we push hard for an early settlement.”

“How early?”

“Depends on several factors. How many cases are really out there? How quickly can we sign them up? How many other lawyers jump in the fray? And, very important, how severe are the damages to our clients?”

“Not very severe. Virtually all the tumors are benign.”

French absorbed this, frowning at first at the bad news, then quickly seeing the good. “Even better. Treatment is cystoscopic surgery.”

“Correct. An outpatient procedure that can be done for about a thousand dollars.”

“And the long-term prognosis?”

“A clean bill. Stay away from Dyloft and life returns to normal, which for some of these arthritis sufferers is not pleasant.”

French sniffed his wine, swirled it in his goblet, and finally took a sip. “Much better, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Clay said.

“I did a wine-tasting tour in Burgundy last year. Spent a week sniffing and spitting. Very enjoyable.” Another sip as he pondered and prioritized the next three thoughts, without spitting.

“That’s even better,” French said. “Better for our clients, obviously, because they’re not as sick as they could be. Better for us because the settlements will come faster. The key here is getting the cases. The more cases we get, the more control we have over the class action. More cases, more fees.”

“I got it.”

“How much are you spending on advertising?”

“Couple of million.”

“Not bad, not bad at all.” French wanted to ask where, exactly, did a rookie get $2 million for advertising? But he controlled himself and let it pass.

There was a noticeable reduction in power as the nose dipped slightly. “How long to New York?” Clay asked.

“From D.C., about forty minutes. This little bird does six hundred miles an hour.”

“Which airport?”

“Teterboro, it’s in New Jersey. All the private jets go there.”

“So that’s why I haven’t heard of it.”

“Your jet’s on the way, Clay, get ready for it. You could take away all my toys, just leave me a jet. You gotta have one.”

“I’ll just use yours.”

“Start off with a little Lear. You can buy them all day long for a couple of million. You need two pilots, seventy-five grand each. It’s just part of the overhead. Gotta have it. You’ll see.”

For the first time in his life, Clay was getting jet advice.

Julia removed the trays of food and said they would be landing in five minutes. Clay became entranced by the view of the Manhattan skyline to the east. French fell asleep.

They landed and taxied past a row of private terminals, where dozens of handsome jets were either parked or being serviced. “You’ll see more private jets here than in any other place in the world,” French explained as both looked out the windows. “All the big boys in Manhattan park their planes here. It’s a forty-five-minute drive into the city. If you really have the fuzz, you have your own helicopter to take you from here to the city. That’s only ten minutes.”

“Do we have a helicopter?” Clay asked.

“No. But if I lived here, I would have one.”

A limo fetched them on the ramp, just a few feet from where they stepped off the plane. The pilots and Julia stayed behind, tidying up and no doubt making sure the wine was chilled for the next flight.

“The Peninsula,” French said to the driver.

“Yes sir, Mr. French,” he replied. Was this a rented limo or one owned by Patton himself? Surely, the world’s greatest mass tort lawyer wouldn’t use a car service. Clay decided to let it pass. What difference did it make?

“I’m curious about your ads,” French said, as they moved through the congestion of New Jersey. “When did you start running them?”

“Sunday night, in ninety markets, coast to coast.”

“How are you processing them?”

“Nine people working the phones—seven paralegals,
two lawyers. We took two thousand calls Monday, three thousand yesterday. Our Dyloft Web site is getting eight thousand hits each day. Assuming the usual hit ratio, that’s about a thousand clients already.”

“And the pool is how big?”

“Fifty to seventy-five thousand, according to my source, who so far has been pretty accurate.”

“I’d like to meet your source.”

“Forget it.”

French cracked his knuckles and tried to accept this rejection. “We have to get these cases, Clay. My ads start tomorrow. What if we divide the country? You take the North and East, give me the South and West. It’ll be easier to target smaller markets, and much easier to handle the cases. There’s a guy in Miami who’ll be on television within days. And there’s one in California who, I promise you, is copying your ads right now. We’re sharks, okay, nothing but vultures. The race is on for the courthouse, Clay. We have one helluva head start, but the stampede is coming.”

“I’m doing the best I can.”

“Give me your budget,” French said, as if he and Clay had been in business for years.

What the hell, Clay thought. Sitting in the back of the limo together, they certainly seemed like partners. “Two million for advertising, another two million for the urinalyses.”

“Here’s what we’ll do,” French said without the slightest gap in the conversation. “Spend all your money on advertising. Get the damned cases, okay! I’ll front the money for the urinalyses, all of it, and we’ll
make Ackerman Labs reimburse us when we settle. That’s a normal part of every settlement, to make the company cover all medicals.”

“The tests are three hundred dollars each.”

“You’re getting screwed. I’ll put some technicians together and we’ll do it much cheaper.” Which reminded French of a story, one about the early days of Skinny Ben litigation. He converted four former Greyhound buses into traveling clinics and raced all over the country screening potential clients. Clay listened with fading interest as they crossed the George Washington Bridge. Another story followed.

Clay’s suite at The Peninsula had a view of Fifth Avenue. Once he was safely locked inside, away from Patton French, he grabbed the phone and began searching for Max Pace.

