The King of Torts (41 page)

Both legs were in thick, full-length casts suspended a few inches off the bed by a complex series of cables and pulleys. A sheet hid his chest and arms. Heavy gauze covered his skull and half his face. His eyes were swollen and shut; mercifully he was still unconscious. His chin was swollen, his lips puffy and blue. Blood had dried on his neck.

They stood in muted silence, taking in the full extent of his wounds, listening to the monitors click and beep, watching his chest move up and down, very slowly. Then Jonah started laughing. “Look at that son of a bitch,” he said.

“Hush, Jonah,” Paulette hissed, ready to slap him.

“There lies the King of Torts,” Jonah said, shaking with suppressed laughter.

Then, she too saw the humor. She managed to laugh without opening her mouth, and for a long moment they both stood at the foot of Clay’s bed, working hard to contain their amusement.

When the humor passed, she said, “You should be ashamed.”

“I am. I’m sorry.”

An orderly rolled in a bed. Paulette would take the first night, Jonah would get the second.

Fortunately, the assault was too late to make the Sunday

Post
. Miss Glick called each member of the firm and asked them not to visit the hospital and not to send flowers. They might be needed later in the week, but for now just say prayers.

Clay finally came back from the dead around noon Sunday. Paulette was tossing on the foldaway when he said, “Who’s there?”

She jumped up and ran to his side. “It’s me, Clay.”

Through his swollen and blurry eyes he could see a black face. It certainly wasn’t Ridley. He reached out with a hand and said, “Who?”

“Paulette, Clay. Can’t you see?”

“No. Paulette? What are you doing here?” His words were thick, slow, and painful.

“Just taking care of you, boss.”

“Where am I?”

“George Washington University Hospital.”

“Why, what happened?”

“It’s what they call an old-fashioned ass-kicking.”

“What?”

“You got jumped. Two guys with sticks. You need some pain pills?”

“Please.”

She raced from the room and found a nurse. A doctor showed up a few minutes later and, in excruciating detail, explained to Clay just how badly he’d been beaten. Another pill, and Clay drifted away again. Most of Sunday was spent in a pleasant fog, with Paulette and Jonah baby-sitting as they read the newspapers and watched pro football.

The stories hit with a fury on Monday, and they
were all the same. Paulette muted the television and Jonah hid the newspapers. Miss Glick and the rest of the firm circled the wagons and had “No comment” for everyone. She received an e-mail from a sailboat captain claiming to be Clay’s father. He was near the Yucatán Peninsula in the Gulf of Mexico and could someone please update him on Clay’s condition? She did so—stable condition, broken bones, concussion. He thanked her and promised to check back the following day.

Ridley arrived Monday afternoon. Paulette and Jonah cleared out, happy to leave the hospital for a while. Evidently, Georgians did not understand proper hospital waiting rituals. Whereas Americans move in with their beloved sick and wounded, those from other cultures deem it more practical to stop by for an hour, then let the hospital take care of its patients. Ridley showed great affection for a few minutes and tried to interest Clay in the latest renovations to their villa. His head pounded worse and he called for a pill. She relaxed on the foldaway and tried to nap, exhausted, she said, from the flight home. Nonstop. On the Gulfstream. He fell asleep too, and when he awoke she was gone.

A detective stopped by for a follow-up. All suspicion pointed to some thugs from Reedsburg, but there was scant proof. Clay was unable to describe the man who threw the first punch. “I never saw it,” he said, rubbing his chin. To make Clay feel better, the cop had four large, color photos of the black Porsche, heavily spotted with white cement, and Clay needed another pill.

Flowers poured in. Adelfa Pumphrey, Glenda at OPD, Mr. and Mrs. Rex Crittle, Rodney, Patton French, Wes Saulsberry, a judge Clay knew from Superior Court. Jonah brought a laptop, and Clay had a lengthy chat with his father.

“The King of Shorts” newsletter published three editions on Monday, each filled with the latest newspaper stories and gossip about Clay’s beating. He saw none of it. Hidden away in his hospital room, he was sheltered by his friends.

