The King of Torts

Ridley finally stopped by on her way home from the gym. She hauled in some books and magazines and tried to appear concerned. After a few minutes she said, “Clay, the decorator called. I need to return to the villa.”

Was the decorator male or female? He pondered the question but did not ask.

What an excellent idea!

“When?” he asked.

“Tomorrow, maybe. If the plane is available.” Why wouldn’t it be available? Clay certainly wasn’t going anywhere.

“Sure. I’ll call the pilots.” Getting her out of town would make his life easier. She was of no benefit around the hospital.

“Thanks,” she said, then sat in the chair and began flipping through a magazine. After thirty minutes her time was up. She kissed him on the forehead and disappeared.

The detective was next. Three men from Reedsburg had been arrested early Sunday morning outside a bar in Hagerstown, Maryland. There had been a fight of some sort. They tried to leave the scene, in a dark green minivan, but the driver misjudged something and drove them into a drainage ditch. The detective produced three color photos of the suspects—all rough-looking characters. Clay could not identify any of them.

They worked at the Ha

“If you can’t identify these guys, then I have no choice but to close the file,” the detective said.

“I’ve never seen them before,” Clay said.

The detective placed the photos back in his file and left forever. A parade of nurses and doctors followed with much probing and groping, and after an hour Clay fell asleep.

Oscar called around 9:30 P.M. The trial had just adjourned for the day. Everyone was exhausted, primarily because Dale Mooneyham had caused such massive carnage in the courtroom. Goffman had reluctantly hauled out its third expert, a spineless horn-rimmed in-house lab rat who’d been in charge of the clinical trials for Maxatil, and after a wonderful and creative direct examination by Roger the Dodger, Mooneyham had proceeded to butcher the poor boy on cross.

“It’s an old-fashioned rump-humping.” Oscar laughed. “Goffman should be afraid to call any more witnesses.”

“Settlement?” Clay asked, drugged and sluggish and sleepy, but trying desperately to catch the details.

“No, but it should be a long night. Rumor is that Goffman might try one more expert tomorrow, then plug the dike and hunker down for the verdict. Mooneyham refuses to talk to them. He looks and acts as if he expects a record verdict.”

Clay passed out with the phone wedged against the side of his head. A nurse removed it an hour later.

Goffman’s Ceo arrived in Flagstaff late Wednesday night and was rushed downtown to a tall building where the lawyers were conspiring. He was briefed by Roger Redding and the rest of the defense team and shown the latest numbers by the boys in finance. Every discussion was centered around a doomsday scenario.

Because Redding’s rear-end had been so thoroughly whipped, he was adamant that the defense stick to its game plan and call its remaining witnesses. Surely, the tide would turn. Surely, he would find his stride and score some points with his jury. But Bob Mitchell, the chief in-house counsel and a vice president, and Sterling Gibb, the company’s longtime lawyer and golfing buddy of the CEO, had seen enough. One more witness assassination by Mooneyham and the jurors might jump from their seats and attack the nearest Goffman executive. Redding’s ego was badly bruised. He wanted to push on, hoping for a miracle. To follow him was bad advice.

Mitchell and Gibb met with the CEO alone, around 3 A.M., over doughnuts. Just the three of them. As bad as things were for the company, there remained some secrets about Maxatil that could never be revealed. If Mooneyham had this information, or if he could beat it out of a witness, then the sky would indeed fall on Goffman. At that point in the trial, they put nothing past Mooneyham. The CEO finally made the decision to stop the bloodletting.

When court was called to order at 9 A.M., Roger Redding a

“No further witnesses?” the Judge asked. A fifteen-day trial had just been cut in half. He had a week of golf coming up!

“That’s correct, Your Honor,” Redding said with a smile at the jurors, as if all was well.

“Any rebuttal, Mr. Mooneyham?”

The plaintiff’s lawyer slowly got to his feet. He scratched his head, scowled at Redding, and said, “If they’re done, then so are we.”

The Judge explained to the jurors that they would be in recess for an hour while he took up some matters with the lawyers. When they returned, they would hear the closing arguments, and by lunchtime they would have the case.

With everyone else, Oscar ran into the hallway, clutching a cell phone. There was no answer in Clay’s hospital room.

He spent three hours waiting in X Ray, three hours on a gurney in a busy hall where nurses and orderlies rushed by chatting about nothing. He’d left his cell phone behind and so for three hours he was isolated from the world while he waited in the depths of George Washington University Hospital.

The X rays took almost an hour, but could’ve taken less if the patient had not been so uncooperative and aggressive and, at times, downright profane. The orderly wheeled him back to his room and happily left him there.

Clay was napping when Oscar called. It was five-twenty his time, three-twenty in Phoenix.

“Where have you been?” Oscar demanded.

“Don’t ask.”

“Goffman threw in the towel first thing this morning, tried to settle, but Mooneyham wouldn’t talk. Everything happened real fast after that. Closing arguments began around ten, I guess. The jury got the case at exactly noon.”

“The jury has the case?” Clay asked, practically yelling at the phone.

“Had.”

“What?”

“Had the case. It’s over. They deliberated for three hours and found in favor of Goffman. I’m sorry, Clay.

Everybody here is in shock.”

“No.”

“Afraid so.”

“Tell me you’re lying, Oscar.”

“I wish. I don’t know what happened. Nobody does. Redding gave a spectacular closing argument, but I watched the jurors. I thought Mooneyham had them.”

“Dale Mooneyham lost a case?”

“Not just any case, Clay. He lost our case.”

“But how?”

“I don’t know. I would’ve bet the farm against Goffman.”

“We just did.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Look, Oscar, I’m lying here in bed, all alone. I’m closing my eyes now, and I want you to just talk to me, okay. Don’t leave me. There’s no one else around. Just talk to me. Tell me something.”

“After the verdict, I got cornered by Fleet, and two other guys—Bob Mitchell and Sterling Gibb. Real sweet boys. They were so happy they were about to pop. They began by asking if you’re still alive—how do you like that? Then they sent their regards, real sincere like. They told me that they’re bringing their show on the road—Roger the Dodger and Company—and the next trial will be in D.C., against Mr. Clay Carter, the King of Torts, who, as we all know, has never tried a tort case. What could I say? They had just beaten a great lawyer in his own backyard.”

“Our cases are worthless, Oscar.”

“They certainly think so. Mitchell said they would not offer one cent for any Maxatil case anywhere in the country. They want trials. They want vindication. A clear name. All that crap.”

He kept Oscar on the phone for over an hour, as his unlit room grew dark. Oscar replayed the closing arguments and the high tension of waiting for the verdict. He described the shock on the plaintiff’s face, a dying woman whose lawyer wouldn’t take whatever Goffman was offering, supposedly $10 million. And Mooneyham, who hadn’t lost in so long he had forgotten how to lose, demanding that the jury be required to fill out questio