The King of Torts (39 page)

Clay shook it and said, “So nice to hear from Goffman. You’ve hardly acknowledged my lawsuit.” Gibb turned his back and walked away.

“Let’s finish this one,” Mitchell said. “Then we’ll talk.”

Clay was about to reenter the courtroom when a pushy reporter stepped in front of him. He was Derek somebody with
Financial Weekly
and wanted a quick word or two. His newspaper was a right-wing, trial lawyer–hating, tort-bashing, corporate mouthpiece, and Clay knew better than to give him even a “No comment” or a “Kiss off.” Derek’s name was vaguely familiar. Was he the reporter who’d written so many unkind things about Clay?

“Can I ask what you’re doing here?” Derek said.

“I guess you can.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Same thing you’re doing here.”

“And that is?”

“Enjoying the heat.”

“Is it true that you have twenty-five thousand Maxatil cases?”

“No.”

“How many?”

“Twenty-six thousand.”

“How much are they worth?”

“Somewhere between zero and a couple of billion.”

Unknown to Clay, the Judge had gagged the lawyers for both sides from then until the end of the trial. Since he was willing to talk, he attracted a crowd. He was surprised to see himself surrounded by reporters. He answered a few more questions without saying much at all.

__________

THE
ARIZONA
Ledger
quoted him as claiming his cases could be worth $2 billion. It ran a photo of Clay outside the courtroom, microphones in his face, with the caption “King of Torts in Town.” A brief summary of Clay’s visit followed, along with a few paragraphs about the big trial itself. The reporter did not directly call him a greedy, opportunistic trial lawyer, but the implication was that he was a vulture, circling, hungry, waiting to attack Goffman’s carcass.

The courtroom was packed with potential jurors and spectators. Nine A.M. came and went with no sign of the lawyers or the Judge. They were in chambers, no doubt still arguing pretrial issues. Bailiffs and clerks busied themselves around the bench. A young man in a suit emerged from the back, passed through the bar, and headed down the center aisle. He abruptly stopped, looked directly at Clay, then leaned down and whispered, “Are you Mr. Carter?”

Taken aback, Clay nodded.

“The Judge would like to see you.”

The newspaper was in the middle of the Judge’s desk. Dale Mooneyham was in one corner of the large office. Roger Redding was leaning on a table by the
window. The Judge was rocking in his swivel chair. None of the three were happy. Very awkward introductions were made. Mooneyham refused to step forward and shake Clay’s hand, preferring instead to offer a slight nod and a look that conveyed hatred.

“Are you aware of the gag order I’ve put in place, Mr. Carter?” asked the Judge.

“No sir.”

“Well, there is one.”

“I’m not one of the attorneys in this case,” Clay said.

“We work hard at having fair trials in Arizona, Mr. Carter. Both sides want a jury as uninformed and as impartial as possible. Now, thanks to you, the potential jurors know that there are at least twenty-six thousand similar cases out there.”

Clay was not about to appear weak or apologetic, not with Roger Redding watching every move.

“Maybe it was unavoidable,” Clay said. He would never try a case in front of this judge. No sense being intimidated.

“Why don’t you just leave the state of Arizona?” Mooneyham boomed from the corner.

“I really don’t have to,” Clay shot back.

“You want me to lose?”

And with that, Clay had heard enough. He wasn’t sure how his presence might harm Mooneyham’s case, but why run the risk?

“Very well, Your Honor, I guess I’ll be seeing you.”

“An excellent idea,” the Judge said.

Clay looked at Roger Redding and said, “See you in D.C.”

Roger smiled politely, but slowly shook his head no.

Oscar agreed to remain in Flagstaff and monitor the trial. Clay hopped on the Gulfstream for a very somber ride home. Banished from Arizona.

   CHAPTER 37   

In Reedsburg, the news that Hanna was laying off twelve hundred workers brought the town to a halt. The announcement came in a letter written by Marcus Hanna and given to all employees.

In fifty years, the company had been through only four layoffs. It had weathered cycles and slowdowns and had always worked hard to keep everyone on the payroll. Now that it was in bankruptcy, the rules were different. The company was under pressure to prove to the court and to its creditors that it had a viable financial future.

