The King of Torts (8 page)

When she finished reading the subpoena for the second time, one of the cops said, “We’re not going to wait all day.”

She led them to a large office and fetched an assistant who began hauling in files. “When do we get these back?” she asked.

“When we’re finished with them,” Jermaine said.

“And who keeps them?”

“The Office of the Public Defender, under lock and key.”

__________

THE ROMANCE had begun at Abe’s Place. Rebecca had been in a booth with two girlfriends when Clay walked by en route to the men’s room. Their eyes met, and he actually paused for a second, unsure of exactly what to do next. The girlfriends soon got lost. Clay ditched his drinking pals. They sat together at the bar for two hours and talked nonstop. The first date was the next night. Sex within a week. She kept him away from her parents for two months.

Now, four years later, things were stale and she was under pressure to move on. It seemed fitting that they would end things at Abe’s Place.

Clay arrived first and stood at the bar in a crowd of Hill Rats draining their glasses, talking loud and fast and all at once about the crucial issues they had just spent long hours dealing with. He loved D.C., and he hated D.C. He loved its history and energy and importance. And he despised the countless minions who chased themselves in a frenetic game of who was more important. The nearest discussion was a passionate argument about wastewater treatment laws in the Central Plains.

Abe’s Place was nothing but a watering hole, strategically placed near Capitol Hill to catch the thirsty crowd headed for the suburbs. Great-looking women. Well dressed. Many of them on the prowl. Clay caught a few looks.

Rebecca was subdued, determined, and cold. They sneaked into a booth and both ordered strong drinks for the ride ahead. He asked some pointless questions about the subcommittee hearings that had begun, amid no fanfare, at least according to the
Post
. The drinks arrived and they dived in.

“I talked to my father,” she began.

“So did I.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were not taking the job in Richmond?”

“Why didn’t you tell me your father was pulling strings to get me a job in Richmond?”

“You should’ve told me.”

“I made it clear.”

“Nothing is clear with you.”

Both took a drink.

“Your father called me a loser. Is that the prevailing mood in your family?”

“At the moment, yes.”

“Shared by you?”

“I have my doubts. Someone has to be realistic here.”

There had been one serious intermission in the romance, a miserable failure at best. About a year earlier they had decided to let things cool off, to remain close friends, but to have a look around, perhaps play the field, make sure there was no one else out there. Barb had engineered the separation because, as Clay found out later, a very rich young man at the Potomac Country Club had just lost his wife to ovarian cancer. Bennett was a close personal friend of the family, etcetera, etcetera. He and Barb laid the trap, but the widower smelled the bait. One month on the fringes of the Van Horn family and the guy bought a place in Wyoming.

This, however, was a much more severe breakup. This was almost certainly the end. Clay took another drink and promised himself that whatever else was said, he would not, under any circumstances, say something that would hurt her. She could hit below the belt if she wanted. He would not.

“What do you want, Rebecca?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes you do. Do you want out?”

“I think so,” she said, and her eyes were instantly wet.

“Is there someone else?”

“No.”

Not yet anyway. Just give Barb and Bennett a few days.

“It’s just that you’re going nowhere, Clay,” she said. “You’re smart and talented, but you have no ambition.”

“Gee, it’s nice to know I’m smart and talented again. A few hours ago I was a loser.”

“Are you trying to be funny?”

“Why not, Rebecca? Why not have a laugh? It’s over, let’s face it. We love each other, but I’m a loser who’s going nowhere. That’s your problem. My problem is your parents. They’ll chew up the poor guy you marry.”

“The poor guy?”

“That’s right. I pity the poor guy you marry because your parents are insufferable. And you know it.”

“The poor guy I marry?” Her eyes were no longer wet. They were flashing now.

“Take it easy.”

“The poor guy I marry?”

“Look, I’ll make you an offer. Let’s get married right now. We quit our jobs, do a quickie wedding with no one present, sell everything we own, and fly to, say, Seattle or Portland, somewhere far away from here, and live on love for a while.”

“You won’t go to Richmond but you’ll go to Seattle?”

“Richmond is too damned close to your parents, okay?”

“Then what?”

“Then we’ll find jobs.”

“What kinds of jobs? Is there a shortage of lawyers out West?”

