The King of Torts

“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 Sao 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, u

“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.

Rebecca blinked first. She had no choice. She did, after all, have a husband. “I guess I’ll be going.” She left the room slowly, as if she didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to concede territory. Clay was thrilled by that.

As soon as the door closed, Ridley withdrew to the window, where she stood for a long time and looked at nothing. Clay sca

“You love her, don’t you?” Ridley said, still looking out the window, trying to appear wounded.

“Who?”

“Rebecca.”

“Oh, her. Naw, she’s just an old friend.”

With that she wheeled around and walked to the side of his bed. “I’m not stupid, Clay!”

“Didn’t say you were.” He was still reading the newspaper, quite unmoved by this attempt at high drama. She grabbed her purse and stomped out of his room, heels clicking as loudly as possible. A nurse entered shortly thereafter, to inspect him for damages.

Oscar called a few minutes later, on his cell phone outside the courtroom. A quick recess had been ordered. “Rumor has it Mooneyham turned down ten million this morning,” he said.

“Fleet tell you this?”

“No, we didn’t meet. He was tied up with some motions. I’ll try and catch him during lunch.”

“Who’s on the stand?”

“Another Goffman expert, a female professor from Duke who’s discrediting the government study on Maxatil. Mooneyham is sharpening his knives. Should be ugly.”

“Do you believe the rumor?”

“I’m not sure what to believe. The Wall Street boys seem excited about it. They want a settlement because they figure that’s the best way to predict costs. I’ll call you back during lunch.”

There were three possible outcomes in Flagstaff; two would be delightful. A verdict against Goffman would put enormous pressure on the company to settle and avoid years of litigation and the constant barrage of big verdicts. A mid-trial settlement there would likely mean a national compensation plan for all plaintiffs.

A verdict in favor of Goffman would force Clay to scurry around and prepare for his own trial in D.C. That prospect brought back the sharp pains in his skull and legs.

Lying motionless for hours in a hospital bed was sufficient torture in itself. Now, the silent phone made matters much worse. At any moment, Goffman could offer Mooneyham enough money to make him settle. His ego would push him all the way to a verdict, but could he ignore the interests of his client?

A nurse closed the blinds, turned off the lights and the TV. When she was gone, Clay rested the phone on his stomach, pulled the sheets over his head, and waited.

40

The next morning, Clay was taken back to surgery for some minor adjustments to the pins and screws in his legs. “A bit of tweaking,” his doctor had called it. Whatever it was required a full dose of anesthesia, which wiped out most of the day. He returned to his room just after noon, and slept for three hours before the drugs wore off. Paulette, not Ridley and not Rebecca, was waiting when he finally came around. “Any word from Oscar?” he said, with a thick tongue.

“He called, said the trial was going well. That’s about it,” Paulette reported. She adjusted his bed and his pillow and gave him water, and when he was awake for good, she left to run errands. On the way out, she handed him an overnight envelope, unopened.

From Patton French. A handwritten note passed along his best wishes for a speedy recovery, and something else that Clay could not decipher. The attached memo was to the Dyloft Plaintiffs’ Steering Committee (now Defendants). The Honorable Helen Warshaw had submitted her weekly additions to her class action. The list was growing. Residual Dyloft damage was popping up all over the nation, and the Defendants were sinking deeper into the quicksand. There were now 381 members of the class, with 24 of them ex-JCC clients who’d signed up with Ms. Warshaw, up three from the week before. As always, Clay slowly read the names, and again wondered how their paths had ever crossed.

Wouldn’t his former clients love to see him laid up in the hospital—cut, broken, and bruised? Perhaps one was down the hall, having tumors and organs removed, huddling with loved ones as the clock ticked loudly. He knew he didn’t cause their diseases, but for some reason he felt responsible for their suffering.