The King of Torts

22

Rex Crittle wanted to scold, to be reassured, to lecture, to educate, but his client sitting across the desk seemed completely unshaken by the figures.

“Your firm is six months old,” Crittle said, peering over his reading glasses with a pile of reports in front of him. The evidence! He had the proof that the boutique firm of the Law Offices of J. Clay Carter II was in fact being run by idiots. “Your overhead began at an impressive seventy-five thousand a month — three lawyers, one paralegal, a secretary, serious rent, nice digs. Now it’s a half a million bucks a month, and growing every day.”

“You gotta spend it to make it,” Clay said, sipping coffee and enjoying his accountant’s discomfort. That was the sign of a good bean counter — one who lost more sleep over the expenses than the client himself.

“But you’re not making it,” Crittle said cautiously. “No revenue in the past three months.”

“It’s been a good year.”

“Oh yes. Fifteen million in fees makes for a splendid year. Problem is, it’s evaporating. You spent fourteen thousand bucks last month chartering jets.”

“Now that you mention it, I’m thinking about buying one. I’ll need you to crunch the numbers.”

“I’m crunching them right now. You can’t justify one.”

“That’s not the issue. The issue is whether or not I can afford one.”

“No, you cannot afford one.”

“Hang on, Rex. Relief is in sight.”

“I assume you’re talking about the Dyloft cases? Four million dollars for advertising. Three thousand a month for a Dyloft Web site. Now three thousand a month for the Dyloft newsletter. All those paralegals out in Manassas. All these new lawyers.”

“I think the question will be, should I lease one for five years or just buy it outright?”

“What?”

“The Gulfstream.”

“What’s a Gulfstream?”

“The finest private jet in the world.”

“What are you going to do with a Gulfstream?”

“Fly.”

“Why, exactly, do you think you need one?”

“It’s the preferred jet of all the big mass tort lawyers.”

“Oh, that makes sense.”

“I thought you’d come around.”

“Any idea how much one might cost?”

“Forty, forty-five million.”

“I hate to break the news, Clay, but you don’t have forty million.”

“You’re right. I think I’ll just lease one.”

Crittle removed his reading glasses and massaged his long, skinny nose, as if a severe headache was developing there. “Look, Clay, I’m just your accountant. But I’m not sure if there’s anyone else who is telling you to slow down. Take it easy, pal. You’ve made a fortune, enjoy it. You don’t need a big firm with so many lawyers. You don’t need jets. What’s next? A yacht?”

“Yes.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you hated boats.”

“I do. It’s for my father. Can I depreciate it?”

“No.”

“Bet I can.”

“How?”

“I’ll charter it when I’m not using it.”

When Crittle was finished with his nose, he replaced his glasses and said, “It’s your money, pal.”

They met in New York City, on neutral ground, in the dingy ballroom of an old hotel near Central Park, the last place anyone would expect such an important gathering to take place. On one side of the table sat the Dyloft Plaintiffs’ Steering Committee, five of them, including young Clay Carter, who felt quite out of place, and behind them were all manner of assistants and associates and gofers employed by Mr. Patton French. Across the table was the Ackerman team, headed by Cal Wicks, a distinguished veteran who was flanked by an equal number of supporters.

One week earlier, the government had approved the merger with Philo Products, at $53 a share, which for Clay meant another profit, somewhere around $6 million. He’d buried half of it off-shore, never to be touched. So the venerable company founded by the Ackerman brothers a century earlier was about to be consumed by Philo, a company with barely half its annual revenues but a lot less debt and a much brighter management.

As Clay took his seat and spread his files and tried to convince himself that, yes, dammit, he did belong there, he thought he noticed some harsh frowns from the other side. Finally, the folks at Ackerman Labs were getting to see in person this young upstart from D.C. who’d started their Dyloft nightmare.

Patton French may have had plenty of backup, but he needed none. He took charge of the first session and soon everyone else shut up, with the exception of Wicks, who spoke only when necessary. They spent the morning nailing down the number of cases out there. The Biloxi class had 36,700 plaintiffs. A renegade group of lawyers in Georgia had 5,200 and were threatening an end run with another class action. French felt confident he could dissuade them. Other lawyers had opted out of the class and were planning solo trials in their backyards, but again, French wasn’t worried about them. They did not have the crucial documents, nor were they likely to get them.

Numbers poured forth, and Clay was soon bored with it all. The only number that mattered to him was 5,380 — his Dyloft share. He still had more than any single lawyer, though French himself had closed the gap brilliantly and had just over 5,000.

