The King of Torts (44 page)

“Clay, I want to help.”

“I’m not taking your money. That’s why you’re here, and I know it. I’ve had this conversation twice with Paulette and once with Jonah. You made your money and you were smart enough to cash out. I wasn’t.”

“But we’re not going to let you die, man. You didn’t have to give us ten million bucks. But you did. We’re giving some back.”

“No.”

“Yes. The three of us have talked about it. We’ll wait until the bankruptcy is over, then each of us will do a transfer. A gift.”

“You earned that money, Rodney. Keep it.”

“Nobody earns ten million dollars in six months, Clay, You might win it, steal it, or have it drop out of the sky, but nobody earns money like that. It’s ridiculous and obscene. I’m giving some back. So is Paulette. Not sure about Jonah, but he’ll come around.”

“How are the kids?”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“Yes, I’m changing the subject.”

So they talked about kids, and old friends at OPD, and old clients and cases there. They sat on the front steps until after dark, when Rebecca arrived and it was time for dinner.

   CHAPTER 42   

The
Post
reporter was Art Mariani, a young man who knew Clay Carter well because he’d documented his astounding rise and his equally amazing crash with careful attention to detail and a reasonable dose of fairness. When Mariani arrived at Clay’s town house, he was greeted by Paulette and led down the narrow hall to the kitchen where folks were waiting. Clay hobbled to his feet and introduced himself, then went around the table—Zack Battle, his attorney; Rebecca Van Horn, his friend; and Oscar Mulrooney, his partner. Tape recorders were plugged in. Rebecca made the rounds with the coffeepot.

“It’s a long story,” Clay said, “but we have plenty of time.”

“I have no deadline,” Mariani said.

Clay took a swig of coffee, a deep breath, and jumped into the story. He began with the shooting of
Ramón “Pumpkin” Pumphrey by his client, Tequila Watson. Dates, times, places, Clay had notes of everything and all the files. Then Washad Porter and his two murders. Then the other four. Camp Deliverance, Clean Streets, the amazing results of a drug called Tarvan. Though he would never mention the name of Max Pace, he described in detail Pace’s history of Tarvan—the secret clinical trials in Mexico City, Belgrade, and Singapore, the manufacturer’s desire to test it on those of African descent, preferably in the United States. The drug’s arrival in D.C.

“Who made the drug?” Mariani asked, visibly shaken.

After a long pause in which he seemed unable to speak, Clay answered, “I’m not completely sure. But I think it’s Philo.”

“Philo Products?”

“Yes.” Clay reached for a thick document and slid it over to Mariani. “This is one of the settlement agreements. As you will see, there are two offshore companies mentioned. If you can penetrate them, pick up the trail, it will probably lead you to a shell company in Luxembourg, then to Philo.”

“Okay, but why do you suspect Philo?”

“I have a source. That’s all I can tell you.”

This mysterious source selected Clay from all the attorneys in D.C. and convinced him to sell his soul for $15 million. He quickly quit OPD and opened his own firm. Mariani already knew much of this. Clay signed up the families of six of the victims, easily convinced them to take $5 million and keep quiet, and within
thirty days had the matter wrapped up. The details poured forth, as did the documents and settlement agreements.

“When I publish this story, what happens to your clients, the families of the victims?” Mariani asked.

“I’ve lost sleep worrying about that, but I think they’ll be fine,” Clay said. “First, they’ve had the money for a year now, so it’s safe to assume a lot of it has been spent. Second, the drugmaker would be insane to try and set aside these settlements.”

“The families could then sue the manufacturer directly,” Zack added helpfully. “And those verdicts could destroy any big corporation. I’ve never seen a more volatile set of facts.”

“The company won’t touch the settlement agreements,” Clay said. “It’s lucky to get out with a fifty-million settlement.”

“Can the families set the agreements aside when they learn the truth?” Mariani asked.

“It would be difficult.”

“What about you? You signed confidentiality agreements?”