Events beyond the control of management were to blame. Flat sales were a factor, but nothing the company hadn’t seen many times before. The crushing blow was the failure to reach a settlement in the class-action lawsuit. The company had bargained in good faith, but
an overzealous and greedy law firm in D.C. had made unreasonable demands.

Survival was at stake, and Marcus assured his people that the company was not going under. Drastic cost cutting would be required. A painful reduction in expenses for the next year would guarantee a profitable future.

To the twelve hundred getting pink slips, Marcus promised all the help the company could provide. Unemployment benefits would last for a year. Obviously, Hanna would hire them back as soon as possible, but no promises were made. The layoffs might become permanent.

In the cafés and barbershops, in the hallways of the schools and the pews of the churches, in the bleachers at soccer and peewee football games, on the sidewalks around the town square, in the beer joints and pool halls, the town talked of nothing else. Every one of the eleven thousand residents knew someone who’d just lost his or her job at Hanna. The layoffs were the biggest disaster in the quiet history of Reedsburg. Though the town was tucked away in the Alleghenies, word got out.

The reporter for the
Baltimore Press
who had written three articles about the Howard County class action was still watching. He was monitoring the bankruptcy filing. He was still chatting with the homeowners as their bricks fell off. News of the layoffs prompted him to go to Reedsburg. He went to the cafés and pool halls and soccer games.

The first of his two stories was as long as a short novel. An author bent on deliberate slander could not have been crueller. All of Reedsburg’s misery could
have easily been avoided if the class-action lawyer, J. Clay Carter II of D.C., had not been strident in his quest for large fees.

Since Clay did not read the
Baltimore Press
, and in fact he was dodging most papers and magazines, he might have avoided the news from Reedsburg, at least for a while. But the still-unknown editor(s) of the unauthorized and unwelcome newsletter faxed it over. The latest copy of “The King of Shorts,” obviously thrown together in a hurry, ran the
Press
story.

Clay read it and wanted to sue the newspaper.

However, he would soon forget about the
Baltimore Press
because a larger nightmare was looming. A week earlier, a reporter from
Newsweek
had called and, as usual, been stiff-armed by Miss Glick. Every lawyer dreams of national exposure, but only if it’s the high-profile case or billion-dollar verdict. Clay suspected this was neither, and he was right.
Newsweek
was not really interested in Clay Carter, but rather, his nemesis.

It was a puff piece for Helen Warshaw, two pages of glory that any lawyer would kill for. A striking photo had Ms. Warshaw in a courtroom somewhere, standing in front of an empty jury box, looking quite tenacious and brilliant, but also very believable. Clay had never seen her before, and he’d hoped she would somehow resemble a “ruthless bitch,” as Saulsberry had called her. She did not. She was very attractive—short, dark hair and sad brown eyes that would hold the attention of any jury. Clay stared at her and wished he had her case rather than his. Hopefully, they would never meet. And if so, never in a courtroom.

Ms. Warshaw was one of three partners in a New York firm that specialized in attorney malpractice, a rare but growing niche. Now she was going after some of the biggest and richest lawyers in the country, and she was not going to settle. “I’ve never seen a case with as much jury appeal,” she said, and Clay wanted to slit his wrists.

She had fifty Dyloft clients, all dying, all suing. The story gave the quick and dirty history of the class-action litigation.

Of the fifty, for some reason the reporter focused on Mr. Ted Worley, of Upper Marlboro, Maryland, and ran a photo of the poor guy sitting in his backyard with his wife behind him, their arms crossed, both faces sad and frowning. Mr. Worley, weak and trembling and angry, recounted his first contact with Clay Carter, a phone call from nowhere while he was trying to enjoy an Orioles game, the frightening news about Dyloft, the urinalysis, the visit from the young lawyer, the filing of the lawsuit. Everything. “I didn’t want to settle,” he said more than once.

For
Newsweek
Mr. Worley produced all of his paperwork—the medical records, the court filings, the insidious contract with Carter that gave the lawyer the authority to settle for any amount over $50,000. Everything, including copies of the two letters Mr. Worley had written to Mr. Carter in protest of the “sell-out.” The lawyer did not answer the letters.