“You’re forgetting something. Remember, from last night, that I’m smart, talented, well educated, sharp as a tack, and even handsome. Big law firms will chase me all over the place. I’ll make partner in eighteen months. We’ll have babies.”

“Then my parents will come.”

“No, because we won’t tell them where we are. And if they find us, we’ll change our names and move to Canada.”

Two more drinks arrived and they wasted no time shoving the old ones aside.

The light moment passed, and quickly. But it reminded both of why they loved each other and of how much they enjoyed their time together. There had been much more laughter than sadness, though things were changing. Fewer laughs. More senseless spats. More influence from her family.

“I don’t like the West Coast,” she said, finally.

“Then pick a spot,” Clay said, finishing the adventure. Her spot had been chosen for her, and she wasn’t getting too far from Mommy and Daddy.

Whatever she had brought to the meeting finally had to be said. A long pull on the drink, then she leaned forward and stared him directly in the eyes. “Clay, I really need a break.”

“Make it easy on yourself, Rebecca. We’ll do whatever you want.”

“Thank you.”

“How long a break?”

“I’m not negotiating, Clay.”

“A month?”

“Longer than that.”

“No, I won’t agree to it. Let’s go thirty days without a phone call, okay? Today is the seventh of May. Let’s meet here on June the sixth, right here at this very table, and we’ll talk about an extension.”

“An extension?”

“Call it whatever you want.”

“Thank you. I’m calling it a breakup, Clay. The big bang. Splitsville. You go your way, I go mine. We’ll chat in a month, but I don’t expect a change. Things haven’t changed much in the past year.”

“If I’d said yes to that awful job in Richmond, would we be doing this split thing?”

“Probably not.”

“Does that mean something other than no?”

“No.”

“So, it was all a setup, wasn’t it? The job, the ultimatum? Last night was just what I thought it was, an ambush. Take this job, boy, or else.”

She would not deny it. Instead, she said, “Clay, I’m tired of fighting, okay? Don’t call me for thirty days.”

She grabbed her purse and jumped to her feet. On the way out of the booth, she somehow managed to plant a dry and meaningless kiss near his right temple, but he did not acknowledge it. He did not watch her leave.

She did not look back.

   CHAPTER 8   

Clay’s apartment was in an aging complex in Arlington. When he’d leased it four years earlier he had never heard of BVH Group. Later, he would learn that the company had built the place in the early eighties in one of Bennett’s first ventures. The venture went bankrupt, the complex got bought and sold several times, and none of Clay’s rent went to Mr. Van Horn. In fact, no member of that family knew Clay was living in something they’d built. Not even Rebecca.

He shared a two-bedroom unit with Jonah, an old pal from law school who’d flunked the bar exam four times before passing it and now sold computers. He sold them part-time and still earned more money than Clay, a fact that was always just under the surface.

The morning after the breakup, Clay fetched the
Post
from outside his door and settled down at the kitchen table with the first cup of coffee. As always, he
went straight to the financial page for a quick and rewarding perusal of the dismal performance of BVHG. The stock barely traded and the few misguided investors who owned it were now willing to unload it for a mere $0.75 a share.

Who was the loser here?

There was not a single word about Rebecca’s crucial subcommittee hearings.

When he was finished with his little witch hunts, he went to the sports section and told himself it was time to forget the Van Horns. All of them.

At twenty minutes after seven, a time when he was usually eating a bowl of cereal, the phone rang. He smiled and thought, It’s her. Back already.

No one else would call so early. No one except the boyfriend or husband of whatever lady might be upstairs sleeping off a hangover with Jonah. Clay had taken several such calls over the years. Jonah adored women, especially those already committed to someone else. They were more challenging, he said.

But it wasn’t Rebecca and it wasn’t a boyfriend or a husband.

“Mr. Clay Carter,” a strange male voice said.

“Speaking.”

“Mr. Carter, my name is Max Pace. I’m a recruiter for law firms in Washington and New York. Your name has caught our attention, and I have two very attractive positions that might interest you. Could we have lunch today?”

Completely speechless, Clay would remember later,
in the shower, that the thought of a nice lunch was, oddly, the first thing that crossed his mind.