“I’m not a factor anymore. I’m about to be bankrupt. I’m about to surrender my license to practice law. They can’t touch me.” It was a sad admission, one that hurt Clay’s friends as much as it hurt him.

Mariani scribbled some notes and shifted gears. “What happens to Tequila Watson, Washad Porter, and the other men who were convicted of these murders?”

“First, they can probably sue the drugmaker, which won’t help them much in prison. Second, there’s a
chance their cases could be reopened, at least the sentencing aspect.”

Zack Battle cleared his throat and everyone waited. “Off the record. After you publish whatever you decide to publish, and after the storm dies down, I plan to take these cases and have them reviewed. I’ll sue on behalf of the seven defendants, that is, if we can identify the pharmaceutical company. I might petition the criminal courts to reopen their convictions.”

“This is very explosive,” Mariani said, stating the obvious. He studied his notes for a long time. “What led to the Dyloft litigation?”

“That’s another chapter for another day,” Clay said. “You’ve documented most of it anyway. I’m not talking about it.”

“Fair enough. Is this story over?”

“For me it is,” Clay said.

__________

PAULETTE AND Zack drove them to the airport, to Reagan National where Clay’s once-beloved Gulfstream sat very close to the spot where he’d first seen it. Since they were leaving for at least six months, there was a lot of luggage, especially Rebecca’s. Clay, having shed so much in the past month, was traveling light. He got about fine with his crutches, but he couldn’t carry anything. Zack acted as his porter.

He gamely showed them his airplane, though they all knew this was its final voyage. Clay hugged Paulette and embraced Zack, thanked them both and promised to call within days. When the copilot locked the door,
Clay pulled the shades over the windows so he would see none of Washington when they lifted off.

To Rebecca, the jet was a ghastly symbol of the destructive power of greed. She longed for the tiny flat in London, where no one knew them, and no one cared what they wore, drove, bought, ate, or where they worked, shopped, or vacationed. She wasn’t coming home. She had fought with her parents for the last time.

Clay longed for two good legs and a clean slate. He was surviving one of the more infamous meltdowns in the history of American law, and it was further and further behind him. He had Rebecca all to himself, and nothing else mattered.

Somewhere over Newfoundland, they unfolded the sofa and fell asleep under the covers.

Books by John Grisham

A TIME TO KILL
THE FIRM
THE PELICAN BRIEF
THE CLIENT
THE CHAMBER
THE RAINMAKER
THE RUNAWAY JURY
THE PARTNER
THE STREET LAWYER
THE TESTAMENT
THE BRETHREN
A PAINTED HOUSE
SKIPPING CHRISTMAS
THE SUMMONS
THE KING OF TORTS
BLEACHERS
THE LAST JUROR
THE BROKER
THE INNOCENT MAN
PLAYING FOR PIZZA
THE APPEAL
THE ASSOCIATE
FORD COUNTY: STORIES

AUTHOR’S NOTE

It is here that authors often submit massive disclaimers in an effort to cover their rears and, hopefully, avoid liability. There is always the temptation to simply create a fictional place or entity rather than research the real ones, and I confess I would rather do almost anything than verify details. Fiction is a marvelous shield. It’s very easy to hide behind. But when it ventures near the truth, it needs to be accurate. Otherwise, the author needs a few lines in this space.

The Public Defender Service in Washington, D.C., is a proud and vibrant organization that has zealously protected the indigent for many years. Its lawyers are bright, committed, and very tight-lipped. Downright secretive. Its inner workings remain a mystery, so I simply created my own Office of the Public Defender. Any resemblance between the two is purely coincidental.

Mark Twain said he often moved cities, counties,
and even entire states when necessary to help a story along. Nothing gets in my way either. If I can’t find a building, then I’ll construct one on the spot. If a street does not fit on my map, then I won’t hesitate to either move it or draw a new map. I would guess that about half the places in this book are described somewhat correctly. The other half either don’t exist or have been modified or relocated to such an extent that no one would recognize them. Anyone looking for accuracy is wasting time.

