The King of Torts

Mr. Worley slammed the phone down and flung the papers across his kitchen.

24

The December cover of Capitol Magazine featured Clay Carter, looking ta

There was Clay on his patio with a dog, one he’d borrowed from Rodney, and Clay posing next to the jury box in an empty courtroom as if he’d been extracting huge verdicts from the bad guys, and, of course, Clay washing his new Porsche. He confided that his passion was sailing, and there was a new boat docked down in the Bahamas. No significant romance at the moment, and the story immediately labeled him as one of the most eligible bachelors in town.

Near the back were the pictures of brides, followed by the a

There was Rebecca Van Horn, resplendent on a wicker bench in a garden somewhere, a lovely photo ruined by the face of her groom and future mate, the Honorable Jason Shubert Myers IV, cuddling next to her and obviously enjoying the camera. Weddings are for brides, not grooms. Why did they insist on getting their faces in the a

Be

Clay reveled in the misery the magazine was causing at that very moment around the Van Horn home. Rebecca’s wedding, the big social bash that Be

And his upstaging was not over.

Jonah had already a

“I need a bimbo, preferably a blonde,” Clay said as he settled into a chair across from Jonah’s desk. His door was locked. It was after six on a Wednesday and Jonah had the first bottle of beer opened. They had compromised on an unwritten rule that there would be no drinking until 6 P.M. Otherwise, Jonah would start just after lunch.

“The hottest bachelor in town is having trouble picking up chicks?”

“I’ve been out of the loop. I’m going to Rebecca’s wedding, and I need a babe who’ll steal the show.”

“Oh, this is beautiful,” he said as he laughed and reached into a drawer in his desk. Only Jonah would keep files on women. He burrowed through some paperwork and found what he wanted. He tossed a folded newspaper across the desk. It was a lingerie ad for a department store. The gorgeous young goddess was wearing practically nothing below the waist and was barely covering her breasts with her folded arms. Clay vividly remembered seeing the ad the morning it first ran. The date was four months earlier.

“You know her?”

“Of course I know her. You think I keep lingerie ads just for the thrills?” “Wouldn’t surprise me.” “Her name is Ridley. At least that’s what she goes by.” “She lives here?” Clay was still gawking at the stu

Could be just a rumor for all I know.”

“You’ve dated her.”

“Nope. A friend of a friend. She’s on my list. I was just waiting for a confirmation. Give it a try. You don’t like her, we’ll find another bimbo.”

“Can you make the call?”

“Sure, no problem. It’s an easy call, now that you’re Mr. Cover Boy, most eligible bachelor, the King of Torts. Wonder if they know what torts are over in Georgia?”

“Not if they’re lucky. Just make the call.”

They met for di

Old hand-me-downs from a flea market would look great on Ridley. Her challenge was dressing down, so the clothes wouldn’t compete with the blond hair and aqua eyes and high cheekbones and the rest of the perfect features.

Her real name was Ridal Petashnakol, which she had to spell twice before Clay got it. Fortunately, models, like soccer players, could survive with only one name, so she went just by Ridley. She drank no alcohol, but instead ordered a cranberry juice. Clay hoped she wouldn’t order a plate of carrots for di

She had the looks and he had the money, and since they could talk about neither they thrashed about in deep water for a few minutes looking for safe ground. She was Georgian, not Russian, and cared nothing about politics or terrorism or football. Ah, the movies! She saw everything and loved them all. Even dreadful stuff that no one else went to see. Box office disasters were much beloved by Ridley, and Clay was begi

She’s just a bimbo, he said to himself. Di

She spoke five languages, but since most were of the Eastern European variety they seemed pretty useless in the fast lane. Much to his relief, she ordered a first course, second course, and dessert. Conversation wasn’t easy, but both worked hard at it. Their backgrounds were so different. The lawyer in him wanted a thorough examination of the witness; real name, age, blood type, father’s occupation, salary, marital history, sexual history—is it true you’re a switch-hitter? But he managed to throttle himself and not pry at all. He nibbled around the edges once or twice, got nothing, and went back to the movies. She knew every twenty-year-old B actor and who he happened to be dating at the moment—painfully boring stuff, but, then, probably not as boring as having a bunch of lawyers talk about their latest trial victories or toxic tort settlements.