Early Tuesday morning, Zack Battle stopped by on his way to the office and delivered some welcome news. The SEC was suspending its investigation of Clay. He had talked to Mel Snelling’s lawyer in Baltimore. Mel wasn’t budging, wasn’t caving in to FBI pressure. And without Mel, they could not put together the necessary evidence.

“I guess the Feds saw you in the papers and figured you’ve been punished enough,” Zack said.

“I’m in the paper?” Clay asked.

“A couple of stories.”

“Do I want to read them?”

“I advise you not to.”

The boredom of the hospital was hitting hard—the traction, the bedpans, the relentless visits by the nurses at all hours, the grave little chats with the doctors, the four walls, the dreadful food, the endless rebandaging of his injuries, the taking of blood for yet more tests, the sheer tedium of lying there, unable to move. The casts would be his for weeks, and he could not envision surviving life in the city with a wheelchair and crutches. At
least two additional operations were planned, minor ones, they promised him.

The aftershocks of the actual beating came to haunt him, and he remembered more of the sounds and physical sensations of being pummeled. He saw the face of the man who threw the first punch, but couldn’t be sure if it was real or just a dream. So he didn’t tell the detective. He heard screams from the darkness, but they too could easily be part of the nightmare. He remembered seeing a black stick the size of a baseball bat rising into the air. Mercifully, he had been knocked out and could not recall most of the blows.

The swelling began to subside; his head was clearing. He quit the pain pills so he could think and try to run the office by phone and e-mail. Things were quite hectic there, according to everyone he talked to. But he suspected otherwise.

Ridley was good for an hour late in the morning and another late in the afternoon. She stood by his bed and was very affectionate, especially when the nurses were around. Paulette detested her and was quick to disappear when she entered the room.

“She’s after your money,” she said to Clay.

“And I’m after her body,” Clay said.

“Well, right now she’s getting the better end of the deal.”

   CHAPTER 39   

To read, he was forced to raise half of the bed, and since his legs were already pointed upward, he sort of folded himself into a V. A painful one. He could hold that position for no more than ten minutes before lowering the bed and relieving the pressure. With Jonah’s laptop resting on both casts, he was browsing through the newspaper articles from Arizona when Paulette answered the phone. “It’s Oscar,” she said.

They had talked briefly on Sunday night, but Clay had been drugged and incoherent. Now he was wide awake and ready for details. “Let’s hear it,” he said, lowering the bed and trying to stretch out.

“Mooneyham rested Saturday morning. His case could not have been more perfect. The guy is brilliant, and he has the jury eating out of his hands. The Goffman boys were strutting when the trial started, now I think they’re running for the bunkers. Roger Redding
put on their star expert yesterday afternoon, a researcher who testified that there is no direct link between the drug and the plaintiff’s breast cancer. I thought the guy was very good, very believable, hell he has three doctorates. The jury paid attention. Then Mooneyham ripped him to shreds. He pulled out some bad research the guy did twenty years ago. He attacked his credentials. The witness was completely slain when it was over. I’m thinking, ‘Somebody call nine-one-one, get this poor guy outta here.’ I’ve never seen a witness so thoroughly humiliated. Roger was pale. The Goffman boys were sitting there like a bunch of thugs in a police lineup.”

“Beautiful, beautiful,” Clay kept saying, the phone stuck to the gauze on the left side of his face, opposite the slashed ear.

“Here’s the good part. I found out where the Goffman folks are staying, so I switched hotels. I see them at breakfast. I see them in the bar late at night. They know who I am, so we’re like two rabid dogs circling each other. They have an in-house lawyer named Fleet who caught me in the hotel lobby yesterday after adjournment, about an hour after the slaughter of their expert. He said he wanted to have a drink. He had one, I had three. The reason he had only one is because he had to go back to the Goffman suite on the top floor where they spent the night pacing the floors, kicking around the possibilities of a settlement.”