After three hours of nonstop statistics, they agreed on a one-hour lunch. The plaintiffs’ committee went upstairs to a suite, where they ate sandwiches and drank only water. French was soon on the phone, talking and yelling at the same time. Wes Saulsberry wanted some fresh air, and invited Clay for a quick walk around the block. They strolled up Fifth Avenue, across from the park. It was mid-November, the air chilly and light, the leaves blowing across the street. A great time to be in the city.

“I love to come here and I love to leave,” Saulsberry said. “Right now it’s eighty-five in New Orleans, humidity still at ninety.”

Clay just listened. He was too preoccupied with the excitement of the moment; the settlement that was only hours away, the enormous fees, the complete freedom of being young and single and so wealthy.

“How old are you, Clay?” Wes was saying.

“Thirty-one.”

“When I was thirty-three, my partner and I settled a tanker explosion case for a ton of money. A horrible case, a dozen men were burned. We split twenty-eight million in fees, right down the middle. My partner took his fourteen mil and retired. I invested mine in myself. I built a law firm full of dedicated trial lawyers, some really talented people who love what they’re doing. I built a building in downtown New Orleans, kept hiring the best folks I could find. Now we’re up to ninety lawyers, and in the past ten years we’ve raked in eight hundred million bucks in fees. My old partner? A sad case. You don’t retire when you’re thirty-three, it’s not normal. Most of the money went up his nose. Three bad marriages. Gambling problems. I hired him two years ago as a paralegal, a sixty-thousand-dollar salary, and he’s not worth that.”

“I haven’t thought of retiring,” Clay said. A lie.

“Don’t. You’re about to make a ton of money, and you deserve it. Enjoy it. Get an airplane, buy a nice boat, a condo on the beach, a place in Aspen, all the toys. But plow the real money back into your firm. Take advice from a guy who’s been there.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

They turned onto Seventy-third and headed east. Saulsberry wasn’t finished. “You’re familiar with the lead paint cases?”

“Not really.”

“They’re not as famous as the drug cases, but pretty damned lucrative. I started the rage about ten years ago. Our clients are schools, churches, hospitals, commercial buildings, all with layers of lead paint on the walls. Very dangerous stuff. We’ve sued the paint manufacturers, settled with a few. Couple of billion so far. Anyway, during discovery against one company I found out about another nice little mass tort that you might want to look at. I can’t handle it because of some conflicts.”

“I’m listening.”

“The company is in Reedsburg, Pennsylvania, and it makes the mortar used by bricklayers in new home construction. Pretty low-tech stuff, but a potential gold mine. Seems they’re having problems with their mortar. A bad batch. After about three years, it begins to crumble. When the mortar breaks down, the bricks start falling. It’s confined to the Baltimore area, probably about two thousand homes. And it’s just beginning to get noticed.”

“What are the damages?”

“It costs roughly fifteen thousand to fix each house.”

Fifteen thousand times two thousand houses. A one-third contract and the lawyers’ fees equaled $10 million. Clay was getting quick with his figures.

“The proof will be easy,” Saulsberry said. “The company knows it has exposure. Settlement should not be a problem.”

“I’d like to look at it.”

“I’ll send you the file, but you have to protect my confidence.”

“You get a piece?”

“No. It’s my payback for Dyloft. And, of course, if you get the chance to return the favor someday, then it will be appreciated. That’s how some of us work, Clay. The mass tort brotherhood is full of throat-cutters and egomaniacs, but a few of us try to take care of each other.”

Late in the afternoon, Ackerman Labs agreed to a minimum of $62,000 for each of the Group One Dyloft plaintiffs, those with benign tumors that could be removed with a fairly simple surgical procedure, the cost of which would also be borne by the company. Approximately forty thousand plaintiffs were in this class, and the money would be available immediately. Much of the haggling that followed involved the method to be used in qualifying for the settlement. A ferocious fight erupted when the issue of attorneys’ fees was thrown on the table. Like most of the other lawyers, Clay had a contingency contract giving him one third of any recovery, but in such settlements that percentage was normally reduced. A very complicated formula was used and argued about, with French being unduly aggressive. It was, after all, his money. Ackerman eventually agreed on the figure of 28 percent for Group One fees.

Group Two plaintiffs were those with malignant tumors, and since their treatments would take months or years, the settlement was left open. No cap was placed on these damages — evidence, according to Barry and Harry, that Philo Products was somewhere in the background, propping up Ackerman with some extra cash. The attorneys would get 25 percent in Group Two, though Clay had no idea why. French was crunching numbers too fast for anyone.