According to his doctors, Mr. Worley had less than six months to live. Slowly reading each awful word of
the story, Clay felt as if he was responsible for the cancer.

Helen explained that the jury would hear from many of her clients by video, since they would not last until the trial. A rather cruel thing to say, Clay thought, but then everything in the story was wicked.

Mr. Carter declined to comment. For good measure, they threw in the White House photo of Clay and Ridley, and they couldn’t resist the tidbit that he had donated $250,000 to the Presidential Review.

“He’s gonna need friends like the President,” Helen Warshaw said, and Clay could almost feel the bullet between his eyes. He flung the magazine across his office. He wished he’d never been to the White House, never met the President, never written that damned check, never met Ted Worley, never met Max Pace, never thought about going to law school.

He called his pilots and told them to hustle to the airport. “Going where, sir?”

“I don’t know. Where do you want to go?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Biloxi, Mississippi.”

“One person or two?”

“Just me.” He hadn’t seen Ridley in twenty-four hours and had no desire to take her with him. He needed time away from the city and anything that reminded him of it.

But two days on French’s yacht did little to help. Clay needed the company of another conspirator, but Patton was too preoccupied with other class actions. They ate and drank too much.

French had two associates in the courtroom in Phoenix and they were sending e-mails by the hour. He continued to discount Maxatil as a potential target, but he was still watching every move. It was his job, he said, since he was the biggest tort lawyer of them all. He had the experience, the money, the reputation. All mass torts should, sooner or later, land on his desk.

Clay read the e-mails, and he talked to Mulrooney. Jury selection had taken one full day. Dale Mooneyham was now slowly laying out the plaintiff’s case against the drug. The government study was powerful evidence. The jury was keenly interested in it. “So far, so good,” Oscar said. “Mooneyham is quite the actor, but Roger has better courtroom skills.”

While French juggled three calls at once, with a crushing hangover, Clay sunned on the upper deck and tried to forget his problems. Late on the second afternoon, after a couple of vodkas on the deck, French asked, “How much cash you got left?”

“I don’t know. I’m afraid to crunch the numbers.”

“Take a guess.”

“Twenty million, maybe.”

“And how much insurance?”

“Ten million. They canceled me, but they’re still on the line for Dyloft.”

French sucked on a lemon and said, “I’m not sure thirty million is enough for you.”

“Doesn’t appear to be sufficient, does it?”

“No. You have twenty-one claims now, and the number can only go up. We’ll be lucky if we can settle these damned things for three mil each.”

“How many do you have?”

“Nineteen, as of yesterday.”

“And how much cash do you have?”

“Two hundred million. I’ll be all right.”

Then why don’t you just loan me, say, fifty million? Clay managed to be amused at the way they threw around the numbers. A steward brought more alcohol, which they needed.

“And the other guys?” Clay asked.

“Wes is fine. Carlos can survive if his number stays below thirty. Didier’s last two wives cleaned him out. He’s dead. He’ll be the first one to go bankrupt, which he’s done before.”

The first one? And who might be the second one?

After a long silence, Clay asked, “What happens if Goffman wins in Flagstaff? I have all these cases.”

“You’re gonna be one sick puppy, that’s for damned sure. Happened to me ten years ago with a bunch of bad baby cases. I hustled around, signed ’em up, sued too fast, then the wheels came off and there was no way to recover anything. My clients were expecting millions because they had these little deformed babies, you know, and so they were emotional as hell and impossible to deal with. Bunch of ’em sued me, but I never paid. The lawyer can’t promise a result. Cost me a bunch of dough, though.”

“That’s not what I want to hear.”

“How much have you spent on Maxatil?”

“Eight million just in advertising.”

“I’d just sit on them for a while, see what Goffman does. I doubt they’ll offer anything. They’re a bunch of
hardasses. With time, your clients will revolt and you can tell them to get lost.” A big drink of vodka. “But think positive. Mooneyham hasn’t lost in ages. A big verdict, and the whole world is different. You’re sitting on a gold mine, again.”

“Goffman told me they were coming straight to D.C. next.”