“Say it again,” Clay said softly.

“You heard me. Goffman, at this very moment, is thinking about settling with Mooneyham. They are terrified.

They’re convinced, like everybody else in the courtroom, that this jury is about to nuke their company. Any settlement will cost a fortune because the old stud doesn’t want to settle. Clay, he is eating their lunch! Roger is excellent, but he can’t carry Mooneyham’s briefcase.”

“Back to the settlement.”

“Back to the settlement. Fleet wanted to know how many of our cases are legitimate. I said, ‘All twenty-six thousand.’ He beats around the bush for a while, then asks if I think you would consider settling them for something in the neighborhood of a hundred thousand each. That’s two point six bil, Clay. Are you doing the math?”

“It’s done.”

“And the fees?”

“Done.” And with that the pain immediately vanished. The throbbing skull was still. The heavy casts were featherlike. The delicate bruises ceased to exist. Clay felt like crying.

“Anyway, it definitely was not an offer to settle, just the first feeler. A real tense one. You hear a lot of rumors around the courthouse, especially from the lawyers and stock analysts. According to the gossip, Goffman could afford a compensation pool of up to seven billion. If the company settled now, its stock price might hold steady because the Maxatil nightmare would be over. That’s one theory, but after the bloodletting yesterday, it makes a lot of sense. Fleet came to me because we have the biggest class. The courthouse gossip puts the number of potential claims at somewhere
around sixty thousand, so we have about forty percent of the market. If we’re willing to settle for around a hundred grand each, then they can predict their costs.”

“When do you see him again?”

“It’s almost eight here, the trial resumes in an hour. We agreed to meet outside the courtroom.”

“Call me as soon as you can.”

“Don’t worry, chief. How are the broken bones?”

“Much better now.”

Paulette took the phone. Seconds later, it rang again. She answered, handed it back to Clay, and said, “It’s for you, and I’m getting out of here.”

It was Rebecca, in the hospital’s lobby, on her cell phone, wondering if a quick visit would be appropriate. Minutes later, she walked into his room and was shocked at the sight of him. She kissed him on the cheek, between bruises.

“They had sticks,” Clay said. “To even things out. Otherwise, I would’ve had an unfair advantage.” He punched the controls to the bed and began raising himself into the V.

“You look awful,” she said. Her eyes were moist.

“Thank you. You, on the other hand, look spectacular.”

She kissed him again, same place, and began rubbing his left arm. A moment of silence passed between them.

“Can I ask you a question?” Clay said.

“Sure.”

“Where is your husband right now?”

“He’s in either São Paulo or Hong Kong. I can’t keep track.”

“Does he know you’re here?”

“Of course not.”

“What would he do if he knew you were here?”

“He would be upset. I’m sure we’d fight.”

“Would that be unusual?”

“Happens all the time, I’m afraid. It’s not working, Clay. I want out.”

In spite of his wounds, Clay was having an awesome day. A fortune was within his grasp, as was Rebecca. The door to his room opened quietly and Ridley entered. She was at the foot of his bed, unnoticed, when she said, “Sorry to interrupt.”

“Hi, Ridley,” Clay said weakly.

The women gave each other looks that would terrify cobras. Ridley moved to the other side of the bed, directly opposite Rebecca, who kept her hand on Clay’s bruised arm. “Ridley, this is Rebecca, Rebecca, this is Ridley,” Clay said, then gave serious consideration to pulling the sheets over his head and pretending to be dead.

Neither smiled. Ridley reached over just a few inches and began gently rubbing Clay’s right arm. Though he was being pampered by two beautiful women, he felt more like fresh roadkill seconds before the wolves arrived.

Since there was absolutely nothing anybody could say for a few seconds, Clay nodded to his left and said, “She’s an old friend,” then to his right, and said, “She’s a new friend.” Both women, at least at that moment,
felt much closer to Clay than just a mere friend. Both were irritated. Neither flinched nor moved an inch. Their positions had been staked out.

“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.