   CHAPTER 19   

The third cell phone number found Pace at some undisclosed location. The man with no home had been in D.C. less and less in recent weeks. Of course he was off putting out another fire, nixing another round of nasty litigation for another wayward client, though he didn’t admit this. Didn’t have to. Clay knew him well enough by now to know that he was a fireman in demand. There was no shortage of bad products out there.

Clay was surprised at how comforting it was to hear Pace’s voice. He explained that he was in New York, whom he was with, and why he was there. Pace’s first word sealed the deal. “Brilliant,” he said. “Just brilliant.”

“You know him?”

“Everybody in this business knows Patton French,” Pace said. “I’ve never had to deal with him, but he’s a legend.”

Clay gave the terms of the offer from French. Pace quickly caught up and then began thinking ahead. “If you refile in Biloxi, Mississippi, Ackerman’s stock will take another hit,” he said. “They’re under tremendous pressure right now—pressure from their banks and their shareholders. This is brilliant, Clay. Do it!”

“Okay. Done.”

“And watch the
New York Times
in the morning. Big story about Dyloft. The first medical report is out. It’s devastating.”

“Great.”

He got a beer from the mini-bar—$8.00 but who cared—and for a long time sat in front of the window and watched the frenzy on Fifth Avenue. It was not entirely comforting to be forced to rely on Max Pace for advice, but there was simply no one else to turn to. No one, not even his father, had ever been presented with such a choice: “Let’s move your five thousand cases over here and put them together with my five thousand cases, and we’ll do not two but one class action, and I’ll plunk down a million or so for the medical screenings while you double your advertising plan, and we’ll rake forty percent off the top, then expenses, and make us a fortune. Whatta you say, Clay?”

In the past month he’d made more money than he’d ever dreamed of earning. Now, as things spun out of control, he felt as if he was spending it even faster. Be bold, he kept telling himself, this is a rare opportunity. Be bold, strike fast, take chances, roll the dice, and you could get filthy rich. Another voice kept urging him to
slow down, don’t blow the money, bury it and have it forever.

He had moved $1 million to an account off-shore, not to hide but to protect. He would never touch it, not under any circumstances. If he made bad choices and gambled it all away, he’d still have money for the beach. He would sneak out of town like his father and never come back.

The million dollars in the secret account was his compromise.

He tried calling his office but all lines were busy, a good sign. He got Jonah on his cell phone, sitting at his desk. “It’s crazy as hell,” Jonah said, very fatigued. “Total chaos.”

“Good.”

“Why don’t you get back here and help!”

“Tomorrow.”

At seven thirty-two, Clay turned on the television and found his ad on a cable channel. Dyloft sounded even more ominous in New York.

__________

DINNER WAS at Montrachet, not for the food, which was very good, but for the wine list, which was thicker than any other in New York. French wanted to taste several red burgundies with his veal. Five bottles were brought to the table, with a different glass for each wine. There was little room for the bread and butter.

The sommelier and Patton lapsed into another language when discussing what was in each bottle. Clay was bored with the entire process. A beer and a burger
would’ve been preferable, though he could see his tastes changing dramatically in the near future.

When the wines had been opened and were breathing, French said, “I called my office. That lawyer in Miami is already on the air with Dyloft ads. He’s set up two screening clinics and is running them through like cattle. Name’s Carlos Hernández, and he’s very, very good.”

“My people can’t answer all the calls,” Clay said.

“Are we in this together?” French said.

“Let’s go over the deal.”

At which French whipped out a folded document. “Here’s the deal memo,” he said, handing it over while he went for the first bottle. “It summarizes what we’ve discussed so far.”

Clay read it carefully and signed at the bottom. French, between sips, signed as well, and the partnership was born.

“Let’s file the class action in Biloxi tomorrow,” French said. “I’ll do it when I get home. I’ve got two lawyers working on it right now. As soon as it’s filed, you can dismiss yours in D.C. I know the in-house counsel for Ackerman Labs. I think I can talk to him. If the company will negotiate directly with us, and bypass their outside counsel, then they can save a bloody fortune and give it to us. And it will greatly expedite matters. If their outside lawyers take charge of the negotiations, it could cost us half a year in wasted time.”

“About a hundred million, right?”

“Something like that. That could be our money.” A
phone rang somewhere in a pocket and French whipped it out with his left hand while holding a wineglass with his right. “Excuse me,” he said to Clay.

It was a Dyloft conversation with another lawyer, somebody in Texas, obviously an old friend, one who could talk faster than Patton French. The banter was polite, but French was cautious. When he slapped the phone shut he said, “Dammit!”

“Some competition?”

“Serious competition. Name’s Vic Brennan, big lawyer in Houston, very smart and aggressive. He’s onto Dyloft, wants to know the game plan.”

“He got nothing from you.”

“He knows. He’s unleashing some ads tomorrow—radio, television, newspaper. He’ll pick up several thousand cases.” For a moment, he consoled himself with a sip of wine, one that made him smile. “The race is on, Clay. We have to get those cases.”

“It’s about to get crazier,” Clay said.

French had a mouthful of Pinot Noir and couldn’t speak. “What?” his face said.

“Tomorrow morning, big story in the
New York Times
. The first bad report on Dyloft, according to my sources.”