The King of Torts (34 page)

Clay walked to his desk, grabbed a calendar, then returned to his chair. He stalled as he tried to organize his thoughts. He did not, under any circumstances, have to answer their questions. He could ask them to leave at any time and come back when he had a lawyer present. If they mentioned Tarvan, then he would call a halt. “Not sure,” he said, flipping pages. “It’s been several months. Sometime in mid-February.”

Lohse was the record keeper; Spooner the interrogator. “Where did you meet him?”

“Dinner, in his hotel.”

“Which hotel?”

“I don’t remember. Why are you interested in Max Pace?”

A quick glance between the two. Spooner continued: “This is part of an SEC investigation. Pace has a history of securities fraud, insider trading. Do you know his background?”

“Not really. He was pretty vague.”

“How and why did you meet him?”

Clay tossed the calendar on the coffee table. “Let’s say it was a business deal.”

“Most of his business partners go to jail. You’d better think of something else.”

“That’ll do for now. Why are you here?”

“We’re checking out witnesses. We know he spent some time in D.C. We know he visited you on Mustique last Christmas. We know that in January he short sold a chunk of Goffman for sixty-two and a quarter a share the day before you filed your big lawsuit. Bought it back at forty-nine, made himself several million. We think he had access to a confidential government report on a certain Goffman drug called Maxatil, and he used that information to commit securities fraud.”

“Anything else?”

Lohse stopped writing and said, “Did you short sell Goffman before you filed suit?”

“I did not.”

“Have you ever owned Goffman’s stock?”

“No.”

“Any family members, law partners, shell corporations, offshore funds controlled by you?”

“No, no, no.”

Lohse put his pen in his pocket. Good cops keep their first meetings brief. Let the witness/target/subject sweat and maybe do something foolish. The second one would be much longer.

They stood and headed for the door. “If you hear from Pace, we’d like to know about it,” Spooner said.

“Don’t count on it,” Clay said. He could never betray Pace because they shared so many secrets.

“Oh, we’re counting on it, Mr. Carter. Next visit we’ll talk about Ackerman Labs.”

__________

AFTER TWO years and $8 billion in cash settlements, Healthy Living threw in the towel. The company, in its opinion, had made a good-faith effort to remedy the nightmare of its Skinny Ben diet pill. It had tried valiantly to compensate the half million or so injured people who had relied upon its aggressive advertising and lack of full disclosure and taken the drug. It had patiently weathered the frenzied shark attacks by the mass tort lawyers. It had made them rich.

Tattered, shrunken, and hanging on by its fingernails, the company got hammered again and simply couldn’t take anymore. The final straw was two wildcat class actions filed by even shadier lawyers who represented several thousand “patients” who used Skinny Bens but with no adverse effects. They wanted millions in compensation simply because they had consumed the pill, were now worried about it, and might continue to worry about it in the future, thus wrecking their already fragile emotional health.

Healthy Living filed for bankruptcy protection under Chapter 11 and walked away from the mess. Three of its divisions were on the block, and soon the company itself would cease to exist. It flipped the bird to all the lawyers and all their clients and left the building.

The news was a surprise to the financial community, but no group was more shocked than the mass tort bar. They had finally strangled the golden goose. Oscar Mulrooney saw it online at his desk and locked his door. Under his visionary planning, the firm had spent $2.2 million in advertising and medical testing, which had so far yielded 215 legitimate Skinny Ben clients. At an average settlement of $180,000, the cases were worth at least $15 million in attorneys’ fees, which would be the basis of his much anticipated year-end bonus.

In the past three months, he’d been unable to get his claims approved by the class-action administrator. There were rumors of dissension among the countless lawyers and consumer groups. Others were having trouble getting the money that was supposedly available.

Sweating, he worked the phone for an hour, calling other lawyers in the class, trying to get through to the administrator, then the Judge. His worst fears were confirmed by a lawyer in Nashville, one with several hundred cases, all filed ahead of Oscar’s. “We’re screwed,” the lawyer said. “HL has liabilities four times that of its assets, and there is no cash. We’re screwed.”