That’s not to say I don’t try. My idea of research is frantically working the telephone as the deadline draws near. I leaned on the following people for advice, and it’s here that I thank them: Fritz Chockley, Bruce Brown, Gaines Talbott, Bobby Moak, Penny Pynkala, and Jerome Davis.

Renee read the rough draft and didn’t fling it at me—always a good sign. David Gernert picked it to pieces, then helped me put it together again. Will Denton and Pamela Creel Jenner read it and offered salient advice. When I had written it for the fourth time and everything was correct, Estelle Laurence read it and found a thousand mistakes.

All of the above were eager to help. The mistakes, as always, are mine.

JOHN GRISHAM has written twenty-one novels, including the recent #1
New York Times
bestsellers
The Associate
and
The Appeal
, as well as one work of nonfiction,
The Innocent Man
. He lives in Virginia and Mississippi. His new book from Doubleday is
Ford County: Stories
.

www.jgrisham.com

Read on for an excerpt of

The

Litigators

A Novel

by John Grisham

Published by Bantam Books

CHAPTER 1

The law firm of Finley & Figg referred to itself as a “boutique firm.” This misnomer was inserted as often as possible into routine conversations, and it even appeared in print in some of the various schemes hatched by the partners to solicit business. When used properly, it implied that Finley & Figg was something above your average two-bit operation. Boutique, as in small, gifted, and expert in one specialized area. Boutique, as in pretty cool and chic, right down to the Frenchness of the word itself. Boutique, as in thoroughly happy to be small, selective, and prosperous.

Except for its size, it was none of these things. Finley & Figg’s scam was hustling injury cases, a daily grind that required little skill or creativity and would never be considered cool or sexy. Profits were as elusive as status. The firm was small because it couldn’t afford to grow. It was selective only because no one wanted to work there, including the two men who owned it. Even its location suggested a monotonous life out in the bush leagues. With a Vietnamese massage parlor to its left and a lawn mower repair shop to its right, it was clear at a casual glance that Finley & Figg was not prospering. There was another boutique firm directly across the street—hated rivals—and more lawyers around the corner. In fact, the neighborhood was teeming with lawyers, some working alone, others in small firms, others still in versions of their own little boutiques.

F&F’s address was on Preston Avenue, a busy street filled with old bungalows now converted and used for all manner of commercial activity. There was retail (liquor, cleaners, massages) and professional (legal, dental, lawn mower repair) and culinary (enchiladas, baklava, and pizza to go). Oscar Finley had won the building in a lawsuit twenty years earlier. What the address lacked in prestige it sort of made up for in location. Two doors away was the intersection of Preston, Beech, and Thirty-eighth, a chaotic convergence of asphalt and traffic that guaranteed at least one good car wreck a week, and often more. F&F’s annual overhead was covered by collisions that happened less than one hundred yards away. Other law firms, boutique and otherwise, were often prowling the area in hopes of finding an available, cheap bungalow from which their hungry lawyers could hear the actual squeal of tires and crunching of metal.

With only two attorneys/partners, it was of course mandatory that one be declared the senior and the other the junior. The senior partner was Oscar Finley, age sixty-two, a thirty-year survivor of the bareknuckle brand of law found on the tough streets of southwest Chicago. Oscar had once been a beat cop but got himself terminated for cracking skulls. He almost went to jail but instead had an awakening and went to college, then law school. When no firms would hire him, he hung out his own little shingle and started suing anyone who came near. Thirty-two years later, he found it hard to believe that for thirty-two years he’d wasted his career suing for past-due accounts receivable, fender benders, slip-and-falls, and quickie divorces. He was still married to his first wife, a terrifying woman he wanted to sue every day for his own divorce. But he couldn’t afford it. After thirty-two years of lawyering, Oscar Finley couldn’t afford much of anything.