Group Three plaintiffs were those from Group Two who would die because of Dyloft. Since there had been no deaths so far, this class was also left open. The fees were capped at 22 percent.

They adjourned at seven with the plan to meet the next day to nail down the details for Groups Two and Three. On the elevator down, French handed him a printout. “Not a bad day’s work,” he said with a smile. It was a summary of Clay’s cases and anticipated fees, including a 7 percent add-on for his role on the Plaintiffs’ Steering Committee.

His expected gross fees from Group One alone were $106 million.

When he was finally alone he stood in front of the window in his room and gazed into the dusk settling over Central Park. Clearly, Tarvan had not braced him for the shock of instant riches. He was numb, speechless, frozen in the window forever as random thoughts raced in and out of his severely overloaded brain. He drank two straight whiskeys from the mini-bar with absolutely no effect.

Still at the window, he called Paulette, who snatched the phone after half a ring. “Talk to me,” she said when she recognized his voice.

“Round one is over,” he said.

“Don’t beat around the bush!”

“You just made ten million bucks,” he said, the words coming from his mouth but in a voice that belonged to someone else.

“Don’t lie to me, Clay.” Her words trailed off.

“It’s true. I’m not lying.”

There was a pause as she began to cry. He backpedaled and sat on the edge of the bed, and for a moment felt like a good cry himself. “Oh my God,” she managed to say twice.

“I’ll call you back in a few minutes,” Clay said.

Jonah was still at the office. He began yelling into the phone, then threw it down to go fetch Rodney. Clay heard them talking in the background. A door slammed. Rodney picked up the phone and said, “I’m listening.”

“Your share is ten million,” Clay said, for the third time, playing Santa Claus as he would never play it again.

“Mercy, mercy, mercy,” Rodney was saying. Jonah was screaming something in the background.

“Hard to believe,” Clay said. For a moment, he held the image of Rodney sitting at his old desk at OPD, files and papers everywhere, photos of his wife and kids pinned to the wall, a fine man working hard for very low pay.

What would he tell his wife when he called home in a few minutes?

Jonah picked up an extension and they chatted for a while about the settlement conference — who was there, where was it, what was it like? They did not want to let go, but Clay said he had promised to call Paulette again.

When he’d finished delivering the news, he sat on the bed for a long time, sad with the realization that there was no one else to call. He could see Rebecca, and he could suddenly hear her voice and feel her and touch her. They could buy a place in Tuscany or Maui or anywhere she wanted. They could live there quite happily with a dozen kids and no in-laws, with nannies and maids and cooks and maybe even a butler. He’d send her home twice a year on the jet so she could fight with her parents.

Or maybe the Van Horns wouldn’t be so awful with a hundred million or so in the family, just out of their reach but close enough to brag about.

He clenched his jaws and dialed her number. It was a Wednesday, a slow night at the country club. Surely she was at her apartment. After three rings she said, “Hello,” and the sound of her voice made him weak.

“Hey, it’s Clay,” he said, trying to sound casual. Not a word in six months, but the ice was immediately broken.

“Hello, stranger,” she said. Cordial.

“How are you?”

“Fine, busy as always. You?”

“About the same. I’m in New York, settling some cases.”

“I hear things are going well for you.”

An understatement. “Not bad. I can’t complain. How’s your job?”

“I have six more days.”

“You’re quitting?”

“Yes. There’s a wedding, you know.”

“So I heard. When is it?”

“December twentieth.”

“I haven’t received an invitation.”

“Well, I didn’t send you one. Didn’t think you’d want to come.”

“Probably not. Are you sure you want to get married?”

“Let’s talk about something else.”

“There is nothing else, really.”

“Are you dating anyone?”

“Women are chasing me all over town. Where’d you meet this guy?”

“And you’ve bought a place in Georgetown?”

“That’s old news.” But he was delighted that she knew. Perhaps she was curious about his new success. “This guy’s a worm,” he said.

“Come on, Clay. Let’s keep it nice.”

“He’s a worm and you know it, Rebecca.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Don’t marry him, Rebecca. There’s a rumor he’s gay.”

“He’s a worm. He’s gay. What else? Unload everything, Clay, so you’ll feel better.”

“Don’t do it, Rebecca. Your parents will eat him alive. Plus your kids will look like him. A bunch of little worms.”

The line went dead.

He stretched out on the bed and stared at the ceiling, still hearing her voice, hit hard with the realization of just how much he missed her. Then the phone erupted and startled him. It was Patton French, in the lobby with a limo waiting. Dinner and wine for the next three hours. Someone had to do it.