Oscar composed himself, straightened his tie, buttoned his sleeves, put on his jacket, and went to tell Clay.

An hour later he prepared a letter to each of his 215 clients. He gave them no false hope. Things indeed looked bleak. The firm would closely monitor the bankruptcy and the company. It would aggressively pursue all possible means of compensation.

But there was little reason to be optimistic.

Two days later, Nora Tackett received her letter. Because the mailman knew her, he knew that she had changed addresses. Nora now lived in a new double-wide trailer closer to town. She was at home, as always, probably watching soap operas on her new wide-screen, eating low-fat cookies, when he placed a letter from a law firm, three bills, and some sales flyers in her box. She had been receiving lots of mail from the lawyers in D.C., and everybody in Larkin knew why. At first her settlement from that diet pill company was rumored to be $100,000, then she told somebody at the bank that it might get closer to $200,000. It jumped again as it got talked about around Larkin.

Earl Jeter, south of town, sold her the new trailer on the news that she was getting close to half a million, and getting it fast. Plus, her sister, MaryBeth, had signed the ninety-day note.

The mailman knew for a fact that the money was causing all sorts of problems for Nora. Every Tackett in the county called her for bail money when there was an arrest. Her kids, or the kids she was raising, were being picked on at school because their mother was so fat and so rich. Their father, a man unseen in those parts for the past two years, was back in town. He told folks at the barbershop that Nora was the sweetest woman he’d ever been married to. Her father had threatened to kill him, and that was another reason she stayed inside with the doors locked.

But most of her bills were past due. As recently as last Friday someone at the bank supposedly said that
there had been no sign of any settlement. Where was Nora’s money? That was the big question in Larkin, Virginia. Maybe it was in the envelope.

She waddled out an hour later, after making sure no one was nearby. She removed the mail from the box, hustled back into the trailer. Her calls to Mr. Mulrooney were not returned. His secretary said he was out of town.

__________

THE MEETING occurred late at night, just as Clay was leaving his office. It began with unpleasant business and did not improve.

Crittle walked in with a sour face and announced, “Our liability insurance carrier is notifying us that they are canceling coverage.”

“What!” Clay yelled.

“You heard me.”

“Why are you telling me now? I’m late for dinner.”

“I’ve been talking to them all day.”

A brief time-out while Clay flung his jacket on the sofa and walked to the window. “Why?” he asked.

“They’ve evaluated your practice and they don’t like what they see. Twenty-four thousand Maxatil cases scare them. There’s too much exposure if something goes wrong. Their ten million could be a drop in the bucket, so they’re jumping ship.”

“Can they do it?”

“Of course they can. An insurance company can terminate coverage anytime it wants. They’ll owe us a
refund, but it’s peanuts. We’re naked on this, Clay. No coverage.”

“We won’t need coverage.”

“I hear you, but I’m still worried.”

“You were worried about Dyloft too, as I recall.”

“And I was wrong.”

“Well, Rex old boy, you’re wrong about Maxatil too. After Mr. Mooneyham gets finished with Goffman in Flagstaff, they’ll be anxious to settle. They’re already setting aside billions for the class action. Any idea how much those twenty-four thousand cases could be worth? Take a guess.”

“Shock me.”

“Close to a billion dollars, Rex. And Goffman can pay it.”

“I’m still worried. What if something goes wrong?”

“Have a little faith, pal. These things take time. The trial out there is set for September. When it’s over, the money will pour in again.”

“We’ve spent eight million on advertising and testing. Can we at least slow down? Why can’t you take the position that twenty-four thousand cases is enough?”

“Because it’s not enough.” And with that Clay smiled, picked up his jacket, patted Crittle on the shoulder, and left for dinner.

__________

HE WAS supposed to meet a former college roommate at the Old Ebbitt Grille, on Fifteenth, at eight-thirty. He waited at the bar for almost an hour before his cell
phone rang. The roommate was stuck in a meeting that looked as if it would never end. He gave the usual apologies.

As Clay was leaving, he glanced into the restaurant and saw Rebecca having dinner with two other ladies. He stepped back, found his bar stool, and ordered another ale. He was very aware that she had once again stopped him in his tracks. He wanted desperately to talk to her, but he was determined not to interfere. A trip to the rest room would work fine.

