The King of Torts

Oscar ended his narrative with, “I’m going to a bar now.” Clay called a nurse and asked for a sleeping pill.

41

After eleven days of confinement, Clay was finally set free. A lighter cast was placed on his left leg, and, though he couldn’t walk, he could at least maneuver a little. Paulette pushed his wheelchair out of the hospital to a rented van driven by Oscar. Fifteen minutes later, they rolled him into his town house and locked the door. Paulette and Miss Glick had turned the downstairs den into a temporary bedroom. His phones, fax, and computer had been moved to a folding table near his bed. His clothes were stacked neatly on plastic shelves by the fireplace.

For the first two hours he was home, he read mail and financial reports and clippings, but only what Paulette had screened. Most of what had been printed about Clay was kept away from him.

Later, after a nap, he sat at the kitchen table with Paulette and Oscar a

The unraveling began.

The first issue was his law firm. Crittle had managed to trim a few costs, but the overhead was still galloping along at a million bucks a month. With no current revenues, and none expected, immediate layoffs were unavoidable. They went down a list of the employees—lawyers, paralegals, secretaries, clerks, gofers—and made the painful cuts. Though they considered the Maxatil cases worthless, it would still take work to close the files. Clay kept four lawyers and four paralegals for the job. He was determined to honor every contract he’d signed with his employees, but to do so would eat up some badly needed cash.

Clay looked at the names of the employees who had to go, and it made him ill. “I want to sleep on this,” he said, unable to make the final decision.

“Most of them are expecting it, Clay,” Paulette said.

He stared at the names and tried to imagine the gossip that had been raging about him in the halls of his own firm.

Two days earlier, Oscar had reluctantly agreed to go to New York and meet with Helen Warshaw. He had presented a broad picture of Clay Carter’s assets and potential liabilities, and basically begged for mercy. His boss did not want to file for bankruptcy, but if pushed too hard by Ms. Warshaw he would have no choice. She had been unimpressed. Clay was a member of a group of lawyers, her defendants, with a combined net worth that she estimated at $1.5 billion. She could not allow Clay to settle his cases for, say, a meager $1 million each, when the same cases against Patton French might fetch three times that much. Plus, she was not in a settling mood. The trial would be an important one—a bold effort at reforming abuses in the system, a media-hyped spectacle. She pla

Oscar returned to D.C. with his tail between his legs, certain that Helen Warshaw, as the lawyer for Clay’s biggest group of creditors, wanted blood!

The dreaded word bankruptcy had first been uttered by Rex Crittle in Clay’s hospital room. It had cut through the air like a bullet and landed like a mortar. Then it was used again. Clay began saying it, but only to himself. Paulette said it once. Oscar had used it in New York. It didn’t fit and they didn’t like it, but over the past week it had become part of their vocabulary.

The office lease could be terminated, through bankruptcy.

The employment contracts could be compromised, through bankruptcy.

The Gulfstream could be sent back on better terms, through bankruptcy.

The disgruntled Maxatil clients could be stiff-armed, through bankruptcy.

The disgruntled Ha

And, most important, Helen Warshaw could be reined in, through bankruptcy.

Oscar was almost as depressed as Clay, and after a few hours of misery he left for the office. Paulette rolled Clay outside and onto the small patio where they had a cup of green tea with honey. “I got two things to say,” she said, sitting very close and staring at him. “First, I’m going to give you some of my money.”

“No you’re not.”

“Yes I am. You made me rich when you didn’t have to.

I can’t help it that you’re a stupid white boy who’s lost his ass, but I still love you. I’m going to help you, Clay.”

“Can you believe this, Paulette?”

“No. It’s beyond belief, but it’s true. It’s happened. And things’ll get much worse before they get better. Don’t read the papers, Clay. Please. Promise me that.”

“Don’t worry.”

“I’m going to help you. If you lose everything, I’ll be around to make sure you’re okay.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Say nothing.”

They held hands and Clay fought back tears. A moment passed. “Number two,” she said. “I’ve been talking to Rebecca. She’s afraid to see you because she might get caught. She’s got a new cell phone, one her husband knows nothing about. She gave me the number. She wants you to call her.”

” Female advice please?”

“Not from me. You know how I feel about that Russian hussy. Rebecca’s a sweet girl, but she’s got some baggage, to put it mildly. You’re on your own.”

“Thanks for nothing.”

“You’re welcome. She wanted you to call her this afternoon. Husband’s out of town or something. I’ll leave in a few minutes.”

Rebecca parked around the corner and hustled down Dumbarton Street to Clay’s door. She was not good at sneaking around; neither was he. The first thing they decided was that they would not continue it.

She and Jason Myers had decided to dissolve their marriage amicably. He had initially wanted to seek counseling and delay a divorce, but he also preferred to work eighteen hours a day, whether in D.C., New York, Palo Alto, or Hong Kong. His massive firm had offices in thirty-two cities, and he had clients around the world. Work was more important than anything else. He’d simply left her, with no apologies and with no plans to change his ways. The papers would be filed in two days. She was already packing her bags. Jason would keep the condo; she had been vague on where she would go. In less than a year of marriage, they had accumulated little. He was a partner who made $800,000 a year, but she wanted none of his money.

According to Rebecca, her parents had not interfered. They had not had the opportunity. Myers didn’t like them, which was no surprise, and Clay suspected that one reason he preferred the firm’s branch office in Hong Kong was because it was so far away from the Van Horns.

Both had a reason to run. Clay would not, under any circumstances, remain in D.C. in the years to come. His humiliation was too raw and deep, and there was a big world out there where people didn’t know him. He craved anonymity. For the first time in her life, Rebecca just wanted to get away—away from a bad marriage, away from her family, away from the country club and the insufferable people who went there, away from the pressures of making money and accumulating stuff, away from McLean and the only friends she’d ever known.

It took an hour for Clay to get her in the bed, but sex was impossible, with the casts and all. He just wanted to hold her and kiss her and make up for lost time.

She spent the night and decided not to leave. Over coffee the next morning, Clay began with Tequila Watson and Tarvan and told her everything.

Paulette and Oscar returned with more unpleasantries from the office. Some instigator up in Howard County was encouraging the homeowners to file ethics complaints against Clay for the botched Ha