“Uh, sure,” he managed to get out. Headhunters were part of the legal business, same as every other profession. But they rarely spent their time bottom-feeding in the Office of the Public Defender.

“Good. Let’s meet in the lobby of the Willard Hotel, say, noon?”

“Noon’s fine,” Clay said, his eyes focusing on a pile of dirty dishes in the sink. Yes, this was real. It was not a dream.

“Thanks, I’ll see you then. Mr. Carter, I promise it will be worth your time.”

“Uh, sure.”

Max Pace hung up quickly, and for a moment Clay held the receiver, looked at the dirty dishes, and wondered who from his law school class was behind this practical joke. Or could it be Bennett the Bulldozer getting one last bit of revenge?

He had no phone number for Max Pace. He did not even have the presence of mind to get the name of his company.

Nor did he have a clean suit. He owned two, both gray, one thick and one thin, both very old and well used. His trial wardrobe. Fortunately, OPD had no office dress code, so Clay usually wore khakis and a navy blazer. If he was going to court, he would put on a tie and take it off as soon as he returned to the office.

In the shower, he decided that his attire did not matter. Max Pace knew where he worked and had a rough
idea of how little he earned. If Clay showed up for the interview in frayed khakis, then he could demand more money.

Sitting in traffic on the Arlington Memorial Bridge, he decided it was his father. The old guy had been banished from D.C. but still had contacts. He’d finally hit the right button, called in one last favor, found his son a decent job. When Jarrett Carter’s high-profile legal career ended in a long and colorful flameout, he pushed his son toward the Office of the Public Defender. Now that apprenticeship was over. Five years in the trenches, and it was time for a real job.

What kinds of firms would be looking for him? He was intrigued by the mystery. His father hated the large corporate and lobbying outfits that were packed along Connecticut and Massachusetts Avenues. And he had no use for the small-timers who advertised on buses and billboards and clogged up the system with frivolous cases. Jarrett’s old firm had ten lawyers, ten courtroom brawlers who won verdicts and were in demand.

“That’s where I’m headed,” Clay mumbled to himself as he glanced at the Potomac River beneath him.

__________

AFTER SUFFERING through the most unproductive morning of his career, Clay left at eleven-thirty and took his time driving to the Willard, now officially known as the Willard Inter-Continental Hotel. He was immediately met in the lobby by a muscled young man who looked vaguely familiar. “Mr. Pace is upstairs,” he
explained. “He’d like to meet with you up there, if that’s all right.” They were walking toward the elevators.

“Sure,” Clay said. How he’d been recognized so easily he was not certain.

They ignored each other on the ride up. They stepped onto the ninth floor and Clay’s escort knocked on the door of the Theodore Roosevelt Suite. It opened quickly and Max Pace said hello with a businesslike smile. He was in his mid-forties, dark wavy hair, dark mustache, dark everything. Black denim jeans, black T-shirt, black pointed-toe boots. Hollywood at the Willard. Not exactly the corporate look Clay had been expecting. As they shook hands he had the first hint that things were not what they seemed.

With a quick glance, the bodyguard was sent away.

“Thanks for coming,” Max said as they walked into an oval-shaped room laden with marble.

“Sure.” Clay was absorbing the suite; luxurious leathers and fabrics, rooms branching off in all directions. “Nice place.”

“It’s mine for a few more days. I thought we could eat up here, order some room service, that way we can talk with complete privacy.”

“Fine with me.” A question came to mind, the first of many. What was a Washington headhunter doing renting a horribly expensive hotel suite? Why didn’t he have an office nearby? Did he really need a bodyguard?

“Anything in particular to eat?”

“I’m easy.”

“They do a great capellini and salmon dish. I had it yesterday. Superb.”

“I’ll try it.” At that moment Clay would have tried anything; he was starving.

Max went to the phone while Clay admired the view of Pennsylvania Avenue below. When lunch was ordered, they sat near the window and quickly got past the weather, the Orioles latest losing streak, and the lousy state of the economy. Pace was glib and seemed at ease talking about anything for as long as Clay wanted. He was a serious weight lifter who wanted folks to know it. His shirt stuck to his chest and arms and he liked to pick at his mustache. Whenever he did so, his biceps flexed and bulged.