As he walked by her table, she looked up and immediately smiled. Rebecca introduced Clay to her two friends, and he explained that he was in the bar waiting for an old college buddy for dinner. The guy was running late, it might be a while, sorry for the interruption. Oh well, gotta run. Nice seeing you.

Fifteen minutes later, Rebecca appeared in the crowded bar and stood close beside him. Very close.

“I just have a minute,” she said. “They’re waiting.” She nodded at the restaurant.

“You look great,” Clay said, anxious to start groping.

“You too.”

“Where’s Myers?”

She shrugged as if she didn’t care. “Working. He’s always working.”

“How’s married life?”

“Very lonely,” she said, looking away.

Clay took a drink. If not in a crowded bar, with friends waiting nearby, she would have spilled her guts. There was so much she wanted to say.

The marriage is not working! Clay fought to suppress a smile. “I’m still waiting,” he said.

Her eyes were wet when she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. Then she was gone without another word.

   CHAPTER 33   

With the Orioles six runs down to the Devil Rays—of all teams—Mr. Ted Worley awoke from a rare nap and debated whether to sneak to the toilet then or wait until the seventh inning. He’d been asleep for an hour, which was unusual for him because he napped every afternoon at precisely two. The Orioles were dull but they had never put him to sleep.

But after the Dyloft nightmare he didn’t push the limits of his bladder. Not too many liquids, no beer at all. And no pressure on the plumbing down there; if he needed to go, then he did not hesitate. And what if he missed a few pitches? He walked to the small guest bathroom down the hall, next to the bedroom where Mrs. Worley was perched in her rocker doing the needlepoint that consumed most of her life. He closed the door behind him, unzipped his pants, and began to
urinate. A very slight burning sensation caused him to glance down, and when he did he almost fainted.

His urine was the color of rust—a dark reddish liquid. He gasped and braced himself with one hand against the wall. When he finished, he didn’t flush; instead he sat on the toilet seat for a few minutes trying to collect himself.

“What are you doing in there?” his wife yelled.

“None of your damned business,” he snapped back.

“Are you okay, Ted?”

“I’m fine.”

But he wasn’t fine. He lifted the lid, took another look at the deadly calling card his body had just discharged, finally flushed, and walked back to the den. The Devil Rays were now up by eight, but the game had lost whatever importance it had in the first inning. Twenty minutes later, after three glasses of water, he sneaked down to the basement and urinated in a small bathroom, as far away as possible from his wife.

It was blood, he decided. The tumors were back, and whatever form they now had they were far more serious than before.

He told his wife the truth the next morning, over toast and jam. He preferred to keep it from her as long as possible, but they were so joined at the hip that secrets, especially any related to health, were difficult to keep. She took charge immediately, calling his urologist, barking at the appointment secretary, lining up a visit just after lunch. It was an emergency and tomorrow just wasn’t acceptable.

Four days later, malignant tumors were found in Mr.
Worley’s kidneys. During five hours of surgery, the doctors removed all the tumors they could find.

The head of urology was closely monitoring the patient. A colleague at a hospital in Kansas City had reported an identical case a month earlier; a post-Dyloft appearance of kidney tumors. The patient in Kansas City was now undergoing chemotherapy and fading fast.

The same could be expected for Mr. Worley, though the oncologist was much more cautious in his first postop visit. Mrs. Worley was doing her needlepoint while complaining about the quality of the hospital’s food, which she did not expect to be delicious but why couldn’t it at least be warm? At these prices? Mr. Worley hid under the sheets of his bed and watched the television. He graciously muted the set when the oncologist arrived, though he was too sad and depressed to engage in conversation.

He would be discharged in a week or so, and as soon as he was strong enough they would begin aggressively treating his cancer. Mr. Worley was crying when the meeting was over.

During a follow-up conversation with the colleague in Kansas City, the head of urology learned of yet another case. All three patients had been Group One Dyloft plaintiffs. Now they were dying. A lawyer’s name was mentioned. The Kansas City patient was represented by a small firm in New York City.